Love Me Tender(ly)

The Fair's Moving On...

2015-04-09T19:31:00.001-06:00

I moved! Come find me at my new home! See you there.

Peace and Love.

Mean Woman Blues

2014-11-04T21:48:00.002-07:00

"... And I did not deal with you, I know.
Though the love has always been.
So I search to find an answer there,
So I can truly win."
-Stevie Nicks

These are the things I want you to know. These are the things that I could never say because the girl inside me wouldn't let the woman speak.

I loved the way you towered over me. I loved the life echoed in your eyes and the strength in your hands. "I think of your smile; I'm in love with your teeth." I wanted to wrap myself around you forever and ever and that's where I wanted to stay for the rest of my days. I wanted your heart to open up and swallow me and let me minister to all the parts of it that were tired and forsaken. I wanted to be so much a part of you that it felt like I was inside of your ribcage, loving you from the inside out. I wanted all your scars.

I wanted to take the way my mind works and braid it with yours so that they could be knit together instead of seeming aggressors. Believe it or not (you won't), I loved so much how much you think about things. You made me see facets and depths that previously I hadn't thought to observe or explore or investigate or been able to even recognize. I always admired how much you knew about so much; even though it was infinitely more than I knew, it never made me feel small. It made me in constant awe of you and secretly in love with all your synapsed ramblings.

I remember all the good things. I remember all the kind things, the vulnerable things you said, and how quick I was to discard them. It wasn't because I didn't want them. It wasn't because I didn't believe them. That I remember them all these years later is definitive proof of that. I can't even tell you why I dismissed them the way I did. I don't know what kind of woman would do that and I am ashamed of it. If you said those things to me today- if you showed up at my doorstep with a bouquet of all those kindnesses- I would clasp them in my hands and put them in my most beautiful glasses and when they wilted a little over time, I would press them between the pages of my favorite books and I would keep them there forever and I would pass them down to our children so they would know.

I remember all the not so good things, too. I remember how frustrating everything was, how maddening sometimes. I remember feeling empty and discarded. I remember feeling like I wasn't enough of something, though I could never figure out exactly what. I remember feeling resentful toward the other things I wanted that were unrelenting and unaccommodating. I remember pushing it all away because I couldn't brave whatever embracing it meant. And that's why it hasn't dissipated completely after all this time. Because pushing someone away is not the same as letting them go. I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, held my breath, and shoved with all my might, but I never actually let go. And when I finally felt like it was safe to open up my eyes and exhale, I couldn't breathe as deeply anymore.

Can I blame it all on timing? Maybe I hope that eventually we will find the versions of each other that fit together and we'll both be susceptible enough to let the other in without any trepidation or expectation. I am trying so desperately to not let my fears rule me, and mostly because of what it cost me all those years ago. I was so inept with my feelings back then, letting them bleed out in aversions and histrionics instead of granting them the grace of beating in whatever direction they were apt to go.

There are so many apologies I want to make and apologies I want to hear, but it's too late for that now. Just know that I have them nesting here inside me always.

I wanted everything with you. I just didn't know it enough.

Gonna Get Back Somehow

2014-10-06T20:15:00.000-06:00

"Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again."

-Chinese inscription cited by Thoreau in Walden

I haven't stayed up late in quite some time. Keeping late hours- that used to be second nature to me. But life alters and thus you must alter with it. So, late nights have become a luxury. One I am engaging in now, because tomorrow I am granted the gift of unalarmed slumber.

I sit here in my hug of a bed, enveloped in the blessed thrill of clean sheets. A simple joy that I have been able to appreciate since forever. Today was not an easy day. I woke up to disappointing news, accompanied, ungraciously but quite ceremoniously, by dreary and daunting clouds. I knew this news was vastly approaching, but nevertheless was unprepared for it. I reached for my phone in attempt at a lazy plea for comfort and found myself seeking that comfort from a man in whom comfort was personified in a voice, a glance, an embrace, mere presence.

The oddness of this completely un-calculated emotional maneuver is that his comfort hasn't been mine to access in quite some time. No, I haven't been anything to him in quite some time. Because I broke him. Well, I think he was quite broken already when our lives became entangled. But whatever whole fragments there were left inside of him, needing to be salvaged, I broke. So naturally, I am not anything to him now. And yet, in my minor distress, I sought comfort in him. Unprovoked.

I was not always kind to him. I always thought I was.

Thunder, again. And I love it. It is frighteningly alluring. I light all my candles and put on an Audrey DVD and the night is mine. On a night like this, I am remarkably adept at being alone.

I used to stay up late most nights. This is a strange habit for one so fond of slumber, and yet, there was always something alluring to me about being awake when all the world slept. Tonight, in this particular season, it is simply because I don't want to miss a wink of summer. Right this moment, my eyelids are imploringly heavy and I am betraying them by evading sleep but I need catharsis.

I feel like I'm stuck in the deepest, most unforgiving abyss of lostness with no ladder, no map, no compass, no direction (home), no hope. I truly don't know where to go.

When I write, I feel more myself than when I'm doing anything else, except for praying. But I haven't been praying lately either. And that is because I am utterly ashamed of this pathetic place in which I stand. How can I expect to climb out of my bleak surroundings without humble communion? If there is anything to which I can attest, it is to the panacea-ic power of prayer. But I write and write, because I am desperately trying to connect back to myself. I am trying to locate the person that I have lost somewhere. Maybe, subconsciously, I stay up so late because it is in these numb hours that I am susceptible to self-inflicted emotional autopsies that are more revelatory than anything else ever could be. As I scalpel the intricacies of my being, what I uncover terrifies me. I have no grasp on anything concrete. My future is tenuous. That which I want the very most, I have little control over achieving. All of this undulates within my chest and the coldest corners of my brain and I want to sink into nothingness for a little spell so I don't have to think about it or worry about it anymore. I want to stay in nothingness until someone can organize my future and construct me a map and then tell me what the first step is to pulling myself out of this unrelenting deepness.

I know how I want to seem. I want to seem whimsical and carefree and pleasant and vibrant and intelligent and feeling and charming and aware. I want to seem giving and righteous. I want to seem self-assured. I want to seem those things because I want to be those things. On some days I am one or two or three of them. On some days I am none of them.

I struggle to be true to myself more than I wish to admit. What is it I want out of life? I want four walls with joyful living and humble remembrances inside and I want a strong, protective tree in the back yard, or front yard, that provides just the right amount of shade. And I want to read underneath it's branches.

But that is not all.

I want to saturate my life in all that is lovely, all that is of good report, all that is virtuous. I want to hear a piece of classical music and know its name and its measures like I know my own skin. I want to be well-read (not just because I've read all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books) and know by heart the most beautiful lines ever written in the history of literature. I want to be able to recite them with the same familiarity as my own name. I want to not just appreciate art, but recognize it; sympathize with it. Once, a long time ago, I saw van Gogh's "Irises". I had read his biography and thus was able to recount where he was and what was going on in his life when he painted it. I loved the satisfaction that came from knowing that. Goethe said, "One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, speak a few reasonable words", and how fervently I agree with him. The days that I seek out those realms feel the most complete, the most worthwhile. It is dichotomous that I feel most grateful for and yet at the same time most encumbered by the time that I am given. Grateful, because I think it is a precious gift. Encumbered by it, because I rarely use it wisely, and I feel inundated by guilt because of it. The irony of all this is that I have no one to point a condemning finger to but myself.

I want to cherish virtue. I want to cherish it like I cherish my cameo collection. I don't understand why I stray so far from this, when it is such an adamant beating of my heart. Or maybe it isn't and that is why I stray so far from protecting it.

In my heart of hearts, I want to uphold it to the most miraculous degree. But I fail. I fail miserably. I even abandon it sometimes. And yet all the while I know that in doing so I am betraying my identity. When I reach those precipices of spirituality that ascend me to the peripheral heights from which I have strayed, I am comforted, inspired, and assured. I stray from those feelings and from that elevation when I am reckless and negligent with my spirituality, my virtue.

I want to radiate intelligence. Not the kind that is overbearing and useless, but the kind that makes other people think differently. I want to understand what is important, and I want to always be learning. Learning about the world and finding new ways to understand it in all it's living complexities. I want to be intelligent enough to appreciate differences to which I don't relate. Indeed, and in deed, I want to "be the change I wish to see in the world". I want to never for one breathing second take for granted my ability to envisage.

Above all, I want to never forsake that part of me that yearns for closeness to my Maker.

And so I bid farewell to this night on bended knee and with bowed head, hands clasped together as if they are each other's only hope. And in silent and earnest fervor I plead: "Please help me get back to where and who I need to be, I beg of You..."

Peace and Love.

Night Rider

2014-08-11T12:54:00.003-06:00

"I ask not for any crown,

But that which all may win.

Nor try to conquer any world,

Except the one within."

-Louisa May Alcott

I was terrified to ride her. But not terrified enough not to. We began at my favorite hour, when Night begins its quiet capture of Day. On the back of a painted horse, I breathed in the free night air and let the sounds of Outside accompany my heart’s nervous trepidations. We trotted up and along, down and through, under and between, as and until the declarative darkness of Night arrived. The sky had no secrets then. It bore its stars like an endless string of heirloom pearls. What a beautiful awareness it was, to have that honest, open sky above me and such a powerful creature beneath me. I wanted to be as present as possible, quiet and sentient of another beating heart beneath my own. What is it called, when your remaining senses become more attuned to their surroundings because sight is no longer the prevailing sensation? Besides the stars, all I could see were the silhouettes of equine ears and the whispering branches of trees. But I could distinctly hear the sounds of the hour- the wind jete’ing through the leaves of those branches, the brushing of the blades beneath steady trots of hooves, and of course, crickets- those sentinels of the night known most familiarly by their song. I was keenly aware of the uneven rhythms of my heart which beat against the steady pulses of the cool, dark air on my face. I thought of the creature beneath me. I wondered what kind of soul she housed in that majestic form of hers. Was it really so different from mine? I had entrusted my safety to the will of this wild and beautiful beast, and that made my heart tremble. But then, what of her? I was an intruder in her existence, a timid but earnest stranger thrust upon her back exuding mountainous expectation with the commanding force of a breath. Perhaps she and I were like creatures. Maybe, like me, the heart inside her trembled for its own reasons; terrified, like me, of the things she wanted most. The more I contemplated these things, the less fearful I became of her will, and by the end of our ride, she had warranted my trust.

Until that night, I had never ridden a horse before, and as it is prone to do, my mind ran rampantly with the potential perils of the occasion. Horrors involving all manner of equestrian calamities revolving around rebellious hooves and my helpless cranium galloped across the plains of my mind without any provocation other than the free agency of my synapses. Fortunately, my synaptic proclivities are also wondrously adept at the converse (how remarkably well-rounded they are!) and can contrive extraordinary scenarios based very minorly in reality and with very little provocation as well. So, as it were, the coetaneous emotions of terror and excitement contended for my affections, and the visions of me galloping atop that horse, barefoot and bare soul with mysterious night air in my midst and wildflowers in my wake triumphed over the ones involving my pulpy cranium. It should be noted, however, that I was not embarking on this deliciously terrifying adventure alone. I would have a companion who knew both the horse and the terrain like they were mere extensions of his own being. He was ever attentive and kindly obliged when I requested* (*begged) that he please guide my reigns along with his own because I did not have the confidence to guide myself. That there was someone with me who possessed every needful thing to protect and pilot me was the final panacea for all my reservations. Our ride was hours long and each minute that passed was a beautiful one. My fear never really subsided altogether but it was quieted somewhat by the knowledge that my reigns were in the hands of someone far more experienced than I. It wasn’t until the whole thing was nearly over that I realized… He had relinquished control of my reigns without my knowing and I had been guiding myself for a great portion of the night.

