Things I Love

I’ve never been much of a fan of Valentine’s Day. Whether romantic or otherwise, most relationships in life I’ve found to be fleeting and half hearted. But the word “LOVE” and all of the glorious elements in life that it can encompass---that is something I appreciate. It is hard—no—damn near impossible to find someone you love that will ever love you back with the same intensity and endurance. People and relationships fail us every single day. But the act of loving---be it a person or any other thing on this earth---is flawless. And the list of things worth loving in this life is infinite. So on this Valentine’s Day, I will spend it reveling in some of the things I love the very most......

I love the first snowflake of winter that lands on my nose. It feels like a kiss from heaven and a promise for a fresh start.

I love when someone texts me just to say good morning. It’s the perfect way to start a day.

I love rainbow sprinkles. Putting them on anything makes me feel like a kid again.

I love kisses on the forehead. There’s something so intimate and loving about those kind of kisses.

I love getting postcards in the mail and knowing that even when someone is far away on vacation, they are still thinking of me.

I love dancing around my house in the dark with my music turned up so loud it drowns out every thought in my head.

I love going for walks at night under a star-filled sky. Looking up reminds me that no matter how hard life seems sometimes, there really is a bigger plan out there for me.

I love sunflowers. I love their fearlessness to grow in the most unlikely of places, but just the places where a piece of beauty is needed.

I love full moons. I like to imagine that at the exact moment I look up and see one that the people I love most are also looking up at it....and that no matter where we all are in the world in that moment that we are connected by looking at the same moon.

I love handwritten letters. I love to write them and wish that others had the courage to write ones to me more often.

I love making snow angels and leaving my own mark on Mother Nature.

I love taking photographs and having photos taken of me. I want to look back in 60 years and remember the small moments and how much I truly lived.

I love the sound of motorcycle engines revving up. For me that is the sound of my youth and of my father.

I love wearing tutus....at inappropriate times and places. People never understand what you’re doing but they can’t help but smile at your boldness.

I love the smell of hairspray and static guard. It instantly transports me backstage to the dressing room where I prepared for all of my ballet performances.

I love splashing river water on my face. There’s no holy water in any cathedral font on earth that feels as purifying as that.

I love playing dress up. It is never too late to imagine what you might grow up to be.

I love giving gifts to people. It doesn’t matter if I ever get anything in return or if I could even afford the gift in the first place. Giving someone else 10 seconds of bliss leaves me happier than I can describe.

I love standing out in the middle of hard rainstorms with my face tilted to the sky. It feels like I’m washed clean of all my burdens for a moment.

I love when people say “no” to me. Those are the moments I know God is calling me to rise up and become an even greater version of myself.

I love going for long, aimless drives. They clear my head and bring peace back to my soul.

I love that I’ve had the same best friend since I was 5. And despite being an only child, she will always be my sister first and foremost.

I love making wishes every time I look at a clock and it reads 11:11. I secretly think these wishes will someday come true.

I love wearing onesies to bed. Because it’s impossible not to be happy when you’re wearing a onesie.

I love picking wild huckleberries and how your fingers are stained purple for days afterwards.

I love that my one true love is Montana. She will forever hold a spot in my heart that no man will ever overtake.

I love the overbearing silence of the mountains in winter. I love to close my eyes and listen to the pure sounds of nature emerge within it.

I love standing under street lights when it’s snowing and spinning around until I’m dizzy.

I love the song “My Way” by Elvis Presley. It is the song that best defines me and that I want played at my funeral someday.

I love that despite all of the pain, challenges, and ugliness life has thrown my way at times, that I still find something new to love about life with each passing day.

Happy Valentine’s Day.......go out and find something or someone to love today!

My Blog's One Year Anniversary!

One year ago today, I hesitantly clicked the publish button on my computer screen and thus published my very first post on this blog. And 37 posts later, I’m still going strong.

I had people tell me for years that I should start a blog, but I always told them I didn’t know what I would write about. And honestly, I didn’t feel like adding any more jobs to my plate, especially when I wouldn’t be getting paid for it. But then something terrible and wonderful happened that made me realize that my job as a writer isn’t really a job at all. 

