Feliz Navidad

Merry Christmas! I hope you have a good one spent with the people and things that really matter.

I like the poet Wordsworth post-sellout. (Sorry to those of you who don't!) I like his "Ode on Intimations of Immortality." Even if you aren't familiar with his poetry, you might recognize a few quotes from it. In it, he says:

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

I've always liked these lines. I love that Wordsworth envisioned a pre-mortal life, unlike many of the religions of the day, where birth is simply a forgetting of the old world. And whenever I see a baby I agree with Wordsworth--heaven lies about us in our infancy. But despite all previous love I've had for these lines, I especially like to think of them with regard to the birth of the Savior.

If anyone ever came into this world "trailing clouds of glory," it was Him. And even though he was born in the most humble of circumstances--true deity descending below all things--heaven lay about him. He may have been born into a manger, sharing his lodging with livestock and sleeping on a bed of hay, but He was the Son of God, the offspring of deity in that remarkably unfitting setting. He truly entered this world with his glory trailing behind him, manifest by the star in sky.

Every Christmas I reflect on the birth of the Savior, and still it hits me every time--the Son of God literally descended below all things to save us. He took on flesh, and not only that, he was a God born into a place more lowly than any of us. He, a God, had more humble beginnings in this world than even I did. He did not deserve to be received into the world by cattle and sheep and poor shepherds, but He was. I still don't know how he could love us so much to be willing to do all he has done and will do for us, but clearly he loves all of us, even when we don't deserve it. (And trust me, we don't deserve it!)

I hope you all have a great Christmas; I know I will. This is a season when we get to celebrate and reflect on how lucky we really are:)

All my salmon-eaters

So, I love my family. Here is one of many reasons why:

The other night I was at home for Sunday dinner. My mom made salmon and chicken. (Of course you can't just make salmon because there is always one person that doesn't like it.) We started divvying up the salmon and the chicken and my brother Jason said, "Where are all the salmon-eaters?" This immediately turned into,

"All my salmon-eaters! (All my salmon-eaters!) All my salmon-eaters!"

--"So put your fins up!"

And, then five minutes later, Katelyn: "If you like it then you should've put a scale on it!"

We are so clever.

Love. That. Family.

Thanks for giving.

Do you ever feel criminally fortunate? I do--all the time. I think I must've robbed a bank in the life before this one, and now I'm here on Earth enjoying my spoils. I mean, it's the only thing that makes sense! I don't know how I'm so fortunate, and I certainly don't know why I am so fortunate, but, fortunately, I am. And I guess now all I can do about it is 1) try to make the best of what I've been given, and 2) be grateful. And since that fourth Thursday in November is around the corner, I find it very appropriate to acknowledge what I am grateful for (in no specific order of importance):

BYU. Thanks(for)giving me a fantastic education. (And this semester, special thanks to Drs. Grierson, Oaks, Muhlestein, Thomas, and Young.) I think my hairstylist is just dying to tell me to leave BYU and experience the world. It seems that she thinks an education from a school as conservative and "narrow-minded" as BYU is no education at all. I couldn't disagree more! I haven't even gotten my diploma yet, but still I would not trade my education for anything. I mean that. Learning at BYU, despite what some may think, has broadened my mind and my understanding more than anything has.

Old Academy. Thanks(for)giving me a roof over my head, a heater during the winter, and three great roommates. I love my apartment. At first, Mandy and I thought to complain about the non-sociality of our apartment complex. However, we do not complain about that anymore--but that's another story. Now we are just grateful for having each other to come home to at the end of the day. Mandy + Jessica =BFF'S. Like, forever and ever. Totally.

Friends. Thanks(for)giving me love and attention after all these years. I don't know why a cool person like you is reading the blog of a girl like me, but thanks. I appreciate it. I would be nowhere without the support of great friends, no matter how often we talk or see each other.

Family. Thanks(for)giving me myself. My parents can take credit for bringing me into physical existence (and for that I am very grateful, mom--I'm still scared of pregnancy/giving birth/raising children!), but what I am especially grateful for now is that my family has given me myself. And I think that's a pretty great gift to give someone. Because of you I am whatever I am--emotionally, spiritually. I could go on thanking you each individually and collectively for pages, but that's not really blog appropriate. I'll tell you in person, later:)

Utah Valley Auto Row. Thanks(for)giving me a lovely car that runs, enabling me to drive frequently from Provo to Salt Lake to regain my sanity.

Smith's. Thanks(for)giving me food. Well, I wish you gave it to me--I'm still paying for it. But thanks for stocking your shelves full of food so that I can buy it. And not starve.

Universe. Thanks(for)giving me a series of fortunate events in the past few months. I appreciate it.

Grandma R. Thanks(for)giving me my mother, and thus the opportunity to eat her wonderful cooking. Mmm. Homemade stuffing. I can't wait.

Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you all can find reasons to feel as criminally blessed as I do.

Zzzz

Dear Sleep,

I hate you.

Really, I do. The only enjoyable thing about you happens while I'm not conscious. I'm sleeping. I hate the getting to sleep part, I hate the coming out of sleep part, and I can't even enjoy the actual part of sleeping because I'm sleeping through it. I also hate naps. It's the same principle. The only pleasurable thing about a nap is the 2 seconds before you actually fall asleep, realizing you are finally going to succumb to it. Then, the next 2 (or 3, or 4) hours of sleep pass--which you can't appreciate--and you wake up feeling more tired than when you actually went to sleep. And then you realize you just wasted all that time doing something that only frustrated you. I hate you, sleep! I waste almost half of my life giving in to you. And what joy does it really bring me?

I lay in bed from 11:30 until 3:30 last night, trying to fall asleep. Last weekend, it was from 1:00 until 4:00 in the morning. I can't even describe how frustrating that was. But my body is so tired! My brain just can't slow down enough to sleep. Which is why, sleep, I really don't like you right now. Maybe it's just because I'm really bad at being able to get to you, and then once I get to you I can never get away happily. Please. Sleep, you are supposed to be enjoyable! Instead I find you very irritating.

You are addicting and never satisfying. I will spend my whole life abhorring you, yet needing you desperately. I will always pursue you and never get enough of you. And even when you let me down, I will come crawling back to you. Sleep, we are in a terribly one-sided relationship. You're all take and no give! And you don't even make me happy! You should be ashamed of yourself.

Love,

Angry and Overtired

Happy Halloween

I know this post is only 5 days late, but that's okay. Better late than never.

My philosophy is that you can (usually) tell a lot about a person by what they dress up as for Halloween. You have the Cute-but-inappropriates, the Clevers, the Creatives, the I'm-too-cool-to-dress-ups, the Animal-Suit-Wearers, etc. In my opinion, each of these categories (usually) reveals something about a person's character. For example, whenever I see a person in a full animal (or other such creature) suit, my assessment is that said person must be very self-assured, very festive, very crazy, and very impervious to heat. I think my favorite Animal-Suit-Wearers this Halloween were the Penguins. I laughed every time I saw them. You just can't take a dancing penguin seriously.

That being said, I am somewhat picky about the Halloween costume I wear. But I was happy with what we chose. (Props to Heather for actually giving me the idea the day of!) I mean, how can you go wrong being a boy scout? I didn't really know what that costume would reveal to others about my character (or maybe the rest of the world isn't shallow enough to judge a person by their Halloween costume), but I thought I knew what it would not say. 'Cause, you know, girls sometimes send the wrong message with their Halloween costumes. Or maybe it's the exact message they want to send... The point is, to put it in Cady Heron's words: "Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress up like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it." If nothing else, I was thinking the whole boy scout thing wouldn't fall under this category:)

Still, some guys are relentless no matter what you are wearing. Here are some of my favorite Halloween comments, as said to me and/or Mandy by a person of the opposite gender:

Hey there girl scouts!

--We're not girl scouts.

Troop 466! Heeeyyyy. They raise their eyebrows, nod their heads as if we are long lost pals. (This comment came from the other guys who were also dressed as boy scouts. Apparently sharing the khaki uniform makes for instant camaraderie.)

Heyyyy. I wanna see the girl scouts get DIRTY!

--Uhhh.

Eew.

No, thanks.

So do you have your Eagle?