As would be nearly impossible during such an experience, introspection came effortlessly that night and provided a personal truth yet unknown: Those few hours were a metaphor for the whole of my life. You see, there are avenues I want to pursue with all the fire of my heart; things that I know will bring self-actualization, unparalleled fulfillment, personal progression and identity capital. And the thought of them excites me. But it also terrifies me to the core. Taunting pangs of insecurity gallop across my soul similar to the ones like that of the horse’s hooves trampling my skull to oblivion, and once again, all those things I hope for- those soul-awakening things- continue to sit lifeless and unadorned deep inside me where all my fragmented pieces of self commune. And yet, despite the enfeebling thoughts I had that night, not only did I get on top of that wild and kindred creature, but, with some help, I guided the night. I was excited and petrified and unsure, but by the end of it all, I had fallen in love with the whole experience. Just like that ride in the dark, I would not be alone in the things my identity craves. There is a Master of all my life can be, who knows my destination- all its perils and all its promise- and can guide my reigns and lead me there with all the wisdom and direction that only an omnipotent being could. This experience was so much more than just one of life’s niceties; it was a glimpse from Him of something I very desperately needed to know: that I am made for better things than those I am engaging in. And I hold within me everything that I need to pursue those better things.

There is a force more ferocious than fear, and more persuasive than insecurity, and that is the pull we feel toward the un-embarked self. Fräulein Maria sings: “All I trust I give my heart to; all I trust becomes my own.” I think there is much wisdom in that. By Night’s end, I had branded that horse with my trust, and because of that, I learned an invaluable truth about myself. Without braving that experience, who knows how much longer it would have taken me to discover it and how much more of my precious existence would have been spent idled away because I could not learn how to quiet those voices so derisive to my progression and champion them with the even quieter ones that tell me to never stop reaching. The expansiveness of life is inherent within all of us, but it can be so easy to forget and neglect that sometimes. I will forever be in debt to that painted horse, that cover of darkness, and those guided reigns for reminding me.

Peace and Love.

Treat Me Nice(ly)

2014-06-06T13:09:00.000-06:00

"Say hello all over again. Romance me, take me back to the beginning."
-Deer Tick

I keep having realities far better than anything I could ever dream up. Before this one escapes my memory, I must catalog it here.

The promise of summer holds so much within it's anticipation. Longer nights painted with steely skies and stars that echo all the dreams inside your rib cage you want to set free. If I didn't adore the sun so ardently, I would say that summer nights are my favorite gift of the season.

I met him last year in absolutely un-lyrical circumstances, but, as "the times they are a'changin'", so must our meet cues. As I am want to do, I became enamored rather quickly. He built things with his own two hands, and grew things like vegetables and beards, and was far wittier than I. And, perhaps the most compelling of all- underneath all that unequivocal man-ness, beat a heart of which I found a most alluring likeness to mine. We walked different paths, very different ones. But it seemed as though some of the blossoms along my path were the same ones that bloomed along his. So, for a little while, we gathered those and they created something like Walt Whitman would have written. It didn't stay, as our two paths wouldn't allow for that. But I always enjoyed my time spent in his company.

A few weeks ago, I saw him again. Sometimes, we human beings are generous with our memories of those we once knew quite well but who have since become versions of strangers as paths part and Time's chords strike on. And then, when you meet again, you find that your memory has conceived them more as perfectly affected instruments of your reveries rather than the real, flawed, human beings they are (which, for the record, don't lend themselves well to idyllic constructions of our past). Whenever this happens to me, it is a sobering kind of thing. I can't help but feel as if I've lost something. This time, though, my memory gifted no virtues that were not deserved, for it could not have fashioned him any better than what he wholly and tangibly was. I think the dormant butterflies in those blossoms we shared a year ago were awakened; I felt their wings flutter inside my belly and make me feel indebted to be a girl. I'm not quite sure if he had changed or if I had changed, or if we both had, but the air surrounding us was different.

I rarely find or make occasion to stay up late anymore, as I have become quite fond of the soft simplicity of sleep, but that night the entreating outside and his company were far more appealing to me than any luxury slumber could grant me. We sat and marveled at the moon, and talked about the remarkable expansiveness of life. (It sounds deeper than it was.) My feet were cold and he warmed them. And I remembered how exquisite it is to be a girl when you have a good man beside you, warming your blood and teaching you things you never knew you always wanted to know.

The quiet morning persisted, and he said he would go, so that I could get some sleep. As coyly as I could feign without inherent coquetry (i.e. batting eyelashes) betraying me, I told him that I needed him to kiss me first. And just like music, he put my face in his hands, and he did just that. And my perseverant eyelashes were granted repose as I closed my eyes and lived inside of those kisses. He said goodnight and goodbye, and I left the outside and crawled in to greet my slumber with warm feet and smiles in my bloodstream. Before I closed my eyes for good that night, I read his parting words: "You are very lovely. The waxing moon agrees." And I will live off of that, I think, for long after summer's gifts have waned.

Peace and Love.

Image source : http://hippiebethany.tumblr.com/post/83816923463/we-feel-by-the-moon

Anything That's Part of You

2013-12-02T11:01:00.001-07:00

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies... Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die.

It doesn't matter what you do...so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away.”

-ray bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

I define truth as anything you believe to your core. It doesn't matter what evidence or lack thereof is there; if you feel it in your bones, that’s all that matters. Disclaimer: Among all the “i” words I have used to describe myself, “incredulous” is not one of them. Here are some of the truths that have shaped my view of the world and are to blame for how I exist within it:

1) Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise. (Something I always believed but that Les Mis was able to so eloquently encapsulate in one succinct phrase for me.)

2) Nothing is too wonderful to be true.

3) Heaven awaits me at the end of my days.

4) A heart that breaks is a heart that is genuine. Adamantine hearts do not reap the joys of susceptible ones.

I learned these truths from a teacher most remarkable. There is something truly magical about the relationship between a grandmother and granddaughter, and if there was a Truth #5, it would be that there are some lessons only to be learned through that sacred kinship. Though each of those above Truths was learned over the course of a lifetime in her presence, I can think of a very specific moment in which she taught me the value of having a heart that breaks. It was a late summer afternoon and my world as I knew it was over, for Oh Delilah the boy did not love me back. At 23 this is the worst kind of tragedy, you know. The only thing that brought any semblance of comfort that day was her. I called her and let my tears and grievances flow freely. And though she was miles upon miles away, having her on the other end of the line was better than having anyone or anything else in tangible proximity. She listened on as I disbosomed every cardiologic malady ever to plague me, cursing my heart for being so breakable, and wanting things so deeply, and for never being averse to ANYTHING. At that present moment, ambivalence seemed like a decadent indulgence only afforded to a elect breed of beings, of which I was not, of which I wanted to be. After she was sure I was completely depleted of tears, she granted her unrivaled comfort on my desperately despondent, if not positively melodramatic, soul. With a soft breath she bestowed Truth #4: “Someday you will be grateful you have a heart that beats so hard. Because some day you will realize that the world has so many things for you to love. How bleak an existence would life be with an ambivalent heart? My darling, your world will be so much richer, if you can just learn to embrace that ever-loving heart of yours.” And just like that, everything was warm again. She had, once again, painted my world with the a bright hue of hope.

Years have passed since that seemingly tragical afternoon. The wound she stitched up with her words that dark day has since healed and the scar is hardly traceable now. But what remains is the memory of her softness being the only thing that could mend my brokenness. And that is what she has always been for me. I have been blessed with a father who epitomizes the principle of unconditional love. And in his case, my grandmother is the tree that produced the apple which fell hardly far at all. Every little girl needs someone in her life to shepherd her far away from aphotic places like self-doubt and insecurity and instead take her by the hand and guide her to the effulgent pathways of which Impossible is not a destination. She did that for me, and not just that abysmal afternoon, but always. Perhaps it is only a discernment granted to the ever-peering and oh so biased eyes of grandmothers, but she somehow managed to see all the exquisite possibilities of what my life could be. She had this magical way of making anything and everything seem as if it were completely within my grasp, if only I would reach for it.

I lost this sweet paragon of womanhood recently. No one is immune to the lulls of senescence and it had been thieving her away little by little for quite some time until, finally, it ransomed her completely. And now, as Edna St. Vincent Millay once wrote, “the presence of her absence is felt everywhere.” My thoughts of her are peaceful ones, as my hope in a blessed life after death anchors me. What aches are the memories like that summer day- moments where the orchestral cadences of the universe all seemed to decrescendo and all that existed, all that was heard or felt, was her and her warmth. I think of moments with her and am simultaneously suffused with gratitude and grief, for how blessed I was to be a part of the world when she, too, was part of it, and how foreign the world now seems without her. Admittedly, there have been a few grim moments since her passing where I have questioned the earth’s ability to muster even a little bit of the magic it bore when she was alive. You see, her simply being a part of it made the world a beautiful place to be.

The thought has arisen that my future children will never meet her. As if the task of stewarding human beings wasn't daunting enough, I now must embrace the charge of creating a world for them where they won’t be forsaken the privilege of knowing her- simply because they didn't arrive here sooner. I suspect that when I tickle their arms and sing to them 26 reasons why they are loved (one for every letter of the alphabet), she will be there to soften my touch and sweeten my melody. When we play a raucous game of cards and I let them cheat, as they positively will seeing as how they will be born of me (more arboreal inclinations… Me: tree, Them: apples), I am sure she will be a visitant spectator. When their eyes twinkle with mischief and their laughs restore my hope in humanity, those will be echoes of her. My little ones will never get to comb her alabaster hair or hear her tender voice. But if I am soft, if my touch is gentle, if my words are the avenues by which they find their most remarkable versions of themselves, if I somehow find a way to make them feel that there is no safer place to be than sitting close to me, then they will know her.

How do we fill the aperture that is left by the passing of someone whose life was so instrumental in our own? When you can’t have them back, how do you preserve their existence? There is something that I have learned from trying to elucidate all this penumbra of loss, and that is this: though we can never have our loved one back, we can hold fast to the very best parts of them. Those very portions of their souls that they lent to us every now and again- we remember those and we cultivate them within ourselves, and that is how our loved ones endure long after they are gone. Perhaps the best way for me to honor my grandmother, is to tune my heart- that heart she always believed in so much- to beat the way that hers did. There are so many lessons I have learned from her, and not enough pages in the entire expanse of the universe on which to catalog them all. And I miss her. Oh, how much I miss her. But how deeply grateful I am that I was hers, and for the legacy of womanhood she has left for me. If my walk of womanhood matches even a fraction of hers, well then I will have exceeded the measure of my creation and done her memory a great honor indeed.

My sweet, sweet Grandma Honey, as she was aptly called, was the eidolon example in my life. No one was gentler or more accepting. She radiated kindness in every moment of her existence, her commodious heart ever-bestowing. Her life was not without opposition, but she championed each turn with grace. And I am part of what she has left behind. I am one of those things that she touched and was thus made different- better.

She used to tell each of her grandchildren that she loved us to the sky, and you know, there is something reassuringly, beautifully sacred about thinking about her loving me from that very place now.

peace and love.

Forget Me Never

2013-07-19T15:01:00.000-06:00

“We're after the same rainbow's end,

Waiting 'round the bend.

My huckleberry friend,

Moonriver, and me.”

-henry mancini

There is this thing about me. I do not feel things passively. Feelings usually pass through me like thunderstorms. Whatever the emotion, it is almost always either a conflagration or an abyss. I’m still trying to figure out how to make this work in my favor. Anais Nin said, “You must not fear, hold back, count or be a miser with your thoughts and feelings. It is also true that creation comes from an overflow, so you have to learn to intake, to imbibe, to nourish yourself and not be afraid of fullness. The fullness is like a tidal wave which then carries you, sweeps you into experience and into writing.” So maybe I shall pour the buckets of rain from all those thunderstorms of emotion into a 645,876,053.67 page exposition on my life. Get stoked for that.

Despite my lack of dog, which, I always have thought was the ultimate defining characteristic of adulthood, I have really been feeling like a bonafide grown-up lately. (At 29, one might say, “It’s about damn time”, but I’ve always been somewhat of a late bloomer.) No, it is because I have found myself aware of blessed moments at the exact moment I am existing within them. And this has become a beautiful part of being alive. I’ve confessed my avowal to the Kurt Vonnegut quote about recognizing happiness at its exactness; well, the more aware I become of both the trivial and grave tragedies of life, the more I come to realize that those blessed moments- the ones when your heart beat slows in effort to make them last just a little bit longer- they exist if only for the reverent duty of providing the balm to help us convalesce through the ones whose sole purpose seems to be to break us.

