Found Memories

Found Memories. I loved this movie. I loved the slowness of it. I loved the characters. I loved the beauty in the little things. It changed my perspective through my desire to enjoy the beautiful, small moments of life, rather than always thinking about the big things (which I tend to have a problem with doing). I loved the repetition in the first few scenes of the woman, walking the railroad tracks over and over again, her arguing with her friend, the mass scenes, and the village eating together afterwards. It was such a show of what a tired old town can bring, what beauty there really is in routine and taking things slowly. It made me want to live my life in such a way- to see things as a day to day, week to week process of beauty, not just one big event after another. It's a wonderful way of looking at things.

On Love

Today I am feeling inspired. It's 7:45 in the morning, I've been up since five. I got virtually no sleep last night because I'm an idiot college student with no respect for rest. I'm sitting here, watching TV and getting paid for it, I'm exhausted and all I want is my bed and some hot chocolate (this room is freezing), and yet I feel so blessed. You know why? Because I'm lucky enough to be watching General Conference. Sure, I've seen this session every week since it first aired. Yeah, it does get a little monotonous. But am I tired of it? Not at all. I could watch this single session one hundred more times (and I may have to do just that, if I keep working this same shift at work), and not get even half out of it than what is available. Heck, I could memorize the speaker order, the words they say and their facial expressions as they say them, and I still wouldn't be getting enough out of this. That is the beauty of God's word- it takes a different form every time you hear it, according to what you need. The words may be the same, but the impressions that they have on peoples' hearts will always be vastly and personally unique. Heavenly Father knows us. He knows what we need to hear and what we need to feel and how exactly to get that across to us. For me, one small way that need is fulfilled is watching General Conference, October 2013 Saturday Morning Session every Saturday morning from 6-8 am. What a blessing.

There is no cap to God's love and understanding for His children, and of that I can testify. He doesn't make mistakes and He NEVER stops loving anyone. Ever. As President Monson said in the General Relief Society meeting this last General Conference, "...Your Heavenly Father loves you. Each of you! That love never changes. It is not influenced by your appearance, by your possessions, or by the amount of money you have in your bank account. It is not changed by your talents and abilities. It is simply there. It is there for you when you are sad, or happy. Discouraged or hopeful. God’s love is there for you whether or not you deserve love. It is simply, always there." There are times when things just aren't working out, at all. On a much smaller scale than many others around me, I've felt that despair. It doesn't have to come from a major loss or a life-changing event, although despair naturally accompanies such occurrences. For me, as of late, it's simply come from the process of growing up. Things aren't the same anymore, nor will they ever be. Coping with that knowledge hasn't exactly been easy, but through it all, I've felt Heavenly Father's love. I've made a cringe-worthy amount of mistakes in the last few months, even more than normal, but you know what? Heavenly Father still loves me, just the same as He always has.  And that is no different for anyone, no matter what.

God loves you if you are happy lonely sad mistreated victimized thrilled despairing in love all alone straight different hateful beautiful small fat unhappy guarded generous clean gay unmotivated depressed outspoken powerful pensive reserved talented restless ungrateful unclean mistake ridden diligent impulsive drowning in doubts or existing in the sunshine. We are the human race, and we are all of these things, but we are also His children and we will always be welcomed in His arms, if we'll just extend our own towards Him.

We are all deserving of God's love, because we are all His children. With that blessing, however, comes the responsibility to remember that we are not alone in that divinely ordained relationship. Everyone, EVERYONE around you, they have just as much of His love as you do. We are all His children. That guy down the street that's covered with tattoos and smokes a pack a day? Your gay cousin that never really comes around anymore? The older woman who yells at neighborhood kids that tromp through her flowers every morning. The child in your classroom that never smells good and can't ever seem to stop talking. They are His children. He loves them. I forget that so easily when someone makes me uncomfortable or mad. Take yesterday, when I fell asleep on the grass outside my apartment (as I said, I'm exhausted. All the time.) and some guy pulled into the parking lot, rolled down the windows of his sports car, and started blasting the most obscene music I have ever heard. I woke up to words that I haven't heard in months- I do, after all, live in Provo. And he just sat there. I sat up from my self made mattress of grass and yellow leaves and attempted to stare him down. I must have sat there for ten minutes, just glaring at that guy. He had woken me up! Did he not understand that sleep, for me, is as rare as dates? And not only had he woken me up, he had done so with distaste and an utter lack of respect for my ears. But, alas, he didn't move. I annoyed, yes, but too scared to say anything. So I gave up the fight and retreated into my apartment. Ok, I wasn't just annoyed. I was fuming. The whole situation had been bizarre. I vented to my roommates about this terrible person who ruined lives (naps are life) and people and ears and souls. But guess what?

