A peak into the backroom

I’ve been meeting all kinds of new people recently, going on some first and second dates. I’ve decided that a first date is a little like letting someone into my sitting parlor. There’s a nice sitting area, a decorative but uncomfortable couch and two equally uncomfortable high back reading chairs, a nice rug, and a credenza full of interesting and beautiful pieces and accomplishments I’ve collected in life. It’s a beautifully decorated space I use when networking for my career, and while it is still a part of my house it isn’t really the space I live my day-to-day life in. Awkwardly we sit in the formal room for a time, talking about work, my schooling, where the different members of my large family live, and about the movies I’ve seen recently. Oftentimes we’ll wander together into the living room, but only after I’ve managed to shove a few untidy things in the backroom, vacuum up a little, and give the living room a quick dusting. It’s a lot more comfortable there and reveals more of my real day-to-day life, but it’s still clean and ready to receive new guests.

I’m picturing the hustle in my actual living room the hour before guests were coming over this weekend to watch a movie at my place. Just ask Jared, he came early on Sunday. We are no longer dating, but I still managed to boss him around like we still are. I had him washing dishes, wiping down the kitchen table, taking out the trash, and vacuuming the living room while I finished cleaning my bathroom/bedroom so guests could walk through and admire my clean bedroom on their way to the bathroom. (I’m afraid poor Jared will think twice about showing up early next time!) This isn’t just a metaphor. We all do it, but as an emotional metaphor it works as well.

I had had a rough time this weekend. I was rearranging things in my emotional backroom and stumbled across some icky stuff in the corner. I needed to talk about it, figure out what to do with this crap. I did something I don’t often do; I called someone I’ve gone on a few dates with (someone I would normally be trying to impress with my good taste in fine art hung in my living room). I took him back to that emotional backroom, pulled out a flashlight, and showed him what I had stumbled onto. I nervously stood there after showing him a few shelves in that room, feeling vulnerable, wondering if this kind of mess was a deal breaker for him. 

He asked a few questions about what I showed him and commented on the difficulty of keeping backrooms clean. He didn’t say anything about the state of the room or the icky nature of the mess I showed him; he didn’t even give tips on how to clean it up. We talked about how I think the mess got there, how overwhelmed I am at the thought of getting that particular corner clean, and how I plan to go about scrubbing it up. He tread gently and softly. We eventually moved back into the living room and talked about other things, but the encounter left me feeling lighter. I don't have to shove everything in the dark recesses of my backroom before letting someone new in. 

Well, except that old cardboard cutout of Prince William that represents the crush I've held on to since middle school. No one needs to see that stuff around anymore. ;)

Breaking Up Sucks

I feel like the Coldplay of bloggers, I only blog about break ups. I had all the intention in the world to blog about my new hobby of running, my Christmas vacation in Indonesia, and my one New Year’s Resolution. But it is after a break up I find myself with all this time on my hands and strong emotions that want (need?) to be written about.

The first day or two after a breakup there may be tears, but I generally feel fine. I usually reflect on all the good things that come from breaking up. I have a smaller grocery bill—good, more time for working out and getting enough sleep—plus, a chance to catch up on pleasure reading—double plus. 

But then it starts sinking in. The absence of that someone who would hold me when I felt down (or even when I didn’t feel upset), make out with me when I felt a little frisky, and feed me dinner when I was about to get hangry. Then there are the inside jokes, the daily texts, and that person who knows of and cares about the mundane details of my daily life—the annoyance with coworkers, the upcoming deadlines, the fears that scale from small to large, and all those amusing tidbits in between.  Later comes the aching, that deeper loneliness and longing that sometimes leads to long tearful soul conversations with friends that help fulfill, other times to nights of Jane Austin movies and ice cream, and occasionally to some Mormon version of one night stands.

I’m on day two. This breakup was my call. So, I’m OK, but I’ve finished reading Ender’s Game and I’m really starting to miss him. 

Liann and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

What's worse than getting your root canal redone?