I am lucky. I can count on only one hand the times when life has given me "storms [I] cannot weather", and not enough hands on which to count the ones that have caused cartoon-like phosphenes to linger in a dreamlike crown around my reality. So I am grateful for that. But shame on me, because I have allowed too many of these moments to pass me by without acknowledging them in the best way I know how. So, I do that now.

Capture my heart for even a second, and it’s quite possible you will have it for the rest of my days. Mine is not a love easily dissuaded. And though I confess that it is not such a magnificent feat TO ignite my ardor, there is something sacred to me about the honesty of a child’s love. It seems to me that they love as Neruda did: “without knowing how, or when, or from where… Simply, without problems or pride… because [they] do not know any other way of loving but this.” There is one of these sweet little souls who captured my heart years ago when he “lasso’d” the moon and presented it to me with his tiny, open arms. If there is a grown-up version of this boy, I’d like him to please come find me so that I may give him my whole world. Anyway, boys have a tendency to forget their tenderness of heart as they get older and figure out what it means to be the world’s definition of a female counterpart. But for whatever reason, this one hasn’t yet forgotten. Bedtime rituals in his home consist of a song, a prayer, and a story which usually lulls him and his sweet little sisters off to dream big things in their little beds. When it came to Boy’s turn to pick a song, he requested, "the one about the moon that Brittany used to sing to me". So, I sang, and he hummed along, and then when it ended, my little huckleberry friend said, “Brittany, that was kind of tender for me.” Oh, my. Jane Austen once said that there was no charm equal to tenderness of heart, and I don't know that there is even one fiber of my being that would protest that. As those few moments of my life were irrevocably entwined with that precious little person’s, I kept my eyes closed, and held on to them for as long as they would linger. Something about closing one’s eyes during an experience solemnizes it, after all. Those few precious, blessed moments softened and strengthened me all at once and it was so sweet a feeling that even I- the girl who reads the dictionary- would not attempt to describe it. I would, however, venture to say that Boy and I at least have proprietary rights to the moon after all this.

^ That unlabeled feeling. It most certainly did not pass through me like a thunderstorm. It tip-toed in and didn’t pass through me at all. It remains. And when I remember it, it quiets the chaos and it slows my cadences and I am reminded that goodness is just as real as the barrage of depravity fighting against it. Part of the beauty of being an individual is that our realms of awareness differ from person to person. How very much I cherish this new found awareness of the sanctity of what can be found within a few blessed moments. I used to think that to be impacted, I had to experience that thunderstorm of emotion. But thank goodness I'm 29 now and I know better.

Peace and Love.

Image: http://mynewlifeinsavannah.blogspot.com/2012/09/a-sad-moon-river-in-savannah-passing-of.html

Girl: Happy

2012-05-17T17:34:00.002-06:00

“Hope is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul 
And sings the tune without the words 
And never stops at all.” 

-emily dickinson 

Kurt Vonnegut once said, "I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim, or murmur, or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'" I thought of this quote not long ago during one such moment, and I did just that- it wasn't an emphatic exclamation, but a contented vocalization: "I'm happy." And that was the first time I can ever recall recognizing happiness at it's exactness. 

Sometimes life can be debilitatingly hard. There are moments, days, weeks, maybe even months where one just wants to be rescued; rescued from themselves and the ties they have bound themselves with. Those times, though desperate, are necessary because they make the simple and quiet moments when life is effortless and quietly wonderful so much more poignant. 

I have been away from this little space for so long. And I've missed it desperately. And I feel as though I've neglected something that is trying to blossom, but has been deprived of it's sunlight. Among things I consider sacred to my soul, writing is one of them. Short of music, and prayer, it is the thing that guides me closer to wherever and whoever it is I am supposed to be. So...

Dear Me, Please accept this humble apology for neglecting that thing in which you find so much purpose, enrichment, enlightenment, and serenity. Love, Me. {Apology accepted.}

In the midst of being appreciative of those quiet, happy moments, here are some simplicities that because of which, I can truly say,  

"I'm smilin' in my blood." :

{spring has sprung}

Here's why I love spring: not only does it awaken things long since lost
 under the abysmal bleakness of winter, but it emanates in it's very 
essence the promise of that beauteous season which follows it, my 
beloved summer. It is the most hopeful of all the seasons.

{new sister!}

Little Brother #1 (also referred to as Heartstring #1) got hitched last weekend! He and his new little lady had their very first dance to {my} Elvis' "Can't Help Falling in Love". So happy I now have even one more reason to love that song. I wish them all the happiness that life has to offer. From the bottom of my heart I do.

 {grapefruit}

Aka manna from Heaven. Lately, these citrus-y delights have been twitterpating my tastebuds like nobody's business. I'm so enamored.

{chanin}

Due to all the nuptials as of late (my little cousin Biffers got married too!), I've been able to spend hours upon hours with the woman whose every move I wish to emulate when I'm a grown up. My Aunt Chatzie is just the best kind of woman one could ever dream up. She's lovely (with or without Bare Minerals), she has simple and sophisticated taste, she's funny, she's practical, she's loving, her house is always clean and her food is always delish. Yes, if I am a quarter the woman she is someday, I will feel quite satisfactory. I love her just oh-so-much.

{hope}

One of my most favorite childhood poems ever is the one by Shel Silverstein which goes a little something like this:

"Listen to the Mustn'ts Child,

Listen to the Don'ts.

Listen to the Shouldn'ts, the Impossibles, the Won'ts.

Listen to the Never Haves, 

Then listen close to me:

Anything can happen, Child. Anything can be."

I think that one of life's most forsaken amenities is hope. And even I, the most idealistic and hopeful of creatures, have at times abandoned it. But lately, it's been my constant companion. And I'll tell you what: my days are brighter and my nights dreamier. It's a tragic guarantee that life is going to disappoint us, at times. But, as my beloved Eponine so implored with her last dying breath: "Rain will make the flowers grow." 

Peace and Love.

Image source: http://marinasalumeart.blogspot.com/2010_08_01_archive.html

By and By, Part II (For Uncle Brad)

2012-02-08T12:38:00.002-07:00

"I am hanging in the balance

of the reality of man;

like every sparrow falling, 

like every grain of sand."

-Bob Dylan 

Three years ago on this exact day, I met with an emotion never before introduced to me. I still don't have a name for it. It was a concrete intangibility of anguish to which, until that moment, I had always been a stranger. The emotional repercussions of man's tenuity against the inevitability of his mortality are never uncomplicated. I still haven't been able to quite repair the pieces of acumen that were broken that day. 

One day at a time, I guess. 

Here is the entry I wrote for the contest I mentioned back in September. It didn't win (ugh.), so now I can publish it wherever and however I wanna. I publish it here, today, in my private public space, in honor of my dearest, darling-est, uncle. He has impacted me almost more in his absence than in his existence. Here's to always missing you, Brad. You are loved.

*

I once read this quote from Anais Nin: "Love means abandonment... 
Either be abandoned or abandon first." Impulsively, I disagreed; 
something that brings such fullness to life certainly cannot be 
characterized by loss. Then, as I considered all the synonyms of that 
four-letter-word that I have encountered in my innumerable and varying 
affairs of the heart, I realized love can mean many different things: 
infatuation, completeness, joy, surrender... Ah, "surrender". Maybe that
 is what Ms. Nin was referring to. For when we truly love, we surrender.
 We surrender safety to vulnerability and the possibility of sorrow and 
pain. We do this because something innate within us believes that it 
will be worth the risk. Why? Because the goodness that permeates our 
beings from allowing ourselves to truly and honestly love, that 
champions the fear that comes with realizing that with one heartbeat, we
 could lose it; we could be abandoned.

  

I count as one of my most cherished possessions a weathered
 Post-It note. On it, this message: "Brit, Use this money to fix your 
car. You are loved. -Uncle Brad." What that small piece of paper lacks 
in tangible matter, it makes up for in consequence. He was our bachelor 
uncle; charismatic and smart and handsome, and the kind of funny you 
don't quite understand when you're little, but as you grow up and 
understand it, becomes the kind of funny you wish you were. My fondest 
childhood memories of him stem from day trips to the beach and helping 
me find sand-dollars, "sheet rides", checking my brothers and me out of 
school for a trip to Knott's Berry Farm, Popsicles for breakfast, money 
for the neighborhood ice-cream truck, and protection from the other 
neighborhood kids who had bigger squirt guns than I did. Never, no 
never, has anyone so fondly held the title of "uncle" as did my Uncle 
Brad. My adoration for him accompanied me into adulthood: In my early 
college years, he provided comical substance and emotional sustenance 
with his letters, birthday cards, and phone calls. Nothing stands as a 
more poignant reminder though of the kind of heart he had than does that
 aforementioned Post-It note, which initially clung to a $500.00 check. 
He absolutely did not have that kind of money to give away. But he gave 
it anyway. Because he had a niece with a broken car and thus a broken 
spirit. Indeed, if Uncle Brad loved you, surely you knew it.

When I think about the innocence of my childhood, I miss 
it. I mean the innocence that comes with naivety, with not knowing: not 
knowing about grief, not knowing about the demons to which all humans 
are susceptible. I miss the innocence that comes with not knowing that 
your family won't always be as it is then, that they won't always be how
 they are, and that they'll never be anywhere but with you. When I was 
his little niece, being flung in his arms in a wrapped up sheet, belly 
laughing and full of glee, I had no idea that lurking within and 
taunting my beloved uncle was that shadowy adversary, Addiction.

I remember when I found out. That was the day my childhood
 innocence was shattered because my family became susceptible, and I 
surrendered. I was sixteen or so and we had just gotten to a beach house
 for a family vacation- a total Smith Fest. I ran 
downstairs to go say "Hi" to my favorite of the bunch. I found him- 
fumbling around and babbling incoherently. "He's trying to be funny", I 
thought. I threw my arms around him and greeted him anxiously. But he 
peeled my arms away and pushed me aside.  "Very funny, Uncle Brad...". I
 laughed and smacked him on the back. He turned around, with a glare 
I've never seen on his face before: "Leave. Me. Alone." Paralyzed by bewilderment, I probably stood there for a whole minute before I could
 even move. When my mini-coma elapsed, I made my way up the stairs, 
slowly at first. By the top I was running into my mom's arms, flooded in
 confusion and tears. She and I left the beach house that day and she 
explained everything on the drive home.We returned the next day, after my dad and 
other uncles had given him an ultimatum: your fix, or your family. He 
chose us- of course he did. For the week anyway. I left that vacation 
with a changed heart. I loved him more than ever, but he wasn't the 
uncle from my childhood anymore. He was feeble, and I had never viewed 
him that way before.

When I was finally old enough to grasp his relationship 
with his drugs, the negative space left by the erosion of my childhood 
innocence was filled by grown-up compassion. Of course, he made me angry
 at times. Livid, even, as I witnessed how much his choices hurt our 
family. After countless stints in rehab, I couldn't understand why he 
wouldn't just recognize the damage he was doing to all of us who loved 
him so adoringly. But Addiction is not a fiend easily thwarted, is it? I
 was ever-hopeful, though. I hoped against hope for any semblance of 
rescue from that relentless and malignant foe which held him captive. 
Any interactions I had with him were seemingly positive- but he was mere
 traces of himself. There was a sadness about him that hadn't existed 
before. Or, maybe it had. But that exquisite protector, Childhood, had 
blinded my innocent eyes to it.