That man. That man that was simply playing his music just loud enough to annoy me. He's just as good a person as I am, if not better. I don't know anything about him, besides his taste in music and sports cars. Heck, that guy could be a great guy! He was probably on his way to a charity event or to adopt an orphaned kitten or something. He could have been playing a joke on me, for all I know! A stupid and infuriating joke, granted, but hey. Senses of humor vary. But whether he was an altruistic angel with an affinity for blasting naps out of existence or the worst human being to crawl the Earth- it doesn't matter. What I thought of him has zero relevance. God loves that man. He loves Him. Nothing else matters. God loves him. So why shouldn't I? I mean, if loving somebody and everybody is good enough for God, then how could it ever be less than enough for me?

So, I think for me, this post is more of a challenge for myself than anything. As of today, I am challenging myself to see the reflection of God in the eyes of all those I meet. It may be hard and the effort may seem futile, but I know that it is there in them as much as it is there in me. So of course I am going to try and see it. To those few of you that will see this, I'd invite you to do the same. I think it'll make it easier not only to see Heavenly Father in others, but in ourselves, as well. And how could it get any better than that?

Lastly, I want to make this even longer and just tell you how much this Gospel means to me. I hope that's ok. This Gospel- man oh man. It has a hand in everything that I am, and I would not be anywhere close to where I am now without it. The Gospel is a Gospel of second chances, of acceptance, and of love, and I wouldn't want it any other way. I know that it is true. With every fiber of my being, I know that it is true. I know that Heavenly Father loves me and loves you and that will never change. I know that through this Gospel, I have value. I have worth. I know that Christ is my Savior and the Atonement is His greatest sacrifice and gift to us. I know that prayer is real and it works. I respect and honor the priesthood, in those that hold it and in the personal and lasting effect that it has had on my life. I know that God knows me and what I need to hear and who I need to meet and where my life is headed. And I know that the Book of Mormon is true. And that will always be enough.

Waste Land

Today, I woke up with the idea that I was living the only way that anyone should ever live. It resided in the back of my mind, without me even noticing what I had created for myself- the thought that I was alone in the world.

Then I watched a documentary. 

It was called Waste Land. 

The story of a modern Brazilian artist, Vik Muniz. He traveled to a landfill in Rio de Janerio, named Jardim Gramacho, to create portraits out of the trash he finds there. People work there. People die there. But most importantly, people live there. They don't just exist, earning money to support drug addictions or to augment their wages from "prostituting themselves". They live there, with difficulty and dignity intertwined into the chaos of being a picker. Yes, a picker. A picker, if you can imagine it, of recyclable items. They go every morning to the landfill, dressed in gloves and hardhats (sometimes). They go through thousands and thousands of tons of trash. At the time that this documentary was filmed, Brazil did not have an recycling program. People would just throw all their waste away into their trash bins and dump it, diapers and milk cartons and rotten food and aluminum cans and melded together into a cacophony of residue. That's where the pickers come in. They throw themselves into that sea of garbage and they dig and sort and look and pick. They pick the items, recyclable items, that are worth the most money that day. It's the "stock market of recyclables". They then sort it, bag it, and sell it. They go home well after the sun has set, to the makeshift huts where they stay. And the cycle of the sun coincides with the cycle of their lives. It happens everyday. 

"It is not bad to be poor. It's bad to be rich at the height of fame with your morals in a dirty shame," says Valter, shortly before his death of lung cancer. To most of Brazil, if not all of it, these people are seen as lower than the garbage that they work with (if seen at all). They are what the rest of the country, in essence, have thrown away. Vik gave them a chance to tell their story, through the portraits that he created of them with the materials that they sort through everyday. At one point in the film, as they are looking through aerial shots of Jardim Gramacho, Vik's assistant says to him, "This is the first time that I can say that the place of you work looks better closer up than it does from far away. It's the human element that makes this such a beautiful project." Later on, as he looks out over the prominent city of Rio, Vik mutters to himself "It's not a pretty place unless you look (from) very far away." So, the place that is known, the place that is rich, the place that generate the garbage... That is the place that is the worst to be close too. That is where truly where the stink originates. Things are not always as they seem, for good or otherwise. Rich, or poor. 

