Today I visited an dear friend. We chatted, embraced, and checked in with each other. He told me of his weeks. He told me of the new happenings in his life. He relayed all the things he had done and all the many things he had left to check off his list. Then we proceeded to sit on couches, and listen to sweet swirling songs that were both melancholy and hopeful at the same time.
As we listened,
a hushed, peaceful air surrounded us.
And suddenly, I watched as my dear friend slowly lulled off into happy sleep.
At that same moment, I smiled to myself and thought the following:
There is something
beautiful,
touching,
heartwarming,
and tender
about watching someone you care so deeply for
fall asleep in your presence.
You watch them surrender to fatigue.
You hear their breathing steady,
and watch as their eyelids slowly become the heaviest pair of somethings their sleepy soul has ever crossed paths with.
They depend on you to keep them safe as they become vulnerable right before your eyes.
Without words,
they give you their trust.
It's the unspoken comfortability between friends.
The unspoken faith between two individuals
As they say one to another,
"You keep watch, I'll be back in just a moment."
4.21.2013
4.08.2013
Come Talk To Me
My underbite is getting worse and I have recently acquired a serious addiction to pulp free orange juice.
It was conference this weekend.
And during this weekend of conference,
I experienced a beautiful moment
as I walked down the back pathway behind my house.
The alley is lined with the backsides of houses on both the right and the left.
As I went from my little green house
down to the house on the opposite end of the alley,
I walked barefoot, felt the sun shine on my face,
and heard from
every single home
the inspired words of our beloved prophet and apostles.
I was surrounded by goodness.
Truth and comfort was literally ringing from every house I passed.
It filled the air,
it filled my ears,
it flowed through the trees with conviction and power.
And all I could do was smile as I felt my little heart swell.
It was a beautiful weekend full of beautiful words and compelling advice.
Every year, without fail, I hear exactly what I need.
Every year, my heart is touched, and I am changed for the better.
The Big Man Upstairs really knows what he's doing.
4.04.2013
Lost in the Light
Today's my birthday day.
I'm 21 years old.
If I weren't LDS, this might mean something more significant and exciting.
Maybe elicit a hoot or a holler.
I have trouble with birthdays.
I've never liked them.
I do not like being the center of attention.
I would rather hang on the wall. Let someone else take the limelight.
Let me watch. Let me laugh along. But let someone else tell the joke.
Let me blend. The last thing I want is to stand out.
But upon talking with a dear, dear friend,
he talked to me about sharing.
The act of sharing yourself.
He told me about how he used to hate his birthday. It was a day that he wanted to keep to himself, not talk to anyone, wait for the day to pass and for a new day to start.
But then he learned something:
there are people who care about you. People who want to celebrate and be around you.
And a birthday is a perfect day for just that.
So he told me to think about sharing myself.
To allow people to love me.
To share myself for the sake of others.
Because as much as I constantly tell myself that people don't notice,
that people don't really think twice,
that people don't care,
they do.
And I need to give them that.
I need to give people more credit than I do.
I need to let them celebrate.
Even if it makes me shake my head, wrinkle my nose, and cover my face in sheer embarrassment.
Because people love. People care. And people notice.
So happy, happy birthday, Emmajo.
Here's to another year.
Here's to another start.
Go out there and learn to share yourself.
For the sake of others.
For the sake of your own well-being.
And have a big slice of cake, while you're at it.
I'm 21 years old.
If I weren't LDS, this might mean something more significant and exciting.
Maybe elicit a hoot or a holler.
I have trouble with birthdays.
I've never liked them.
I do not like being the center of attention.
I would rather hang on the wall. Let someone else take the limelight.
Let me watch. Let me laugh along. But let someone else tell the joke.
Let me blend. The last thing I want is to stand out.
But upon talking with a dear, dear friend,
he talked to me about sharing.
The act of sharing yourself.
He told me about how he used to hate his birthday. It was a day that he wanted to keep to himself, not talk to anyone, wait for the day to pass and for a new day to start.
But then he learned something:
there are people who care about you. People who want to celebrate and be around you.
And a birthday is a perfect day for just that.
So he told me to think about sharing myself.
To allow people to love me.
To share myself for the sake of others.
Because as much as I constantly tell myself that people don't notice,
that people don't really think twice,
that people don't care,
they do.
And I need to give them that.
I need to give people more credit than I do.
I need to let them celebrate.
Even if it makes me shake my head, wrinkle my nose, and cover my face in sheer embarrassment.
Because people love. People care. And people notice.
So happy, happy birthday, Emmajo.
Here's to another year.
Here's to another start.
Go out there and learn to share yourself.
For the sake of others.
For the sake of your own well-being.
And have a big slice of cake, while you're at it.
3.22.2013
Hero
Let us start with a preface.
I am not very eloquent when it comes to prose. I am not good at talking. I stumble over my words. I ramble. I struggle with getting my point across.