Christmas of 2008 was the last time I saw him. That was one
 of those times I was angry. If only I could do it again, I would have 
surrendered that anger and just let myself feel the love that I'd always
 had for him. If only. I was sitting on my grandma's couch. He walked 
past it from behind, and stopped. I glanced behind me, uttered an artful
 "Merry Christmas", and turned back around, not granting him anymore of 
my time. 's Christmas spirit at it's finest. Two months later I was 
back at school, relishing in the social delights of independence, when 
my phone rang. It was my dad. He asked me if I could talk, and there was nothing
 in his voice to give me pause. I stood up and slowly made my way into 
the hallway towards my room but only made it as far as the doorknob: my 
knees caved, my grip around that doorknob loosened, and my body wilted 
to the floor.  I sat there barefoot on the unsympathetic and arctic 
tile, and fell prey to my indomitable tears. He was gone- another one of
 those four-letter-words. My darling and doting and drug-ridden uncle was
 gone. 

His funeral was the most foreign experience of my life. "Everyone's here but Brad", "He should be here with all these people who 
love him", "He's late- typical", "Oh that's right, he IS here- he's in that...box", etc. It was a
 convolution of thoughts I will never be able to apprehend. I was able 
to sneak my own private goodbye at the burial service. I remember none 
of the words I spoke, only feeling, literally, like my heart was 
different. I was changed. All that love and hoping in his behalf- it had
 made me more "me".

  

So yes, I would tell Ms. Nin (if she were still here and I had the good fortune of conversing with her): "You were somewhat right." Because though I've loved much and loved often, it was through Love's abandonment that I learned that love is most pure when it is unprejudiced. I know this because I loved him more in his debility than I did in his seeming sobriety. In all my pretenses of love in those aforementioned love affairs, unfeigned was never a word I could claim. Uncle Brad taught me that it is only through love unfeigned that we are able to understand ourselves better- to become more of who we are meant to be. Through being loved by and in loving my frail uncle, at the ripe old age of sixteen, I learned that the real meaning of love is that it will make you hope for better things. Despite all the pain that his addiction bred, I never stopped hoping that he would heal. Now that he is gone, I have learned that though all the love in the world cannot change the "bestowed", it can change the "bestower". I now choose to love openly and honestly; however susceptible that makes me. I surrender to the possibility of abandonment because I know that in letting my heart beat as it will, as much as it will, for whomever and why ever it chooses, the hope for something better that will chime with each heartbeat will echo over the fear that I very well could lose the "bestowed" forever.

*

Peace and Love.

Image source: http://www.bridgesofhope.org

I Just Can't Help Believing

2012-02-02T17:32:00.000-07:00

 “I hold [a] creed...which I seldom 
mention, but in which I delight, and to which I cling, for it extends 
hope to all; it makes eternity a rest."

-Jane Eyre 

I'm not politically-inclined. I'm far too interested in other, far more trivial matters. Some day when I grow up, maybe I'll give more credence to things of consequence. Still, since I don't live under a rock in a deep, dark cave somewhere in Siberia, it hasn't escaped even my notice that Mormons (also called Latter-Day Saints [LDS for short] because we belong to 
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints...[exhale] )are getting a lot of limelight due to good old Mitt. I've never been one to broadcast my beliefs or "inflict" them on others who are not inquiring after it. But, as I'm sure more curiosity will arise as the primaries continue, I think it pertinent to paint a little picture of what Mormons stand for- not just being scared of beer and sex- in a way that is humanizing. I feel like ever since Prop 8 and our alleged "gay-bashing" (a perfect case of "certain shades of limelight ruining a girl's complexion") that there are quite a lot of miscreances regarding exactly what beliefs Mormons ascribe to. 

Our most basic doctrines can be found in what we refer to as The 13 Articles of Faith. These were developed by Joseph Smith during the early organization of the LDS church to help delineate our beliefs. Because they were written almost 200 years ago, and if you're not a Mormo yourself, they can be rawtha difficult to apprehend. So, I've quite graciously taken it upon myself to put them into Brittany-ish terms, just in case anyone who stumbles upon this here bloggity-blog is curious about Mitt and Mormo's in general.

Andddd we're off....

1. We believe in the same Godhead that most of Christianity does. We believe that it is comprised of God our Heavenly Father, His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost. We believe that they are three separate beings, but united in their purpose to bring to pass the joy of mankind. 

2. We believe that men are accountable for their own individual sins/transgressions/screw-ups, etc., and not for Adam's decision to partake of that scintillating fruit. 

3. We believe that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, made an atonement for all of mankind, and that if individuals choose to abide by His principles and live in accordance with how He did, that they may gain eternal joy (aka get to Heaven).

4. The first basic principles of the gospel of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints focus on four ordinances (sacred, formal acts). They are: faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, repentance (recognizing and making restitution for transgressions against God), baptism by immersion (meaning we are fully immersed under water as opposed to the more traditional baptismal methods of sprinkling water on the baptize-ee), and, finally, receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost as a constant companion through the power of the priesthood (God's power given to men to righteously employ on Earth for His purposes).

5. Like any organization, religious or otherwise, there are certain offices that must be held in order to accommodate the needs of it's patrons and to ensure that it runs efficiently. In the LDS church, these offices are referred to as callings, and they are all voluntary. Callings are not mandatory and can be either accepted or given a "thanks, but no thanks". We believe that in order for an individual to be issued a calling, that individual must be living in accordance with the commandments of God. We also believe that individuals are called to those appointments through personal revelation from God to his priesthood holders who are earnestly seeking out the needs of the congregation as a whole. 

6. The officiating of the LDS church is made up of modern-day prophets and apostles. We believe that a prophet is the mouth-piece for our Heavenly Father. He prayerfully seeks counsel from God and does his best to guide the patrons of the church according to the counsel that he receives through that personal communion with God. We believe that an apostle is anyone who follows Christ, much like the disciples we read about in the Bible.

7. A fundamental aspect of our gospel is our belief that personal revelation is real. We believe that God can and does communicate with His children by and through any means in which an individual receives inspiration. 

8. Contrary to popular belief, we DO believe in the Bible, as far as it has been translated correctly. We believe the Book of Mormon to be a companion to the Bible, not a replacement for it.

9. We believe that, just as He did during Biblical times, God continues to communicate with His children through personal revelation. 

10. We believe that Christ was born, lived, was crucified to atone for the sins of mankind, and rose to live again. We also believe that He will return to reign on Earth again (referred to as The Second Coming).

11. We believe that it is every man's privilege to worship God according to the dictates of their own conscience; though we as Latter-Day Saints choose to believe in and worship a Heavenly Father, we also believe that every human being should be able to worship how, where, and whatever they choose to worship.

12. We believe in honoring the laws of the land. (Except for anything relating to Provo Parking Enforcement. No one will ever be held accountable for any infraction committed against them, since they play for Team Satan.)

13. Brace yourself, this is a long one... We believe in being honest, in being virtuous, and in attending to the welfare of "our fellow man". We, as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, strive to seek after things that are uplifting and edifying; things that will contribute to a full life. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good-report, or praiseworthy, we seek after these things. On the converse, we try to abstain from anything that is corrosive or obscene to any aspect of our well-being, albeit physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, etc. You could say that we follow Paul's admonition to be ever-believing, ever-hopeful, and ever-enduring.

Hopefully that elucidated some of the fine-print. To me, being a member of this church simply means that in my heart of hearts, I just want to be like Him, whatever that takes. WWJD I guess. Though you'll never, I repeat NEVER, see me rock one of those repulsive bracelets. I simply won't do it.

Peace and Love.

Wish I had that shirt in high-school... Here's the source link suckas: http://www.spreadshirt.com/i-can-t-i-m-mormon-C3376A4965223

Funny How Time Slips Away

2012-01-05T21:21:00.000-07:00

"For last year's words belong to last year's language, and next year's words await another voice."
-T.S. Eliot

I recently read this on the "internet" and got a guilty chuckle out of it: "I can't believe it's been a year since I didn't become a better person." Sad, but oh-so-true. I can't believe I let another year slip through my bony fingers and have nothing much to show for it. I don't think I quite aspired to the Audrey-archetype that I had high hopes of becoming in 2011. {Insert woeful, despondent, longing, regretful sigh here}. But... that's alright, Mama! Because, as that audaciously courageous little minx Scarlett O'Hara so earnestly attested: "Tomorrow is another day!" 2012 is my "tomorrow". And though I didn't accomplish quite all that I hoped in 20 to the elev, I just so happened to both inadvertently and quite intentionally cross off a few more of those future memories I crossed my fingers for last March. Without further adieu, I give you...

{~~Be one with nature~~} - Keeping my promise to myself (which, perhaps, just may be the most sacred of oaths, wouldn't you agree?), I dedicated my whole existence on Earth Day to Mother Nature. I hiked, I biked, I consumed only that which came from her good roots. How very existential do I sound right now?
P. to the S. Stay tuned for more on existentialism when I get the time of day...

{~~Catch a fish~~} - ... So the picture doesn't capture the glory that was my triumph over that (stocked) pond, but I swear I caught one. I named it Mick because of it's striking resemblance.

Loves him.

{~~See an orchestra, any orchestra~~} - Emphasis on the any.
Any = The Orchestra of Southern Utah. 'Twasn't a spoiler of every day life like the opera was, but soul-stirring nonetheless.

{~~Hold a starfish~~} - This.was.magical. I think the thrill of it all must be rooted in my undying love for Ariel, my favorite princess. I probably won't ever cross {Stop believing in mermaids} off my list, but whatevs.

Check out that 'lil nugget of a starfish. I totally wanted to wear it as an earring but it's too 90's to just wear one.

{Publish a manuscript} - Ok so... I didn't quite publish anything. But I did submit something to be published, and that's a giant baby step for me. So cross yo' fingers that 2012 will let me officially cross this one off the listy-list.

... Not too shabby for little ol' Brittles. I am going to try my darndest to cross four more off that list by the end of '12. In the meantime, I shall not forsake my life-long W.W.A.D. avowal initiated last year, as well as adhere with all my might to the following:

1). "Grant me some wild expressions, Heavens, or I shall burst!" -George Farquhar.

George and I are probably kindred spirits. Just like last year, though, I am going to swear off swearing. From now on, obscenities for me will equate to "fiddle-dee-dee" and "son of a gun"...

2). Mark Twain said that water, when taken in moderation, cannot hurt anybody. Though I vehemently agree with him, and think water is the most deplorable thing taste-buds could ever encounter, I'm going to drink water like it's laced with crack. (If water were Shirley Temples, this would be so much easier.)

3). Begin and end each day in prayer. "But behold I say unto you that ye should pray always and not faint; that ye must not perform anything unto the Lord save in the first place ye shall pray unto the Father in the name of Christ, that he may consecrate thy performance, that thy performance may be for the welfare of they soul." -2 Nephi 32:9 (Drink up some more deliciousness like this {HERE}.) Last year I memorized this scripture in hopes that it would help me pray more, but instant cognitive recall was where my devotion began and ended.

So here's to Take Two.

4). Recognize what matters most- and seek after that the most. Audrey did say, "For me, the only things of interest are those linked to the heart." In other words, follow my heartly beatings like a map and they will lead me to the most eloquent and authentic of places.

5). "Be like the bird that, passing on her flight awhile on boughs too slight, feels them give way beneath her, and yet sings, knowing she has wings." -Victor Hugo

6). Become in love. For, "[W]hen we love, we always strive to become better than we are. When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too." -Paulo Coelho

7). Vincent van Gogh said, "Make Christ the center of your longing." And make Him my center, I shall.

If there is anything I learned last year, despite my miraculous accomplishment of Absolutely Nothing, it is this: our lives are as full or as empty as we want them to be. And I refuse to live anything less than a marvelous existence.

Dear 2012,

I feel good about you.

Peace and Love.