Getting your root canal redone...

in two phases,
I thought I was just coming in for initial appointment. You know...x-rays, some prodding with dental tools, and a stop by the receptionist to set up the dreaded appointment for the root canal. But after poking around the endodontist said he had time to start the root canal now.  Only when he took his gloves off, threw them in the hole on the counter, slapped his knee and said "OK well, you're all done for today. We cleaned out two of the four roots. The receptionist will set up an appointment to finish the other two." did it dawn on me that agreeing to "getting started" today was a bad idea. I walked toward the receptionist touching my numb right ear wishing I had thought this through a little more.

on an empty stomach,
It was then I also remembered that in my rush to get out the door I never bothered to have breakfast that morning. Picturing myself with things dribbling out the side of my mouth and biting my tongue made me cringe. Maybe I could find some chocolate milk and a straw?

paying for it yourself,
 Luckily I had enough foresight to sign up for the more expensive dental plan because paying the 20% of the procedure was rough enough. Mom and Dad, if I never told you earlier, THANK YOU for financing my all my previous dental work.

without your mom around to baby you.
Now, my mom had 10 kids, so pampering was never part of the "getting sick" routine. But she would do wonderful things like pick up your prescription for you, buy you some fancy kind of juice, and maybe even run by Blockbuster to get a new movie or two (remember when that was a thing?) while you were plopped down on the couch in front of the TV with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel on your cheek.  Nope not anymore, instead I drove myself to the pharmacy, somehow communicated with my numb mouth what I needed, waited, paid for my Vicodin and penicillin, and headed in to work where there were managers who still needed things done COB. I couldn't even call my mom in Indonesia for some sympathy because it was too late and I verbal communication was...well, limited.

Basically it's been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. This whole being an adult thing has it's perks, but man it comes at a cost. And if you've never read the book "Alexander and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" you missed an important part of childhood.

And the absurd.

My life seems very absurd these days. The following is a sampling of the absurdity…

The temperature of my office. Somehow it has managed to feel like winter all summer. I almost resorted to buying a snuggie (turns out the Kmart in NYC is too classy to even sell adult sized snuggies). Instead I bought a fuzzy blanket, drink tea regularly, and bundle up with the few cardigans I (luckily) thought to bring in the move.

Recent podiatric injuries. I always feared these revolving metal “doors” in the NYC subway, but about 3 weeks ago I was walking through one of these on my way to work:

With classic NYC impatience, the person behind me pushed “the door” faster than I was going and my heel then came in contact with this part of the revolving metal cage of death:

I got up most of the stairs before I looked down to find a much bloodier version of this gash on the back of my heel:

I dug out some tissues from my purse, hobbled over to the nearest drugstore, bought big Band-Aids, Neosporin, and some ibuprofen, did a little surgery on the side of the street, and headed to the office. When I realized there was no way I’d make it home in the pair of flats I wore to work I limped through the department store below my office during lunch and bought two pairs of flipflops.  Absurd! Absurd I tell you! I’ve been walking around the city in those two pairs of sandals for the last 3 weeks. So much for my fashionable NY summer!  I finally tried on a pair of tennis shoes and went running earlier this week, which leads to the next absurdity.

Impulsive goal setting. In a fit of…who knows what…I managed to find my way to a half marathon website. Thirty minutes later I was plugging in my billing info to pay for the half marathon in Annapolis on December 1^st.  “What were you thinking Liann?” You ask. Well, I’ve wondered the same thing. Upon reflection I realize this crazy decision may have something to do with:

·         a longstanding envy of my running friends (Jess and Christine you are so sexy!),

·         my upcoming 10 year high school reunion (I will have something interesting to talk about!),

·         peer pressure from my current roommates who are training for a full marathon (I can do anything you can do…),

·         and a recent shopping excursion (wait, I can’t even pretend to fit into Old Navy’s generous size 10 pants?!?).

Nonetheless, I’m so glad the impulse came. The first week of my training schedule has felt great. Like impulsive shopping, I’m sure I’ll have a little half-marathon runner’s remorse come October and November, but this first week of training has been great and I’m look forward to giving this running thing a go!

Impulsive trip planning. A friend of mine emailed me with an invitation to come to his parent's place in Martha's Vineyard while he's vacationing there this September. I got so excited about it I bought plane, shuttle, and ferry tickets the next morning. Never mind that I am moving back to DC the weekend before this trip.

A friend still in need of money. After running a food truck in DC for years, the husband of a friend of mine is starting a restaurant! They have one week and are halfway to their goal to raise $30,000 for the unexpected, but necessary repairs to the building. So I’m making a shameless plug for them. It's absurd they haven't met their goal. Help change that by making a pledge on http://kck.st/SUdA3z (and if you aren’t around for the goodies I can help with that! J). 

Anyway, I'm just looking forward to getting back to a little more normalcy in DC come September. 

One more plug for Canada

I walk past this bed and breakfast near my apartment almost every day and often I think, "If this is the American dream I think I'll move to Canada."

The time has come...

Dear Facebook Friends,

Some of you are friends from high school. Others of you were coeds with me at the old BYU. When I think of many of you I have memories of commiserating together over our single lives. But clearly, many of you have moved on.

