A Canvas of Blue & Greens

I remember coming home to Scotland from Israel one Saturday in April. The previous week had been bathed in the most unsympathetic yellows. 

In Israel, the scorching sun consumes the terrain. This white sky smothers the bleached city of Jerusalem, the sandy desert of the Dead Sea region, and even the flaxen vegetation of the Galilee area. The dry heated air rises from the baked land and bounces off every stone building. 

After months of what seemed like monochromatic grey saturated in wet, I yearned for that yellow sun light. I yearned for that yellow sun warmth. 

I was desperate for a tropical location, a beach in the Caribbean or the Mediterranean. I never cared much where that beach was in the moments when I closed my eyes to withdraw from my reality. 

I thought Israel would quench that vitamin D deficiency in my soul. Let me be clear. In many ways it did. 

Even though it was April, the temperatures flirted with 100 degrees. They never made it all of the way but danced so close. 

As a result of too much caffeine and not enough water for this stark environmental change, I hiked Masada and experienced my life’s first run in with heat exhaustion. Israel 1. My body 0. 

We started before sunrise hoping to summit as the sun rose. 500 feet below sea level, I cooked as I trekked. My parched body spent the next 24 hours desperately seeking homeostasis. Languid, I slept through the bulk of it. 

I found my yellow sun and my yellow warmth. But there were no green fields. There was no refreshing blue spring to quench my flaked lips. There was a beige mineral sea filled with more salt to dehydrate a human than any other sea on the earth. 

I came home to Scotland after a week in Israel on Saturday afternoon. Scotland’s color pallet was always soft. Scotland is a photographer’s dream come true. 

Pale lemon rays of sun sporadically pierced through tree branches which canopied the path on which I walked. The drizzle let up and the dull misty sky seemed to dissipate. 

I have a best friend. One of a handful. For many years, I studied him. During each minute together, I observed and examined. I knew his features. I knew his thought processes. I knew his character. Then one day, in the snap of a finger, an entire new side to him presented. This new dimension of him appeared, seemingly out of the blue, as he lay crumpled on my bed and I felt as though I never really KNEW him. 

I happily took in the Edinburgh before me. In the snap of a finger, it was a canvas of blue and greens. Loads of lush greens. Lime greens. Emerald greens. Jade greens. And just like my friend, this new dimension of Scotland appeared out of the blue, rather, below a soft steel blue sky. Scotland is stunning. 

Sure, the memory of that invariant grey first semester is forever fixed in my mind. 

Still, when I think of Scotland, I recall later that Saturday evening. Just two days after Masada, I hiked a grassy verdant highland hilltop whose summit was crowned by a medieval castle. I climbed the stairs and sat balanced on the guard wall, a deep trench below my feet, no longer filled with water, rather, plush velvety grass. I watched the fluid pink gold sunset glow like candlelight against the unending pastoral greens. Gentle. Silky. Seductive.

Mo Dhachaigh Fhìn

Picture it:

It’s a cobbled, stone cottage. Damp moss grows in its outside seams around windows and doorways. It has aquamarine shutters and is absolutely the description of some magical faraway British site.

However, the people consider themselves anything but British. Instead, they speak with an accent that sounds grittier – which would be off-putting, only it somehow seems to encompass their entire historical existence and in that, the accent is endearing.

The cottage sits on the border of the Meadows, a considerable acreage spanning the middle of a medieval city. The expanse is covered in emerald green grass alongside trees that shift between delicate pink blossoms growing lime leaves to wooden courtly sentinels adorned in lush jade finery with the lengthening of the days.

This was my Gethsemane.

This was also my Heaven.

An International City

Today as I left my flat, I decided to count how many people I passed speaking until I heard English.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

There you have it.  Eight people.

My Plea

I feel weird. 

If you were here, I would run into your arms and not say a word. I think I would cry. But another part of me believes I wouldn’t cry. I would just feel peace. I would soak up the the relief I would feel to be in your arms again. I would stay there forever. I would beg you not to send me back, not to send me out, and just plain not to send me away. I would beg you to please just let me stay. 

I lied. I would cry. And I would beg. 

But you would love me. You would sit there and hold me until I finished crying. And when I was done, you would sit me down and tell me you love me. You would tell me that you wished I didn’t have to go. But you would somehow remind me of a deal we made. You would re-explain the plan again and somehow after hearing it from your mouth again, I would know again, that it was the right thing to do… again. 

And I would cry again. And I would submit again. Because I do love you. And HF, I do trust you. And I am flying more blind here than I ever have in my life. So maybe that’s what this chapter is all about. It’s almost as if I hear it from your mouth. “Elizabeth, I’m taking the driver’s seat. You have to trust me.” 

And I do. But I never ever could have understood how much this would hurt. I don’t know why this hurts so much. 

HF, I miss you so much. Some days I don’t know if I love you more or miss you more. But writing offers me clarity. I miss you more. And I wish I could say I loved you more. But I miss the peace and the comfort I found in your presence. Even still, I’m all about selfishly needing what I want instead of selflessly affording you what you deserve- which is my love and loyalty. 