Life in a combination of moments. Whether it be moments searching through trash or relaxing in your mansion, throwing away your recyclables, it's a collection. If we focus on those moments, one by one, it makes no sense. Lean back. Look at the whole picture. Are you making art with your moments? 

"I don't see myself in the trash anymore."

"Sometimes we see ourselves as so small, but out there, people see us as so big and so beautiful."

There are so many ways to live.

Click here to see the trailer. Watch the movie. It's on Netflix. Just watch it. 

This Post Terrifies Me.

"The more scared we are of a work or calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it." -Steven Pressfield. 

What are you most scared of doing? Not in general, not in your lifetime, but today? What frightens you most today? What is it that you know, without a doubt, you cannot do? And what makes you think that? Who convinced you of that lie? 

All questions aside, I think you're scared because it's time. It's time to truly start becoming. It's time to cast aside rationalization and doubt. Tear it out of your notebook, ball it up, jump shot it into the trash can. Don't use the wall as a backboard-you can do this on your own. That fear? That nagging, unending fear? Let it motivate you. Let it push you. Let it remind you of why you need to do this certain thing. It is time. 

So begin. Ready, set, go.

I'm going to be a writer.

Today. 

It starts today. 

Normalcy

You look at her, and what you see is a girl. A human being without frills or fluff or anything extra. Freckles are splayed across her face, an endless game of connect the dot. You can envision her little brother penning it on her arm in church, dot to dot to dot to endless dot. Countless potential pathways, kissed onto her skin by the sun. You see her hair. It is not long. It is not short. It hangs until it stops, that is all. It has no color, in that it has every color. It cannot be classified as red or brown or blonde, or even something in between. It just is. It is her hair, and that does not define her.

            Her eyes. Another pathway, yet this one leads to the depth of her existence. Fluid and real, dancing with an eternal and unblinking honesty. They speak more than she ever does, for they cannot be ignored.  You catch yourself staring, just a bit, and look away hurriedly, embarrassed to have seen something so personal. You promptly leave, join your friends and your life and your routine, and forget about the girl who is nothing else. Just a normal girl.

            As you walked away, another path was penned, and another brief but meaningful journey was made to the confines of her soul. Your image was driven by the lanes of fulfillment or friendship. It sped past the less traveled road of confidence and swerved around the path of contentment. The passage you indented is one that has been ventured time and time again in the soul of this girl. Disappointment is now deeper, loneliness accentuated. Subconsciously, your views became more aligned in her vision of herself. She’s just a normal girl.

           

           

             

Explanations and Reasonings.

"Let me explain," she started, her voice confident, her meaning absolute. The words existed in her head. They were already breathing, a horse behind a derby gate. Hesitation was not an option. The gate would either be opened calmly or destroyed, her choice. 

"I can explain," she reiterated, the surety sliding a bit. Perhaps the horse could wait a bit longer. He was mature-his training was near completion. He was not a young colt anymore. Movement was his preference, but not his only option. Patience had begun to take root in him. Perhaps he could afford to use a bit of it. This was not procrastination. It was just a way to bide the little time she had left.

He looked at her, questions bubbling to the surface of his eyes. His emotions rarely escaped drowning in his deeply private soul, but on occasions such as this, confusion was the life raft. The tears began to form. Little by little, one by one, they gathered where he could see them. He fought them with batting eyes and self conscious blinks, but the dam had burst. The damage had been done. 

She looked at him, the first time that night. Truly looked. She gasped a bit, sucking in the tenuous air between them, enchanted by what she saw. Diamonds were running down his face. They were tinted with embarrassment and tinged in despair, but they were raw. They were real. And suddenly, her well thought out words were not. The horse-that horse that she had groomed to perfection with reasoning and logic and endless comparisons-that horse wandered away from the gate and into the subconscious soul from whence he came. And she was free. She continued to stare as she silently grasped his hand,  a sensation stronger than reason filling its leftover space. And then they created their jewels together. The diamonds rolled down their lovely faces and dripped onto each other's shoulders. A harmony of riches dripped to the dirt below them. A rosebush later took root there. 

Love cannot be explained away, I suppose. 

PS- No, this is not a true story. But what a beautiful thing to assume.  

