Friend Auditions: Calling All Potential Candidates!

The trouble with going on vacation without Sam is that if I have too much fun . . . I feel kinda bad. And so does he.

But I had way too much fun anyway.

I went to Utah this weekend for three performances: one Fictionist CD release concert (to see), one gig at the state capitol (to play), and one Motab broadcast at the tabernacle (also to play). Here's me and Seretta at the State Capitol between rehearsals.
And unlike my usual trips to Utah since marriage, I ventured away from Lambson-home-base to see some friends. Concerts, dinners, shopping, conversation, musical work, family, friend's new babies, movies (The Young Victoria = wonderful!), exercise . . . It was all the activity I love and need on a regular basis and I just crammed it into one weekend.

Sam, I promise I missed you. Really.

I'm serious.

However, I can't seem to express how much I value girl time and girl talk. These things sound trite, but for women, time with the girls is 100% necessary to emotional (and thus physical) survival. I'm not the most girly girl, and I know that, but I do recognize my feminine emotional needs.

And if you are the kind of girl who can live without human interaction and remain in high spirits, please tell me how you do it.

So here it is: the sucky thing about moving is having to make new friends. I firmly believe that friendship requires some kind of connection (just as a spousal relationship does) such as common interests, cultural upbringing, educational/professional background, personality, sense of humor, etc. These "qualifications" are just examples; of course friendships develop between people of all types and ages. But some combination of those traits can help build the foundation of meaningful friendships. I love those kindred spirits in my life--those friends who think and feel like I do on the same frequency. I hope to find more.

One advantage of being in college is that you are in a pool of people who are your age, who like to do many of the same things you do, who think like you, who are on your intellectual level, and who are passionate about what you are passionate about. This at least applies when you're congregated in the school of your major. I found this definitely true in the music school and the English programs--it's always exciting to be in a pool of creative minds and mutual understanding.

And then when you graduate, and you realize the whole world is your new social scene, things are just . . . different.

So I may be lazy, and I may not be easy to make friends with or get to know in person, but here it is. I'm considering the idea of holding--

FRIEND AUDITIONS

Schedule an appointment today! Please bring your friendship resume, two (2) references with contact information, and your explanation of what might make you a good friend to have.

P.S. This is a joke. But call me, we'll hang out, and then it won't be.

Book 4: East of Eden by John Steinbeck

My rating: 3.75 Stars

Length
This may be the first 600 page book I've ever finished that wasn't part of the Harry Potter Series or the scriptural canon. Nothing else is coming to mind, and so I'm feeling pretty good about myself.

Worth
Was it worth it? Yes, I think so. But you know the feeling when you're reading a really long book and you're just waiting for the climax or at least hungrily hoping for some phenomenal ending? This didn't happen for me. The story was so intricate with so many characters, personalities, and large units of time fleeting by (the book covers three generations of two families in great detail), that the experience was not like reading a detailed story of a single character (where you may only get inside that character's head or witness a small portion of their life--perhaps even a day or a few hours).

But when I got to the end of the book, I wasn't surprised by the last page. I always can't wait for that last page! But when I finally got there, I felt like I had already experienced the impact of that last line earlier in the book--twice. That was a little dissappointing.

Value
But one thing I learned while reading this book is not to read a book for the last page. "Enjoy the ride," as they say. Relish the individual stories in the overarching plot as they come. After about 400 pages, I submitted to this fact that the book wasn't going to have a huge overhaul in the story or a sudden change of pace.

Familiarity
Here's what I find so brilliant about this Old-Testament-based story: it felt a lot like reading scriptures. Although the parallel telling of the Biblical account of Cain and Abel was pretty obvious with symbols and characters put on a plate for you, the story captured the feelings you get while reading scripture. You know, generations of people passing by--wars, calamities, famines, marriages, prophets coming and going, moves, deaths, "and so it came to pass . . . " East of Eden was similarly structured and told as a narration of two families across several generations and their relationship with each other, their God, and their land.

Narration
One thing that was unusual for me was that I don't often read books where there are multiple narrators; I mean that in the sense that you get into everyone's head, and not just the main character's. There were so many "main" characters in this book that it took me about 500 pages before it dawned on me who the true protagonist was. Call me slow.

And on that same note, what was also trippy was that John Steinbeck was blood related to the characters he wrote about. The book mixes up these potent elements of truth and fiction in a way that is almost jarring while you're reading. Like, wait, was that true? Did that really happen? Is this really Steinbeck's family history? How much of this is true? With the accounts of wars and the development of the Salinas Valley, I would almost categorize this book as historical fiction with a teensy element of memoir. How's that for a rich reading experience?