Please forgive me. Not because I sin every day and think bad things every day and fail to be a perfect disciple every day, but because I fail you every day. I apologize. And with true repentance I would offer that I won’t ever do it again. But HF, you have this very imperfect daughter here in this imperfect world and this imperfect body trying to perfectly impress you. 

I’m so sorry I’m not more. I’m so sorry I’m not stronger. But I love you. I love you with whatever crass notion of love I have and can give. So will you please accept this widow’s mite of an offering. Will you please hear this prayer, of all of the prayers I have offered here? 

Please know that I love you. Please know that I miss you. Please know that I try for you. 

And if any of this means even the smallest of things to you, the god of the cosmos, even the god of everything that I know and everything that I am, please send me help. Please send ministering angels. Please send friends. Please send love. Please send the spirit. Please send miracles. Please apply the healing power of the atonement to my life, to my choices, to my body, and to my soul. Please fill the gaps, plug the holes, and make up the difference. Please love me. Please help me. Please protect me. Please provide for me. Please remember me. Of all things…. please remember me. 

I am trying. I know it’s the most pathetic of attempts but I am trying. 

Please. 

And even though I am ending this way instead of commencing this way, please know how grateful I am for all of your help, providence, miracles, and love. Please understand how grateful I am for all of your generosity. Please feel of my thanksgiving. I pay for groceries and don’t flinch at the price of them. That is because of you. I call home on a fancy laptop. That is because of you. I sit in the best flat money can buy for students, because of you. I have this body and this mind and these opportunities because of you. I am grateful for them… and for YOU. 

Thank you for your love. Thank you for the redeeming power of the atonement. Thank you for the comfort and guidance of the Holy Ghost. A thousand times, thank you for a million things. Thank you.

Finding Breath

They were the worst months of my life. I finally admitted defeat and that was the hardest part. I wasn't breaking down. I broke down. I was barely surviving the arduous effort of my university. I was barely surviving severe loneliness and barely surviving unyielding rain. I was barely surviving life.I begged Heavenly Father for help. I begged over and over for help. And then, you were there.

I showed up at Institute. I wore a bulky red hoodie which Americans only sport when the pressures of comfort or homesickness outweigh the pressure to defy the British notion of an unkempt overseas people. I hid behind a pair of glasses and no make-up. I personified the untidy and disheveled mess my life had become.

My exhausted brain was never more worn out in my life than that moment during finals week. I struggled to put another piece of information into my head and struggled even more to download any intelligence into written or spoken word. I will never understand why I was in that classroom that night.

I sat in the back of the room tucked against the wall. You sat poised like a sculpture in the front row across the aisle dividing us. Your hair appeared neat and flawless. Your clothing was clean and smart so much so that I thought you were a posh visitor from London. Your button up shirt was crisp and your pants were fitted. The brogues on your feet communicated that even the article separating man from earth was worth consideration. Every feature, every detail… effortlessly intentional.

The evening concluded and your American accent spilled from your mouth as you socialized with subtle exertion. No one noticed but me. In that brief instance, I saw you - an introvert posing temporarily as an extrovert among a guardedly stoic people. I felt like I was the last person you acknowledged that evening. And why would you? I looked repellent.

I don’t remember one word from that conversation. Still, at some point I remember giving you my cell phone whereupon you added yourself to my list of Facebook friends. It was for messenger purposes and I remember offering you my assistance in the city should you need it. I didn’t expect to hear from you again. Surprisingly, a couple of hours later, we conversed about Christmas Markets in Europe concluding with plans to see Edinburgh’s the following evening.

The next night, a cold Scottish drizzle began to slowly fall making every piece of my skin feel as though it had been pinched. I ran late and ignored the biting weather as I trudged into City Centre. I arrived at the café as the sprinkle transitioned into an unforgiving winter downpour. You were running late so I claimed a stool at the bar facing the street while I waited. The small bell on the door chimed multiple times indicating a new patron until one of the chimes was you.

We were seated at a small wooden circular table in the back shortly after 4PM. We unabashedly dove into the business of acquainting ourselves with each other. I remember I laughed… a lot. From the moment you opened your ridiculous mouth about Mormon royalty, I laughed.

We shared… unrestrained. That is what I remember the most. We spoke of our families and our siblings with cancer. We spoke of our histories, some of our past transgressions, our scars, and our emerging understanding of the human condition according to our experiences. We would never see each other again so why deceive or even embellish our reality. It was truth unfettered. But I’m learning that is you. You are truth it seems… at least with me.

Outside, icy rain drowned a dank stone city in sapphire and onyx. Inside, enveloped by a fiery golden glow of camaraderie and familiarity, I sank into soulful warmth. And in a blink, three hours were gone.

You suggested we journey to the Christmas Market. Immediately after exiting, we waged war on the elements in the open air. Bitter precipitation lashed against us and you quickly opened your umbrella as a shield. Without hesitation, you reached your arm around me to pull me in close to you as we shared the small shelter from the rain.

Glued to one another, we marched around the city. I intended to lead us straight to our destination, but the adventurer in you paraded us through the city exploring colorful side streets and open marketplaces. When I was misplaced in my city, your confidence guided us to a set of stairs where we climbed up the back side of the mighty Edinburgh castle and rambled down the main street of the city.