Image source: http://www.etsy.com/listing/44503122/yellow-eyed-junco

The Lighthouse

2011-12-20T23:42:00.000-07:00

"Nothing can dim the light that shines within."
-Maya Angelou


The aphorismatic idea that the eye is the conduit to the soul has always been sacred to me. Once I have laid eyes upon something they christen as "beautiful", that something most certainly will leave an imprint on my very being, becoming a small portion of my soul itself. When I was a little girl, I remember feeling a wondrous sense of awe at a willow tree. (A... tree you say? How normal.) But, for whatever reason, seeing it's languid, sweeping branches made an impression on my little heart and that quiet wonder grew with me into adulthood; it gave breath to something within me that slowly burgeoned into the reverence for nature that I feel and the maternal-like attentiveness for taking care of it. Seeing is not just a visual faculty though, is it? For when we really envisage something, we feel it. And I don't just mean "sight" as in ocular adeptness, I mean seeing in each and every sense of the word: perspective, understanding, discernment, appreciation, perceiving. Truly seeing causes feeling, causes a stirring within us that cannot be subjugated. And that, that is how the eye first becomes window to the soul: when we have understood, discerned, appreciated, percieved, and thus inadvertently adopted that very small form of intelligence as a part of ourselves. 

The definition of intelligence is "the capacity for learning, reasoning, understanding... the faculty of understanding." Notice what that definition implies: that intelligence is determined by one's capacity, or potential, for learning; their aptitude for understanding. I ascribe to the belief that true intelligence guides men to action in that their intelligence is then radiated by the lives they lead. And therein lies the poetic counterpart to the eyes being the window to the soul-  we radiate what is most deeply important to us, what we most seek after. These are the things that quietly and gracefully feed that inner light 
to which Elizabeth Kubler-Ross was referring when she said: "People are 
like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the 
sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed
 only if there is a light within." I'm quite taken with the 
bidirectionality that this whole idea propounds: If the eye is the window to 
the soul, let what we choose to "see" be that which will radiate light 
from within and cause the kind of reflection that inspires. 

Someone rather enlightened (cough cough... John Locke) once expressed the idea that "the candle that is set up in us shines bright[ly] enough for all our purposes." What I think most encouraging about this is his postulation that we all have an innate prerequisite for anything we desire to accomplish or understand. That light is within everybody- but flickers and burns with as much unique precision as the "Author of our existence" used in designing each one of us. Of course, we see countless things every day, but I'm referring to those things we see that compel us to 
look twice- and that, upon that second glance, make us feel something.  I think that light to which Locke refers is fed by those things that we have cause to give a second glance, or notice, or thought. If we don't feed that light, it dies, and we radiate nothing. But if we do choose to feed it, then, like E.K.B.'s human window, it creates something so extraordinary within us that it is radiated outwardly. 

I spent my entire college career pursuing a career with which I was never, no not once, enthralled. Of course, there were sparks of interest here and there- but I never felt deeply connected to what I was studying. I never felt like learning the postures of my future vocation was an extension of who I was. A cryin' shame. Though no education is ever wasted, I desperately wish I would have chosen to explore something that did ignite and feed that little flickering light within me- something which in learning more and more about It, I could feel like I was learning more and more about myself. I feel that way when I read, and when I write. I can become completely intoxicated by cadences. I feel so very kindred to and grateful and hungry for the endowment of words and their subtleties. I don't know if it's the potential that lies within each one- the innumerable ways in which it can be applied and given new, personal meaning, or in some cases, in the very word itself. For whatever reason, there is a thrill that overcomes me with the mere possibility of expressing a thought- knowing I can choose any concoction of words to do so- and that in doing just that, I put my very brand on that thought- it becomes mine. The light that shines faintly within me is fed so much by this passion. I think it burns it's brightest when I pursue this outlet. The very deepest recesses of my soul surface and find sustenance. "The understanding, like the eye,
 whilst it makes us see and perceive all other things, takes no notice 
of itself; and it requires art and pains to set it at a distance and 
make it its own object. But
 whatever be the difficulties that lie in the way of this inquiry; 
whatever it be that keeps us so much in the dark to ourselves; sure I am
 that all the light we can let in upon our minds... will not only be 
very pleasant,
 but bring us great advantage, in directing our thoughts in the search 
of other things... The actions of men are the best interpreters of their
 thoughts"... Yet another astute proliferation of the Enlightenment and it's champ, John Locke. If I am interpreting his notion correctly, I would argue that he is encouraging us to cultivate our intellect as doing so will inadvertently shed light upon the mysteries that lie within ourselves; will give us insight into our own natures, and this will allure us toward seeking out more knowledge and more understanding, which will feed that inner light that is within us.

A very great lady once said, "Our outward appearance is a reflection of what we are on the inside. Our lives reflect that for which we seek." There are paths awaiting me... Paths that will kindle that inner flame until it is at it's veriest, and I want to pursue those. Ultimately, pursuing intelligence, in all it's forms, can do nothing but illuminate one's life. It's deeply important for me to live the kind of life that is a reflection of the things for which my soul craves. If eyes truly are windows to the soul, I want mine to radiate the things that characterize a beautiful and meaningful existence. Whatever that may mean for me. Let nothing dim the light that shines within me, and let me seek especially after those things that will feed it's glow. 

Peace and Love.

Image source: http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2698/4279956730_472d6b3264.jpg

How's the World Treating You?

2011-11-17T14:51:00.003-07:00

"Not what we say about our blessings, but how we use them, is the true measure of our thanksgiving."
-W.T. Purkiser


The golden-deliciousness of falling leaves and the crispness in the air can mean only one thing: fall has unmistakably encroached on my beloved summer. I truly wish I were a soul who thrived in all seasons, but alas, it is not so. I had the notion the other day, however, that if fall were not the precedent to winter, I'm sure I would relish it much more than just the deciduous aesthetics and the inevitable, ever-present aroma of pumpkin bread. Though, I'll admit, there is one thing about this time of year that does bring comfort despite the impending abysmal doom of winter that shadows it. "That", my peeps, is the feeling of gratitude that arrives just as naturally as the changing colors of the season. 

I don't have many talents- it's true. There are plenty of things at which I am exquisitely mediocre. I do, however, pride myself in being able to find joy in the simple things in life. A warm day, a good song, something scandalously delish to eat, a hearty laugh... You get it. I try to recognize these on a daily basis and, when I remember, thank my Maker for the small flutter of happiness they bring to my day. But there are oh so many other things- grander things- that grant gratitude acceptance into my door and serve it tea and scrumpets. In the true spirit of Thanksgiving, while I am surrounded by falling leaves of decadent autumn tones, I give thanks for the many things in my life that without which, would make it positively empty...

Dad. Amongst all else, for teaching me about how to think so that it makes me a better person. Mama. Amongst all else, for your anchoring encouragement of "Faith, not Fear." Brothers. For your honest hearts and your funny bones. Sisters. For your virtue. God. For His unfailing mercy. Christ. For His sacrifice. Ears. For their ability to hear the music I love so poignantly. Edith, Victor, Jane, Goethe, Lucy Maud, Flaubert. For the words they have written which have sculpted, refined, inspired, and changed my soul. Heart. Literally, for it's perseverance in beating each and every minute. Figuratively, for how ardently it beats. It is a hopeful, fervent, enduring heart. And It, more than anything else, is my most reliable reminder of what matters most. Tastebuds. For the exquisite joy they have granted me. (I wanted to put this one at the very top, but even I am not that shameful.) Shawn. For everything. You are my rock. Maddles. For giving me the ever-so-smallest glimpse into the future joys of motherhood. Memories. For their ability to endure, when their begetters, by design, cannot. Writing. For the catharsis and self-awareness that it cultivates. Thomas S. Monson. For his unfailing optimism. My Tricks. For everything that each of you has brought to my life. I am a better girl for being in your company.

Home. For it's sanctity and comfort.

Make no mistake, I am wholly undeserving of all of the above. But until the universe and all else that conspires in my favor realizes it, I will cherish each like a hoarder until my dying day. Shakespeare said, "They do not love that do no show it", and I would venture to say the same is true for gratitude. Are we truly grateful for our blessings if we do not give thanks where and how thanks are due? True gratitude is probably more than just saying "Thank you, thank you very much" (I'm also thankful for Elvis, obvi). I think when our lives are characterized by optimism, and service, and concern for others, and when we have an unrelenting hope, that that is probably when we can claim gratitude as a characteristical appendage. 

Any virtue, if it is sincere, is more than just a feeling- it is a way of living. It's almost effortless at this time of the year to recognize how full our lives are; it's harder to maintain that recognition as the season fades. This Thanksgiving, may we not only identify those things in our lives which make it better, but resolve to let that gratitude reside in our hearts a little longer than usual. There are oh so many ways we can be the very thing that someone else is grateful for, and that, perhaps, is the simplest and surest way of showing that we are indeed grateful recipients for all "our cribs, our cars, our pools, our jewels"... You feel me?  

If anything brings comfort, it is recognizing what we do have, even when our circumstances may seem bleaker than February in the 801.

Happy Thanksgiving, and Happy giving of thanks.

Peace and Love.

Girl: Happy

2011-11-07T14:48:00.002-07:00

 "Reality continues to ruin my life."

-Bill Watterson

Mercy... It's been forev, hasn't it? Now that summer's over, it's much harder for me to find things to be grateful for. Psyyyyyche. Here's what I've got for ya:

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/6/6b/Gone_with_the_Wind_cover.jpg/200px-Gone_with_the_Wind_cover.jpg

Always and forever have I been a fan of the 17-hour movie. I can never figure out who is more beautiful: Scarlett or Rhett. Anyway, I've always wanted to read the book and just never had three years to kill. I finally decided that it was high-time I just sucked it up and read the 1100 pager. May I just say, it is absolutely addicting. I simply cannot put it down. And Rhett is even MORE charming on paper, if you can imagine that.

 www.youtube.com

This band never ceases to amaze me. Homeboy's. got. feelings. But his voice is so satisfyingly manly that you don't even think he's a sissy for feeling so many things. I listen to this emo gem all the time lately, and I'm not even going through a break-up. It's that good.

http://www.bangitout.com/images/MattDillon_Vespa_635053_400.jpg

  Ok, Ok. I know you're probably sick of reading about him. But I can't escape my love for him. Last week I dreamed that he was my boyfriend and we were living in Manhattan and he was ever-so-madly in love with me. He opened all my doors and cooked me dinners and rubbed my feet, and that's only the PG version. You can imagine my utter heartache waking up only to find I was certainly not in Manhattan and certainly not his star-crossed lover. I really was completely despondent the whole rest of the day. 

http://atfirstbite.files.wordpress.com/2008/06/snicker.jpg

There it is. A frozen Snickers. They're aight at room temperature. But throw one in the freezer and your tastebuds will literally think they've won the lottery.

http://drchristineschaffer.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/heating.jpg

 Laugh allll you want. But seriously, I heart my heading pad more than life.

http://sassymamahk.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/bopbj2014010917_p1_v1_m56577569832185384_254x500.jpg

Yeah I don't yoga. But I am totally obsessed with yoga hair ties. I want one in every color of the crayon box. Including that weird Cerulean blue color and Burnt Sienna.

Whether or not it makes me less of a girl, I'm not sure- but I happen to love this show. It's a nice, refreshing, gory change from all the CW garbage I watch. Disclaimer: The only reason I didn't put Chuck Bass on this list is because he deserves his own post entirely. Duh.

Hope you all are finding much to be grateful for, despite the a$$-bitingly cold weather. 'Tis the season, after-all.

Peace and Love.

Talk About the Good Times

2011-10-31T13:44:00.002-06:00

"No man was ever eloquent by trying to be eloquent, but only by being so."

-George Henry Lewes

Certain words, pairs of words, phrases- reading them makes me feel  more real. I love the art that lies within an eloquent, silent elocution  of prose. At times I find nothing more stirring than a string of  carefully chosen words. I recently just finished Flaubert's Madame Bovary, written  around 1857, I think. It had both romance and debauchery- two elements  my needy soul craves in a story. But what I la la loved about it wasn't  so much the tale being told, as the way it was told. And I have  often had this reckoning when reading other works born in that period of  time. It's in the very language: flowery without being fussy,  calculated yet seemingly natural, as if from the beginning of time,  words were always meant to be dispelled in exactly that way. When I read  things like this, it makes me long for a time in which I've never even  existed; when one's words were their very brand, their instrumentality for  distinguishing themselves amongst everyone else. 