QUOTES
"____________!"

Here are lines that made me reread, stop and think, or say, "Hm" or "Ha!" out loud while reading. One thing that also makes this book true to the biblical form is that it didn't fall short as a collection of wise proverbs. It was almost over the top sometimes with the prophet figures just spouting off these well-crafted lines. But I can appreciate that sort of thing, even if I don't really know anyone who says these kinds of things off the top of their head--and yet, that's what is so excellent about the written word.

On Love, Empathy & Healing:
“You are one of the rare people who can separate your observation from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect.”

“You can only understand people if you feel them in yourself.”

“No story has power, nor will it last, unless we feel in ourselves that it is true and true of us.”

“If a story is about the hearer he will not listen.”

“Perhaps the best conversationalist in the world is the man who helps others to talk.”

“They say a clean cut heals soonest.”

“Tom’s cowardice was as huge as his courage, as it must be in great men. His violence balanced his tenderness, and himself was a pitted battlefield of his own forces.”

On Loneliness & Creativity:
“Our species is the only creative species, and it has only one creative instrument, the individual mind and spirit of a man. Nothing was ever created by two men. . . . Once the miracle of creation has taken place, the group can build and extend it, but the group never invents anything. The preciousness lies in the lonely mind of a man.”

On Hatred:
“Hate cannot live alone. It must have love as a trigger, a goad, or a stimulant.”

“ . . . [And] from his three months in automobile school he had gained a great though weary contempt for human beings.” [See future, unwritten article entitled “The Smarter You Are, the Meaner You Get.”]

On Distant Relationships with Fathers:
“It is true that Cal had never looked into his father’s eyes before, and it is true that many people never look into their father’s eyes. Adam’s irises were light blue with dark radial lines leading into the vortices of his pupils.”

On the Specialization of America:
“Alf was a jack-of-all-trades . . . Alf could do anything, and as a result he was a financial failure although he worked all the time.”

“Maybe the knowledge is too great and maybe men are growing too small . . . Maybe a specialist is only a coward, afraid to look out of his little cage. And think what any specialist misses—the whole world over his fence.”

More on Chronemics, Punctuality & Tardiness:
The split second has been growing more and more important to us . . . But it isn’t silly, this preoccupation with small time units. One thing late or early can disrupt everything around it, and the disturbance runs outwards in bands like the waves from a dropped stone in a quiet pool.”

On Immaturity:
“When you’re a child you’re the center of everything. Everything happens for you. Other people? They’re only ghosts furnished for you to talk to.”

When Ethnicity Comes Back to Haunt You

I try not to actively feel sorry for myself, but this morning it became apparent to me again that being half-black and growing up in a white society has left me ignorant in the worst way.

My traumatic hair history involves being the only child in my family to receive my dad's afro-hair genes, and neither of my parents knew how to take care of my hair. My mom learned how to do relaxer perms at home, but when she was gone, my dad took me every few months to a couple different black hair salons in the area to have my hair chemically relaxed.

I hated this experience. I hated not understanding what my hairdressers were saying to me in their thick black accents. I hated being surrounded by scary foam heads with wigs on them and bushels of fake black hair hanging from the walls for braiding. I hated coming home and having my hair greased and plastered to my scalp. I didn't know how to take care of it, and none of my friends or family could sympathize. I was embarrassed to swim at school with my classmates because I wouldn't be able to fix my hair afterwards before the next class. I couldn't just wash my hair and blowdry it and be on my way--ever. I know everyone hates their hair, but I really, really hated mine.

When I moved to Utah for school, I ended up growing my hair out completely, and it was so unruly, just out of control. I let it go because 1) I was trying to embrace my natural beauty and not worry so much about looking white or Asian, 2) I'd almost always cried when seeing my hair after having it relaxed growing up, and 3) I did not know a single black person at BYU when I moved there who could direct me to anyone who might know how to do my hair.

As you can see, I could hide things in my hair, lose things in my hair, stick in glow sticks like antennae, etc.)

Before I got married, I decided it was time to get my hair relaxed again, and I was so happy when I did. I went on a search in Utah to find a good black hairdresser, and have tried to do the same here in Portland. After relaxing my virgin hair, it immediately became so much more manageable. And after years of trying to grow out my brittle hair, I could finally make it look pretty good. This is the longest my hair has ever been, and now I want it back.

The Horror Story!!!