The cobbled Royal Mile led to North Bridge spanning across the prominent Waverly Train Station. We slogged over North Bridge to Princes Street whose road was inlayed with the metallic rails steering the city trams. And there in front of our faces shined the Apple Store. Even a senseless traveler could discern the immediate relief the shelter would provide and so we dashed across the threshold.

We killed time as I watched you dink around on the newly released iPad. Among your doodling, you wrote your last night behind my first name like a school aged, love-struck kid. But you weren’t school aged or love-struck and definitely not a kid. Still, your playfulness was one of the traits which immediately won me over. You tossed low-grade comedy and cheap puns at me with the delivery of one of the most sapient minded individuals I ever met. I let it slide and even laughed because well, clever as you are, you earned that careless laughter.

Headed toward the Christmas market, I joked about your inability to love anything except Nike. In sheer awe, you harassed me about my psychic abilities. I’m not psychic rather I’m extremely observant. I watched you and for whatever reason, that night, you made no attempt to wall me out of your identity. Reading you was as simple as turning a page. Maybe that’s another reason I took to you so easily. You went down smooth and easy then.

Once at the Christmas Market, we investigated a handful of wooden booths before pausing in front of a vendor selling celtic stamped leather bound journals. I watched you sharply, eagle-eyeing your every move. I collect journals… which I fill… with shoddy words upon shoddy words. And in this moment, everything about you felt… familiar. It was as though I was remembering you instead of learning about you. I coyly inquired into your interest. You simply stated that you collected journals and that you enjoyed writing. “Me too,” I thought.

Hunger claimed the moment and with a declaration to return to “100%” purchase one of these journals, we headed to my favorite pub. The precipitation ebbed and flowed throughout the evening and we temporarily found some ease as we walked down streets dressed in white glittering twinkle lights and shiny red bows of Christmas.

After the fish and chips were delivered to our table, you made fry sauce in Scotland and once more, I was just happy to have someone bring a familiar piece of home into my foreign world. But again, that was what you were, over and over. You spoke familiarly and brought familiarity and you were familiar.

We left the pub and made our way back to the Christmas market where we found the food area and gravitated to the German donuts. I wanted to share and upon voicing this sentiment I was quickly met with the notion that you are a germaphobe. You explained that you didn’t make a habit of sharing food or drinks with just anyone. And even as I was entirely put off by this notion of you, I still found myself amused by it, by you.

Your tone shifted from explanatory to defensive when you sensed what could only be skepticism on my face. Because you, my friend, felt the need to relate, that in spite of this fact, that you enjoyed kissing and declared yourself to be a great kisser. I laughed. I laughed while you conceded to sharing those donuts insofar as nothing about me touched anything of yours.

The winter rain was pouring again and once more we were on the move to find shelter. While walking the city you suggested that maybe we find a Starbucks where we could warm up and possible dry off. But I mentioned my flat wasn’t that far away and so you followed me block after block until the cobbled cement city yielded to a sprawling grass field. A small stone flat with aquamarine shudders marked the intersection of the city buildings to The Meadows.

Once inside, I changed out of my wet clothes while you checked your email. You sang Justin Bieber lyrics track after track until you transitioned into Kanye. We spent hours as though they were minutes. We seamlessly went from playing ‘Heads Up’ to talking about the gospel. I burrowed my way into your side as you lay in my bed and answered my rapid-fire questions. You narrated stories about your dad & mom and every account about your parents communicated a reverence with which you esteem them.

I loved your Frye scarf. I loved when you told me it was cool that I could entertain ideas that I didn’t believe. I loved when you told me I was a one-of-a-kind girl. Slowly, we melted into silence. I loved feeling entirely insulated for a few hours after months of mounting darkness. I loved that you were a light. You were my light.

The city was quiet, still, calm, and dark. The sky uncannily cleared. I sent you away as a hundred glass stars sparkled against the silky black ink sky after a night of the coldest, wettest Scottish weather. I felt a bit embarrassed at how hard I hugged you when we said goodbye. I loved how when I said I was sad I would never see you again, you never flinched for even a second.

You countered confidently that we absolutely would.

The Hard Truth

I thought I came to Scotland to continue to live out my grand mission.

When I was at home, I worked and played but most importantly, I taught. I taught within my professional scope. I taught among my personal domain. And most meaningful to me, I taught in the spiritual sphere.

I spent every other week preparing myself to teach the word of God from His scriptures to those who knew more about the word of God than I ever could. But patiently the Lord used the calling to forge and to shape me. He used it to educate and sharpen my abilities both in my presenting skillset and more importantly my spiritual arsenal.

Each time I taught, many people would come up to me and thank me for my lessons. They filled me with praise. They spoke in gratitude and I tried not to allow the entire thing to get away from me. I tried to remember I had little to do with any of the experiences they were having. I knew it was the Lord through the spirit and I was only an instrument. I could have been anyone and would have been anyone if I had chosen to say no when someone extended me an offer.

I came to Scotland thinking I would show up in this dark and dreary world and I would let my light shine. I thought I would continue to be that teacher. I thought if I smiled enough someone would see there was something different about me. They would be so mystified. They would inquire. And all I had to do was share the gospel with them… or even the truth as I knew it. I would ultimately hope to convert but settle for making a difference by being a guide and showing them the way.