Now your wedding photos were cute and sometimes even inspiring. I could stomach the obscene amount of pregnancy updates and baby photos because I knew they were meaningful to you. Funny quotes from your toddler and recaps of their crazy antics were totally welcome (they made me laugh and feel instantly grateful for my life). BUT PEOPLE this recent deluge of first-day-of-school photos are really starting to get to me.

I know I'm way past my "Mormon prime," but come on! I'm not even thirty yet and here you are with a kindergartener! Wait, no, a second grader AND a kindergartener! Bah! I hate to break it to you, but it might be time for me to hide your updates from my Facebook feed. This was intended to be a medium for  witty banter, stalking of potential boyfriends, viritual flirting, and the occasional showing off of my recent bad ass vacation. You and your adorable backpack clad kids are really starting to cramp my style.

Your Truly,
Liann

P.S. Oh and you overly religious, outspoken anti-religious, or overtly politically minded friends this doesn't mean you haven't fallen off my radar. I have an "unsubscribe from status updates" button and I'm not afraid to use it. 

My other birthday

When I first moved to NYC my roommate explained that people in NYC have two birthdays: the day they were born and the day they moved to the Big Apple. She said that transplants to the city will celebrate their New York birthday with friends more often than their real birthday.

Apparently I didn’t have a life until I moved to New York City on Saturday June 2^nd, 2012. Since I’m not planning to be a full time resident of NYC, I wonder what I’ll call the day I move back to the DC area in September. My death day? Silly, the whole thing is slightly silly.

But I have to say this summer in NYC has been beautiful. As silly as it sounds, it has brought life back into me. There has been something about it that I can’t quite pinpoint. I think it has something to do with the time I’ve been able to spend with my brothers and sister in law, the inspiring theater I’ve seen on and off Broadway, and all the yoga classes I’ve attended for myself (rather than for my teacher training). I have spent many solitary hours exploring the city and re-found a curiosity for life that feels reminiscent of my travels in India. I suspect it all has a lot to do with this foreign thing called “unstructured time,” evening hours and weekends that I haven’t been able to fill and fill and fill with all the busyness I found in DC. It has been a beautiful summer of renewal.

I’ve debated and debated about starting up this blog since moving here. My birth in NYC brought a return of an itch for creative writing. But what is the point of posting it on a blog for all to see? While I haven’t figured out that answer, I do know my mom still reads my blog and would love to see new posts. So here’s to you Mom—thanks for your part in my first birthday and your support through my second (love you!). And let the blogging begin (again). 

Stranded on a Desert Island: Grocery Style

At about ten on Monday night Kati and I finally got around to making a grocery run. Since she doesn’t have a car we tend to go together every other week or so. As is our habit we chatted while moseying from aisle to aisle occasionally dancing to the music piped into the store.

Finally we had wandered through the entire store, grabbed the last two things on our lists (bread and peanut butter) and headed to the checkout stands when the store went completely black! Kati and I gingerly pushed our cart to the front of the store. We watched as employees grabbed flashlights from the store shelves and walked around the store. Out the front windows we could see that all the lights in the neighborhood were out, including the main stoplight. Miraculously one self-checkout kiosk still functioned. Customers began to cluster in some semblance of a line behind the lone checkout counter. The screen of that kiosk froze as the older woman in front of us tried to type in the skew number of her lone Idaho potato.

The manager then announced to the weary crowd, “Since the backup generators aren’t coming on. Customers are welcome to take one item from their cart for free and leave. Employees will reshelf the remaining food.” Customers near the front repeated the announcement for the people behind them until everyone began to play the game of stranded on a desert island.

The guy next to us pulled a rack of lamb from his small basket and booked it for the door before the power had a chance to come back on. Slowly Kati and I began picking through our cart weighing the decision carefully. Hungry, I settled on the bag of frozen potstickers. She wisely chose the package of toilet paper.

While standing in front of the microwave later that night watching my plate of potstickers turn I couldn't help but shake my head and smile. I would just have to visit the grocery store again this week for the fruit, milk, bread, and yogurt I was forced to abandon in that Safeway cart. Because woman cannot live off potstickers alone.

Lessons

I was reading a talk by Elder Ballard called Finding Joy through Loving Service while on the bus this morning. At the second stop I watched a man quickly stand and offer his seat to the pregnant woman who got on.

I think I'll remember the one lesson much longer than the other. Nice try Elder Ballard, but random bearded man with coffee in hand totally had your Ensign article beat this morning.

Thanks though.