On February 21, 2012 I received the most heart-wrenching text message of my life. It was from my friend, Joey. He was writing to say that his sister, Theresa, who was in her second battle with leukemia, was probably not going to make it through the day. She was 31 years old. He wanted to write something up about her to commemorate her life. And he wanted me to help him write it. I have never felt more terrified or honored in my life.

Shortly after receiving his text, I left work to drive home. On the way, he texted me again to say that she had passed. As soon as I walked into my house I collapsed on the floor crying harder than I ever have. I cried because I didn’t want him to lose his sister. I didn’t want him shouldered with that kind of pain. And I cried because I didn’t know how to write what he wanted me to write.  In no way did I feel talented enough to do justice to this woman’s life that was clipped too short. The task seemed impossible.

Three days later, I drove to Bozeman and boarded a plane bound for Las Vegas for a birthday getaway I’d planned months prior. I sobbed hysterically the whole drive to Bozeman. I felt torn about wanting to cancel my trip and not knowing how or if I’d be able to write the eulogy. Throughout the trip I kept calling my mom and two best friends saying over and over again that I didn’t think I could do it. And they kept telling me they knew I could. Busy with the funeral planning, I hadn’t heard back from Joey either on when we were going to work on his piece so I just waited and prayed. 

On my second day of being gone, I finally heard from him. He said he would try to write up as much as he could and then email it to me to expand on. In his very emotional state, he was barely able to write anything. And having never met his sister, I didn’t know how I was going to manage. On my Saturday night in Vegas I locked myself in my hotel room, tuned into the music on my iPod, and sat down on the bed in front of a laptop I’d rented from the hotel. The blank page never looked so daunting. For over three hours I sat there crying and writing until it was finished. To this day I don’t know where I found the strength to write that. But I think most of it came from God and from knowing that Joey had trusted in me alone to do this important task.  

I didn’t make it home in time to attend Theresa’s funeral. And I didn’t get to hear Joey read what I wrote. Of all the things I regret in life, those are the two that hurt the most. I’ll never forgive myself for not being there. But as I looked out the small airplane window on the flight home the same day as her funeral, I found some relief in knowing that a part of me was there. I was present in the words that Joey stood up and read. And I think perhaps, those words were even more important than my physical presence. 

Almost one year after Theresa’s passing, my mom told me about a writing contest in a magazine asking readers to write about the day that changed their life. I didn’t have to ponder for even one second what day that was for me. It was, and always will be, February 21, 2012. I only sat down to work on the essay contest once. After about 10 minutes I was crying uncontrollably and I knew I just wasn’t ready to write about it. I felt like a failure because of that. But then a few months later, my old dance teacher said something to me that I’ll never forget. She told me that I needed to do something “Good” with my writing. And the moment she said that, I realized that I had already learned one way of fulfilling that by helping Joey. It wasn’t long after that when I got the idea in my head that I should start a blog. I had no idea what I would write about. My goal was though was to write about things that would honor the gift Theresa’s passing gave to me: the epiphany that I am called to do something good with my writing.    

Now, whenever I sit down to write, I always stop and ask myself the question: does this piece strive towards doing something good….be it for a cause, a person, or something else? And I never, ever start writing without pausing in reflective prayer for a few brief seconds for Joey and Theresa.

I don’t know how many people read this blog, or whether any of my posts have actually meant anything to anyone. But I like to think that some good has come out of it. If nothing else, it has pushed me out of my comfort zone with my writing and forced me to write about some hard things….things that up until now I wasn’t able to write about. And it has given me purpose and a better sense of direction with my writing. This blog is humble and likely not read by that many people, but it has been a step towards something bigger. And the first step in a long journey is often the most important step of all.