But I was wrong.

One of the things I have learned most after 8 weeks is this. I am nothing. I am a human here on my mortal journey trying to work out my salvation. I am responsible for me and above and beyond that consider it a miracle if I can bring save one soul unto God.

I thought I was supposed to come here and be the teacher. Imagine my surprise when after eight weeks, I had an epiphany.

In this chapter of my life, I am the student.

The transition has been really difficult at times. I expected great success and how I even defined that success is an enigma to me.

I am learning that many don’t want to hear and aren’t seeking the thing I wish most to share. I am learning that smiling is just freaking people out. I am learning that in all of this, I have failed greatly to recognize my pride, even my own hubris. All of this time, I have looked at these people as people who could learn something from me.

I see now that I am here to learn. The most obvious irony is that I am in fact, here as a student to learn. This small shift in paradigm is opening the darkest corners of my mind. I have so much to learn.

I am learning from the same professors I thought I was here to teach. I am learning from the classroom setting and from the students with whom I share courses. I am learning from them how to be the person I want to be and sometimes how not to be the person I don’t want to be.

I am learning from the ward, a place I expected to dive in and get to work showing them how it’s done. But I have so much to learn from them. I am learning from the missionaries with whom I joint teach. They are a decade younger than me but are so much more capable than I am at actually showing me what it means to share the gospel.

I am the student. I AM THE STUDENT.

And it took me 8 weeks to figure this out.

Let There Be... Dark

Dear Scotland,

Your days were getting shorter and at first that was all I noticed. I can be so dense sometimes.

The sun kept falling asleep long before I was falling asleep. I just thought you and he had a falling out. I didn’t understand if your intent was to make me choose sides or if it was merely a fact about you I needed to know.

But you persistently offered me this endowment and after a few days I realized the gift.

Previously for me, the transition of day to night had always happened in my transition from work to play. I never took the time to notice the transformation because I was never still enough during my crossroads.

But you placed it before my blind eyes time and time again whispering, “Look!” I couldn’t see the grandeur you quietly placed on display.

Tonight, or rather today, I sat in the sterile library facing the bustling city center as the unseen sun set. I glanced up in time to notice the glow fade from the atmosphere. I lazily appreciated the sight and then I looked down to read some more.

I gazed up again to see the lethargic pale pinks fade into yawning deep purples. I looked down to read some more and as I continued, I felt you strongly urge me to stop and examine again. I put down my pen and closed my laptop. As I studied the sky once more, I observed those autumn violets fade into sapphire blues. And I caught my breath.

The onyx church steeples and raven trees silhouetted against the indigo horizon as the final rays of light abandoned this darkening sky for another brighter sky western bound.

I can count on two hands the number of times I have actively watched the sun set. I can count on a couple of fingers how many times I have watched an urban cityscape sunset. I can count on one finger how many times I have watched the shadowy autumn sky revealed against a castle backdrop from the top floor of a building the night before Halloween.

And I loved it.

Me

Month One: Figuring It Out

The following is an update. However, the following is also a refined compilation of the many texts and emails I’ve sent to loved ones in the past few weeks. So I apologize if you’ve received one, two, or all of the below.

“Then Jesus beholding him loved him, and said unto him, One thing thou lackest: go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, take up the cross, and follow me."

“And he was sad at that saying, and went away grieved: for he had great possessions.” Mark 10: 21-22

I knew the transition would be hard for me. Ta da! It's been hard for sure. But I like to think I demonstrated the smallest piece of faith. I sold all that I had. I took up the cross.

My flat: I have six flat mates. I'm the only native English speaker. Malaysia, India, Italy, Mexico, and two Chinese. Our kitchen smells like curry married a quesadilla and sired some spicy noodle monster. I eat cereal.

Scotland/ Edinburgh: I consider myself well traveled. Inverness, Isle of Skye, Glasgow, St Andrew’s, Stirling, and Edinburgh… all done. Each got at least a day. I’ve toured four castles, hiked Arthur’s Seat, two waterfalls, Lock Ness, William Wallace Monument, and the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. If a performer does leave England and chooses to come to Scotland, that’s where they play. Crosby, Stills, and Nash was sound checking the day I was there and well, you can check the site if you care. I’m just saying… big names. Beautiful venue.

Scotland is equal parts underwhelming and majestic to me. The landscape, the same one which everyone raves about for it’s crags, glens, moors, and lochs, looks a lot like Pennsylvania.

My sister, Mary, and I decided to do a Lock Ness tour. We decided to get in a boat out on the loch and peel our eyes for a creature I highly suspect is mythical. Let’s remember. Scotland’s state animal is the unicorn. They believe in Fairies (spirits, neither good or bad but usually mischievously engaged) and Standing Stones (stones believed to be placed by the Druids marking weak spots on Earth known for time travel.)

Mary and I commented on a number of occasions the similarity in landscape between this great country and the equally great state we hail from. We met this Texan who raved and raved about emerald Scotland. We told her it looked like home to us. She countered. We quietly observed most people know little about pastoral Pennsylvania landscape.