 A very good man once said, “Sloppy  language and sloppy ways go together. Those who are truly educated have  learned more than the sciences, the humanities, law, engineering, and  the arts. They carry with them a certain polish that marks them as  loving the better qualities of life, a culture that adds luster to the  mundane world of which they are apart.” (-Gordon B. Hinckley)  

Truly a votary of anything eloquent, I agree with that very good man  with all my heart. How  we speak, and what we choose to speak about, can either beautify or  tarnish the way we are perceived by others. How charming is it to be in the company of someone  who speaks not only articulately, but with the polish that inevitably  comes from quiet confidence and a subtle but apparent appreciation for  the "better"? I know that whenever I converse with someone who speaks  eloquently, intelligently, and with optimistic undertones, it revives my  desire to do so. Regretfully, we don't have to search very far to find  conversation which revolves around the negative, the harsh, the cynical,  the base, and the everyday vulgarity that seems to proliferate like  Nobody's biznass. It is effortless to indulge or even instigate the  casual kind of discourse that revolves around nothingness and is  propagated by cheap and pallor-ic cadences, for the  path of least resistance is quite easy to succumb to. But nothing that  comes easily is really ever worth having. (Nothing LASTING, I should say. For if I'm going to be honest, there  are a good many things that come puh-retty easily which I do consider  worth having: eclairs, Pepsi, lemon bars, Cafe Rio, cheeseburgers, naps,  mascara, laughs. And yeah, after "cheeseburgers" I had to really  stretch the imadge so as not to seem like a total obese-tress.) But are we really better off after  engaging in such trite conversation? Do we stand more firmly footed,  walk more assuredly and with more direction, and find more nobility in  ourselves through speaking insubstantially and even crassly at times? Doubt it.  

I've  said before that I believe in the power of the individual. If every  living man and woman strove to achieve, a little more each day than the  last, their own personal level of greatness, even by the smallest measure and irrespective of means or  circumstance, just imagine the different kind of world we would live in.  It's hopelessly idealistic, I know. But... so much power lies in mere words! If "words can never harm", then my name isn't Brittany Anne with an "E". Humor me with this naively arcadian notion, but do we not all speak words, all the live-long day, every live-long day? And if by the simple act of choosing to speak them with simple  sophistication, and about things that are actually meaningful and pleasant and important, wouldn't the world, even by the ever-so-smallest measurement, be just a little more lovely?   

Please know that more than anything, I am chastising myself in the guise of altruism, but if there's anyone else out there who speaks like a pirate-hooker and knows better, I lower my glass to you, too. Mediocrity is a rampant epidemic, but it doesn't have to be. Seek to emanate the goodness that inspires you by speaking about it. Choose "better" words, words that reflect a meaningful existence. 

 Let  us all  "be the good we wish to see in the world", if only with our  words.  

Peace and Love. 

I Believe In the Man In the Sky

2011-10-10T00:18:00.005-06:00

"...Be thou an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity."

-1 Timothy 4:12

It is here that I am most honest, I think. Because I am writing to really no one in particular but myself, I can express and catalog and capture the things about this existence that inspire me, that change me, that cause me to wonder, and the things that are most precious to my heart. I have expressed adoration for music, for family, for "culinary thrills", for summer, amongst many others. I realized today though that in all the time that I have spent writing about things that matter most to me, I have yet to express my devotion to the thing I consider most precious above all the bounteous joys that this life has brought my way. 

"Be thou an example of the believers." Depending upon what one believes, this has infinite application. I believe in many things. I believe in the power of the individual. I believe in the efficacy of beautiful words. I believe that music is the language of the soul. I believe that we should leave the earth better than we found it. I believe that we should all work to make the world worthy of its children. I believe that nothing is too wonderful to be true. It is what we believe in most deeply that directs us to the paths we pursue, like a compass. 

 I am lead to and/or perhaps by the things I believe in most. I  have often thought about what my life would be like without my belief system,  and though I'm sure that, in the absence of the compass that it has been  in my life, I would have made several different choices which  inevitably would have led me down some rather deleterious if not  completely dissolute paths, at my core I know that I would always feel  that life was more than just the present. Some of us are not inclined  spiritually, and that is fine. But as for little old me, religious dogma aside, I believe that all people are  spiritual beings. C.S. Lewis said it best, I think: "You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body." In that sense, I know  that had I been born into different circumstances wherein religion of  any sort was absent, I probably still would have sought some sort of transcendent outlet simply because spirituality is a very ardent part of  who I am.  

Of all that I love, and in all that I believe, there is one truth more penetrating, more anchoring than all the others, and it is this: Jesus Christ is the son of God, and God is my eternal Father. I believe that anything good, anything beautiful, anything that makes me feel more close to becoming the woman I am meant to be- THAT all comes from God and His perfect son. Belief in Them serves as my most reliable compass.

There is so very much about life that is unsure. That very precariousness has painted parts of my mortality with tangible sorrow, numbing remorse, and abysmal hopelessness, for I have just as much frailty within me as I do strength. But I am yet grateful for these brush-strokes, for it is by them that I have witnessed the power of what I know to be true. It is in those truly helpless moments that my soul has been rescued, redeemed, and comforted beyond any earthly comprehension. I have felt the healing power that comes from bended knee. I have been empowered by the strength that comes from submission. If there is any one thing to which I can attest, it is that God does not forsake.  

I have often thought to myself, "I live a charmed life". And I must say, I do: I laugh, I eat, I sing, I play, I read, I write, I love, I sleep, I work, I pray. I pray. I pray to a seemingly chimerical being, yet He is as real to me as my own flesh-and-blood father. It is He to whom I submit bended knee, and it is He to whom I plead for rescue. And though not always on my ideal timescale, not once have my requests been ignored. I have felt, despite His omnipotent power, His tender concern for little nobody Me. He created all the Heavens and everything that they contain, the earth and all it's majesty, and still, though compared to Him I am the dust of the earth, He hears me. To me, God is not to be feared. He is to be loved. For He is the most merciful, patient, benevolent Being that I have ever come to know. Truly, I have come to understand that there is nothing more panacea-ic than prayer. The more I learn to align my desires with that of my Maker's, the closer I feel to self-mastery.

His Son, Jesus Christ, is the Savior of the world. It is by Him, through Him, and of Him that I can become the perfect version of myself. His grace provides the comfort and the promise that I have so often sought in my moments of despair. The more I come to know Him, the more that Hope permeates my life. His existence provides the perfect framework for what I want my life to mean: virtue, patience, compassion, humility, service, faith, love, and purpose. Without Him, I would have no compass. He is my direction. He is my path. He is my destination. 

I so much want to be an example of the believers. I want to live like I believe, because I do believe. In fact, there is nothing I believe in more. And, consequently, it is this belief that allows me to so fully appreciate all the numerous other things that I have so often blabbed about here, in this private little space. My belief in a Heavenly Father and in his perfect Son has made my life as full as it is. If you are just a little bit lost, helpless, or feel like something is missing from your existence, I would invite you to seek out the spirituality that is organically within you. Nourishing that part of my soul has brought me nothing but peace, direction, and at times, exquisite joy. Whatever you choose to believe in, let it be your compass. And if it is honest, it will lead you to everything good that you are meant to become. 

Peace and Love.

P.S. See for yourself just how hopeful life can be:

{Clickity Click Here}.

Image source: http://lds.org/new-era/2002/12/images-of-christ?lang=eng

Tweedle Dee

2011-09-17T12:49:00.000-06:00

I grew a little bit yesterday: I submitted an essay to Real Simple magazine for their annual contest. Cross your fingers!

Peace and Love.

Image source: http://healthyshouldbeeasy.wordpress.com/tag/detox/

I'll Remember You

2011-08-16T13:07:00.000-06:00

January 8, 1935 - August 16, 1977

I'll remember you
Long after this endless summer has gone
I'll be lonely oh so lonely
Living only to remember you

I'll remember too
Your voice as soft as the warm summer breeze
Your sweet laughter, mornings after
Ever after, I'll remember you

To your arms someday I'll return to stay
Till then I will remember too
Every bright start we made wishes upon
Love me always, promise always
Oooh, you'll remember too

I'll remember you.

Peace and Love, my Love.

Promised Land

2011-08-15T12:25:00.003-06:00

" ‘I’ve been through all this before,’ he says to his heart.
“ ‘Yes, you have been through all this before,’
replies his heart.
‘But you have never been beyond it.’ ”
— Paulo Coelho, Warrior of the Light

I learned of a word recently that I had yet to ever encounter: willowwacks. It means "a wooded, uninhabited area". It's an awfully silly sounding word, but I do love what it implies: portions of space yet to be "habitated". Of course, I have no use for this word in the literal sense; I immediately thought of it metaphorically- as in, "the uninhabited regions of my soul" or, "the uncharted corners of my heart". With all the immeasurable fibers that make up our beings, surely there are portions of ourselves yet undiscovered? Absolutely, there must be fragments of our hearts yet unearthed?

Quite the admirer of all things romantic, I have always appreciated the notion that the love we emote is physiologically connected to the heart. Did you know that our hearts are enclosed in a double-walled protective sac called the pericardium? ...Neither did I. The pericardium services our heart by protecting it, anchoring it's surrounding structures, and preventing overfilling of the heart with blood. (You have no idea how difficult all this is for me to type. Squeamish McGee, that's me. Anyway...)Passed the pericardium lies the outer wall of the heart, which is composed of three layers, and just passed those three layers are the four chambers of the heart. Two of those chambers are "receiving chambers" (they receive the blood) and two are "discharging chambers" (release the blood). I know you're probably bored out of your mind right now, but I swear I have a point...

So the heart, in essence, does it's best to keep the bad out. It sustains the body. And it does all it can to prevent itself from becoming full to the point of danger. Now, dare to venture with me to my much favored and oft-visited land, Metaphoria, where I ask:
{Q} Do our metaphorical hearts do the same? Do our metaphorical pericardia protect us from heartache?
{A} I think my metaphorial pericardium must only have one layer instead of two, and that that layer must be very thin or take lots of holidays, or is just completely defunct, because many an entity has penetrated it's walls.
{Q} Does the love we harbor- in essence, our hearts- anchor our livability?
{A} Yes, love anchors me.
{Q} Is there a danger in letting our hearts be too filled?
{A} I can attest to having my heart [seemingly] so filled that it has inflicted upon my well-being.

I think of all this in relation to willowwacks- uninhabited areas. I've talked frequently and fondly of my own heartstrings; I consider those to be "habitated" portions of my heart. Those people, or places, or things, have made their way passed all protective guards and into one chamber or another and found a welcoming home there. It is those heartstrings which anchor me. But I know that as full as my heart may feel from time to time, that there are still uninhabited portions of those chambers. There are still willowwacks waiting to become habitated.

Those uninhabited areas- why are they so? Has a metaphorical pericardium made them inaccessible? Or, if the P-Word is out of commission (as in Exhibit Me), are there areas so deeply and secretly and quietly tucked away such that no one has ventured far enough to discover them? Or, is at is simple and as complex as they are uninhabited merely because no one and no thing has been able to make a home there? Yet?

Those chambers or portions of chambers, corners, taverns, and pockets of my heart that are willowwack'd- (please allow me to take liberties with the word, for 'twouldn't be the first time) they must remain uninhabited for one or all of the aforementioned theories. But to me that is not a completely desperate thought- it's an exciting one. Knowing that there are still unfulfilled, unharvested, un-tilled, undiscovered areas of love that I have yet to experience is inspiring.

I know that the habitation some of those inner willowwacks lies within me: in the paths that I pursue. As I seek for enrichment, enlightenment, joy, and passion, little by little the uninhabited regions of my heart will become home to the offspring of those endeavors. And I know that as I slowly but surely fill my heart with the things that are compelling enough to reside there, that I will become more Me.

And then, I know that maybe certain parts of my heart are uninhabited because no one has been able to penetrate it earnestly enough to take root there. Maybe no one has had the right tools and the right formula to till the fertile ground that waits there. However, if I'm unsure of when, I'm absolutely convinced of the notion that once tilled, the ground there will be floriferous beyond imagining.