A few loaves and fishes

When I first moved to the DC area I decided to go down to one of the Virginia single wards to “check out the scene.” As I sat in the back of the chapel I first noticed all the beautiful colors in the mass of seated singles. It then dawned on me how few white shirts or dark colored suits there were. One of my reasons for moving to DC was the greater possibility of finding someone among this large pool of singles, so I began counting the women and men, trying to calculate a rough ratio in my head, was it 3 to 1? Or worse, 5 to 1? I then asked myself if I should assume the same likelihood of temple worthiness for men and women or if the attendance at ward temple night (far more sisters attend than brethren) is a better measure. I couldn’t estimate the gendered differences in sinfulness with accuracy, but even with the assumption of an equal rate of sin among men and women the numbers were not in my favor.

I then thought, “Heavenly Father this is impossible. These numbers don’t add up. There are not enough men to go around. Some of us are going to have to go elsewhere to get a husband. That or live a virginal lifestyle the rest of our days where the only consolation may be that you're the one to teach the primary class with little Tommy who talks about you later in general conference.” I sighed and felt my shoulders droop a little. “Next to these educated super models who sing, play piano, and make time to feed the poor I have no chance.”

The thought came to me, “But Liann, Jesus was able to feed 5,000 with a few loaves of bread and some fishes. All 5,000 were full and still they had leftovers. Getting a husband for you won’t be that difficult.”

“But, God! I’ve counted. Unless you reinstate polygamy these numbers really don’t add up.” The social scientist in me had done the math and it wouldn’t work. Not in this town, a place with one of the largest mass of LDS singles outside of Utah. And not with this girl, a slightly overweight smarty pants who occasionally rants about sexism in the church. Not me. It’s not happening.

There was no response, just a peace I pushed away as I continued counting. But from then on I’ve returned again and again to this thought: “God is a god of abundance.” And I’m still trying to trust that.

Unfortunately I feel so busy these days. Between working 8 hours a day, commuting 2 hours, teaching yoga once a week, recently moving to a new apartment, preparing, planting, and protecting my garden plot (sorry for any bunny lovers out there, they have become the bane of my new existence as a gardener), oh and don’t forget getting in that regular exercise and sleep, along with dating and keeping up some semblance of a social life, then there are the attempts at meaningful prayer and scripture study, recent travel for work, and the time it takes for the two callings I now have in the ward, I feel exhausted, worn out, used up, finished. And I’m not even attending Family Home Evening most Mondays, institute on Tuesdays, Relief Society activities on the occasional Wednesday, and about a half dozen other things.

On top of that I have been hurt, badly, by a few people in the ward. I put myself out there (to girls and guys) and tried to be friendly but then experienced everything from the slight brush off to a full fledged emotional slap in the face. I’m tired of being friendly, I’m tired of caring. I would like to be part of the solution in this ward (many people I talk with feel lonely), but I don’t dare risk lending a hand of friendship these days.

Basically I am clutching a few crusty loaves and dried out fishes close to my chest and saying, “no!” like some two year old, “I won’t share! I don’t even have enough to feed myself! How do you expect me to feed these five thousand? I won’t give it over. I really just need to conserve it.” Yet, I continue to walk around starving, unfulfilled, wondering how anyone budgets out their time, energy, and heart to live successfully.

OK as usual, I’m being a bit over-dramatic. But I do feel I’ve been so selfish lately. And I recognize it’s a problem. I need to give freely, to open up. I told a friend about this recent realization, and he mentioned the law of consecration. The Lord expects my time, talents, along with my money. So I’m starting a new experiment. Pry those crusty loaves and fishes from my own hands and give them to God, see what He can make of my life, my efforts, my heart. Day One hasn’t been too bad. During my morning prayer I sat on my bed and imagined giving my battered heart to God and telling him of my desire to give him what I had been holding back. I felt like the girl in her best dress who finds she’s still under-dressed for the dance but still looks each dancer in the eye. It’s not a lot Lord, but it’s what I have.

Don't Forget Liann: Life is Good

I am sorry I haven't posted in awhile. I probably feel the lack more than you, I love writing for my blog. I just wanted you to know it's not because I've been sulking around my apartment depressed about the recent breakup, OK so maybe there has been a little sulking. But the truth is I have been so busy I'm afraid I haven't thought of many poignant things worthy of posting. That and I haven't had the energy to write up the ones I've thought of. This post started as a simple apology and became the following:

I think the Lord sometimes puts people in our lives who act as teachers because either (a) they excel at that thing you need to learn or (b) they suck royally at it. Well, I think I have one of the latter. I have a friend who seems to see the negative side of everything. In some ways I don't blame him, right now things are particularly hard for him. But after a recent encounter we had I wanted to go back, shake him, and yell, "Stop throwing yourself a pity party and inviting me to come!" I was tired of hearing his complaints about dating failures, major setbacks in work, and how much he has to do.