--Yeah, of course!

Well I've never danced with an eagle scout before...

--Oh, well, you should feel very privileged.

Apparently that line was permission for him to start grinding. I did not accept this. He apologized and then awkwardly stayed to dance next to me instead of otherwise. I thought it might've been better for his pride if he just would've left after I so clearly rejected him. But at least he did apologize.

Hey, my friend here is a Priest (He motions to the boy dressed as a Catholic Priest, which costume, incidentally, I do not find very cool), and he's never been kissed. Could you change that for him tonight?

--OH, that's a shame. But I guess if he wants to stay a priest, we'd better keep it that way, right?

Hey, where are all your merit badges?

--They're at home...I have so many they just weigh me down.

Well do you have your camping merit badge?

--No.

'Cause we could go take care of that one right now.

--Stunned into silence. No, you dirty leprechaun. (He was actually dressed as a leprechaun. Incidentally, to me that costume says: creeper.) We can NOT take care of that right now.

You should probably know the priest and the leprechaun were together. Obviously they had pre-planned their attack, but it didn't help their case very much.

Needless to say, it was a Happy Halloween! It was even a little creepy, in a completely non-traditional way.

Hope you like the pictures!

In Defense of English Majors (and good movies)

Let it be known to all: I am paying homage to a Romantic Poet on my blog. The English nerd in me is taking over.

In my Romanticism class, we will be studying 5 poets. Thankfully we've already gotten Blake out of the way, and we are so far behind the syllabus that apparently we will be practically skipping Shelley, and Byron might be cut short as well. But I can be certain my English teacher will provide ample time for John Keats, even if he is the last poet on the syllabus and therefore most likely to lose face time due to our inability to keep up with the schedule. I know Keats won't be cut short because on the first day of class, our teacher gave us a brief summary of each poet we would be studying. He laughed about Blake, the purported poet-prophet, smiled at the thought of Wordsworth's ego, and stumbled through the oddities of Shelley and Byron. When he arrived at Keats, however, his demeanor changed. He reverently talked about a man who had left such an indelible poetic mark in his short 25 years. Even my teacher realized how strangely reverent and still he had become while talking about Keats; as he came out of his quiet reverie, he shook his head, laughed and said: "Wow. I feel like I've just borne my testimony." He likes Keats that much.

So last night I went to see the movie Bright Star. (This is where my seeming over-exaggeration comes in.) I think I can honestly say that it is the best movie I have ever seen. Quite simply, it moved me. It touched me with its tragic beauty and there is no turning back.

In his Epilogue to An Experiment on Criticism, C.S. Lewis says that we read literature because "we seek an enlargement of our being. We want to be more than ourselves... We want to see with other eyes, to imagine with other imaginations, to feel with other hearts, as well as with our own." He further says that "those of us who have been true readers all our life seldom fully realise the enormous extension of our being which we owe to authors." He says the unliterary man "may be full of goodness and good sense but he inhabits a tiny world. In it, we should be suffocated. The man who is contented to be only himself, and therefore less a self, is in prison. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others."

I agree with Lewis: perhaps that is why I'm an English major. I read to be enlarged. To see with more than just my own eyes and feel with more than just my own heart. After seeing Bright Star, I thought immediately of how this movie enabled me to "feel with other hearts, as well as with [my] own." This movie gave me the simple capacity to feel more than I ever have. Each scene was so beautiful, the recitations of Keats's poems so sincere, the growing love and tragedy so poignant that by the end of the movie, I was awestruck. I couldn't speak or pull myself out of my seat (even after watching the all the credits roll to the sound of Keats's "Ode to a Nightingale") because I was so impressed, so utterly moved. The movie was beautiful, the actors were fantastic, the music was perfect, the poetry was incredible, and the story itself, without any help from Hollywood, is about as painfully beautiful as any you can find.

I drove home from the movie in reverential silence because no music beautifully enough fit my frame of mind. I got to my apartment thinking, I want the soundtrack--wouldn't it be amazing if they had some of his poetic recitations on it? No... They probably wouldn't do that. And to my luck, they did. I happily fell asleep to the gentle cadence of Ben Whishaw's voice, but only after several hours (and this movie ended at 12:30) because I could not slow my thoughts or my feelings down. As I listened (and have continuously been listening) to the soundtrack, I re-lived the movie in my head with stunning vignettes of John and Fanny walking through Hampstead Heath. Still, I can't get the elegance of words or imagery out of my head.

I have been reading, re-reading; listening and re-listening to Keat's poems all day and I think I have found a new passion.

That is why, on days like these, I am absolutely proud to be an English major. Because "my eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others." Even if that includes the poignant tragedy of John Keats's life. In literature I have sought an enlargement of being, and this movie has given it to me.

That is the power of great art; it enlarges, enabling us to be more than ourselves. To Keats and all such authors, I have now realized the enormous extension of my being which I owe to you. Thanks.

Blog Nouveau

Attention blog readers!

I am attempting to make my blog better. A must-read, if you will. As you can see from the chic new background, I am trying to assimilate into my computer-savvy blogging generation (it's about time!) and make my blog a little more to look at. I know you all must be sad to part with the black background and white writing--as unique as it was--but, unfortunately, all good things must come to and end.

But don't just think this blog is all about physical appearances now. ["My teacher says Real beauty's on the inside. --That's just something ugly people say."]* Just as the adage says you can't judge a book by it's a cover, you can't judge a blog by it's shabbyblogs template, no matter how cute the vintage-stacked-books-and-blossoming-red-flower is. I want to make the content as pleasing as the aesthetics. So would you, could you, help me improve the blog? Tell me what you like to read and what's just plain crap. Although, I would appreciate you saying something more euphemistic than crap:-) Any suggestions are welcome and encouraged, from all readers--whether they are self-proclaimed followers, die-hard fans (you know you're out there!), closet-readers, or simply passersby.

Happy blogging.

Note: This may be the one time in my life I actually ask for criticism and admit a weakness, because who needs criticism when you are perfect? Baha. Nevertheless, you might want to take advantage of this.

*Name that movie!

The Routine-Driven Life

Sitting at a table outside Great Harvest yesterday was a grandma, a mother, a father, an aunt and an 18-month-old. As they ate samples of wheat bread smothered in honey-butter, pumpkin chocolate chip bread, and oatmeal cookies, they watched the cars pass by.  We were all watching.  But only Carter was appreciating.  While I was divvying a cookie between my mother and myself, making a mental note of approximately how many calories this cookie would detract from my daily allowance, my nephew was appreciating something as simple as a truck backing out of its parking space, or marveling at the difference in the size of a bus and a small car. Where I saw a stream of traffic passing by, something that is routine to my day, Carter saw something worth looking at.  He saw that the world was actually quite a remarkable place, cars and all.

There is so much I could learn from my nephews.  They don't care about what shirt they're wearing, or how their hair looks, or if there's chocolate cake smeared all over their faces--they care about who they're with, the relationships they have with other people, and the next person they need to smile at.  And, above all that, they appreciate the routine of life.  They don't wake up disappointed at the prospect of spending yet another day simply playing in the family room with mom (but, let's be honest, who would be?). Carter doesn't dismay when he ends up standing beside our pool, once again throwing every ball he can onto the pool cover.  He relishes in it.  Rowen's not upset that he's simply throwing Cheerios into a glass of water for entertainment.  He's happy about it.  Each of my nephews makes the best he can out of the routine; he enjoys every second of it.  He understands that life is not made important by the anomalies--like being able to go to Hawaii before his first Birthday--but that life is made up of the routine, so he had better make the routine count.

I am often reminded of (and even tempted to use) the phrase, "I just need a break from the routine."  Life is the routine! Our lives are defined by those routines, whether we spend them in school or at work or at home or elsewhere.  I waste so much time being "caught in the routine," when I should actually be enjoying the routine.  My life is a routine.  Sure, there are scattered oddities that make up some weeks and don't make up others, but generally, my life follows the same pattern.