Breaking Trail into a New Year

From the first time my dad plopped me down on the seat of a snowmobile, I was hooked. I love the way the engine revs to life with the pull of the cord. I love the sweet aroma of two-stroke billowing out from underneath the sled and wafting into my nostrils. I love how the sled tips and drifts through the snow as I shift the weight of my boots on the iced-over running boards. I love hearing the BRAAAAAAP sound of another rider’s sled pierce the silence haloing the mountains. 

 

But most of all, I love the bottomless drifts of twinkling snow—untouched and majestic—that you only find by climbing switchback roads and daring to venture through the trees. 

You know how surfers wait all day for that perfect wave to set up? Sledders ride all day to find that untouched meadow or hillside that they can carve up with their skiis and tracks. Last Christmas I bought my boyfriend, also an avid snowmobiler, a T-shirt that said “I came. I saw. I ruined the pretty snow.” We sledders do love the pretty snow. But the fun of ruining it is even better.

Last weekend, my dad, boyfriend, another buddy and I unloaded our sleds near Rimini and took off up the trail in search of powder. We found several play areas along the way, but it wasn’t until the end of the day that we hit white gold. 

We came upon a meadow covered in about three feet of fluffy powder without even the slightest dent of a rabbit’s paw print on its surface. The four of us paused for a few seconds to take in the wondrous site as the excitement mounted inside us. Once the moment passed, we squeezed our throttles and barreled out into the snow like kids into the present pile under the tree on Christmas morning. I am only beginning to learn how to carve through the snow and tip my sled up on its side, but in deep powder like that, it’s not hard. The snow cradles the sled as you move throughout it; all you have to do is hold on.  I completely rolled the sled over a few times and was thrown head first into the snow, but I loved the cold softness of it. In only a few minutes, we had crisscrossed up the previously pristine meadow of white. The hoods of our sleds, the running boards, and even parts of our jackets and helmets were dusted with snow.

We decided to take a different trail back to the trucks and trailers, which led us to my favorite part of the day: breaking trail.

On the way back, we came upon a section of trail that barely looked like a trail at all. The snow was virgin and perfect with evergreen trees flanking its sides to mark its course ahead. The boys pulled to the side to let me take the lead for awhile. For me, being the one who gets to break the trail is a blessed job. I didn’t ride fast, but rather, cruised along feeling the weight of the fresh snow push back against the sled. As the sun moved to my back, I smiled and giggled watching my shadow weave back and forth on the trail as snow tumbled up over my hood and windshield.

As I rode, I couldn’t help but think about how breaking that trail is just like starting a New Year. You have a vague sense of direction and what lies before you, but until you start moving, you don’t really know what you’ll encounter. When winter comes and the snow falls, it blankets everything and makes it look new. Everything beneath it is just as it was before, but we see the world through new eyes for a few months. Each New Year grants us a similar opportunity—not to make everything different, but to look upon all of the things and people in our lives with a new and more hopeful perspective. Breaking trail that day brought a little smidge of peace into my soul that I hadn’t felt...not even on New Year’s Day. And somehow, it made me realize just exactly how I wish to break into my 2014.      

Not All Families Are the Same

It was suggested to me the other day that there are certain things I simply can’t understand or appreciate in life because I don’t have a family of my own.  A.K.A. a husband and children. At first, I was incredibly insulted and hurt by this person’s comment. Then I realized that I simply live my life with a different conception of what constitutes family.


It is true that I don’t have a husband and children. But my life is not emptier or less demanding because of this fact. The truth is that I have a very extended family that I hold myself responsible to on a daily basis.

When most people think of the word “family,” they think of their parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and cousins. They are those people that we are, whether we like it or not, related to by blood or marriage. All of these people are part of our families. But the people I consider to be family often fall outside of these conventional qualifications.

I grew up as an only child, which at times, was frustrating when I wanted a sibling to support me or back me up on something. But I had something far better than a sibling. I had a best friend, who even after 21 years, is still the best sister I could’ve ever asked for. She has been the person who has stood by me through everything, who has supported me even when some people in my “family” turned against me, and has shown me the true measure of what the word “family” means.