My heart has been impacted, without a doubt, and it has been filled with affection to a debilitating degree at times. The metaphorical "protective sac" surrounding my heart has given entrance to many a wanderer. But feeble and perhaps relenting as that protective layer may be, I am grateful for it's open-mindedness. For no matter how it may end, inviting Love in, no matter how long it stays, will always do a soul more good than harm, if only for the small glimpses of rapture that it brings.

As silly a word as I've ever heard, yet it has inspired me to think beyond the peripheral. Love is true when it can make It's way through the pericardium, over and under and through the many cardiac walls, and make lasting home in the receiving chamber. And as this chamber and that chamber cease to be willowwacks, but become alive and full and habitated with the things that anchor us, we become more alive and full in the process.

Peace and LOVE.

Photo source: http://www.google.com/imgres?q=heart+shaped+garden&hl=en&client=firefox-a&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&biw=1680&bih=809&tbm=isch&tbnid=U7Jk_IOaABC1xM:&imgrefurl=http://blog.groorganic.com/2011/02/11/you-dont-bring-me-flowers-anymore/&docid=IoefhRNK9Jdb3M&w=567&h=567&ei=ymNJTqCHOajmiALi-eHbAQ&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=303&page=3&tbnh=152&tbnw=164&start=63&ndsp=32&ved=1t:429,r:28,s:63&tx=83&ty=59

Girl: Happy

2011-08-10T20:01:00.000-06:00

I hate that summer's more than half over. How abysmal! Luckily I have a storehouse of topics I've been locking away so that I have things to write about during the less inspiring seasons. Anyway, it's that time again! Here's an ode to the lately-marvelous:

I just watched Exit Through the Gift Shop. So fantastic. I think street art should absolutely, positively be legalized. The song during the beginning credits made me super happy, too. Listen for yourself. A new fave, I'd say.

It's like, I've been waiting for it my whole life and didn't even know it: Clothing inspired by literature. Throw in a free eclair and by golly you've encompassed three of my very favorites into one little thrill...

...And there's more where that came from! Feast your peepers: http://www.outofprintclothing.com

I cannot, repeat, CANNOT, get enough of these. They are more crave-worthy than anything I've ever encountered. (*Disclaimer: I am prone to picturesque exaggeration, but for the time being, they really are the most cravetastic thing ever.)

And how delightful is this? Thank you, Forever 21, for always putting out, and for never charging me too much for it. Especially in this case, since this was from my Mama Dearest.

A great reminder about the preciousness of time, I think. If you can scrape together three buckaroos, go get one for yourself { here }

And lastly, but not ever leastly,

The ever-so-majestic Stewart Falls. The fam and I hiked to this recently and Oh Delilah... It was just the most exquisite way to spend a Sunday evening. The hike down was so scenic and fragrant and lush- my senses were exquisitely enthralled. I have yet to complete my fantasy of bathing underneath a waterfall, however, I consider the mists from these particular falls that tip-toed on my face like fairies' footsteps to be a small prelude of what is to come...

That's all for now, darlings. Peace and Love.

Just Because

2011-07-19T01:36:00.003-06:00

 "I don't understand the question, and I won't respond to it."

-Lucille Bluth

I'm totally jonesing this post off another blog I lurked on today. But I thought it was funciful and so now I'm putting my Brittanyesque spin on it. Well, not so much as putting my own spin on it so much as answering the questions myself, ha. 

Thirty Questions

1. Favorite Song. You thought I was gonna say Moonriver, right? That'd be my second fave. This little badboy is my numero uno.

2. Favorite Movie. You thought I was gonna say Breakfast at Tiff's or Charade or Sabrina or Roman Holiday or Paris When It Sizzles, huh? I adore them all. But, it's Mr. Wonderful that has probably gotten more DVD time than all the others combined. Matt Dillon: I am yours for as long as the sun and the moon shall endure. Here's a clip from one of my very fave scenes. So amazingly 90's.

3. Favorite Show. I'm gonna have to go with Arrested Development on this one. I love TV, period. But the old adage applies: you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

4. Favorite Book. 

5. Favorite Quote. "Nothing is too wonderful to be true."

-Michael Faraday

6. Favorite Food. Eclairs.

7. Favorite Beverage. Ginger Ale.

8. Favorite Place. Carlsbad, CA

9. Favorite Thing to Wear. Dresses. All the way.

10. What I Wore Today. Black floral print maxi dress, brown leather belt, lace vest, gold locket, brown gladiators.

11. What I Did Today. Said my prayers, went to the gym, watched the kiddos, watched The Kite Runner aka cried, hung out with my darling Jenny, watched The Bachelorette, talked to my darling brother. Rough day. 

12. What I Ate Today. Carnation Instant Breakfast + Vanilla soymilk, greenish banana, cherry tomatoes and hummus, Chobani Greek yogurt (pineapple flav), cream cheese brownie, baked ziti pasta, watermelon, two snickerdoodles.

13. What's In My Purse. Camera, coin purse, cell phone, cinnamon lipgloss, cinnamon disks, bobby pins, hand sanitizer, glasses,  recipe for Ginger Lemon cookies, TLC Pumpkin Pecan bar, birthday candles (wtf?), hair tie, Eclipse spearmint gum, Tide-To-Go pen, button that fell off my scripture cover, pens, Cafe Rio punch card, tithing slip.

14. A Bad Habit. Picking my face. For real. It's got to stop.

15. A Pet Peeve. As if I haven't preached about this enough: "Could care less." Oh, and when people don't use adverbs.

i.e. "Drive safe!" It's "safeLY", fyi.

16. A Memory. Camping with my family and especially my Bompa in the Mogollon Rim in Arizona.

17. A Goal. Graduate. And then study something I really actually care about.

18. A Secret. I want a baby.

19. A Wish. That no child anywhere ever suffers. (Read or watch The Kite Runner and you won't find this as "Miss America" as it sounds.)

20. A Hobby. I want to learn le French.

21. A Recipe. This is tried and true from the kitchen of my mama's dear friend Crystal. It's simply divine. 

{ Chicken and Wild Rice Salad }

22. A Blog. http://myheartistry.blogspot.com

23. A Piece of Art.

Minerva Tichert

24. A Tumblr crush. http://audreyhepburncomplex.tumblr.com/

25. A Tumblr favorite. http://quotemeboy.tumblr.com/

26. A Dream. All I remember is that we were holding hands. I don't know whose hand it was, but I know I was rapturously happy holding it.

27. A Quote From a Recent Chat. "Of course UVU will accept your BYU credits. If they didn't that'd be like D.I. not accepting clothes from Anthro."

28. Something That Made Me Laugh. Being woken up on the beach and asked to be his girlfriend by a man of African-American descent named Horace. Upon my respectful decline, he then asked ever so eloquently if my darling bff, also asleep, were available ("Wha' 'bout her?"). Oh, Pacific Beach. You truly are the I.E. of San Diego.

29. Something That Gives Me Wanderlust. Eating Greek food. I need NEED neeeeeeeed to go to Greece. 

30. An Anonymous Shout Out. You hardly know me, and I you. But your kisses are oh so sweet. And if summer finds favor in us and allows me to collect them one by one for a little while longer, I will be a very happy girl indeed.

Peace and Love.

Photo source: http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0HwZjiFqefN9J9RZ5Ezccg423clWGAh1aoEXPJg4Iz6UqVBayq3cSFbE8Jo1CMP3kScQC_v0Wly7QZ7yZ3RHIoO9sbyWDIWduXAmsfWQKzSRE9SRjTeIEXx7Lv93uDsf7hYUVyUNejKO/s1600/holding%252Bhands%252Blove%252Bfriends%252Bcouple.jpg&imgrefurl=http://ashleerohnert.blogspot.com/2011/04/cold-tangerines.html&usg=__bkc2bfVzuJClKCREZrCw1YnYLEM=&h=333&w=500&sz=36&hl=en&start=164&zoom=1&tbnid=BE4eLtoz0OoRuM:&tbnh=145&tbnw=178&ei=PjIlTovrGoessAOJkqDcCA&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dholding%2Bhands%2Blove%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26hs%3DNi5%26sa%3DX%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26biw%3D1680%26bih%3D792%26tbm%3Disch&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=1024&vpy=502&dur=14065&hovh=183&hovw=275&tx=175&ty=134&page=6&ndsp=35&ved=1t:429,r:31,s:164

All I Needed Was the Rain

2011-06-30T00:18:00.011-06:00

"When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent..."
-John Milton, "Sonnet On His Blindness"

There's an alluring summer storm brewing outside. The bellowing thunder is in good company with the "hard rain" that's falling. There was a time not too long ago, when it rained with such insistency that the only explanation was that Utah is way emo and it's lover was unfaithful and all Utah could do to alleviate the pain was cry and cry. Or maybe Utah's favorite dog died and it couldn't get a grip. Either way I think the only reason it stopped was because it ran out of tears and had to resort to cutting itself because that's what Emos do best. Maybe the cutting isn't working anymore though because it's raining again. At any rate, though I am aching for a little sunshine, it being JUNE and all, I am grateful that today, while the sky is sobbing, I have nowhere I need to be but right here in my space.

So I recently confessed to another that "Off and On" relationships have been the bane of my existence. In that context, I was referring to relationships with my lovahs. But it got me thinking. My life itself is one, undying, "Off and On" relationship. School and I are "on", then we're on a break. My spirituality is "on", then it takes some time "off" for a little holiday. My ability to lead my own life, be the creator of my circumstances and not a creature of them, will be "on" and lumionous. And then, a wrench is thrown in my spokes and all that autonomy shuts "off" like the flick of a switch. Does all this On-ning and Off-ing mean I am not a solidly rooted person?
How tragically disappointing.

Socrates said, "Be as you wish to seem." I love the simplicity with which he implies that is to be achieved. Just "be". Similarly, one of my favorite quotes is by Richard G. Scott. He says: "We become what we want to be by consistently being what we want to become each day." A little Socrates + a little R.G.S. = Be what I wish to seem by consistently being each day what I want to become. It sounds so easy, but I struggle. "In vain, I have struggled, and it will not do." (I wish I were saying that in the same context as darling Darcy did, but it's still fitting for the occasion, I think.) So how do I "be" what I'm trying to become? And who is it I am striving to become? I am fond of the parts of me that I know the very best. And it's good to have that sort of appreciation for oneself, I think. It's necessary for our happiness. When we can find subtle contentment with who we are, we find much greater success in finding and creating happiness outside ourselves. But there are quite a few unfamiliar fibers making up my whole, and I think they are to blame for my propensity for indulging in On-and-Off-Again relationships with myself. How to thwart this intrinsic epidemic?

In an attempt at answering the rhetorical, I ask myself:
What does it take to make a relationship work? Like I would even know... But if I venture to analyze what my past relationships have lacked in one way or another, the negative space might help elucidate a more precise formula for success. Lemme see...

{Genuine interest}

which leads to

{Time invested in the right pursuits}

which can often lead to

{Appreciation}

which lends itself to

{Security}

which inevitably breeds

{Confidence}

which encourages

{Personal growth and development}

which ultimately develops
{Joy}

Hmmm.

I've figured it out. My lapse is in Step Two: Time invested in the right pursuits. The deplorable ways in which I spend my minutes... Oh Heaven help me! In my most treasured of books urges the aphorism: "Do not labor for that which cannot satisfy." And therein lies the secret ingredient in becoming what we wish to be. On that new-fangled infatuation I mentioned earlier, Pinterest, I read the following:
"Today,
What have I done for my mind?
My body?
My spirit?
My relationships?
My creativity?
My passions?"
Well mercy. That sounds like a perfect recipe for self-appropriation, if I don't say so myself. Stare those questions straight in the eye every day and NOT investing time in worthy pursuits seems kind of impossible. And in the spirit of impossibility, let me remind you of that ever so delightful quote from Ms. Audrey herself: "Nothing is impossible. The word itself says, 'I'm possible'!"
So there. And please forgive this erratic flow of thoughts but I have to interject an Audrey quote whenever I can. It's my own personal form of Turret's Syndrome.