However, this same “underwhelming” Scotland is not without her majesty. She sneaks up on you. You may find yourself walking out of the Apple store on Princes Street on a random evening minding your own business. Then the glowing golden sun illuminates Edinburgh Castle & glitters off the water and it smacks you right in the face. Bonny Scotland. I’m living in one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever been in.

Church: My second week here was Stake Conference and I embellish nothing when I say it was the best one of my life.

The stake is a reflection of our Stake President, who I swear is future general authority material. He was the most incredible person with the most incredible spirit who taught the most incredible doctrine. Saturday night during adult session, I wept through his entire talk. Not shed a tear... or two... or three. Wept. The spirit was so strong the entire time.

The conference theme was hastening the work and it was honestly the first time I LOVED the topic. I know that sounds terrible. But I felt inspired. And motivated. And desirous to get down to the business of doing the Lord’s errand EVERY day with EVERY one.

I admit tears seem to flow freely for me these days but ONLY when I feel the spirit witnessing truths that will change my life. For example: Say 'the church is true' and I’m dry. (The Spirit.) Tell me I should floss and I’m dry. (The truth.)

Tell me there is a great need in this world for Heavenly’s Father children to acquaint themselves with their Maker, to further secure their salvation AND happiness. Tell me that I personally have been endowed with a unique gift to direct them to this knowledge. And do so emitting LOVE and wielding the SPIRIT, I’m a puddle.

Sunday general session was just as amazing. It started with the Stake President and AGAIN, I was in tears the entire talk. He is THAT marvelous predicated alone on the Spirit he carries with him, the savior’s love he conveys, and an overall sense of good strong testimony. More scottish beautiful souls with humble beautiful testimonies and for two seconds I wondered why we stray so far from the basics. It ended with the Seventy - who was the only American accent the entire two days.

Two weeks ago, I taught Relief Society... a familiar task.

School: First week was matriculation. The UK takes this very seriously and very ceremoniously. You’re not a technical student until you complete matriculation. Week one I was on campus. I met my department (School of Political Science), my programme (Social Anthropology), and my Personal Tudor who is also my professor for one of my classes this semester.

His name is Dimitri and he is from Greece. He is so chill. The type of chill which makes an anxiety prone gal feel a little better about school in a foreign land. But also the kind of chill which makes you understand why Greece is bankrupt. (I know I know. I’m stereotyping.) Fingers crossed for the semester.

I’m wrapping up weeks two, three & four of classes. I felt some peace at finally figuring out which courses to take. Registering for classes here is a deal. You do it with your personal tudor and essentially craft the specific education you wish to receive. I chose my next 12 months of classes (having attended more than I will actually take) and feel a relief at the completion of such.

IN CONCLUSION: I still doubt myself. I probably will this entire experience. Almost nothing feels comfortable yet. I have what feels like an ebb & flow stomach ache. BUT I am looking for the good. I LOVE the gospel. It’s the only thing I love in this world. I love (though painful) re-establishing my connection with Deity. Not that I didn’t have it before, but… it’s changing.

A good pal of mine told me to get down to the business of discovering why I was led here. Why I am here. FOR NOW, I am trying to see “the need.” If someone looks homesick, I try to offer comfort. If someone needs to borrow a power adapter, I lend. I see people, I smile. I don’t have much to give, but I am trying to serve with the very little I have.

I wish I were stronger, however the experience has wholly torn me from my comfort zone and I am acutely reminded how weak I am.

Far Far Away...

It’s 9PM on a Saturday night in October and I’m feeling the dual residency thing again.

My days have been grey for a week now. The Scots have a word for this weather. Driech. It’s about as damp and cold as the word sounds. I’ve not only been sporting long sleeves all week but layers of long sleeves. Three layers most days. I forgot how the humidity penetrates cotton and can make a cool day feel cold.

But my mind is hanging out in some far off place where I’m surrounded by azure skies and golden bales of hay. The air is merely crisp and once twilight hits, the sky falls black but no one cares. Hundreds of stars wink at the people below navigating their way through corn field mazes and autumn orange pumpkin patches.

This is also the time of year I seem to notice a few more cowboy boots, a couple more pick-up trucks, and hear a handful more country songs. It’s harvest and the farmers are about their business.

This is the month where I should be blanketed with a warm pallet of colors or the spicy smells of ciders.

I sit here in the monochromatic dreich... but I'm listening to country music.

White Flag

I learned in my undergraduate degree that perhaps the largest contributor to marital satisfaction is the management of expectations.

Anyone trying to successfully navigate any relationship has a working knowledge of this concept. "As my friend, I expect you to…" and the list ensues.

Dissatisfaction, simply put, is rooted in the failure to meet these expectations.

When you’re starting out, conflict grows out of inflexibility. But with time and maturity, our relationships can be blessings once we learn to evaluate, adjust, and rework those expectations. Our open mindedness is our greatest weapon against the war of enmity within our relationships.

I am a lover. And my relationships extend far beyond the notion of two people.


Dear Scotland,

Allow me to apologize. My skepticism of you made me lose sight of my true feelings.

I fell in love with you under the lens of romanticism depicted to me in music, art, literature, and cinema. I placed you on a pedestal you could never survive and wrapped you in a cloak of magic.