Each day, I wake up as the same person I was yesterday.  I will always wake up in the same skin, the same hair, the same body as the day before.  I will never stop being Jessica.  That's the routine.  But what's important for me to realize is that my routine can be monotonous or it can be compelling.  I will be going to school today.  And tomorrow.  And the next day.  And I will be going to church on Sunday.  And the next Sunday.  I can wake up thinking, "I just have school today."  And I can tell people who ask, "Oh I'm just going to school, you know, the usual."  I can see myself stuck in a monotonous routine.  OR, (and thank goodness there is an alternative), I can realize that the routine makes up my life, so I better make the routine good.

I so often overlook the small details of my life in favor of the bigger picture, thinking the details don't matter--it's the big picture that counts. But the bigger picture is made of the details! To the world, what contributions I make with my day might only ever be ordinary.  But to myself, and to the small sphere of influence around me, my day could be extraordinary.  But only if I choose to change the details--the small, minute,  seemingly insignificant facets of my life--will my routine-driven life become more than ordinary.  

As I've watched my sisters mother their sons (I just wanted to word that in the most confusing way possible), I sometimes wondered whether they got sick of waking up and doing the same thing every day.  I wondered if I would feel like that as a mother.  But then I saw how quickly a spitting-up baby of 3 months becomes a walking, jabbering child of 18 months, and I realized that when we look back at how we spent our time, it all comes back down to the routine.  My sisters (or anyone else, in any situation in life), can look back and think "Where did my sweet, newborn baby go?"  And hopefully, if they ask this question, they won't answer themselves: "He got caught up in the routine."  I'm sure both my sisters can answer that question saying, "He got older, but I've enjoyed every second of it!"

I would do so well to know that, like Carter, I'm not letting life rush by me in a monotonous stream of traffic--I will take time to appreciate the red car, the silver car, the school bus, the biker, all as equally important details in the bigger picture.

I feel good.  I feel great.  I feel wonderful.

While Bob Wiley wasn't exactly feeling good, great or wonderful when he said those words, I am.  I really do feel good, great, and yes, even wonderful.

Once upon a time (sometime between Monday and Wednesday of last week), I was really worried about the recent changes taking place in my life.  New apartment, new classes, new school year--all that jazz.  I was worried about my class schedule, particularly involving an Honors Literature class and a Spanish 205 class.  The Honors Lit class worried me because although it sounded like an awesome class, the booklist was 14 books long.  My assignment between Tuesday and Thursday was to read a novel, and although I am an English major, that still frightened me.  (I think some people expect English majors to possess superhuman reading and writing skills...To these people I say, "Ha! No.") I was worried about Spanish because there were two classes I was trying to get into; both classes seemed very undesirable, respectively, but I had to take Spanish so I just needed to make a decision.  

Fortunately, I have emerged from these problems successfully.  Although my C.S. Lewis class has already significantly influenced the amount of reading I do each week--I have read 3 novels since Wednesday--I do not regret it one bit.  The novels have been inspiring and insightful, and so have the lectures.  I can already tell this is going to be a class that will influence me for quite a while longer than one semester.

And, even though the Spanish class didn't really work out how I imagined--I think what I imagined was something easy, not time consuming, and very convenient. Ha--I think it has put me in the best possible Spanish place.

Here is one of many gems I have already gleaned from my C.S. Lewis class:

In The Screwtape Letters, a devil named Screwtape writes several letters to his nephew, trying to explain how best to tempt his human subject away from God.  The book gives very interesting insight into how Satan tries to tempt us, but it also gives spiritual insight into the nature of God.  I loved this book.  With every page I found something new to underline, and I was constantly thinking, "C.S. Lewis was secretly LDS. There's no other explanation for how so much of his philosophy coincides with Mormon doctrine." One of my favorite themes in the book is that while God loves us and wants us to succeed, Screwtape cannot understand that love.  He says,

The truth is I slipped by mere carelessness into saying that the Enemy (meaning God) really loves the humans.  That, of course, is an impossibility.  He is one being, they are distinct from Him.  Their good cannot be His.  All His talk about Love must be a disguise for something else--He must have some real motive for creating them and taking so much trouble about them.  The reason one comes to talk as if He really had this impossible Love is our utter failure to find out that real motive.  What does He stand to make out of them?

As I read that passage, I can see the reasoning behind Screwtape's last sentence: What does He stand to make out of them?  Sometimes I look at myself and wonder the same thing.  What does he stand to make out of us, especially compared with Him? When I ask myself why He would even bother, the answer is deceivingly simple: love.  God simply (and yet infinitely) loves us.  That is all.  But that simple truth makes my life mean something.

It is for this reason that I feel good, great and wonderful.  I have read plenty of novels for my English major, and I can confidently say that I have never come to that conclusion at the end of one.  And that's only one of the many gems.  Ahh. Life is good :-)

My Best Friend's Wedding

Since I've officially been back from Africa for over two weeks, now seems like a good time to blog about it.  I know you faithful, loyal, fantastic readers have been oh so disappointed when, day after day, you've come to my blog and not seen a new post.  (Because you love reading my blog THAT much.) But, rest assured, dear reader, another post is finally here.

Ever since I bought a ticket to South Africa, people have been asking me why.

First, it was the bag-checker in the Salt Lake airport:  Final destination? --South Africa. Oh that's--whoa, wait. Did you say South Africa? Why?

Then, it was the nice Californian man waiting at the South African Airways counter in New York, waiting to check his

 bag

 for our 15 hour, 10 minute long flight to Johannesburg: You seem like a nice enough girl... Why South Africa? That's a far cry from Utah! You're quite right sir, I will be feeling that "far cry" in the next 15 hours... (I want to point out that California is geographically an even farther cry than Utah is, so what's the big deal--but I think he is picturing Utah as a small, podunk place where people don't travel internationally. Partially 

true.)

Then, it's the best man, whose response is my favorite: WHY South Africa? Seriously, I hate this country.  I even live here and I want out. Well. Um. I like your attitude!

Then, it's me asking, after Mik picks me up from the airport in Jo-burg and her mother says, Did you know that Johannesburg is the most dangerous city in the world? Even worse than Iraq. First of all, thank you.  Second of all, no, thank you, that was sarcastic.  Third of all, couldn't you have waited until you 

were dropping me off before bringing that up? And fourth of all, WHY! 

But then I think of the moment I saw Mikayla for the first time in a year, and all my doubts dissipate as I remember, very easily, why I bought that ticket.

Then I think of the wedding.  I think of seeing Brendan, the groom, watching tirelessly as the bridesmaids come down the aisle because he only has eyes for Mikayla.  When he finally sees her, he's caught between grinning and crying and I think, okay, this is why I bought that ticket, if for no other reason than just to see his face in this moment.

Then I think of Brendan's toast.  He says, in my very loose paraphrase: I know many of you have already heard the story of how Mikayla and I met, but I need to tell it one more time.  So, a few years ago, I got a phone call from a church asking me to teach a self defense class to a youth group.  And, I'm a charitable guy, so I said "Yeah, I can do that."  So I got there and started teaching the class.  And you know, there's always one in every class who just doesn't get it. And it's never a reflection of poor teaching skills, it's usually just the person and there's nothing you can do.  He looks at Mikayla to show the room exactly who didn't get it, in case they were unsure.  He continues, But, by the end of the lesson, I managed to teach that person the difference between left and right, so I felt pretty accomplished.  Then, on my way out I leave a stack of gym cards on the desk with my number on them, because, I mean, that's just good advertising.  So the next day I get an SMS (South African for "text") saying, "Hey Brendan this is Mikayla.  You probably don't remember me, but I was in the church group last night and I was wondering if  I could take a few more classes at your gym..." Brendan laughs as he reads this text, and poor Mikayla has been made fun of for this text so many times, she laughs too.  This is just Brendan, so she laughs.  He continues, So, after Mikayla so, ahem, smoothly SMSed me, I realized how much she actually liked me, so I figured I should humor her and take her out.  

That's the story of how we met, and that's how I always tell it... (Cue tears from Brendan, gasps from the crowd, and tears from every other person who knows how unaffectionate Brendan really is) When in actual fact... I'm so glad you came that day Mik.  Anyone who knows Mikayla knows how lucky I am to be with her.  She changed my life--after I met her I did a complete 180, then turned around, then did a 180 again.  She's made me who I am.  I love you Mik, and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.

I hear that speech in my head over and over again, and I think now I know why I bought that ticket.