I’ve been blessed with several other friends throughout the years too who have loved me without question or hesitation. They have helped me through challenges and lent a judgment-free ear when I needed to talk. I consider all of them part of my family.

But I don’t just consider people to be my family who have been there to love and take care of me. I reach out to as many people in my life as possible and love them in such a way that shows them I make no distinction between them and the people who are related to me by blood. I have always done so…not because I want extra brownie points from anyone, but because it has just never occurred to me to live any other way.

I’ve had friends call me in the middle of the day bawling their eyes out over something. Rather than just sit there and text them like a normal friend would do, I get in my car and drive to their house to see them right at that moment. And did I mention I stop at the grocery store on the way to pick up Oreos for them because that’s their favorite food?

I’ve been on Facebook and seen friends post very depressed statuses before…friends who live in another town from me. And again, I get right in my car and drive out of town and straight to their front door to tell them---in person---that I’m there for them.

I’ve spent hours staring at rows of baby pacifiers in a store trying to make sure I pick out the perfect one for a friend’s newborn child.

I’ve offered to wire a friend money, as much as they needed, to make sure they make it home for a family funeral because they don’t have the funds to make the trip themselves.

I could go on forever. But the point is that I bend over backwards to love and take care of people in my life. And I do my best to love those people unconditionally. I take those people, as well as their family/friends/significant others, into my life and make them my family. I hold myself responsible for taking care of them and supporting them just as much as if they were my actual family. I drop everything in a heartbeat to be there for them. I might not do this 100% of the time but I do the very best I can because I can’t imagine living any other way.

I don’t have a husband. And I don’t have any children of my own. But I have just as many responsibilities, if not more, than people I know who do have those things. It is true that I have some freedoms that married people with children no longer enjoy. But the truth is that I usually end up filling my extra time and using my extra energy to attend to my very extended and unconventional family. So to the person who told me I don’t have a family to worry about and go home to each day, and to anyone who would be inclined to make a similar statement, I implore you to look beyond stereotypes and conventions and realize that not all families are as straightforward as society likes to portray them. They come in all shapes and sizes. And personally, I feel truly blessed to have found so many people in my life that I am able to call my FAMILY.  

You Have Been Blessed With a Burden

While watching the movie “Freedom Writers” the other day, I heard an interesting comment made during it that made me hang my head and smile. For I felt all too well the weight of those words in my life. They were this: “You have been blessed with a burden.”

Several months ago, someone close to me commented that I have “soft skills” because I am a writer. It was stated factually, not as in insult. Nonetheless, the words stuck. Unlike the highly schooled and respected skills of engineers, doctors, scientists, firemen, and other such professions, writers have “soft skills”. And supposedly my skills require less education, less intelligence, and less effort. They are less desirable in society, less respected, less sought after, and significantly less compensated. Supposedly.

Years ago, this person’s comments about my “soft skills” would’ve burn my ego like hell. They would’ve made me feel insignificant and worthless. I would’ve felt guilty about the money my parent’s invested in my writing degree. Years ago, I would’ve let this person opinion, or rather the majority of society’s opinion, of the work I do bring me to my knees. But that was before I was put through some of the hardest tests of my life and shown just how crucial and un-soft my skills as a writer truly are.

Writers are among that rugged but beautiful genre of humanity known as artists. Alongside them are dancers, musicians, sculptors, painters, and countless others. Some of them are educated—others self taught. Some live in mansions—others in boxes on the street. But all of them, all of us, live and die by our art. It is who we are. It is our most inherent quality. And it cannot be remove—even on the days when we plead with God to remove it.

We aren’t doctors. But we save lives every single day. That song you hear on the radio after a devastating break up—that one that calms your restless heart for a moment—that song was written and performed by an artist. Those words read aloud in churches all across the globe each Sunday morning—those words were scribed by writers brave enough to share their beliefs and spread the word of Christ. The words of the Bible save countless souls each day.