Presently

She had created, within herself, a whirlwind of possibilities. It swirled and twirled and dashed and destroyed, leaving nothing but shattered illusion of reality in its wake. You could see it billowing through her soulful eyes, hear it crashing through her voice. As she breathed, it grew stronger. The air that she gasped steadily increased upon itself, never escaping the prison of her mind, never growing smaller. It ballooned and swelled and snarled and gnashed its terrible teeth and roared its terrible roar- it wanted the space of her soul's home. It wanted everything- her heart, her lungs, her mind- and in the end, it wanted nothing more than her lifeblood, the flow of her existence that sustained her day by unforgiving day. She laid in bed each night, feeling the possibilities overtake her. They were a physical, monstrous being, combined as Medusa's snakes. Varying by difference, diligent in purpose. Simply to destroy the present. End the existing in constant hope for a better tomorrow. Take away opportunities at hand by dangling the enticing, nonexistent ones before her imagination. The donkey's carrot. To her, these were not the gales of destruction. Oh, no. They were the supportive winds, the ones that kept her upright and pushed her towards new things. Shoved her towards forgetfulness. Forced her into the greener side of the grass. And so she was conscious. And so she died. Bound by the flaxen cord of the  possibilities of tomorrow. 

oh and ps..

Ps.
Sorry I have been such a bad blogger as of late. I have been both busy and lazy.. A lethal combination. I have also been a bad runner and and slightly bad friend and a very bad YSA 50th Ward Member (I have yet to fill out the form that was due two days ago). So please, don't feel picked on. I'm cleaning up my act, I promise I am. Things that you have all missed out on because of my terrible blogging habits:

1) Heritage Tours- I actually had a post written out and almost finished all about tour. But then it was boring and then the pictures wouldn't load and then I gave up. But those three weeks? Best three weeks of my life. Here is a single picture to prove my point.  

                                                                                                                 
Ok. So maybe this single picture does a total of nothing to prove my point. But it's beautiful, sorta, and tour was definitely beautiful. See the connections being made here?

2) Hiking Timp- Karli and I and our daddies hiked Timp. It was gorgeous. We aren't the best hikers in the world, but we did it. And I'm scared of heights. Terrified of heights, in fact. And I did it. So yeah, that was pretty amazing. Not that I did it. Just the mountain. The mountain was pretty amazing.

3) Hiking Kings Peak- A week later and badda boom. We did another, much longer, backpacking adventure/ climbing the highest peak in Utah. So yeah, there ya go. I've been up higher than most of you suckers. But don't worry, you have nowhere to go but up.. hehe. See what I did there? Ahh. My sense of humor is impeccable.

4) A bunch of nothingness combined with some pretty happy/pretty stressful/pretty exciting times. As is life. Have a wonderful day and I'll see you sooner than later... This time I mean it.

College and Other Things That I Am Hiding From

Lately my life has felt like a floating mess, a jumble of what ifs and have nots and if onlys. A mess of maybes, as some would say. I'm leaving soon. Life is about to change drastically, whether or not I want it to. I'm terrified, I'm anxious, and I can't decided if I am in fact happy about it or not. It's been something I've waited for since before I can remember.. College has always been just past the horizon. I remember as a little girl, I was sitting in the backseat of the car, driving home with my parents from my favorite place in the whole world, my Grandma Anne's house. It was late and I was tired, and for some reason, a wave of terror swept over me. "Mommy?" I implored, "I won't ever have to leave you, will I?" My parents chuckled, the way adults react to things that only they, in their vast wisdom and experience, can understand. They looked at each other, smiling a bit, and then my mommy replied, "Sammy? When you're 17, you will be more than ready to get away from us." I was shocked. How could my mother, my MOTHER, of all people, be telling me that I wouldn't always want to live with her and dad? It made no sense, to my six year young mind. I sat back in my seat, rocked to the very core, and convinced that my mommy had just experienced the rare occasion of her being wrong. I vowed to myself that I would never want to leave my parents. I would never reach that seemingly forever away age of 17 and stop loving them. It just wouldn't happen. I swore to myself that it would never happen.
And oh boy, did I break that promise to myself. I have not stopped loving my parents, don't get me wrong. They are everything to me. They have provided the means and pushed me towards the opportunities that I needed to eventually move away and start on my own. But I think I'm ready for my own life to begin. I think it's time to start living the way that I see fit for myself- making my own decisions and being fully accountable for my vast array of mistakes. It's time. And there is SO much to be accomplished! It's overwhelming. There are things coming up that I can't even fathom yet. So much so that I sometimes just spend the mornings hiding in my room, watching "Julie and Julia" and crying over how beautiful their lives are and how mine can't come close to comparing. I literally have not left my room yet today because I know something is coming that I don't want to face. Perhaps if I just wall myself up in the house of my childhood and hide underneath the blankets that were previously my fortress against monsters in the closet and zombies underneath my bed (do zombies hide underneath beds? A question that I can't quite seem to find the answer for anywhere). If these sheets protected me from monsters, they can surely protect me against growing up. It's just that simple.
Can you tell that I'm not quite sure how or what or even where I want to be? I just wanna be me. And I guess I could say that I don't want anything to change that. Not even college. Not even age. Not even time.. This is ridiculous. I need to get up.

