3.26.12

If wife-dom was an applied for position, my resume would be outstanding. I have a college degree, dental insurance and a full-time job. My school loan debt is minimal, plus I have a car (and it runs, whaaaaat.) I have a great sense of humor (you know that's right) and let's not forget about being Relief Society President. I make some pretty mean cake-box cookies and I eat all my vegetables. My hair is pretty fly and I play the piano AND the ukulele. I know cursive. How many people under 30 can say they know cursive? And use it daily? Yeah, that's what I thought. Bonus.

Oh, and I have child-bearing hips. Shoot dang, do I have child-bearing hips.

I think you can see my qualifications are extensive. If I had to say what my one weakness is, it's caring too much. Loving too selflessly.

After reviewing my resume, I've decided to stop applying for the position of wife and start accepting applications for a husband. I can't offer a 401K, but I do allow for paid vacations. You can't have it all.

Well, ha, let's be honest — If you have me, you'll have it all. And then some. (Child-bearing hips.)

-eg

3.13.12

It's hard to know what to write these days. I have a half-dozen drafts sitting on my computer, partially finished — or rather, partially begun. There's a poem about a dear friend. A self-analysis during a particularly hard week. An attempt at humor. But none of them came together to my satisfaction. None of them seemed worthy of publishing on this seldom-read blog of mine. And so they'll sit until I try them again, or discard them, like so many others.

I suppose I write because it is therapeutic. It is my creation of choice. And sometimes I even feel like I'm good at it, really good. But even though I'm proficient, I'm still limited. Writing, itself, is still limited. I could be Shakespeare, Dickens, Hemingway, Twain, Tolkien or any other great writer, and still be halted in creation. Writing, for all it's beauties, fails to capture being. I've gotten close at times, so close to expressing exactly what is feels like to be, but there is still a lacking, because writing, reading, expressing, it is part of being, but it is not being itself.

This thought was brought on the other night as I attempted to write about a series of experiences I had within a span of two weeks. I tried to write with language that was strong, that evoked poignant emotions, that pricked and stung. Things like "suffocating." "Hopeless." "Gasping." But even with these words, with the descriptions and metaphors, I was stuck in my thoughts, unable to write. I could only think, remember, replay, and then suppress. Nothing I typed came near what is felt like to be. To be in those circumstances. To fight those emotions. To give in. To rise out.

And that's really what I wanted to write about: The rising out. The point in which my head burst through the water's surface. The point where the sun rose. That sweet moment when I lay on my bed and let a melody wrap around me, engulfing my aching and peeling it away. There are no words to adequately describe those moments of finding relief amid the roar of battle.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there is a way to write in such a way that another can feel precisely how you do. Did. But then, there would be a hollowness. For to be is to live, and living is not found in reading about another's life.

So it seems there is a protection in limitation; my life is my own. You cannot understand it perfectly, nor I yours, but we can share them.

And that, that is truly being.

3.7.12

I doubt this is the first place you've seen this, but it's worth posting again. This video simultaneously makes me sick and proud — Sick that there is so much evil on the earth, but proud that there are so many people fighting against it, fighting for good.