The reason I didn't write about this post sooner is because after countless drafts, I realized I had no idea how to say everything I wanted to say about my trip to South Africa and my relationship with the people there.  There is so much to tell.  Furthermore, there is so much I simply can't tell, because words so often fail to describe reality. (Don't tell my English teachers I said that.) But it's true.  I love the people there. In some strange way, South Africa feels like a second home; despite its 3rd world status, the high crime rate, the unfamiliar foods, phrases and places, South Africa feels familiar to me because it's the people who make the place.  The people I know in South Africa have taught me a lot about what's important in life.  They've changed me in so many ways I can't even begin to explain it.

Needless to say, I had a great time.  I got to do some distinctly African things--played with lions, fed giraffes, camped in a tent in the middle of the African winter (which is literally freezing at night)--and I also got to do some not-so-distinctly-African things--playing with two little South African boys Mikayla nannies for; going to the mall in search of a wedding band that's Brendan's size; sitting on a couch watching 7 de Laan, an Afrikaans soap opera (and yes, that is as bad as it sounds) that Mikayla's one-eyed gran (I didn't make the nickname, and, incidentally, it is true) can't stand to miss; laying in my bunk bed at night talking to Mikayla about nothing, everything, and whatever else we can think of, because we have a year's worth of catching up to do; singing for Mikayla's family on Sunday evenings while Mik's English brother-in-law Joe plays the piano; being temporary chorister in church on Sunday; baking and frosting 100s of wedding cupcakes; and, my personal favorite, getting accepted into someone else's family for two weeks.

Hopefully this small, ever-insufficient blog post gave you a small taste of how much I love those people, how much I enjoyed my vacation, and how special South Africa is to me. Hopefully this gave you all the right details of my best friend's wedding.

Once upon a time, I met a girl from South Africa. 

Who became my best friend.

Then decided to get married in Johannesburg this July.

And asked me to be her maid of honor.

Despite the heavy debts this will incur,

I am making a trek across the world to be at her wedding.

And to enjoy South Africa once again, like the crazy lucky girl that I am.

Journey starts at the airport tonight at midnight.

Pray that I don't jump from airplane windows in the depths of my insanity on a 14 hour flight.

And that I don't get attacked by a lion, whose strength is such that it could literally slap my head off (or so the South Africans tell me).

Braces Shmaces

I would like to dedicate this post to all of the wonderful people who laughed in my face 6 months ago; to all the people who asked questions so stupid and annoying I had to fight to hold onto my sanity (and self-esteem); to every time I had to decide what to answer when faced with the awkward declaration: "Oh. You got braces..."; to the friend who scoffed and said "You got braces again?! How old are you?"; and, to my absolute favorite, Emily Brown, who reminded me that she would "Never, ever, ever, EVER, ever, Ever, Ever, ever, EVER, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER get braces again at this age. Even if someone paid her." This one goes out to you.

Because here I am 6 months later, laughing in your face, with a mouth full of perfectly straight, pearly-white teeth.

Yes, that day has finally come. All I have to say is, "What braces?"

I'm Free on Tuesdays...

I'm never going to dinner at my grandma's again.

Since my grandpa passed away, my parents go every Tuesday night; I join in when I'm in Salt Lake. But after dinner last Tuesday, I'm scared to go again.  Between my mom, my dad and myself, too much information slips out, and suddenly I'm taking on all sorts of responsibilities--ones I would only take on in the name of Grandma Bev.

First I gave away too much information.  My grandma was hosting a luncheon the next day, and because her guest dressed so well (according to my grandma), she was worried about having her trainer come from 9-10 Wednesday morning, her visiting teachers coming from 10-11, and having a mere hour to cook a fabulous-looking and -tasting meal and simultaneously be dressed in her absolute best. 

Before I knew what I was doing, I said, "Grandma, do you need help tomorrow?"  And that's how I ended up grilling steaks--for the very first time in my life--for her guest, the Dean of the Arts Department at the University of Utah. (And, that is also how I ended up spending an hour getting dressed Wednesday morning, because with all the hype my grandma made about this man's style, I was expecting Michael Kors himself.  I finally decided on a pair of new pants that I felt were really stylish and flattering.  Then I got to my grandma's and she said, "Oh. You wore your favorite jeans.  With the holes in them..." [Painful silence as I realize, yes, I'm wearing holey jeans--or distressed, as I would prefer to call them.] As if the silence wasn't enough, she continues, "Do they let you wear those at BYU? They DO?" My grandma was disappointed.  And I was just so, so sorry I didn't remember how unsightly jeans with holes were to previous generations.)

Then, my mom let out too much information at Tuesday Night Dinner.  She said, "Guess what, Beverley? Jessica's learning how to play the guitar!"  After much research, several phone calls, countless searches for CD demos, and hours later my grandma is introducing me to Mr. U of U Arts Dean (Mr. Raymond Thomas Jones, as he refers to himself) as her grand-daughter "who's learning to play the guitar. Classically.  From the top guitar teacher at the BYU." (Yes, she says the BYU.) My mom failed to mention that I've been self-taught three songs.  Three.  And they're not classical, they're Taylor Swiftish.

The only upside to this occurence with Raymond Thomas was that she did not ask me to sing.  Instead she just gave him our family CD that has me singing on it.  Oh, brother.

Then, my dad let out too much information.  He said, "Oh, yeah, Jessica's a writer.  She's got some really great blogs, you should read them."  (Bahaha.) And the next thing I know, I am clearing my schedule (which is pretty clear) to go to my grandma's house several days a week for the rest of this summer to write my grandpa's history.  And possibly my grandma's as well.  And this is the history of a man (and woman) whose life is already bookworthy, so I feel very much intimidated.

Which is why, grandma, I have plans next Tuesday night.  So sorry.

Country Dancing

Last night I went country dancing with some friends.  It takes place every Thursday night at studio 600, the LDS dance club (oxymoron!) in downtown Salt Lake.

Couhtry Dancing at Studio 600 feels a little bit like Classic Skating.  For those of you deprived souls who have never been to Classic Skating, truly one of Utah's high points, let me explain:  Classic Skating is a hip scene for 12-year-old socialites.  You go, rent skates, and skate.  Probably the most notorious element of classic skating is the snowball.  Snowball: taking a turn (or many turns) around the rink while holding hands with someone of the opposite gender (that is, if you get asked) while skating to teen boy band ballads.  It's very exciting.  

Before each snowball starts, girls line up on one end of the rink and boys on the other.  As each snowball begins, they announce whether it's girl's or boy's choice.  Girl's choice for me meant skating as fast as I could to the other side of the rink and selecting the cutest boy I could find--often trying to outskate my other girl friends to the one cute boy we've all been eyeing and talking about that day--and asking him, "Would you like the pleasure of this snowball?"  Boy's choice, however, is completely different.  You get to stand on one end of the rink, and wait.  Sometimes you get asked right away and your self-confidence soars.  Other times, you stand there and watch all your friends get asked, and watch the snowball from the sidelines.

Country dancing felt like the equivalent of Snowballs at Classic Skating, except every song is a snowball, and the night is perpetually (and more traditionally) boy's choice.  Which means girls get to stand on the side of the dance floor, hoping they will and also hoping they won't get asked to dance.  What a terrible arrangement!  Honestly, who decided this was a good idea?  "Let's set up guys and girls at dances like you appoint team captains at recess."  Guys are the team captains, they get to choose; girls get to stand in a line, praying they'll be chosen first (then second, then third, then fourth) and all the while their athletic ability (in the schoolyard version) or their attractiveness (in the country dancing version) are being rated before their very eyes, in public.  Needless to say, while country dancing, vulnerability was at an all-time high. (And the fact that I went with two beautiful blondes didn't help.  I know people try and dismiss the blonde thing as a myth, but I believe it.  Sure, guys will realize brunettes are cooler in the end :), but there's just something about that blonde hair that catches your eye.  I'll admit it.)

In case your confused by my analogies, I was the girl watching from the sidelines of a snowball, or the last kid to be picked for teams at recess.  But I'm okay with it.  Because I wasn't exactly pining for all the country dancing men wearing tight designer jeans and snake-skin boots, either.