What a blessing it is to complain about dating instead of a lack of food. What a blessing it is to be striving worth something so great that you suffer from major setbacks. Some people live their lives with no setbacks because they never take the risks. What a blessing it is to have things you have to do. Having spent much of 2010 unemployed I know what the opposite feels like and it ain't pretty.

So instead of giving him some lecture on pity parties I think I'll just ponder on all the things I'm grateful for. I'll think of my love for teaching yoga, fun coworkers, thoughtful roommates, new crushes, delightful friends, emails that help me feel loved, conversations that make me LOL, and random calls from family. And I'm sure I'll conclude that life is good, really good.

And I'll be right. Life is good. Even when dealing with rejection from guys (note the plural), even when the power goes out in my apartment for 48 hours in the dead of winter, even when working on tedious task after tedious task at work (when I described what I do all day to my roommates they said, "So basically you do homework all the time?" Yep basically.), even when feeling doubt about myself, my choices, and my God, even then, life is really good.

Emptiness

Remember that shiny and new relationship I wrote about earlier? Well it's not shiny and new anymore. It's broken. Bryce and I decided to break up the Saturday after Thanksgiving. We each had our own reasons for breaking up: him because of me, and me because of him. However, the break up was surprisingly civil, which is the best you can hope for in situations such as these. The reason I want to type this up and put it out into the internet universe is because of what happened to me afterward.

Sunday morning I woke early, got ready, cried a little as I drove to church, and sat on the pew next to my brother. I told him what happened. Aaron turned to me and said, "You broke up? For how long? Or I guess it's a permanent thing." I laughed inside remembering a past relationship with a few not-so-permanent breakups, Aaron's question was a legitimate one. However, this break feels un-fixable on my end. I had done all I could and was at peace with claiming defeat. The question intrigued me and I spent a few moments mulling over what I would say to Bryce if he came back to me to pitch the idea of "us" again.

I stopped dead in my mental tracks. "Liann. Live in the present." The thought resounded loudly in my mind.

This concept of living in the present is one we talked about in my yoga teacher training. When in a difficult or uncomfortable yoga pose people often think, "Oh man! Oh man! When is this going to be over?" Or if you're me you are simply counting your breaths swearing you'll kill the teacher if she doesn't stick to the "5 more breaths" like she promised. Whatever it is, people tend to escape the pain by putting their minds anywhere else but on their mat in that moment.

So I thought, "Well, what is in your present?" The answer:


emptiness


At that moment I could feel the empty space in my chest and stomach. It was as if I could inhale and inhale and never fill that space. It felt wide, expansive. As I looked into that space I felt a little uncomfortable, scared even.

I then asked myself, "What do you want to fill this space with Liann?"

"I could fill it with bitterness, resentment, and sadness." I answered. Which is something I have done in the past. I poisoned my heart so much that it took years and even a 7 month long trip to India before I was fully able to love again. I shuddered.

With that emptiness tugging at me I then thought, "Or, I could fill it with other things." I then thought of how much more time, more emotional energy, more thinking "space" I have now that I'm not dating Bryce. I can make more friends in my current ward, read more books, focus on yoga more, spend more time at the gym, set aside more time for me and God, sign up for that book binding class I found weeks ago, and maybe even spare some vacation days for a trip to Europe next year.

I became hopeful with the possibilities of what I could do with all that empty space.

Whenever I find myself thinking unhelpful thoughts about Bryce and I (things like daydreaming about what I'd say to Bryce if he came back) I stop myself. I remind myself that that isn't in my present. I then meditate on that empty space I found so unpleasant and yet so hopeful. And whatever I feel passes.

While I am still allowing myself time to mourn, to work through the past as it relates to my present, I am careful about what I am filling my present emptiness with. And I've noticed that each time I peak into that empty space within me I find that a few more things have slipped themselves into there and it doesn't feel so vast and scary anymore.

Becoming

In the last General Conference Elder Scott said, "We become what we want to be by consistently being what we want to become each day."

I've been thinking a lot about that quote lately. It's gotten me out of bed in the wee hours of the morning so I can exercise at the gym. It's also helped me be a little cleaner around the apartment and more thoughtful of my roommates.

Because he's right, if I'm not being those things now, I will most likely never become those things later. But I have to admit all this "becoming" business is quite exhausting.

Grateful for the beginning of other things.