Help a Friend Out, Eh?

Guys! Do me a huge favor! Do Harry the Rock a favor if you don't wanna do one for me, at least. We all love him. Copy and paste this link into your search bar and then push that little follow button. Not too hard, right? Do you love Harry the Rock? That's what I thought. <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/9763301/?claim=sy4rvm8bsnh">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a>

And here is one of my favorite videos as a reward. Thanks again. 

The Summer of Goodbyes

There is a time for making friends, and there is a time for them to all leave you behind. That's what it's felt like recently, at least. In the years leading up to this point in my life, I've welcomed so many people to experience my journey with me. They've come from everywhere- school, church, camps, neighborhoods, soccer teams, grocery stores, Italy- name a place that I've been and I'll tell you that I've probably met a friend or two there. And it's a fantastic feeling to see someone, smile, strike up a conversation, and ten minutes later feel a bond begin to grow. It gives me a glowy feeling inside- like there's a sunrise in my lungs. And to be able to watch that sunrise turn into a full on summer day with that certain person? It's indescribable.  I love my friends, long story short. They are the peanut to my butter, the Federer to my Wimbledon (do NOT choose this time to bring up that he lost first round this year. I am still recovering from that one), the swing to my step and the marshmallow to my fire pit. They complete the already happy things.
But, as well all know, all things have an end. These endings accompany their traveling buddy Time, and the arrival of these pals is something that we cannot avoid. We can try to deadbolt our houses and cover up our windows and bubble wrap everything near and dear to our hearts, but it never works. Time has the master key to all of our lives, and it can do with them what it pleases. I've felt that quite a bit this summer. It's been wonderful, it's been beautiful, it's been filled with hikes and pools and adventures and laughter, but it's also had its unfair share of goodbyes. It all started with graduation...

                                

...And that is how I felt about graduation. I mean, it was great, it was exciting, I threw my little cap and I sang the fight song and I smiled at my cute, cheering family. But as I watched my classmates walk up on that stage and wave and get that piece of paper that signifies that they are ready and allowed to move on with their lives- ugh. That about killed me. I felt as if they were waving right at me and saying in sing-song, mocking voices, "Goodbye, Sam! Have a nice life! See you never!" It hurt my heart. And that was goodbye number one. Then, there was Giacomo. 

  

My spicy little Italian meatball was the most unexpected friend I've ever made. I mean, who sits down before a school year begins and thinks "Well, this year I'm gonna meet a way cute kid from Italy who will become one of my best friends and go to a dance with me where we dress up as a Rabbi and a Nun and win the costume contest and then we'll have dinner with the missionaries and make pasta together and just be so happy around each other."? I'll tell you the answer to that otherwise rhetorical question. No one does. But I got lucky enough to have that scenario actually work out. He's back in Italia again, as of a week after graduation, and I miss him. Terribly. We were close, but I think the main reason it makes me so sad to think about is because it's the first time I've ever said goodbye forever to somebody. I've never hugged a friend and thought, "Wow. Never again will I see you." But that's what happened with Jackie Moon. And I still can't quite wrap my head around that fact. 

Then, there was (and still is, I suppose) the whole missionary situation. 

See all those boys? All the boys, in all those pictures. Take a nice long look, admire how handsome and wonderful they look, and then close your eyes and pretend that you never saw them. Done? Sweet. Welcome to my life. THEY ARE ALL LEAVING. Every last one of them. Jason? New Zealand. James? Romania. Derek? Australia. Josh? Taiwan. AJ? Boston. Dallin? El Salvador. Taylor and Matt and Chad and Adam and other non-pictured boys? Soon to be determined. Am I proud of my friends and the amazing decisions they have made up till this point so that they can serve missions? Oh, so proud. I'm just not quite ready to say goodbye yet. I feel like there is so much left to do! So many places left to go and things to see and conversations to have with them. Just give me a few more weeks, months, years, maybe? Can't you see that I'm losing all of my friends over here? But, like I said, Time has it's way of getting what He wants above me getting what I want. And I guess that's just they way it's supposed to be. 