Will I go country dancing again? Probably not, unless I've recently dyed my hair blonde.  However, I still had a good time.  I just have to laugh at the awkwardness of the situation: I stand and talk to my two blonde friends at the beginning of each song, then one gets whisked away, then another, then I make a run for the couch, where I can sit and give off the idea that I'm not interested in dancing, my expression saying, "No, thanks.  I'm too good for dancing.  I've been dancing so much tonight I need to take a breather." 

But regardless of the hits to my self-confidence and my identity as a brunette, I enjoyed myself, for one reason: I got lifted into the air by a 5 foot tall Mexican man.  And when I say 5 feet tall, I mean 4'10''.  I'm not tall by any means, and I actually had to look down at this man to see him.  So if I enjoyed one thing about the night, it was the fact that for once in my life I got to look down at someone shorter than me who was not under age 10.  Thank you, short Mexican, for making my night.  And for not dropping me.

Musical Ability (or lack thereof)

I have attempted to learn how to play a musical instrument many times in my life. However, due to a mixture of fate, bad karma and sheer lack of will power, I always failed. Take the piano, for instance: I started at level 1 with one teacher, ready to work my way to the top. Then Teacher #1 suggested I take lessons with her daughter, who would be taking her beginner students, telling me I should wait for her to contact me about lessons during the summer. Fall rolled around, and after I hadn't heard from this so-called "daughter" who was taking on her beginner students, I realized that I had just been ditched by my piano teacher.


So, I find another teacher. Since so much time has lapsed between my first piano lesson experience and my second, we decide I should just start over again at Level 1. So I do. And then, wonder of all wonders, this teacher decides to go to college and stop teaching. Good for her, bad for me. I am once again without a teacher, and I'm starting to wonder if I really suck that bad at the piano in order to drive two teachers away in such a short amount of time.


But, I find another teacher. This one is lovely and actually teaches me beyond Level 1, but she becomes sick and retires from teaching the piano. After three strikes with the piano, I decide I am out of the game.


Years have passed, and I still wish I could play the piano. I just spent too many years in seminary hearing people ask, "Jessica, you can play the piano, right?" "Um. No, actually." "What!? I thought for sure you played the piano! You just seem like the piano-playing type!"


Piano-playing type? I think the fact that I'm a girl and I'm Mormon makes me "the piano-playing type."


Then, I tried to learn how to play the guitar. I learned a song. Singular. I still know it and I still play it at -15 mph.


And now, here I am yet again: I learned how to play a song on the guitar yesterday. The tempo isn't exactly up to speed, mostly because my fingers can't navigate the guitar strings fast enough, but still. It's one more step I've taken toward polishing my musical ability (Which, until now, only kind of existed in singing. Which, incidentally, is probably what made me the piano-playing type.) So watch out. You might not be wary of just one song, but someday, I will rock that guitar's strings off.

Thankfully, now I can play ONE song the next time I'm with a huge group of people (Some old friends, some strangers) and my old friends say, "Jessica! SING for us," (I picture them saying it exactly like the Phantom does to Christine, cause that's what it feels like when they demand it and I feel powerless to refuse), and then all the strangers in the room assume I can play a guitar because my friends say I can sing, and they're all egging me on to sing which is really awkward when it's acapella and you've just met these people...And because I happened to be strumming the one song I know at a turtle's pace, they assume I'm just hiding my light under a bushel and they won't leave me alone until I play and sing. Then I end up singing and playing really awkwardly and they finally believe me when I say, "No, I really can't play the guitar." ("But you just seem like the guitar-playing type!")


Whew. Yes, that actually happened. More than once. So, to save myself from further embarrassment, I went home that night and learned to play a song on the guitar at 1:00 in the morning. My fingers feel beyond calloused to the point of internal bruising, but that's okay. I will never have to live through one of those awkward social situations again:) And the best news is, I'm one guitar song more talented today than I was yesterday.

Somegirl Had to Say it

I very strongly dislike Megan Fox.  I'm bordering on wish-I-could-hate her.

Yes, I will admit that some of said hatred probably stems from extreme jealousy.  I'll concede; she is painfully beautiful and she has a rockin' bod.  But that's where the list ends.

A little over a week ago, my family got a copy of Entertainment Weekly magazine in the mail (the June 19th issue). There's quite the picture of Megan Fox on the front "with a very lucky robot" to advertise the new Transformers movie and the magazine's interview with Megan Fox inside.  "[She has] a mouth and [she's] not afraid to use it!"  Whoa!  A mouth? Who knew? I mean, who's been paying attention to Megan Fox's physical characteristics, anyway? I thought all this media attention was based on her inner beauty...

Turns out that mouth has made me very angry.  Because yes, I begrudgingly read the interview.  More than the crude language and sassy tone, something bothered me. Here is an excerpt from the interview:

EW: You've only done a couple of movies, so you're still mostly known as a sex symbol rather than an actress.

Fox: It doesn't bother me.  I don't know why someone would complain about that... People don't expect me to do anything that's worth watching.  So I can only be an overachiever.  I think all women in Hollywood are known as sex symbols.  That's what our purpose is in this business.  You're merchandised, you're a product.  You're sold and it's based on sex.  But that's okay.  I think women should be empowered by that, not degraded.

EW: Do you think you're good-looking?

Fox: Well, I'm clearly not ugly.

EW: And you've got a lot of confidence.

Fox: I think most people are extremely insecure.  As far as girls go, I have a really bad*** personality.  I'm smart and I can be really funny and interesting and I can go toe-to-toe with anybody in a conversation...

And that's as much transcription as I will allow my fingers to make.

Okay, so we've established that she's clearly not ugly and has a lot of arrogance. What? Arrogance? No, I meant confidence.  How did that slip out?

But beyond that, I absolutely HATE how she admits she's a sex symbol and says that women should be EMPOWERED by that.  First of all, empowered?  Find another word, and apply it to something else besides women for a change.  Second, I completely disagree.  Women should NOT be empowered by their sex-symboldom.  Nor should they be okay thinking they are a product that is merchandised, one that is solely based on sex.  Granted, she was talking about Hollywood women--which make her statements mostly true--but that doesn't change how wrong it is to view women that way.  

AHH!  Megan, please don't encourage the idea that women are just sex symbols nowadays. If that idea is ever going to stop (which I doubt), how can it happen when women like you will knowingly and admittedly market yourselves as nothing more than sex symbols! I mean, what was all this feminism for? Was it so you could flaunt your body in the name of sex, but with equal wages as men? Bah.  You're really killing me, Meg. 

So Megan, maybe it's okay for you to see yourself as a product, because you definitely are one of the best-selling models of this year. (Pun intended.)  If you want to be seen as a sales item, that's fine; I will treat you like merchandise.  I'm not buying! I refuse.

Too bad everyone else is.  Boooooooo.

More than Fond Memories

It's official: I'm sitting in Terminal 5 at the Heathrow airport, and the sudden realization has come that I will NOT be returning "home" today from the tube stop at Gloucester Road or High Street Kensingtion; I will no longer be hopelessly fumbling for my Oyster Card before I hop on the 9 or 10 bus from High Street Kensington Station, nor will I ever alight at Gloucester Road again to find myself praying that the 49 bus will, for just this once, be coming our direction.

It's interesting how quickly and intensely our lives move onward.  For months you plan for and fantasize about your trip to London, and then suddenly you are there.  For one fleetingly brilliant moment, you enjoy your stay.  You live every second like you might never come back--because it's true--and then, just as quickly as the flame burned, it goes out.  And you find yourself sitting in the Heathrow Airport thinking, "I just wish I could've fed the birds in Hyde Park one last time!"

As I was reading one of my fabulous friend's blogs about her farewell to London (her name starts with a J and ends in Ane Anne Jackson), I realized that my time is up.  My time in London has come and gone! How quickly 6 weeks goes by.  As I reflect on my brief but profound time here, I am struck with the unhappy feeling that my time in London, from now onward, will be nothing more than a fond memory.  It might be full of experiences too great to explain, and friendships too good to dismiss, but it's a memory all the same.