But give me a subject or a feeling, and allow me to write nonsensical poetry that evokes some kind of emotion and I'm all over it.
But I want to try something new. I want to tell you about myself. As hard as it is for me to do. Let's give this a shot. Here you go, cyberspace:
I am just a person. Who has a lot to her. Just like you. Just like the next person.
I believe in souls.
Laughing is important. As is crying.
Music is everything to me.
I collect music. I play guitar. I sing in the shower.
I have yet to find a doppelganger. I would like to have one. But alack, I have none.
I am strong. I am also weak.
I have severe anxiety and depression.
It has been with me through it all. A constant companion I didn't expect.
I hate talking about myself. I would rather talk about generalities that pertain to life and happiness.
I would rather listen than speak. I don't always ask questions.
This sometimes rubs people the wrong way.
I would rather sit quiet and listen to the way people speak and watch where their own train of thought leads them. I find it fascinating.
I remember things in different hues and colors. Ask me about it if you wish.
I aspire to be an artist.
But when people tell me that I am artist, I always disagree.
I respond with the phrase, "I pretend to be."
As much as I deny being an artist, the thing I simply cannot deny is the importance and the significant role that art has played in my life. As far back as my little brain will allow me to remember, art has been there. I've grown up with a Grandfather as an art publisher, who constantly pushed me to create. He would buy my drawings from me for a dollar. At one point he bought one of my paintings for twenty bones. My parents have always had paints and paper, scissors and glue, and any other supplies I needed at my disposal to feed my creative hunger. And now I find myself, rounding my 21st year, reverting back to my childhood self. And it is true bliss. I love it all. The mess. The process. The struggle. The craft. The self-analysis. The meaning.
Upon discovering that I study art, the question I always find myself being asked is,
"What is your favorite thing to work with?" or "What is your favorite medium?"
My response? Collage.
Upon hearing my response, I seem to always receive a quizzical look, or a feeling of unsettlement.
I think this is an answer that takes people aback. Collage is something everyone can do. Anyone can stick a bunch magazine clippings on a piece of paper and call it art. As much as I don't like to admit it, that social response made me question my own work as well. Why is my medium of choice is collage? For a long time I had no idea. I was simply drawn to it. I had the hardest time forming an explanation for my actions. But on my study abroad last summer, I was forced to bond my actions to explanation. And what I conjured up was this:
Every day we experience new things. We meet new people and we feel different emotions. We make decisions everyday that lead us to new opportunities. Each step we take, each word that falls from our lips molds us into something new. Something that we weren't ten minutes before. And those actions and events don't necessarily have to be monumental. They are small and simple things. Each one adds to the creation of a better human being. They mold and shape. They create anew.
And how does this relate? Collage, to me, is the exact same concept. You take random outside sources, photographs, paint, adhesive, ads, whatever you can think of. The limit of material that contributes to the final product does not exist. But they all contribute. They all add to creating something new and original. And as you piece them together, they create something beautiful. Everyday things contribute to our own, personal final product. To the betterment of our souls. Random "materials" contribute to that process that makes us into who we are. And that's the beauty I find in collage. It resonates so fiercely within me that we are shaped and changed by random people, places, feeling, actions, and events. We are all collages. Being masterfully crafted into something wonderful, by something greater, beyond our power. If we let the good in, and seek out the great, those things will mold us and change us into a masterpiece beyond our imaginations.
I am not very eloquent when it comes to prose. I am not good at talking. I stumble over my words. I ramble. I struggle with getting my point across.
But give me a subject or a feeling, and allow me to write nonsensical poetry that evokes some kind of emotion and I'm all over it.
But I want to try something new. I want to tell you about myself. As hard as it is for me to do. Let's give this a shot. Here you go, cyberspace:
I am just a person. Who has a lot to her. Just like you. Just like the next person.
I believe in souls.
Laughing is important. As is crying.
Music is everything to me.
I collect music. I play guitar. I sing in the shower.
I have yet to find a doppelganger. I would like to have one. But alack, I have none.
I am strong. I am also weak.
I have severe anxiety and depression.
It has been with me through it all. A constant companion I didn't expect.
I hate talking about myself. I would rather talk about generalities that pertain to life and happiness.
I would rather listen than speak. I don't always ask questions.
This sometimes rubs people the wrong way.
I would rather sit quiet and listen to the way people speak and watch where their own train of thought leads them. I find it fascinating.
I remember things in different hues and colors. Ask me about it if you wish.
I aspire to be an artist.
But when people tell me that I am artist, I always disagree.
I respond with the phrase, "I pretend to be."
As much as I deny being an artist, the thing I simply cannot deny is the importance and the significant role that art has played in my life. As far back as my little brain will allow me to remember, art has been there. I've grown up with a Grandfather as an art publisher, who constantly pushed me to create. He would buy my drawings from me for a dollar. At one point he bought one of my paintings for twenty bones. My parents have always had paints and paper, scissors and glue, and any other supplies I needed at my disposal to feed my creative hunger. And now I find myself, rounding my 21st year, reverting back to my childhood self. And it is true bliss. I love it all. The mess. The process. The struggle. The craft. The self-analysis. The meaning.