Upon meeting, your pastoral romance was replaced with urban living amongst many internationals. Your magic shattered into a million little pieces under the weight of my duty to the hard work of graduate school.

But dear Scotland, if you’ll allow me, I will spend my spare moments tracking down those shattered pieces until I am holding enough glittering twinkle to restore our romance.

It was my fault. I fell in love with what I thought you were. But I promise to fall in love with who you are.

Give me a chance?

Me

Growing Pains

I keep the circle small and tight… though with this post it significantly opens.

I’ve been in Scotland for twenty days now and I’ve taken to it like a fish to land. Flailing. Thrashing. Then lying still as I slowly suffocate.

Few know of the roller coaster journey I am weathering. But the few who do, have been absolutely fantastic at championing me through it.

I knew this would be difficult for me. Still, I felt the call to be HERE… right NOW… doing THIS.

Each day I talk myself off a metaphorical ledge and as I do so, I near constantly wonder why I am putting myself through this.

A few nights ago, a new friend of mine was sharing with me from a book she loves. With little insight or knowledge into my emotional state, she quoted from “The Art of Travel” by Alain de Botton.

“It is not necessarily at home that we best encounter our true selves. The furniture insists that we cannot change because it does not; the domestic setting keeps us tethered to the person we are in ordinary life, who may not be who we essentially are.”

This notion has been bouncing around my head for a few days. I cannot help but wonder what my Maker knows about me that I do not. Though the answer is simple- everything, all things, ‘things to come’ things – perhaps, I will find the daily pep talk a bit simpler.

Attempting to open my mind, I may take comfort in the fact that I am being molded, though painfully, into the person I am supposed to be… rather than the person I have been.

A Library Reminder

It’s not lost on me that while I sit here trudging through the technical writings of anthropologists trying to educate me on the foundational theories driving the field of anthropology, I’m bored out of my mind.

Then, here in the library where I sit among at least fifty of my peers, in walks a male, mid-twenties, quintessentially tall, dark, and handsome. I want him to take the computer spot next to me but he doesn’t. I look over and see it is occupied though its owner has abandoned it, likely in pursuit of some “real” book on the shelves.

I allow my eyes to discretely follow him as he finds an open workstation. I watch as he peels off the turquoise and white sweater which draws attention to his green eyes. He wears a week’s worth of scruff and admittedly I am drawn to his face. I can’t stop staring.

He sits next to another guy who is running his hand through his dark shaggy mane full of curls. He sports a nose ring and a mustache. I wonder what he is studying... or reading... or interested in.

Just when I was doubting if the Study of Humans was what I was meant to do, it’s not lost on me that the last 3 minutes reaffirm something to me which no institution could ever give or take away from me.

Day One: Drowsy & Defeated

While preparing to record my experiences, I felt the need to write from a position of strength and confidence. Many who know me know I am those things. However, I find myself wholly in the territory of vulnerability and insecurity.

I’ve decided to allow it for now. I hope that rather than being seen as a buzzkill, the next few posts will act as another shade of revelation to the human condition - more specifically MY human condition.

My sister and I sat in her living room with the kids at school and her husband at work. With our luggage loaded into the car, we sat and prayed on behalf of the trip. We prayed for safety & the Spirit and she prayed for me.

We drove to the Philadelphia airport on a hot and sticky day. The rear of my shirt clung damply to my lower back. It was a feeling I was familiar with for the past six weeks.

I sweated in the July Utah desert as I ran errands, packed up my house, and loaded my car. I sweated in the August Pennsylvania humidity as I ran errands, packed my bags, and sold my car.

After paying over three hundred dollars to the airline, I handed over my baggage and for the first time in months, the load I shouldered (both emotionally and especially physically) was lightened.

I spent so much time behind that enormous boulder trying to get it to move. Here it was. Rolling. The notion sent a new wave of anxiety over me. Even though I prepared and spent incredible energy trying to accomplish just that, the fact that it was rolling meant there was no turning back. And I possessed no control over how fast it would roll or where it would go. The only part revealed to me to this point was to get it rolling.

I jumped onto the plane with my sister beside me. We were of two different minds entirely. This was her temporary globe trotting but this was my new life - a chapter which lay blindly and overwhelmingly before me.

We flew from Philly to JFK and once my flight out of New York was airborne, I felt the full weight of my exodus. BUT here was the unexpected piece. Here was the commencement of the process which would feel TO ME as my Gethsemane.

My identity as I had defined myself remained firmly fixed to the United States. With every passing mile and each passing hour, who I was meant little if anything to the life I was heading toward.

With crumpled clothes and sleepy eyes, we arrived in Edinburgh. I felt sick. I felt homesick. I was gone for less than a day but there I stood in the Scotland air surrounded by six pieces of luggage while my sister procured our rental car. Nothing was familiar and this was a feeling which continues still.

There was no establishment I saw, no air I smelled, no speaking I heard, no food I tasted, and nothing I touched which was familiar. It was all foreign. And even though I was the foreigner, I held the country responsible for not living up to my romantic expectations.

We loaded that small vehicle with my life and traveled an additional three hours to Inverness. We stopped at the Information Center on the border of town to begin the leg of the trip devoted to touring. We spoke to the gal whose name tag read Mhairi- pronounced Vi-ree.