As I think of fond memories, I distinctly remember a conversation I had with my friend Mikayla almost 2 years ago: rewind time to December 2007, and I am in Hale 3, room 207C, sitting in a criminally small dorm room with my lovely South African roommate.  We're reflecting on how quickly the time has passed, and how, when, and if we will ever get to see each other again after we go our separate ways to separate countries.  Through our tearful discussion (which is laughably pathetic because we aren't even saying goodbye at this point), Mikayla turns to me and says, "I just hate thinking that one day all of this will only be a fond memory.  I don't ever want you to be that Jess--nothing more than a fond memory.  Because you are so much more to me than that."  

And yet, despite all of our wishing, that time in Hawaii can still be nothing more than a fond memory.  Luckily, though, Mikayla remains much more than a distant memory.  Although our friendship has changed, it lives on across the world, a fact I am arrantly proud of. Similarly, my time in London will forever be relegated now as a "fond memory."  But I'm starting to realize that the phrase "fond memory" doesn't have to be as painful and depressing as Mikayla once described.

Life is teeming with fond memories.  Every second we move ahead, grow a little older, gain more and more fond memories.  There's nothing to be done about the fact that life will inevitably move on, no matter how much you wish time could stand still.  So, I think the best thing we can do is forsake all our pining for the past.  It's gone! It's not coming back.  Instead, live life now.  Feed the birds in Hyde Park while you can.  Enjoy walking around London 'til your feet are sore.  Learn to laugh at all the struggles and mishaps that inevitably occur--they always make the best stories.  

Now my life is onto a new chapter, and I'm grateful for new chapters. They bring new opportunities.  Despite what I thought back then, how grateful I am that time did not stand still that day in Hawaii.  If it had, I could never have come to London.  If time had stood still then, Mikayla would not be getting married in the Johannesburg temple this July.  Despite my foolhardy wishing that time could stand still for me to appreciate my time a little more in London, it's gone, and that's okay.  I still have so many blank pages on which to write my story.

Bring on the 7 hour flight ahead! Bring on the dramatic and intense change from my London era to the next, whatever that may be!  There is still so much of life ahead, and all of it can be enjoyed.  Life is so good! Take every second in, relish every moment of every chapter so you can look back and think, I am content.  I can look back at all these fond memories and noteworthy chapters and realize that I made the absolute most of them.  I cherished every line on every page.  And now I will go on filling the pages ahead...

Live and Learn

Sometimes I feel like the universe is conspiring FOR me.

Boy do I feel sheepish.  I return to this blog like a dog coming home with his tail between his legs.  Just yesterday I blogged about how frustrated I was with my luck.  And today, I am doing the exact opposite: the tables have turned, the sun is shining once again and blessings have been poured on my head.  Sorry I complained! I'll never do it again! (Or maybe I will, if it means the payback I will get the next day is like it was today.)

You know your day is going to go well when you go to take a final and the teacher announces you can pick up your 40 pound refund (the equivalent of 60 US dollars) when you finish the exam.  Consequently, you know the sun is smiling down on you when you've had no credit card, no money, and have been running up debts with your friends for the past week.  I still thank heavens for that 40 pounds I now have in my pocket.  I refuse to spend it.  (Maybe this brief haitus between having money and not having money has been a good learning experience for me.  I really really appreciate having money right now.)

Next, you know it's going to be a fantastic day when you get to spend it one-on-one with a best friend, in a beautiful city, among famously beautiful landmarks.  (Think Breanne Briggs, in London, at Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament.) I have been dying to see Westminster this entire trip--POETS CORNER.  I mean, I'm an English major.  That was heavenly.  And guess what?! Poets corner wasn't even the best part of my day, even though I was pointing out Wordsworth, Tennyson, Browning, Shelley, Keats, Byron and Dickens like a child counting presents on Christmas morning.

What could possibly have been better than poets corner, you might ask? Well, it was the person I walked past minutes before it.  I was walking out of one of the many small chapels at Westminster Abbey, when I realized there was a subtle increase in security and herding of tourists.  I saw a large group of people walk discreetly past, and I thought for one brief moment, "Whoa.  I could've sworn I just saw Michelle Obama.  Weird."  We walked on and into another small alcove of a chapel.  Then we got shut inside by an Abbey usher in a red robe.  Luckily there were windows in this chapel, so when the first lady walked by this time we got a really good look.  It was definitely her! She looked right in our direction.  Bre and I were definitely going crazy.  And might I say, Michelle Obama looked very classy.  I don't particularly love President Obama or his family, but still.  I SAW THE FIRST LADY! From 20 feet away at one of the coolest places in the world!

Sometimes the stars do align in your favor.

After seeing the rest of Westminster Abbey, which sadly paled in comparison to our encounter with Mrs. Barack Obama, we walked into the final chapel.  We each took candles, lit them, and said a prayer.  That moment was what my friend Bre likes to call a bliss moment.  Because everything about my day was already so perfect, it could only be made better by lighting a candle and praying in Westminster Abbey.  By that point, my day was so great that I bowed my head with tears in my eyes, thanking my Father in Heaven for that perfect moment, and for the many other perfect moments I have had this trip.  

Then, we walked around to take in the last of Big Ben and the London Eye.  We walked down a London street to do one of my favorite things: eat.  We had delicious sandwiches and enjoyed nice, tall, diet cokes. With lemons.  If you know me at all, you'll know that a diet coke alone can make me smile.

Then, Bre and I walked back to our flat, grabbed some European chocolate to finish our meal (my overindulgence in chocolate here is getting pretty bad!), and walked over to Hyde Park to see Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens.  I was so happy at this point that I wanted to cartwheel and or leap, dance, do aerials or back-handsprings in the grass.  (I've noticed that this happens when I'm in really good moods and in beautiful places. It's like all this pent up energy inside just wants to get out, and that's the only way I can think to do it.) But the play was fantastic! It made me feel like a kid again.  I watched Peter, Wendy, Tink, Michael and John get hoisted into the air and fly across London and I did believe in fairies yet again.  After the play, we walked through Hyde Park and saw Peter Pan's statue while sitting on a bench J.M. Barrie was said to have written from.  We got home from the play and made fajitas together.  Perfect ending to a perfect day--with food. 

So this day is just a snapshot--one of many perfect days that I've had here in Europe.  These days have taught me that life is about living in the moment.  Sometimes you just need to take a step back to take life in.  Whatever it is you are doing, appreciate it.  Whether you're enjoying one-on-one time with a friend, or walking through a city and enjoying its general splendor, or you're lighting a candle and saying a prayer, let all these moments speak profound truths, because they do.  Whether we appreciate them or not, these small moments are the ones that compose our lives.  Make them count!

Bleeding Hearts of the World Unite

The picture shown is of me in Ireland.  I'm frowning because a bird just pooed on the last of my clean jackets. Let it be known that of the 6 people who were there, I was the only one NOT feeding the birds.  And I was the only one that got pooed on.

Sometimes I wonder if the universe is conspiring against me.

I already told you about my special day of being made fun of by a British taxi driver, then losing an important part of my watch, then spilling my drink all over the place.  All in a days work.

Today is one of those days.  Actually, it stems from last night as well.  Let's just say it started when I innocently left a plum on the floor of my room.  My roommates and I have had food in there all semester, yet that single plum was our downfall.  Soon there was a mouse spotted in our room.  Thanks to my plum! (Or my stupidity.)  And because it was my plum, it was only fitting that I was the one to lock myself in the bathroom with said mouse.  He has since been named Liam. So yes, I went to take a shower and saw a mouse scurry past my feet and my clothes toward the door--which was closed.  I screamed, grabbed my towel and ran outside, keeping the mouse safely shut in our bathroom.  Well, that didn't do me a lot of good--I escaped him for a few blissful seconds only to find myself in a darkened room where the possibilities of mice surrounding me were endless.  So, I squared my shoulders and soldiered back into the bathroom, because I needed that shower.

I saw the mouse again, but I felt a little bit better that he wouldn't be able to climb into the shower with me once I made it in.  Then I saw that mouse's jumping skills.  Let's just say I took that shower with my back to the wall, anxiously awaiting (and hallucinating) Liam's reappearance.  Taking a shower with a mouse is one experience I could pass on.