Upon discovering that I study art, the question I always find myself being asked is,
"What is your favorite thing to work with?" or "What is your favorite medium?"
My response? Collage.
Upon hearing my response, I seem to always receive a quizzical look, or a feeling of unsettlement.
I think this is an answer that takes people aback. Collage is something everyone can do. Anyone can stick a bunch magazine clippings on a piece of paper and call it art. As much as I don't like to admit it, that social response made me question my own work as well. Why is my medium of choice is collage? For a long time I had no idea. I was simply drawn to it. I had the hardest time forming an explanation for my actions. But on my study abroad last summer, I was forced to bond my actions to explanation. And what I conjured up was this:
Every day we experience new things. We meet new people and we feel different emotions. We make decisions everyday that lead us to new opportunities. Each step we take, each word that falls from our lips molds us into something new. Something that we weren't ten minutes before. And those actions and events don't necessarily have to be monumental. They are small and simple things. Each one adds to the creation of a better human being. They mold and shape. They create anew.
And how does this relate? Collage, to me, is the exact same concept. You take random outside sources, photographs, paint, adhesive, ads, whatever you can think of. The limit of material that contributes to the final product does not exist. But they all contribute. They all add to creating something new and original. And as you piece them together, they create something beautiful. Everyday things contribute to our own, personal final product. To the betterment of our souls. Random "materials" contribute to that process that makes us into who we are. And that's the beauty I find in collage. It resonates so fiercely within me that we are shaped and changed by random people, places, feeling, actions, and events. We are all collages. Being masterfully crafted into something wonderful, by something greater, beyond our power. If we let the good in, and seek out the great, those things will mold us and change us into a masterpiece beyond our imaginations.
3.06.2013
About You
The music sways gently through the room
just above our heads
through our hair
then gently trickles its way into our ears.
You wrap your small finger around mine,
as I press my head against your chest.
Breathing conforms one with another
Creating a solid
steady
rhythm.
The dim lights turn fuzzy.
And we slowly lose our grasp on reality,
floating on into a peaceful slumber.
just above our heads
through our hair
then gently trickles its way into our ears.
You wrap your small finger around mine,
as I press my head against your chest.
Breathing conforms one with another
Creating a solid
steady
rhythm.
The dim lights turn fuzzy.
And we slowly lose our grasp on reality,
floating on into a peaceful slumber.
2.22.2013
Waste Land
You know those moments that strike a chord in you? When everything becomes still for a small moment, and as you look around, you see everything that is happening around you and it all starts to move in slow motion, as if the moment understands and allows you to soak everything in you can.That happened tonight. It involved a living room, a record player, and the people I love so dearly. Baba O'Riley blared through the speakers of my little Crosley as we all swayed and danced and sung. Air guitars were shredding, happy circles were spun, and words echoed off our vocal cords as we sang in perfect, blissful unison.
These are the moments I live for.
The exodus is here,
the happy ones are here.
Let's get together,
before we get much older.
10.19.2012
below my feet
the beautiful
bewitching hour presents itself
after waiting patiently to follow the
black blanket of stars.
sleep fights for the foreground
as the needle hits the groove.
you're feeling drowsy.
but the longer you pause,
the more you can feel.
the louder the music becomes.
the more the words speak.
& your ears are opened in a way they couldn't have hours before.
the sound resonates beneath your skin then seeps into the soul
for a brief moment,
composure is found in the calamity
just for a instant.
you can drown in the harmony
and cling tight to the steady rhythmic beat
your heart aches for the beauty of the sound
it pulls and swoons as it beats alongside the rhythm
sway//
chant//
rock//
cry//laugh
inhale//
repeat.
You drink in the words.
Slowly becoming drunk off the swirling melodies.
The audible bond between the soul; the heart; and the music
engrosses
your very core,
captivates
your soul &
hypnotizes your very being.
bewitching hour presents itself
after waiting patiently to follow the
black blanket of stars.
sleep fights for the foreground
as the needle hits the groove.
you're feeling drowsy.
but the longer you pause,
the more you can feel.
the louder the music becomes.
the more the words speak.
& your ears are opened in a way they couldn't have hours before.
the sound resonates beneath your skin then seeps into the soul
for a brief moment,
composure is found in the calamity
just for a instant.
you can drown in the harmony
and cling tight to the steady rhythmic beat
your heart aches for the beauty of the sound
it pulls and swoons as it beats alongside the rhythm
sway//
chant//
rock//
cry//laugh
inhale//
repeat.
You drink in the words.
Slowly becoming drunk off the swirling melodies.
The audible bond between the soul; the heart; and the music
engrosses
your very core,
captivates
your soul &
hypnotizes your very being.
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