It’s 2010, the unemployment rate is up, but I, Liann Seiter M.S., have a job. This path has been long and hard for me. This transition into post-collegiate life has been a challenge. I love being a student. I didn’t realize how much I love it until I found myself making cute little flashcards for the Foreign Service Officer exam. Silly me and my obsession with Back to School supplies at Target.

While I may be a bit remiss to leave behind my title as student, I am looking forward to start with my new title of Research Associate at American Institutes for Research. I have been temping there for a few months now, hoping to get an “in,” and well, now I’m in.

When I think about this job offer I have the same welling up of confusing and potent emotions I have when I think about graduating. I am so grateful my heart knows no other way to express it except push water out of my tear ducts.

I take that back, my heart did lead me to write out a stack of thank you cards to people who helped along the way: my parents, the people in the Field Studies office, and a few professors. I was even considering writing a card to God, making tangible the emotion that’s been filling my insides. I ran out of cards before I could write one to God. But I keep thinking of more people I want to thank: past roommates, old friends, fellow BYU grad students. I could not have made it through those years sane without them. So, maybe I’ll buy (or make) more cards and make physical evidence of the emotion which seems to be overflowing right now.

Grateful for the end of some things.

I recently got word that the Journal of Adolescent Research is going to publish the article version of my thesis (with me as the first author!). My little heart thumps loudly at the thought of all my work being printed in a big, fancy, peer-reviewed journal. Only people with letters after their names do things like that. Wait. I have letters after my name. In case you didn’t know my name is actually:

Liann Seiter M.S.

It even says so at the top of my resume (but only after a colleague suggested it). Before then is just read:

Liann Seiter

So much fancier with those extra letters eh?

In related news, I finally got around to calling BYU to get my diploma mailed to me—apparently there was a hold on my account because I had not turned in an ecclesiastical endorsement for fall semester. That honor code office, always keeping an eye out for my soul even as an alumni. Luckily I got that cleared up. I’m graduated and can have my boyfriend over as late as I want. But thanks to my 40 hour a week work schedule “as late as I want” usually means 11, sometimes 11:30.

I keep thinking that maybe when I get that fancy piece of paper this graduation thing will feel more real. But in all probability I will open that package, sit in the middle of my bedroom floor next to a pile of my laundry and cry.

There’s something about finishing such a hard thing that makes me want to cry. I don’t know quite how to explain it, but it’s something like this: I can emotionally revisit the pain of all those lonely months of working on my thesis, be happy that that damn paper is finished, feel grateful it was good enough to publish, and wallow a little in sadness because I won’t be able to sit around and shoot the intellectual breeze with my cohort in that little grad lab ever again.

I’m grateful. So grateful I don’t even know quite how to express it without a little rambling.

Le Sigh

A good friend from BYU called me the weekend before last and during our conversation he referred to something in my latest blog post, which reminded me that I have not written in ages!

There are a few reasons for my neglect: I’ve been busy moving to a new apartment, studying for the FSO exam, volunteering as a temple worker weekly, working a temp job, and interviewing for a permanent position at my temp job (more on that later). But really the main reason has a name and his name is Bryce. We officially decided to use the title “boyfriend/girlfriend” about a month ago (a declaration of mutual affection was signed and the title put into effect) and I have been sleep deprived and love sick since then.

Now, while I don’t like blogging about my dating life I did want to “talk” about this one thing: the newness and freshness that comes with the beginning of dating relationships. Having felt battle worn and a bit weary in the dating scene I have been struck by how entirely beautiful it is to start with this clean, (unabashedly) loving relationship.

Do you know what I’m trying express?

We haven’t said any harsh words or gotten tangled in negative emotions—it’s so shiny, and free from problems. Instead of having to work out our differences, we’re having seemingly endless conversations about deep and beautiful things. We’re holding hands anytime we’re together, shyly kissing goodnight at the door, and sending the occasional flirtatious text during the day. Writing love letters and making mixes of love songs. Not to mention keeping each other out later and later. I forgot how fun this could be. It's all that cheesy stuff love songs are written about.

As stated in a previous blog post I felt frustrated when couples would say, “enjoy this time it’s so fun.” I still consider the insecurity of getting into a relationship taxing, but I find the first part of committed relationships quite delightful. While I know this “newness” won’t last forever, I’m certainly enjoying it now.

So for now, Le sigh.

Book, books, and more books

So as you may be able to tell from the last entry I've been spending a lot of time reading as of late. With over an hour commute on the metro/bus each morning and evening I have had some delightful chance to read. So I thought I'd tell you what I'm reading and what I think about it:


An Accomplished Woman by Jude Morgan: I have been ashamed to admit it in the past, but I'll confess I am a fan of Jane Austin novels. Unfortunately having read all of her works I find that I'm like a drug addict stranded on a desert island in need of a fix. Luckily there is the occasional book like An Accomplished Woman that drifts onto shore to help me cope. This book is delightfully light and for women like me, worth a read.