Then, after class today my friends and I went to the grocery store.  The magnetic strip on my card hasn't been working for a few weeks now, but due to my emergency stash of US dollars I was able to exchange I have survived thus far.  And, during the first little while, Londoners were very helpful and accommodating everywhere I went.  Because, as you all know, when a magnetic strip stops working, you can still key in the credit card number, expiration date, and get the card approved.  They were kind enough to do this for me at Tesco, in Oxford, at some food places, etc.  You get the picture.  And, due to some kind act of mercy, my card worked without any problems at all at the Waitrose grocery store down the street.  (I was confused on Saturday that they would swipe my card at Nando's across the street to no avail--and not be able to key the number in--but at Waitrose 30 minutes later, they swiped my card in and out without any problems).  I was grateful for this kind act of fate, and considered it non-coincidental because it worked at Waitrose two times in a row.

Then, I went to the grocery store today.  I had finally worked up confidence in my card's ability to work at Waitrose, so I had a good amount of groceries.  Then the lady swiped it.  And swiped it.  And swiped it.  And I didn't have a single pound on me.  I am slowly running up a large tab to my friend, who I swear to pay back in full  US dollars, taking the exchange rate into consideration, plus interest, once we get back to the states.  Poor girl.  Lucky me.

Then, I got back to my flat to realize that I bought dark chocolate digestives and sesame onion crackers.  I hate onions.  And dark chocolate.  (Incidentally, the only reason I deviated from Ritz crackers--the kind I normally buy--was because the last box I got had to be the only box of Ritz crackers in existence that lacked butter, salt, and taste.)

It's only in moments like these that I believe the people who told me I reminded them of Bella Swan.  That comparison used to scare me at first--Bella is described as a pale, brunette, unexceptional girl who is clumsy and does not fit in.  But, you could say that the universe conspires against her.  Or you could say she is sort of a responsible klutz.  

So, the most probable explanation for these freak accidents is probably because I am like Bella Swan, the responsible klutz.  

But I still like to think the universe is conspiring against me. Because honestly? The magnetic strip going out on my card while I'm traveling in a foreign country and I've literally spent the last of my money? That would only happen to me:)

P.S. If you can name the movie my catchy title is from, I will be very happy.

 

Times and Seasons

In the past month I've found myself in some of the most beautiful places I've ever seen: Florence, Italy; Bray, Ireland; Kent and Bath, England.  What a lucky girl I am!  I have been very fortunate.

As I've been in each of these places, I've been struck by their natural and man-made beauty. I frequently find myself looking out at the landscape and thinking, "I'm here!  I'm really here."  Each place has its unique splendor; I can't help but feel awe-struck with every new place I see.  And as I've contemplated each beautiful location, one so different from the next, I've come to realize two things: first, that there is no end to God's creative genius, and second, that man's creativity pales in comparison.  Sure, I've seen architectural wonders and artistic masterpieces that are known the world over for their beauty, but God's masterpieces are always infinitely superior.

There is, without doubt, something so pure and inherently magnificent about nature.  One person may debate the value and beauty of one piece of art to the next, but surely no one can question the beauties of the earth.  God simply does it better.  And I hate to break it to you artists (or you scientists, or you writers, or you mathemeticians), but God's creations will always be the most spectacular.

As I've pondered God's creative genius though, and how nearly nothing else on earth can rival nature's beauty, I realized that God has one creation he is more proud of: mankind.  Only after God created man was his work complete and "very good."  We are God's crowning creation. How did I fail to remember that sooner? Although I've been so recently struck by God's beautiful landscapes, I had hardly remembered the absolute miracle that is my physical body.

Think, for a second, about how incredible your body truly is.  My body only weighed six pounds when it first saw the light of day 20 years ago.  Six pounds! These hands are the very same ones that my mother marveled at because of their size.  These feet are the same ones I took my first rocky steps on--these are the same feet that have taken me through 20 years of standing, walking, running, dancing, traveling, and everything else in between.  This body represents the whole of my earthly experience.  How often do I stop to appreciate the fact that this body is among God's greatest creations?

Unfortunately, I often do the exact opposite.  I'm mad at my legs for being too short, or my thighs for storing all the pounds of European chocolate I've eaten here. (The nerve!) Unfortunately, I spend most of my time in front of the mirror wishing things would look slightly differently. In actuality, I should marvel at everything my body is, instead of what it is not.

What a miracle life is!  What a blessing it is to move and to feel, to experience and to love.  Do we understand that our body is what enables us to do all these things?  These are the bodies Satan's minions pine for.  These are the same bodies that devils were willing to inhabit swine to have, even if only for a moment.  Swine! That is how miraculous and incredible a body is.  Do we see that?

This is life.  Truly, it is phenomenal!  Don't waste a second!  Realize that every man has his time, his hour, his season to make life happen.  I'm already amazed at how fast my hour in London has come and almost gone, and I know that mortality will be much the same.  Fortunately, I have been soaking up every second.  Certainly we shouldn't waste any of our time complaining about what life is not.  Instead, take a minute to realize what life is! It might be more than you think.

Ireland!

I was in Ireland today.  And the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that...

Ireland was quite the experience for me.  Before I even applied for this study abroad I was telling my mom, "You know where you should go? Ireland! If I were going to travel anywhere else, that's where I would go!"  And now, I have been there.

So, there are WAY too many things to tell you about Ireland, and knowing how I have the ability to make a short story long, I would be a wary reader if I were you.  This post could get lengthy.  So, at least now I've given you fair warning.  Here are a few of the great things I did in Ireland:

1. Stayed at a hostel called Jacob's Inn.  As far as hostels go, this one actually wasn't that bad.  And I would know, because I've only stayed in 1 hostel my whole life.  We even got free breakfast in the morning.  (The free breakfast was white bread and coffee, but still--free.)  There were some interesting moments there, though.  Like the time those drunken frenchman next door kept us awake at night.  Or in the shower that you had to push the knob to keep the water coming down on us.  (Whenever I see those faucets in shabby public bathrooms, I think they were just installed to make people use the least amount of water possible.  Mission accomplished, Jacobs Inn.  That's probably one of the driest showers I've ever taken!)

2.  Explored Christchurch Cathedral, where we met the first of many nice Irish people.  My friend didn't have 3 euros to get into the church, and I only had a 2 euro coin.  In London, they would've told us we were out-of-luck, stupid Americans.  (Okay, so probably not that harsh, but I wouldn't be surprised.)  In Ireland, though, the guy said "Oh, that's alright.  Just put in the 2 euros and that'll be fine."  I walked away BEAMING. Because I love to know that there are still some charitable Christian people left in this world.  Little did I know that's just how all the Irish people are.

3.  Met up with Jane Anne Jackson, my buddy for the trip.  Jane Anne, I would have starved without you.  And I wouldn't have had ANY pictures.  Or laughs.  Or fruit leather.  Or moments of normalcy at a movie or Hard Rock Cafe.  Thank you, thank you.

4.  Took a bus tour across Ireland to see the Cliffs of Moher--also featured in The Princess Bride as the Cliffs of Insanity--and a few beautiful places along the west coast.  This bus ride was amazing because our group had a bus all to ourselves, we got to see Ireland in all its splendor, and most of all, we had a fantastic tour guide named Gerry.  This may sound trite, but I will never forget Gerry.  He's the type of guy you meet that just inspires you; you don't exactly know what it is about him, but there's this passion and this composure and this sophistication he has that you can only hope to attain in your lifetime.  When he told us a lot about Irish history, I thought it was just information he had acquired after years of bus touring his own country.  Then he told us about his American hero--a man I had never even heard of--and I realized that Gerry was just plain smart.  By the end of the trip, he had quoted Shakespeare, Lewis Carroll and James Joyce (just to name a few).  Gerry the Irish bus driver, you are my hero.