Yesterday I went to get my hair relaxed at a black hair salon. It's the second salon I've tried since I moved here. I do hate the initial results of having my hair plastered to my head, but I also don't know how to manage the unruly fro when it starts growing out. So whatever it takes to make it more manageable is worth it to me, even if I feel butt ugly when I get home. Whenever we move, I go on a search to find someplace I can go where this will hopefully cost less than $100.00.

To tame wild black hair takes some pretty strong chemicals, and I know this. I've had mild burns before, but in my ignorance, I went to the salon having washed my hair less than 24 hours before. This meant, apparently, that my scalp and hair were dry and there weren't any natural oils to protect my scalp.

My head was on fire, which is normal, I thought, so when my hairdresser asked if my scalp was burning, I said, "A little," nervously, and she left me to let the chemical set before washing it out. When she finally rinsed it, she used her fingernails to scratch at my scalp and it was so painful. Then she blow-dried it with a sharp comb on the end of the dryer. The heat plus the razor edges of the comb dragging across my scalp was killing me.

"Beauty is pain," I kept telling myself, trying to be strong and not say anything. I've been through this same experience before, and every time I'd go to a black hairdresser growing up, I would silently submit myself to the experience and try not to complain or say anything about the pain. I'd try not to say anything at all because I was very awkward with black people anyway.

I left the salon with my head just aching, and when I went to bed at night, it was still on fire. It felt like the worst sunburn you can imagine, where even the warmth of your body is too much heat.

When I woke up this morning, I was horrified to run my fingers through my hair and feel . . . this hardness, scaliness--my hair was in twisted clumps, plastered to my head at the roots. This was no minor chemical burn; there was some sort of discharge from my scalp that felt like someone had poured glue all over my head and it had dried into my hair.

At first I thought my hair was caked with blood and started freaking out. I didn't know what to do . . . I panicked, worried my hair was going to fall out. I called the salon and tried not to cry when I went in, saying I didn't know what happened or what to do and I wanted my money back.

When I went in, the hairdresser defended herself, saying she asked me if it was burning and I said only "a little." She said it felt like I'd recently washed my hair before coming and asked why I didn't say anything about the burning if it was that bad. I said I didn't have this done very often. I didn't know I was supposed to wait four days or more after washing. She should have said something too, right?

I asked to see what product she used. I asked to speak to the manager. They said chemical burns happen sometimes when you're dealing with a strong relaxer, and they wouldn't give me my money back. And I didn't know how to stand up for myself.

They said my hair wouldn't fall out, and offered to wash it and deep condition it to "fix" it to remedy the situation. I winced with pain as she shampooed my hair, massaging the dried clumps of hair apart. There's a chance, while my head heals, that I'll wake up tomorrow morning and the same thing will have happened again.

That's what I get for $70.00, being half-black and ignorant.

So if you're an adopted African girl in a white family, call me and we'll go out for lunch. I feel your pain, and I feel it on my head.

Book 3: Home: A Memoir of My Early Years by Julie Andrews

My Rating: 4.5 Stars*

I picked up this memoir by Julie Andrews in a bookstore a few months ago and read a few odd pages, but I wasn’t convinced I would enjoy it and put it back on the shelf. The memoirs I have liked are full of the rawest of life’s experiences, and I couldn’t image Julie Andrews having a life with enough “drama” in it—that is, outside of stage drama. I pictured Mary Poppins writing her life story with just too many niceties to keep me convinced, finding it hard to imagine the author’s life being much more than a spoon full of sugar.

I was very wrong. Julie Andrews has a very, very interesting life.

But I have one strong recommendation: please don’t read this book. Listen to it.

What drew me back to this title was finding it on a shelf in the audio book section of the library. However, for years I’ve shied away from audio books for several reasons:

1. I feel like it’s cheating.

2. I feel like it’s cheating because if I space out while I’m listening, I can’t just reread the sentence like I could with a book.

3. I like to characterize the dialogue and people in the book with my own head’s little voices.

4. I dislike monotonous narrators.

5. If listening while driving, I may become more reckless (this is true).

6. The only other time I can remember listening to books on tape were on two long car rides with acquaintances on the eight to thirteen hour drive (depending on the weather) from Provo to Colorado Springs. Those car ride audio books were barely more entertaining than singing “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round” for several hours straight.