To me, each summer has a theme. Something that infiltrates every inch of life that I experience in those three, too short months. Sophomore year was the summer of newness. Junior year was the summer of expansion. And this summer? My own grand finale? This is the summer of goodbyes. Goodbye to my friends, goodbye to life as I've always known it, goodbye to the Sam that only existed within the confines of her home. This isn't a see you later or till tomorrow sort of deal. This is permanent. This is undoable. And I only have a few more weeks to finish it up neatly and move on. And that, I suppose, is what scares me. 

Who's My Best Friend, You May Ask?

Today, I have a story to tell you. It has to do with my wonderful dad, and what it was like growing up with my father as my best friend.
My dad's name is Chris. Chris was born in the late 60s to a mom and a dad, with one older sister and a twin brother. Chris loved his life. He grew up playing football every lazy summer day in the church field with his buddies, swimming in the community pool, hitchhiking up Big Cottonwood Canyon to ski, and teasing his buddies about virtually everything. Time passed, lives became longer, and Chris slowly but surely became older. He found a passion for football and baseball, eventually becoming a catcher on a college team. He found a passion for his religion, and served an LDS mission in Switzerland when he was a year older than I am right now. After two years, he came home and found a passion for the woman that would eventually become my mom. He proposed to her in a church parking lot during a snowstorm, and then they did doughnuts in the freshly fallen precipitation to celebrate the foundations of their budding life together. Chris married Marci, and that is when I became more than just a thought. I became a possibility.
Fast forward two, maybe two and a half years. My mom is laying in a hospital bed, a relieved yet exhausted smile on her face. I can just imagine her, her short black hair pulled to the top of her head, her body tiny once again, the strains of having a baby evident on her tear soaked face. She's tired. She's in awe. She's something that she has never been before. She is delicate and fragile and mighty- a combination that can only be found in newly created mothers. She looks quietly up at her partner in crime and creation, her sweet Chris. He's sitting in the rocking chair next to the bed. It's silent, besides the creak of the chair and the rhythm of the three people, breathing in unison for the first time. Yes, the three people. Sammy is there too, swaddled up tight in her daddy's lap. He cautiously holds her, every move hesitant and unsure- not because it's not what he wants- quite the contrary. He's just never felt anything like this before- having a soul rely on him so completely, the anxiety countered by finding a love that he never realized existed, a love strong enough to erase all doubts. As he holds this newly created person, he also becomes new. As he watches this little human become aware of her surroundings for the first time, he also gains a a fresh and entirely different perspective. She breathes, he breathes. She cries, and he tears up just a little bit more. They quietly trust each other, without even understanding the difference. And with that, Chris gained a best friend.
My dad and I had a daily ritual when I was a little girl. He would go to work in the earliest hours of the morning, and a few hours later, I would wake up and hang out with mom. He sold his ties, I donned my pretty pink princess dress and did dance routines with mommy. He had his meetings, I helped mom with the dishes or cleaning my room or singing her songs. He came home, and I ran to the door to greet him with kisses. And then, my favorite part of the day began. We had a bench that had no dining table to accompany it. Just a lone bench, sitting in the corner of our kitchen. And to me, that bench had one main purpose. Special hugs. I would hop up on the bench so that I could grow a bit taller-to reach my daddy better, of course. He would come over, smile a bit, and say "Is it time for the special hug, Sammy?" I would say yes! Of course it is time! He then would hug me, rock me back and forth, and sing our special hug song. "Special hug. Special hug. Special, special, special hug." I would giggle and laugh and beg to do it again. Sometimes we would. Sometimes we would save the specialness for tomorrow. Either way, though, I knew at that moment that I was safe. I was untouchable. I was happy in my princess dresses and leotards, dancing with my mommy and hugging my daddy hello. My heart was swollen and overflowing. My life, in essence, was as good as it could get.
There won't be a nice, neat, closing paragraph, with five to seven well proportioned and flowing sentences. Not with this story. It hasn't ended yet, so how can you compose a grammatically acceptable conclusion for something that simply cannot be closed? Chris is still my best friend. We may be a bit too old for special hugs now a days, but we still chat. I make him Belgian waffles even when he swears that he can't eat crap like that anymore, and you know what? He eats them. I come home late on a Saturday night and he shakes his finger at me for a bit, and then we watch Duck Dynasty together. He tells me that I don't help out enough around the house, and then when I get around to doing the dishes, he dries the plates and talks to me about BYU. We're buddies, we're pals, we're best friends, he's my daddy and I've come to realize that I'll never stop being his baby girl. Love you, Chris. Let's go get sushi soon.