5.  Took a very uncomfortable and inconvenient bus to Swords Castle.  Again, this experience--at least for me--was made much better by the actual Irish person than the landmark itself.  We got to the castle at 11:50, ten minutes before their hour lunch break, and yet we were welcomed with open arms, a guest book, a lovely Irish senior-citizen woman, and "literature" about the monument.  This nice lady, whose name I unfortunately never caught, opened up the castle for us and we got to explore it all by ourselves.  Then, she told us to come back after their break so she could give us a tour of the castle's cathedral that was undergoing renovation and wasn't open to the public.  And she kept her word! We got that private tour, and it was awesome.  That lady also really touched me.  She could've easily stayed behind her information desk and told us that cathedral was off-limits.  Instead, she walked us through the mud, unlocked it for us, gave us a private tour, then offered to take our pictures.  Just to give you an idea of this lady's coolness: she pointed out the wooden heads carved out of the vaulted cathedral ceiling.  They were new additions, she said, that they had added during this recent renovation.  Then, she told us that the face in the front right wooden panel was hers.  That's when you know you've arrived--when they carve your head into the wood of a cathedral built in the 13th century.

6.  Visited a couple of towers and an old cemetery in the middle of Swords.  At the recommendation of the sweet Irish lady mentioned above, we walked through Swords and found old ruins laying by a cemetery.  For me, this was a great experience.  Maybe it was because the sweet lady made me really happy, or maybe it was because I was in such a beautiful place, or maybe I was just feeling abnormally emotional, because walking around that cemetery was profoundly awe-inspiring to me.  Being next to something so old, so striking, surrounded by so many people (albeit dead people) really made me think.  There were so many people who had gone to that place before me, and while their lives meant nothing to me, they meant something to someone.  Just like I might've been one more drop in the bucket of visitors to Ireland, my experience means something to me.  Although I'm just one of billions of people on this earth, just as the people in those Irish graves were, my life, and their lives, were still important, still meaningful to someone.  Those names were just letters to me, but they represent lives--hopes, dreams, disappointments, failures, all of it.  I guess that's why I loved being in that cemetery: because it represents the existence of so many people--the people who built the tower, lived in the tower, admired the tower, and were buried by the tower.

7.  Took the dart train along the coast to a little town called Bray.  What a beautiful place! Between the beach and the lush green hills is an assortment of houses that I would probably sacrifice a body part to live in.  I can't believe how pretty it is!  Bray was probably one of the prettiest areas I have ever seen.  While we were there we walked along the beach, hiked up a large hill for some spectacular views, then ate lunch at a quaint little place called The Boat House that was right next to the beach. It was very pleasant.

If I could choose one word to describe my Irish experience, it would be fulfilling.  More than beautiful, old, Celtic or historical, Ireland was fulfilling.  Having been there, seen its wonder and met its gracious people, I am content.

Just Jessica

So, today was another awesome day in London! We had class, went to the V&A Museum, and saw "Time and the Conways" (which was INCREDIBLE) at the National Theatre.  But that's another post.  Here are a few funny mishaps that made their way into my day:

1.  I should have known today would not be one of my better days when I got made fun of by a complete stranger before 9:00 this morning.  I had just finished eating my granola bar as I was walking to class, so I started to clean out my teeth while we were waiting to cross the street.  Suddenly I realized there was a man stopped in his car and looking at me.  At first I thought he was mad at me for no other reason than being a pedestrian (which seemed plausible), but when I looked closer I realized he had his hand in his mouth, imitating and making fun of my every move.  Then he pointed and laughed.  No joke.  Haha okay, so I AM joking about the pointing.  But he did laugh.  I just walked away and didn't really know what to think.  I mean, you don't really expect to be made fun of by strangers on your way to school, but sometimes this world has a way of surprising you. 

2. I went to dinner and spilled almost my entire drink as soon as we sat down at our table.  Luckily we were outside, and luckily the drink didn't end up tasting very good anyway.  But, still.  You'd think after 20 years of living in this body and notoriously spilling drinks I would learn to be more careful with my hands when open containers of liquid are around me.  But no--I still haven't learned.

3.  Due to some awkward and completely FLUKE accident while I was going to the bathroom at the National Theatre tonight, I managed to lose the dial on my beautiful Betsey Johnson watch.  One minute everything was fine and dandy, and the next I was staring into the toilet, looking at my poor dial in its final resting place.  It couldn't have fallen on the floor.  No, that would be too easy to pick up.  It went straight into the toilet.  I was sad for the next twenty minutes, and poor Jane Anne had to hear about it all the while.  I'm still sad! Now my watch will forever be stuck on London time.

So there you have it.  There are some things about myself that I will just never be able to escape.  But that's alright.  I like being Jessica, even if it means I have to live through nature turning its back on all probable laws of nature so that ridiculously impossible things can happen to me--like being made fun of at 8:45 in the morning by a stranger in another country, or somehow losing the dial on my watch to the toilet at the National Theatre.

Highlights

Hello again!  So it's becoming impossibly difficult for me to document everything I do in London on this blog, but I am certainly trying.  Rest assured, I am making a list of things I've seen in London so I won't forget them, but for your sake I will refrain from sharing that list because it would be really long and really boring. Here are a few of my recent favorites though:

Hearing about the Blitz from a former London Stake President who lived through WWII.  We got to have a special fireside with Pres. Chittock who was born in 1936 and lived through the Blitz in London.  It was quite remarkable to hear from someone who was personally affected by the War, and it was especially refreshing to hear a Londoners perspective.  We Americans don't hear much about the War before Pearl Harbor, so it was humbling to see how badly the British people suffered because they wouldn't stand idly by and let Nazi Germany take over Europe.  More than learning about names and dates and facts and figures, though, I appreciated learning how much in my life I take for granted.  Like the fact the America is (for the time being) the world's super-power.  Britain was that way once, and their tenure was a lot longer-lasting than ours has been. It must've been heartbreaking to watch their nation fall from such a thriving Empire to a desperate country over-ridden by enemy bombers.  I can't imagine what heartache those people must've lived through! And yet life went on.  A school was bombed and destroyed one day, and children were going to it the next. They had to, because life went on.  Even so, moving on with work and families and happiness in the face of such devastation would take far more courage than I possess.  I only wish I had the same wisdom, the same humility, the same courage as those people who have gone before me.

Celebrity sightings.  We saw James McAvoy, as you avid blog readers already know, and we saw Simon Woods cross the street with us by the Westminster tube stop.  If that name's not familiar, it's okay.  It wasn't to me either.  You might know Simon Woods as Mr. Bingley of the 2005 Pride and Prejudice, as the scheming blue-blood in Penelope, or, my personal favorite, as "the good-looking red-head".  He was looking sharp and stylish in his suit while carrying a man-purse.  Yes, man-purse.  There is no other way to describe it.  But don't worry, he rocked that purse in such a way that I never questioned his manhood.

Eating at the Orangery outside Kensington Palace.  We ordered some amazing desserts and we got to eat in a fabulous location.  That's a really great combination in my book!

Going running today through Hyde Park.  This made me happy mostly because the park is beautiful, but partly because I've been eating so much crap here.  Pretty sure I'm going to pull another Hawaii.  In case you don't know, pulling a Hawaii= gaining at least 10 pounds in a short amount of time away from home.  I'm really crossing my fingers that I won't gain weight here. And, while I'm crossing my fingers to stave off the extra pounds I'm also doing more useful things like running, yoga, and jazzercising.  And jazzercising (because I'm sure you were wondering) is basically hopping, skipping, dancing,  and running around in my apartment because it's too cold to go outside and run.  Haha and in case you were worried, I've been doing that where no one can see me.  I DO still care enough about my social standing to avoid letting anyone know me as the crazy girl that jazzercises in our flat when she could be running in Hyde Park across the street.

Seeing "The Twelfth Night" at the Unicorn Theatre.  I was skeptical about the name of that theatre, too.  And I was skeptical about the fact that a 10+ character play was going to be acted out by only 6 characters, one of whom was a man playing a woman (Viola) who pretends to be a man (Cesario).  I was also skeptical about the fact that said man--playing a woman playing a man-- was also going to play his first character's (Viola's) brother Sebastian, especially considering the fact that at the end of the play, there's a scene in which both Viola and Sebastian reunite, and this guy can't be in two places at once.  Anyway, there's no way I could explain the ingenuity of the way they acted it out for us, but they did and it was brilliant.  What's more, because it was such an intimate performance and it was a preview, we got to talk to the director and the actors afterward to ask them about the play.  So. Awesome.  I loved it.

All in all, London is amazing.  I'm soaking up every second!