The Witch of Portobello by Paulo Coelho: I fell in love with Coelho when I read his Book The Alchemist. My hopes for this novel became particularly high when a woman on the metro saw me reading this and gushed about how much she enjoyed the book and likes to reread it to connect with its ideas. I will say I like the concept of getting out of comfort zone to come to a new truth. I enjoyed how the ending brought a new depth and meaning to the entire book. But all in all, I didn't feel the same way I did when I finished The Alchemist--like I had been given a whole new perspective on living.


No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy: I find Cormac McCarthy's writing style absolutely captivating and his stories gruesome and disturbing, but maybe still worth the telling. While in India I was consumed by reading The Road, to the point where I stayed up one night under my sheet, flashlight in hand to finish it. His books have a depth that easily insights interesting conversation. I only wish I had people around me I could talk to about the book like I did when I read The Road.


Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus by John Gray: As a snobby sociologist I scoffed at the implications this book has on the continuation of gendered norms. However, a boyfriend once read this book and claimed that it was truer than the Old Testament. When ranking truthfulness of scripture for him it was: The Book of Mormon, The New Testament, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, and The Old Testament. On his recommendation I purchased the book at a used bookstore and read through many of the chapters, but never finished it. This summer I dug that old copy out of my box of books and read all the way through. It has surely opened my eyes and given me a new lens to use when viewing romantic relationships. As the author admits these patterns aren't true of everyone all the time. But I feel like I've had a peak into the other team's playbook, but rather than beating them, it will help me play better with them.


Dune by Frank Herbert: A friend and I decided we would read Dune for a book club with just the two of us. As I've been carrying around this book with me I have gotten into so many conversations with random people about how great this book is. I had no idea. Apparently growing up my nerdy friends were either (a) not nerdy enough or (b) not good friends because NO ONE EVER TOLD ME ABOUT DUNE before now! The characters are layered, the world fascinating but not too confusing, the writing engaging, and the plot intense. My metro rides have never seemed so short! I felt like for a time there I was rambling in the Dune world. I have yet to pick up the next in the series because I have things in this world that do need to get done.


Bonds That Make Us Free by Terry Warner: I was introduced to this book my freshmen year of college in a Philosophy class. I was intrigued so I bought the book, started it, but never finished it. While reading it I look back on my actions in past relationships and see the problems we had in a whole new light. I wonder how different those relationships would have been had I known then what I know now. Not that I feel regret, just a desire to change now. I'm still confused on how to escape cycles of self deception in my own life, but I am looking forward to trying.

I heart my local library

I have been wanting to write up this blog entry for awhile now, but I have finally pulled together the pictures I took one day while at the library and my thoughts on the topic. So here it is, my nerdy confession: I LOVE my local library.

Soon after I moved to Maryland I found that I did not have many friends (see previous post if you’re feeling sad for me—I did find friends). But job hunting left me with a need to rejuvenate and not many people to go out with to do that. Well, never fear my friends. Your local librarian is always available to be your BFF!

I took my photo ID and a piece of mail, and delightedly drove to the Germantown Library down the road. I signed up and got a card to their “cool kids club” a.k.a. the Montgomery County Library System. In case you’ve never visited the Germantown Library let me enumerate the many wonderful features (which may also exist at your local library):

1—There are tons of books to choose from! While it has taken a little while after graduating, my thirst to read was soon revived. Thanks to this library I have been able to quench that thirst!

2—If the Germantown Library doesn’t have a copy of a book you want, but another Montgomery County library does you can request it! I have a few friends who have heard about my recent love affair with the library and have suggested a few books of their own. But those books weren’t in Germantown. No worries! I got online and requested them. A week or so later I got an email that the books were ready to be picked up and checked out.

3—This library has free wi-fi and quiet rooms to work in. This became critical when I needed a place to focus on job hunting and a place to get some of my consulting work done. Thank you for shh-ing the patrons for me old lady!

4—Last but not least, they have a large selection of DVDs and you can check them out for the small fee of free-ninety nine. Which means if you’re anything like me you have a handful of movies you’ve always wanted to give a try, but were too cheap to rent from Blockbuster. Never fear. Librarians LOVE cheap people, because they always return their stuff on time. And just when I didn’t think things could get any better I found out that when you return your books one day late they give you the benefit of the doubt and don’t charge you! Man they are nicer than my kindergarten teacher, well….wait I wouldn’t go that far. Mrs. Wright was sweeter than apple pie, but yeah they are SO nice.