In his natural habitat. Eating cookies. 

Graduation pictures. They just keep popping up!

Getting A Bit Lost

Not all that wander are lost. Including Karli and I. Well.. Maybe we were a bit lost. But look at what are wanderings led us to.

Growing Up And Moving On

Recent events in the life of Sam- Graduation. High school graduation, that is. Throwing that cap and sitting through a three and a half hour ceremony in order to receive a tiny little piece of paper that basically says you survived the easiest years of your life, so far. It was exciting. I may have cried a tiny little bit.  I savored the moment with all my might. To me, it seemed natural. An unforced, healthy slide from arms of childhood to the backbone of being an adult. I'm ready to move on, ready for new adventures. Ready to embrace the road in front of me and accomplish things that I never thought I could. It's time, I suppose, to grow up. And I've never been more excited for anything.

They're beyond ready to kick me out. I don't blame them.

They're just excited because they don't have to share a house with me anymore.

My good friend and walking buddy, Mr. AJ.

So proud of this cap wearing, graduation speaking, beard wearing best friend of mine.

The only one not going to Snow College? Me. So yeah, I'm gonna miss my best friends. 

My first handshake as a proper adult. 

And there you have it, folks. Sam is primed and ready to hit the road. I'm not going far-not yet. BYU is only a forty five minute drive from my house, on a trafficky day. Go Cougs. But someday, maybe I'll finally live in Boston. Maybe I'll see the hills of Scotland and climb the Eiffel Tower. I'll meet people in Ghana or Russia or Egypt, or maybe all three. I'll write. I'll talk. I'll experience all that life has to offer me. I'll find out who the love of my life is meant to be. I'll be an aunt, and maybe even a mommy someday. I'll be who God intended me to be. And I cannot wait for that to begin. 

On Being Beautiful

Mmhhmm.
I have never liked the way I look. Not ever. I am too big, too pale, I have too many zits. I have big feet and my stomach isn't flat enough and my cheeks cover up my eyes when I smile. I have these little lines on my face that I think I was born with, but that doesn't make them any less weird. I took Chemistry my sophomore year, and for every lab we did, we had to wear these awful looking goggles that suctioned your face and left marks all over them. Lines on everyone's cheeks and such, deeply indented and tinted red by the end of the class period. I never thought much of it-the marks usually went away by the next class period. One time, however, the day after we did a lab, my friend and I were walking back from seminary together and she looked at me and said "Wow, Sam! The marks on your face haven't gone away yet, how tight were your goggles?" I was mortified, and my friend eventually became as red as I was as I tried to explain that yes, the Chemistry marks had gone away, but the lines on my face were permanent. I felt like a freak that day. And I hated myself for hating myself.
There are countless times in all of our lives, I think, when we feel deeply and irreversibly inadequate. Sometimes, ugly and inadequate go hand in hand, as they often have for me. There was the time in first grade when Jacob, a fellow six year old, not so lovingly commented on how much cake I had eaten at a class party. That still stays with me, twelve years later. The time that my classmate texted me and said "The pants are a size six, probably WAY to big for you, but you should look at them anyways". Well, that hurt, seeing as I am a size eight on a good day. The awkward laughter when I joke about how I cannot, for my life, get anything but deep red in the summers, the concealed stares when I go to a swim party and show off the greater good of my curves. I have taken acne pills for a good part of my adolescence, and not just one kind. When one medication stops working, another is immediately slated for arrival in my bloodstream. I have given up sugar on more than one occasion, avoided looking in the mirror, spent countless hours on the treadmill or parkway, hidden my body in over sized shirts and maxi dresses, and tried my very hardest not to care. To tell myself that I am beautiful. To believe those people who have told me on a daily basis that I am. To see myself through the eyes of those that love me. And the sad part is? I still can't do it.
But I am beautiful. Deep down, that little three year old that loves her pretty pink princess dresses and twirling around in them in front of a full length mirror still exists. She often gets buried in an avalanche of comparisons and self doubt, but she never stops breathing. I often think of her when I'm crying in front of a mirror or curled up in my bed, avoiding myself. She looks at me, a smile in her eyes, and quietly asks me why I keep running away from her. Running away from the knowledge of the beauty that I have. And then she hugs me, laughs a bit, and transfers a bit of her self esteem back to present-day Sam. It only takes a step back in time to remind myself-I am beautiful. You are beautiful. It's the accepting of that fact that makes all the difference.