We aren’t civil engineers, but we build masterpieces that take people’s breath away. Every year, millions of tourists travel to the Louvre Museum in Paris to witness in person the creations of da Vinci and Michelangelo or to the Sistine Chapel to see the depiction of the Last Supper. They travel to Florence to see the statue of David.  

We aren’t scientists but we make discoveries and bring new ideas into the world. Shakespeare taught us of the exquisite depth and devastation of true love. Thoreau showed us that living simply and within our natural surroundings may very well bring us the greatest inner peace and happiness. Martha Graham dared to bring new and more modern steps into the dance world. 

We aren’t daredevils, but we do the impossible each day. Beethoven was deaf throughout most of his composing career, yet wrote music so beautiful it made people cry. Picasso broke every rule of art during his day with his cubist paintings and never sold a painting during his lifetime. Yet today his paintings sell for well over 100 million dollars.

We don’t run into burning buildings to save anyone, but we do put our very hearts and souls on the line for our art. We work for little money—sometimes for free. We spend our lives being judged, misunderstood, and ridiculed. We shoulder the relentless burden of rejection. Our lives are often plagued by solitude and loneliness. And yet, despite all of this, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

My greatest moment of revelation as a writer came nearly two years ago when a friend asked me to help him write a memorial speech to read at his sister’s funeral that had passed away from Leukemia. I was overwhelmed with both grief and joy at the request. It was the greatest blessing and burden I have ever been bestowed with. But I bore it all with the compassion and dignity and grace that all artists are called to bear.

Artists, of any type, may be bestowed with soft skills. But they aren’t soft people at all. We have one of the hardest jobs on earth. We are responsible for holding people and life itself together with one note, one word, one step, one brush stroke, one dent in a mound of clay. We dare to say the things the rest of the world is too afraid to say. We put things on the stage, in the frame, on the page, that others simply do not know how to. In moments, both personal and historical, when others flounder, we are the ones people look to for inspiration and comfort. To make something disastrous appear beautiful once more. To make sense of what seems so much against God’s plan. To bring light into the darkness of our world.

Being asked to compose a eulogy for a grieving friend is not a request many could answer. For me it was never a request. It was simply part of my calling from God as a writer. Being a writer is no easy job. It requires sacrificing parts of your soul each day in order to put words on a page that will change lives, inspire lives, preserve lives. It is a burden. But it is a burden God blessed me with and one that I bear with all the willingness that Christ bore the cross.

Give thanks today, but don't forget about tomorrow

“Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

All of us know about one of the first Thanksgiving meals shared in America between the Plymouth colonists and Wampanoag Indians in 1621. But the official holiday wasn’t put in place until over a century later.

In 1789, Elias Boudinot, member of the House of Representatives, moved that a day of Thanksgiving be held to thank God for giving the American people the opportunity to create a Constitution to preserve their hard won freedoms. A Congressional Joint Committee approved the motion, and informed President George Washington. On October 3, 1789, the President proclaimed that the people of the United States observe "a day of public thanksgiving and prayer" on Thursday, the 26th of November. This tradition was continued, but not on a consistent basis. Then in 1827, Sarah Josepha Hale, editor of Ladies Magazine and Godey’s Lady’s Book began pushing for the establishment of an annual thanksgiving holiday. After 36 years of crusading, she finally got her wish. On October 3, 1863, President Lincoln proclaimed that November 26 would be a national Thanksgiving Day, to be observed every year on the fourth Thursday of November.   

Up until know, I had never heard about these historical pieces behind the Thanksgiving holiday we know today. But I found it incredibly heart-warming that people have always for a day to give thanks for all of life’s blessings.

I always find it annoying in November when everyone on Facebook writes about something they are thankful for each day of the month. I know that as soon as the holiday comes and goes, they will all go back to being completely oblivious to the things they were so grateful for weeks earlier. But this year, I’ve had a change in heart. Whether you list out your blessings on Facebook or say them aloud around the Thanksgiving table, everyone is bound to forget those things as soon as Black Friday hits. But taking one day, or one month a year to remind yourself of those things is a good training exercise. It’s like people who only pray during a crisis or when they need something. It might not be the best form of prayer or recognition of God, but it at least proves that one does hold a belief in something greater than themselves. That moment of selfish prayer or singular day of gratefulness may seem hypocritical and transparent, but is a baby step towards offering words and prayers of thanks on a daily basis---for the good and the bad things in our lives.