So, while I don’t have anything too poignant to share I must say I have felt more at home since becoming a regular patron of the G-town Library. There is a sense of community I feel when I am there—something I miss dearly after moving out the geographical boundaries of the Food Co-op in Utah. So, yeah, thanks Ben for hooking us up with that.

I meant to post this with some pictures I took weeks ago, but it's been weeks. I'll get around to adding the photos later (I promise Skoticus!) because I hear they make it more interesting to read when there are photos!

The Unexpected Teacher

In my yoga teacher training we talked about teachers that come in and out of our lives. In that particular lecture we were talking about personalities who somehow manage to cut deep to our nerves and bring out the worst in us and how those personalities seem to recur again and again in our lives to give us opportunities to practice patience.

Well, this summer I met a teacher, but he wasn’t that type of teacher (thank goodness). He is easy going, quick to be pleased with life, and fun to be around. As an intern in the DC area his influence was brief, but meaningful. He, I, and two other friends spent the summer frolicking around the district enjoying the sights, sounds, and tastes of a summer in the nation’s capitol. In that group of friends I was reminded what an interesting, powerful, attractive woman I am. It feels that this summer I was able to shed my winter coat of self doubt and discouragement. And I learned something I had somehow forgotten along the way: to enjoy the present.



With the end of his internship our little group, while not completely disbanded, doesn't have quite the same dynamics that made it so fun. While a part of me is sad to see this summer come to a close, I feel overwhelmingly grateful.

With his parting I have been feeling a bit reflective. In this state of mind I have thought of other teachers who have come and gone in my life. That is the sad thing with good teachers in my past, they taught me what I needed and then our paths tended to part. I’ve been working to let go of the bitterness of the parting and simply reflect on the sweetness of the interaction.



As some of you may know I have finally grown tired of the hobo lifestyle. As a result, I have started looking for a room in an apartment with other LDS women. I’ve already been to see one place and as I knocked on the door I thought to myself, “I wonder what future teachers live in this house? Will they be a part of my life’s education? And if so, what do they have to teach me?”

Transitions

“I hate transitions.” I write with a red pen on my legal pad. I’m supposed to be using that pen to edit the latest version of this Strategic Document before emailing it to me supervisor for feedback, but instead I’m using it to silently vent on this piece of paper.

My bad writing habits haven’t gone away. I cringe as I think of Larry’s comment, “Need a transition here.” on draft after draft of my thesis. Sometimes he just resorted to writing the transition sentences for me. As I read the paper in front of me I see that it is starting to shape up, but I need to write a few sentences that connect the paragraphs to each other.

In college one of my favorite writing teachers had us rush write three separate pieces in class. (Rush write means you write whatever is on your mind as fast as you can, not worrying about grammar, punctuation, flow. The point is to just get ideas down on paper and fast.) Our assignment that night was to write a few sentences to connect those three rush writes. The connecting sentences were to be bolded while the rush writes were to remain unedited and in normal text. The next class period he made us read each others' transitions. Some were brilliant, mine were mediocre. He said that it is in the transitions our most creative writing happens.

Is it the same with life—is it in our transitions our most creative living happens? I feel like I’ve been living in transition for the last few months: waiting to finish the last of my thesis and graduate, attending one random month of yoga teacher training, and now living as a hobo in other people’s homes while I job search. I re-read that sentence, “I hate transitions.” I feel that so deeply. At first graduation felt a little scary, the unknown future exciting, my yoga training intriguing, and this move to DC adventurous. Now it all feels stressful. In the last few months I haven’t been able to put on the autopilot. Frankly, it’s been exhausting.

It’s like when you first start dating someone you really like. There is that in-between stage when he’s more than a friend, but not your boyfriend. My married friends talk about how fun that stage is. I think they have completely forgot what it’s like to actually date (or what it’s like to be going to bed alone for that matter). It’s terrible. Sure, holding hands for the first time can be exhilarating and that first kiss delightful. But the chances for you to transition into a dating relationship is about as good as your chances to become an unused phone number in his contacts list. If this is the best part of any given relationship, then I’d prefer to stay single. Maybe I’ll just run off and spend the rest of my life single in some yoga ashram in India.

I’m told I’m supposed to enjoy the journey, but there comes a time in any journey when—after all those hours on a plane—you just want to arrive. Right?

I do hate transitions. They’re uncomfortable and apparently I was never very good at them. I'd rather be here or there, not somewhere between here and there.