The language barrier was already manifesting itself. Her Gaelic name was the least of our problems. When renting the car, my sister jokingly called the guy a “punk” whereupon she was frustratingly met with reprimand. The mama bear in me was already disliking this people.

Still Mhairi was cute and helpful and offered us copious amounts of information about the Highland Capital. So as we entered the city, we were hungry and homeless. We spent the next hour and a half knocking down B&Bs with little success for vacancy. Ultimately, we phoned and booked spots at a local youth hostel.

After checking in and partaking of their wifi - what seemed to be the only technology coverage we found in the country so far - we journeyed out for a bite. I can only assume the rest of the world hates American food. I’m not even sure I understand what constitutes American food. I only saw I was surrounded by Indian, Asian, and other foreign cuisines.

I consumed a scant morsel with an aching stomach and the heaviest eyelids. There is where I became entirely annoyed with Europeans. When I wanted the “check", we had to first translate this request to a puzzled waitress who derived we were ready for our “bill” who seemed entirely unsure why our dining experience was less than an hour. I paid but because of my lack of understanding how even the point of sale transaction works here, I did not understand I left no tip until we stood up to leave.

Feeling frustrated was becoming my default state of mind and I was not okay with that. We sluggishly entered that hostel and climbed into bed. Though my sister likely only felt exhausted, I felt completely defeated.

This sentiment only escalated after the lights were out, I heard her breathing deepen into a soft snore whilst my physically fatigued body refused to submit to sleep. My continuing defeat led a full assault against me for the next two plus hours while the tears trickled from my eyes.

And that is how my first day in Scotland ended.

Turning Page

Breaking up is hard to do.  But breaking up with you, who seems bent on showing me your best side on my way out, is the worst. --

The job was finished and the career was paused.  The furniture was liquidated and the house was sold. The car was packed.

I was leaving Utah headed towards the great state of Pennsylvania, my childhood home.  Ultimately, I was leaving the United States of America for a new adventure.  It was something I could have never dreamed of but happened with such miraculous force that destiny would not be denied.

The break up consisted of taking my perfectly suitable life and turning it on its head for another.

The thing about break ups is trying to discern if the new life will yield as much happiness and well-being (or at the very least, the same as you currently experience) as you have hope for.  The kind of hope which causes you to suspend the career, sell the home, and travel expediently into the unknown.

It started with a climb. Breaking routine is difficult enough but I felt my vehicle clawing its way out of Utah and into Wyoming.  The rocky uphill terrain tugged on the engine and at times it seemed difficult to discern if the grind was a result of the trek or the baggage.  Even in the toil, I gazed out of my window to witness the purple mountain majesty and that was right about the time I saw the sign indicating I was crossing the Continental Divide at about 8,900 ft.  Though not the highest point of the divide in the States, the view coming off of it was astounding.

The descent presented heavy summer air and as Wyoming was in my rearview, Nebraska’s corn fields were welcoming me in full golden glory.  The fields were yellow, the lakes were blue, the grass was green, and the sky was washed in a rich red of the setting of the sun.  It was a sight Crayola’s Classic 8 would have been proud of and I couldn’t stop taking it in.  

It was at this point, my bum needed a break, my body needed a bite, and my car needed some fuel.  So there I was, forced to open the door and step foot on the rich soil of America’s heartland… truly the pulse of our great nation.  If I wasn’t persuaded of its imposing beauty, the massive log bridge arching over I-80, the Great Platte River Archway, presented an impressive case for Great Plains tourism and I was convinced.

It waved goodbye or rather its fruitful crops did and both nightfall & Iowa greeted me.  The black sky invited me into the Hawkeye State via a panorama of fireworks shows.  The Iowa State Fair was in full force.  Highway billboards informed me of farm shows while semis carrying race cars to the Iowa speedway briefed me of the additional festivities.  

I drove while my eyelids grew heavy.  I entertained the idea of employing a local hotel but was rebuffed under the lack of vacancies.  It appeared every potential presidential candidate was using this affair to ramp up their campaign.  So a mass of politicians complete with their entourages prevented me from slowing down.  Strike that.  I slowed down… another four hours later closer to the state border than I was aware.

After pulling off, I awoke with the sun in the early hours following little more than what most would consider a nap.  But that’s the business of breaking up.  You spend the night trying to hash it out and ultimately sheer exhaustion claims you.  You wake up to swollen eyes and stumble outside to take a deep breath. 

Mildly dazed and resolved to finish the deed, round two was just commencing and I didn’t know what I was in for.  I was ready to finalize my great exit and that’s when I was absolutely stunned by the morning sun dancing on the sparkling MIGHTY Mississippi River.  It took my breath away.  And for the first time since my departure from Utah, I seconded guessed my entire plan.  What actually was the appeal across the pond?

(That question, though rhetorically raised here, warrants another fleshed out essay which was previously written and is known & anchored in my soul.)

Still, if Nebraska is the heartland, the following Great Lake states are the flowing life-force.  For every state east of the Mississippi River acts as a vessel pumping life-giving creeks, streams, rivers, and lakes through its great land.  The vegetation is thick and speaks powerfully of creation.

Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio became one emerald blur.  Admittedly, the frenzied exit from Utah which closed with chaos & complications were catching up.  So when John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads” emerged from my iPod’s random setting, the first, the few, & the last tears fell as the cities got bigger.  

Bustling Indianapolis pointed me toward concrete Columbus who pushed me through mining-towns West Virginia and right when I felt there would be no end, the steel mills of Pittsburg beckoned me into the state of my birth.

Pennsylvania is SO BEAUTIFUL.  I love where I am from.  The rolling green hills, the masses of trees, the sound of night crickets and cicadas singing.  The morning skies open with the haze of humidity, burn blue by noon, and close with the pink of the sun. Pennsylvania is stunning.

Here it was calmly completing another picture perfect day as I rose and fell against each hillside - the rhythm of a breathing creature lulled to sleep - slow and steady.

-- The break up was inevitable, still I’ve decided to remove all expectations.  We’ll likely reconcile.  But this I know.  I speak no dishonor in opposition to our partnership.  Against every argument to stay, I must go.  But know after journeying this path, I am acutely aware of all of the splendor & greatness you offer.

Multiple Personality

While I sit here calmly at my desk on a temperate Utah day, my mind runs duplicitously as though it were already a resident of the UK.

I watch this 65 degree overcast grey sky threatening to shower and can see it two ways already.  It is a cool spring Utah day whose temperatures will rise again with the return of the sun in the next day or so.  OR it’s a warm beautiful summer Scotland day whose sky has taken a respite from drizzling her moisture down on us.

It’s an ordinary weekday in early May lost among the routine of work, news, and life.  OR it’s the buzzing first Tuesday in May, 48 hours before a general election when countries’ emotions are running high, the incumbent Prime Minister campaigns nervously, the challenging candidates crusade passionately, and the people consider cautiously the potential of their great nation and leaders.

I fly in a holding pattern whose habitual monotony is broken by the end of a workday.  But in my head, I think about a flat, next to a university, beside a park, below a castle, and wonder what everyone else is doing.

My soul is already a dual resident and it’s overly exhausting.

Anthropology?

For some time, the collective response to pageant girls around the world evoked flippancy from the masses. Historically, during the interview portion, it seems any inquiry can and was addressed toward the general cliche of world peace. 

Seven billion humans share the same residence on this planet. A houseful of roommates could tell you how difficult it is to navigate the business of living together. We live in a world of disagreement and conflict. There are diverse opinions and differing solutions. There is economic divide and war. There is a lack of understanding and as a result of it heartache and heartbreak. 

For me, bridging gaps and finding peace in this tumultuous world is less of a cliche and more of a necessity. I work for a large corporation and I am well practiced in multi-societal interactions. My work exposes me to teams comprised of people from Greater China, North Asia, Southeast Asia, Europe, the Americas, and Africa. 

This is what I know. 

We have more in common than we think. As living beings our basic needs include food, water, rest, and the need to feel safe. As emotive beings we need to feel like we belong. We need to love and to know we are worthy of love. We are challenged and we desire accomplishment. As beings striving towards our potential, we seek to contribute to a greater good through the use of our skills and talents. Scholars have long investigated this cumulative commonality among us. 

Heretofore, I have maneuvered through some of our cultural barriers in business by reminding our team of these simple courtesies. There is a binding thread of humanity which allows us to look at each other and with little effort understand that jobs are hard, families are important, and life can be a beautiful disaster. 

These are simple learnings I took away from my undergraduate education but they will only take me so far. I am a natural educator and have been doing such in my community engagements, my religious responsibilities, and especially in my corporate commitments. I intend to learn as much as I can about humanity. 

I am in love with applied anthropology. The field is often associated with diplomacy, conflict resolution, and the public sector though I see the discipline rapidly widening. Some of the most profound differences are being asserted from corporate social responsibility efforts and from the tables of commerce. 

Previously, globalization was defined as nations coming together politically. It included bureaucrats, delegates, and magistrates. However, as organizations expand globally, there is a work to be done and it no longer falls solely on the socially educated and the politically qualified. There is a need for every man to know his neighbor especially when the boundaries of communities are ever shrinking. 

World peace is more than some government treaty or some corporate initiative. It’s a discussion and a conversation spanning generations of time encompassing the whole of humanity.

My Journey

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

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

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

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

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

I AM energized by witnessing passion in humanity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The WHEN

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

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

When thunder claps.

When tears are falling.

When he smells good.

When I’m sunburnt.

When no one is around but God.

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

The HOW

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

The WHY and the REAL WHY

THE WHY.

I write.

A lot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE REAL WHY

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

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

I write for clarity.

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

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

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

I’m a good writer at best. 

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

A Different Way

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

“Good Morning,” greeted her dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rawr,” bellowed the boy.

And they both skipped off together.

All the Best I Could Be

I’m in love with a married man.

Stick with me.

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

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

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

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

He was Good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tell Me A Story Pt.2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will prevail.”

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

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

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

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

Tell Me A Story Pt.1

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

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

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

I was unapologetically addicted to storytelling.

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

The Long Road

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

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

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

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

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

I always felt incredibly gifted.  Naturally endowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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