So on Thanksgiving, give thanks for all of the blessings in your life. But when you wake up tomorrow, and each day after, try to remember to give thanks on those days too.

The Power Behind a Handwritten Letter

Long before I actually knew I wanted to be a writer, I developed a love for writing hand-written letters to people. For those who know me, writing is the way in which I best express myself. But that’s not the reason I write letters. Something about the act of actually sitting down and scribing out thoughts to someone just seems so genuine and heartfelt. We live in an age now where we largely communicate with each other via texting/email/Facebook. We have lost the type of personal contact that I think is so important to maintaining and deepening our relationships with loved ones. For me, writing letters is a way of slowing down and actually taking the time to express my thoughts and feelings to someone in a seemingly archaic, yet beautiful way. And from my experience, people are always shocked and extremely appreciative of such letters.

This past weekend one of my friends went on a Cursillo, or a spiritual retreat. While I have never been on a retreat myself before, I know several people who have and most of them found it to be a good and rewarding experience. Part of the retreat involves family and friends sending letters as a surprise for the person attending the retreat to read.  I was asked if I would be willing to write a letter to send to my friend on the retreat. I couldn’t have been more excited.

When I sat down to write the letter, I had a general idea of what I wanted to say and I didn’t think it would take too terribly wrong to write. But several hours later, I was still working on the letter. Apparently I had more to say than I realized. The thing about writing letters is that you don’t have to deal with the pressure or uncomfortableness of having someone right in front of you when you tell them your thoughts. You can say things you might not have the courage to say otherwise. And there is no urgency to spit everything out all at once. You have the freedom to write what you want, when you want. And of course, you have the option of revising. I tend to write letters very quickly initially, but then I go back through and revise things until I am confident it says exactly what I want in the way that I wanted to say it.

Whenever I write a letter, I always know what I want it to say…..or so I think at the beginning. But once I start writing, I often discover that I have more thoughts on the subject at hand. In writing the letter to my friend on the retreat, I wanted to focus on some of the special memories I have of him. And I wanted to thank him for being there to support me through some difficult times in my life. I had some specific things in mind that I wanted to reference, but once I started writing, my head was flooded with all of these little details and memories of him that I didn’t even know I remembered. In the process, I realized what a truly good friend he has been to me throughout the years and that I really miss spending time with him. By the time I reached the last page of the letter, I found myself apologizing to him for not being a better friend as of late and promising to make a more concerted effort at setting aside time to come visit him and catch up on all of the happenings of our lives.

I wanted my letter to him to be meaningful, particularly since he would be reading it on his retreat. But it ended up being a revelation for me, as well, on my relationship with him. Writing the letter reminded me of just how lucky I am to have him in my life. It also forced me to reexamine the type of friend I have been to him lately, which led me to realize that there are some serious changes I need to make in order to rekindle a valuable friendship in my life.

After finishing the letter and sending it off to be delivered to the retreat, I kept wondering what my friend would think when he read it….all 7 pages of it. I also kept thinking of how truly wonderful it would be to receive a big pile of letters from people sharing words of encouragement and thanks. I was glad that my letter would be among those he read.

On the day my friend’s retreat ended, I receive a text from him in the evening thanking me for my letter. I was so thankful that it had proved meaningful for him. As with most of the things I write, it is not the act of writing itself that is important to me, but rather knowing that my words have touched the lives of someone else in a profound way. That’s when I know that I’ve succeeded as a writer.

Most people I know wouldn’t write a hand-written letter unless they were forced to. But I think, given the opportunity, they would better come to see what a beautiful gift letters are---not just for the person receiving them, but for the person writing them.

As Henry David Thoreau said, (the quote that is also on the back of my business cards), “A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips—not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.”