A Big Old Birthday

So what? I turned 18. Not a big deal, right? I can smoke cigarettes now. Legally. I can also go to jail for real now, if I was to murder or rape someone. Or steal a pack of gum.. Anything goes. I can buy spray paint and dry ice. I can sign my own parental release forms from school (what a rush) and if I wanted to get married and have an apartment and a bunch of little babies running around all while I flaunt my adulthood by the date on my driver's license, then by all means, I can do that. I can say that I am two years away from turning twenty and my mom got married when she turned twenty so really, that must be the next major milestone in my life. I can live on my own. I can make decisions for myself. I can be who I've always wanted to be- all because one more day went by in my otherwise uneventful life. I am an adult now.

Happiest person I know. 

Birthday din din hugs.

My cute Knit Whit. 

Realistically, though, all turning 18 meant for me was one year older. I didn't wake up happier than I usually do or feel astronomically accomplished. In fact, I woke up a bit grumpy because I went to bed much, much too late (so kill me. I was on a date), hadn't showered, and was unable to eat breakfast, seeing that it was Fast Sunday. It meant going through the motions of a usual day- they weren't weightier or more meaningful than usual. Church was just that- church. No one cares that you're now an adult. You go to church and you sit where you always do and you see the same people and relearn the same lessons and smile, a lot. I went on a bike ride to commemorate my current life event that didn't actually feel like a life event. I still had trouble on the hills and I still sweated a little bit and still felt equally cool about my light yellow cruiser that was recently purchased for college. The bike didn't care that I was 18. Neither did the hills or the sweat, I suppose. I ate dinner with the people that I love the most- happens everyday. They didn't really mind that I was now an adult- I'm still my parents' baby girl and I will never stop being the aggravating older sister to those little people that share this house with me. The sun rose and the sun set, people had terrible-awful days, people had wonderful-lovely days, tears were shed and laughs were heard, dinners were eaten, and I was a part of the swirl of minutes that doesn't change for anybody or anything- even that monumental day that we call an eighteenth birthday. 

This beautiful flower balloon, though.

We have an eternal feud. Even
at birthday dinners. 

I am just Sam. That will never be any different. I have never felt not myself on the inside- my heart is where it has always been and so is my head. I am the person that I was born as, and that is the same as the person that I've become. It's just me. Adult me. Teenage me. Childhood me. I'm me, through and through. And I guess even a big old birthday can't change that. 

Try This One On For Size

This is me. Hiking. In my favorite articles of clothing of all time- Kooks shirt and overalls. 

Welcome to Harry the Rock. This is Sam. I'm a pretty young almost adult that lives in the shadow of the Utah mountains. I'm not a writer and I don't claim to be-yet. It's the goal someday, but for now, that dream exists only in my head. For now, blogging is the answer. I've tried to blog in the past, just like I've tried to keep a journal and tried to write a novel and tried to learn how to shuffle cards- so no, it has never quite worked out. But this time is different. Can't tell you why quite yet, but I'm feeling it in my bones. Have you ever felt that? That feeling that something is going to happen, something is coming, something is ALMOST there, a step below tangible? That's how I feel whenever I start to write. It's like someone lights a grenade under my fingertips and at the very base of my brain.. the ticking drives me insane.  But the thrill of it... Ahh. I feed off that thrill. Explosion is coming, combustion is at the doorstep- the only way to avoid it is to get the words out. I'm never sure what words, but they come anyways. They find a way to seep through my pen, glide off the keyboard, stretch out of my fingertips and dance out of my mouth. 

Sometimes the words surprise me. Sometimes I hate them. I always enjoy the feel of them on the paper, but it is rare that I love what they say. My words bring truth. I guess that's what this blog is about- it's about things that exist without an effort. They permeate without the insistence of our presence. Truth is a substance that needs no help. Words, when allowed their agency, always get involved with it. I suppose they don't really have to try- they are invariably intertwined. Words and truth, truth and words. We can never do that partnership justice, because who are we, extinguishable beings, in the light of something so immutable. We can express our bit of it. That's the extent of the control we have over truth and words- the expression of it. That's the goal of what I am trying to do here- and away we go! The adventure of expression and discovery- otherwise known as life.