Here's how I want to be: Happy, educated, insightful, well-read (and not just from F. Scott Fitzgerald's books), cultured, virtuous, a connoisseur of beauty in all it's forms, open-minded, and humble.

Here's who I want to be: life-long learner, writer, wife, mother, faithful daughter of God, disciple of Christ.

I wake up each morning hopeful for the day ahead of me. I know that each day granted me is another chance to work towards "becoming". I don't know why I struggle so feverishly and get so lazy in the building of my character. But I am grateful for the moments of introspection that come on days like today, when the rain outside encourages me to turn inward and realize that attaining ourselves comes with carefully invested time in worthwhile pursuits. How lovely to be able to reflect at the end of the day and say to myself:

"For my mind, I read words uncharted until today."
"For my body, I ran farther than I did yesterday."
"For my spirit, I communed with the Divine. I carried a prayer in my heart."
"For my relationships, I served."
"For my creativity and passions, I wrote. And read. And wrote. And wrote. And wrote."

A formula for a lovely day, indeed. No more missteps for Yours Truly.

Peace and Love.

Source for photo: http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQlLr5IMfsJz8NhzT3YQUuxZFiFpal9NeL0Ai5YMjVeua5HPUMEQdOgcaOGtTlPHiKjzwD13wbPqoE8rgZJlgyDBToG7-DMA5OX0P1xcKZQ3_RDpaTzluXVbS_QOb1b6V6UwPbg9ygcx5o/s1600/5Summer-Rain.jpg&imgrefurl=http://storyfragment.blogspot.com/2010/07/summer-rain.html&usg=__oE0O-LVDzpc9hHfpArv1Z0JRHew=&h=360&w=435&sz=55&hl=en&start=0&zoom=1&tbnid=hEeCzkjr-P23nM:&tbnh=152&tbnw=186&ei=iBIMTuumLoKCsAKB79WUCg&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dsummer%2Brain%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26hs%3DpKB%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26biw%3D1280%26bih%3D837%26tbm%3Disch&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=626&vpy=131&dur=3367&hovh=204&hovw=247&tx=145&ty=112&page=1&ndsp=20&ved=1t:429,r:2,s:0

Girl: Happy

2011-06-28T12:28:00.003-06:00

Oh. My. Summer. I've been enjoying it so fully that I've neglected to catalog it...

Firstly, I give you the one, the only: Nina Simone.

Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtVvcgjAaNg

She is often referred to as, "The High Priestess of Soul". Is. she. ever. Nina was so inspired with the classical masterpieces of Bach that she aspired to become a classical pianist and in the process developed an original and distinctive sound. She felt that "pop" music was inferior to classical and so injected as much of her classical training into her music as possible. She is just so extraordinary. I love the bluesy deepness of her voice. It makes me want to listen to her all the live long day. Give this a listen and tell me it doesn't move your whole soul. Dare ya.

Seconduvly, I bring you: 

The Utah Art Festival! I really do love the art festival here. It's so inspiring to see all the tangible creativity. Last year there was an artist by the name of Trevin Prince (Google him!) who creates his pieces with his own blood. Cross my heart. He calls it "Blood Works". He actually has a nurse come and draw his blood and then mixes it with enzymes or something to make it more yielding to paint with. For someone as squeamish as I, it is a  wonder that I can even appreciate something that gross. But I was so fascinated with the concept of his art last year and was totally excited he was there again this year. I can only look at his works for about 13 seconds though before I start getting that light-headed-knees-betraying-me-someone-better-catch-me-before-I-eat-it feeling, but still. So cool. The guy does look pretty flimsy though. I bet he reads all the Twilight books. Here are some other gems from the festival I snappity-snapped:

Thirdly and favorite-ly:

Earlier last week I decided I wanted to start collecting vintage books. I must be doing something Karma likes because she most certainly smiled upon me favorably: literally six hours after I had that little musing I was in the Salt Lake Library sifting through their book sale and found not one, but TWO absolutely loverly vintage books from the 1940's. Best part: They were a buck a piece. How's that for serendipitous? That's exactly the kind of fortune I want to just bottle up and wear around my neck like my bubble necklace from first-grade. Anyway... Don't they look just oh-so-marvelous?

And lastly but not leastly, I bring you, {Pinterest}

  

Anyone heard of Pinterest? It's just the most fabulous thing ever. And since I was in the market for another addiction, I couldn't have discovered it at more opportune time! (There's that Karma doing her thang again...)Basically, it's an online inspiration board for interior design, clothes, food, books, dreamy vacay destinations, quotes, just anything and everything. You simply must indulge yourself, if you haven't already.

That's all for now. But as it is only the very beginning of glorious, bohemian, free-wheeling summer, I cross my heart and kiss my elbow there will be more to come.

Peace and la la Love.

Starting Today

2011-06-21T16:18:00.008-06:00

"Whatever is dreamed on this night,
will come to pass."

 William Shakespeare,  A Mid-Summernight's Dream     

 { hol-i-day } 

-noun

 1. a day fixed by law or custom on which ordinary business is suspended in commemoration of some event or in honor of some person. 

  -adjective 

 2. of or pertaining to a festival; festive; joyous: a holiday mood. 
   
Oh by no means is it an altogether recognized "holiday" to most people. But I am not most people, and The First Day of Summer is, in every above sense of the word, a holiday to me. In my private little sphere of existence, and in a place where four sense-able seasons are not just folklore (R.I.P. Southern Cal), the arrival of summer is like being born again. There is no season which makes me feel more alive, and more grateful to be so, than does summer. It is amongst the lush green grass, the trees voluptuous with leaves and life, the buzzing of bees and the smell of barbeque coals, all whilst drinking in the buttery rays of sunlight, that I feel most assured of the good that is to come my way.

 June 21st marks the beginning of the annual Summer Solstice. "Sol" + "stice" is derived from the Latin words meaning "sun"                  + "to stand still." As days lengthen, the sun rises                  higher and higher until it seems to stand still in the sky. As a major                  celestial event, the Summer Solstice results in the longest day                  and the shortest night of the year. Ancient cultures like the Celtic Druids found just cause for celebration in this, the beginning of longer days. The Druids'                  celebrated this day as the "wedding of Heaven and Earth" (isn't it marvelous?!) with their Fire Festival of Litha. Today, modern Pagan cultures gather at Stonehenge where they light a sacred fire and stay up all night to welcome the dawn of Summer Solstice. Now, I cherish my personal religious dogma with all my heart. But Oh Delilah... I'd venture to say there's a little Druidess in me, absolutely, because I so wish that I could light a fire and dance around naked with flowers in my hair, celebrating the summer. Unfortunately, I haven't gone to the gym in eons and nobody would appreciate seeing that.

Even though I don't dance around naked to show my appreciation for summer (not in public, anyway), I absolutely can relate to those Druid's enamoration for it. It's not just the warmth and the aesthetics of summer that promote that feeling "so like perfect happiness, that it [can] bear    no other name". It's what summer implores simply in it's be-ing: that unparalleled feeling of bohemian freedom that faithfully dawns with each summer morning. Granted, the tangibility of that freedom has been somewhat diminished with the responsibilities of adulthood. But there is still something about this season that makes me feel like I could do or be anything and that all the universe would conspire in my favor. If only there were a way to capture that feeling forever and live a little off of it each day of each remaining season.

What other season can claim days characterized by mirth and governed by sunshine? Or nights christened with starrier canvases, dreamier repose, and promises of a bright tomorrow? None, I tell you. Summer is intoxication in it's most alluring form. "Be awake and alive as much as you can", I tell myself, because I don't want to miss even one second of it. And therefore sleep comes only because the sun has acquiesced to Rest and therefore so shall I. 

Nothing puts me in a holiday mood, Pagan or not, the way summer does. Happy First Day of Summer to you. May you make as much of your summer as it implores you to! 

I know I absolutely, positively will.

Peace and Love.

Solstice Sources:

http://www.chiff.com/a/summer-solstice.htm

http://www.ibtimes.com/articles/166994/20110621/summer-solstice-june-21-2011-longest-day-year-winter.htm

http://www.fatheroak.com/Druidic_Holy_Days.html

Let It Be Me

2011-06-13T14:34:00.008-06:00

"The essence of the like of you is usually inherent in the name."

-Goethe

Yesterday I said, "That girl gives Brittany's everywhere a bad name." And then I got to thinking... What if other Brittany's out there are saying that about me?! I mean, it's not the most ridiculous notion, by any stretch of the imagination. 

I find it compelling to think that all that I say and do can contribute to making a name for myself. Not in the wordly/successful/Us Weekly/TMZ/Wall Street kind of sense, but in the making-my-name-the-most-exquisite-word-to-grace-the-English-language kind of sense. Though I know that's not ever going to be the case. As Anne Shirley so despondently lamented: "I know I'll never be angelically good." And neither will I. But, if there were adjectives within my human grasp to which I could aspire, what would they be? If in my eulogy, someone were to sugar the memory of me with word candy, what oh what would it taste like? 

Contrary to popular belief, I'm not as vitriolic as I might appear to be. No, no. I have just as many girly fibers as the next lady. And, though I find sardonic pleasure in exploiting my somewhat unrefined traits, it is not {just} these for which I wish to be remembered. No, indeed. When I hope, I hope emphatically. When I enjoy, I enjoy entirely. When I feel, I feel deeply. And when I love, I love absolutely with everything I have. Those quirks are just as real-ly a part of me as are the not-so-becoming ones (lazy, selfish, and my very favorite courtesy of my most recent male exploit, "impossible". Screw you, man.).  

Because L.M.T.'ly is a happy, hopeful place most of the time, normally I would choose not to focus on those somewhat acrimonious descriptors and only spotlight those aspects of my character most desirable. But in order to be completely honest with myself, I must acknowledge all facets of Brittanyness for which I'm going to be remembered. To do this, please allow me to employ that marvelous first-grade tool, the acrostic poem. (Good to know my seven years of college to teach ABC's finally paid off, eh?) In knowing my ins-and-outs, here's what I hope to be remembered for; the good, the bad, and the ugly:

B -  brave, beautiful (gosh I'm needy), bohemian, beneficial, bitchy, brunette, brilliant, brutish, blessed

 R -  righteous, romantical, ridiculous, real, reckless, respectful, respected, resplendent, rude, reflective

 I - irreplaceable, intelligent, interesting, irrational, inspirational, important, irresistible, imaginative, intriguing

T - tender, talkative, temptress, trustworthy, tormentor, tough, tidy

T - thoughtful, thrilling, thankful, theatrical, therapeutic, thick-skinned  

A - able, appreciative, articulate, authentic, absurd, addictive, amusing, affectionate, affordable, alive, alluring, ardent, annoying 

N - needy, nurturing, natural, necessary, naughty

Y - yours (to those people, places and things I loved, most absolutely)

So what is in a name? We  give substance to our names through the living of our lives. We define  our names, we give them meaning, because of who we are. How we execute our hopes, measure our triumphs, examine our pains and gratify our joys, garnish our thoughts, employ our virtues, hone our vices, etc.- that is how we distinguish ourselves from others with our namesake; that is how we make our names meaningful. We "neglect not the gift that is in [us]" and by  so doing, create a name for ourselves unlike any other. So what if others employ the same  phonemic stream of letters to identify themselves as I do? Brittany for  them does not mean Brittany for me. For better or worse.

 Peace and Love.  

Love Me Tender(ly)

The Fair's Moving On...

Mean Woman Blues

Gonna Get Back Somehow

Night Rider

Treat Me Nice(ly)

"Say hello all over again. Romance me, take me back to the beginning." -Deer Tick

Anything That's Part of You

Forget Me Never

Girl: Happy

By and By, Part II (For Uncle Brad)

I Just Can't Help Believing

Funny How Time Slips Away

The Lighthouse

How's the World Treating You?

Girl: Happy

Talk About the Good Times

I Believe In the Man In the Sky

Tweedle Dee

I'll Remember You

Promised Land

Girl: Happy

Just Because

All I Needed Was the Rain

Girl: Happy

Starting Today

Let It Be Me

"Say hello all over again. Romance me, take me back to the beginning."
-Deer Tick