I have now had my first great experience with a book on tape, and here is why:

1. I loved hearing a memoir as a piece of nonfiction read by the author. In a piece of fiction, I want more creative control over how I experience the story and imagine the characters; but, when reading a memoir with the intention of learning more about the life of a specific individual, I can think of nothing that could enhance and personalize the experience more than hearing the author’s real voice. And of all the voices in the world, Julie Andrews has one of the most soothing, sing-songy, and charming voices for narration.

2. Julie Andrews is first and foremost a performer, specifically an actress and singer. She is an eloquent writer, but writing hasn’t been her award-winning profession. *I admit had I read the book, I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much. I can be too critical of writing as far as rhetoric goes, and it wouldn’t have felt the same anyway. I believe she is a better actress than a writer, so to hear her act out her own script made it come alive. She could actually sing lines from songs, shout lines that needed shouting, and characterize individuals with their funny mannerisms and accents. There were even snippets of songs from the Broadway musicals she told about, which added so much, bringing the story even closer to reality, making me feel like I was there, sitting in on the performances she talked about.

3. I used to read books on tape at BYU for students who were blind or otherwise needed their textbooks recorded for listening. Every time I sat down, I thought, I should do this in a British accent (and I think I have a decent British accent), because it would make the experience much more enjoyable for everyone. Regretfully, I never had the guts. But there is something about Julie Andrew’s accent that made this listening experience “grand.”

4. Listening to this story involved my senses in a way that made me feel completely transported, like I spent a week in England. Sam went out of town while I listened to most of this book, and when he came back, I couldn’t remember if I’d been out of town too—something was different about the weekend, and it turns out it was because I was off in the British countryside the whole time.

5. One thing that makes me feel guilty about reading books is the fact that activating my mind usually means deactivating my body: lying down, sitting still, and idling to hold a book open. Listening to the book gave me the ability to multitask, which I love to do. I listened while piecing a quilt, sweeping the floors, driving back and forth to rehearsals in Washington, cleaning the kitchen, and finally sorting the pile of junk mail on the counter. I got a lot done. Unlike what happens when I pop in a movie while crafting or what have you, I could use my eyes without constantly bobbing my head up and down between the screen and task at hand. Listening for an hour isn’t as restrictive as sitting/lying down to read for an hour.

6. Unlike I expected to do, I actually found myself rewinding all the time, going back a few seconds or starting a track over if I found myself drifting away and missing details. While I thought I couldn’t “reread” a paragraph with a book on tape, I actually could with no problem at all.

7. With the book on tape, I was able to get through a fairly long book without being daunted by the thickness of the pages ahead of me. The book was quantified in hours and minutes, so I knew if I sat down for an hour to sew, I would get through that much more of the book. I could never feel the weight of the book in print—I don’t even know how many pages it was, but all I know is East of Eden is 600 pages and that in itself is wearing down my enjoyment of it.

Thoughts on the Book Itself (i.e. The Book Review)

I was so uplifted by Home. While Julie went through more trials than I ever expected, I was so in awe of her constant graciousness and thought of how often I overly dramatize my own hard times as if there were no good to be found anywhere. "Gracious" is the word I associate with Julie Andrews (and with British royalty, which she is in my mind--but it could be The Princess Diaries confusing my impression of her). Even as she told of negative experiences with individuals whom any other author would villainize and have at them on paper, somehow she could speak of others weaknesses (including her own) with empathy—in a way that made you love and feel for the people she spoke of.

The story begins with her family background and ancestry and goes on to tell the story of her life from birth to her move to California to film Mary Poppins. I know, you would think the bulk of her story would be about her experience with Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music, right? That’s what I expected.

Instead of the story of stardom, or even her fascinating journey to stardom, this is a story true to its title: this is a story of her home, and more importantly, her family. Julie Andrews defines what her home was and what it would become. She was like a diamond in the rough, blossoming out of broken family and against great odds with needed encouragement and a lot of hard work. She definitely put in the 10,000 hours of hard work that are the rule of success, but her family was part of that picture all along.

She moves up and up from the schoolgirl accompanying her parents act to radio broadcasts to Vaudeville to television to musical theater to Broadway to blockbuster films—that’s where she leaves off, with the move to Hollywood, which would become her new home.

Following her progress from little girl from the English countryside to sought-after singing phenomenon, I was amazed by her humility through it all. There she was, so young and brushing elbows with the greatest names in the entertainment business, but all along, she saw each door of opportunity opening as a miracle for which she was truly grateful. She accepted defeat or loss like a true lady, never taking things too personally, always able to forgive, always able to laugh it off, always keeping her heart in the right place and free of guile. Her attitude about life is this inspiring combination of honesty, generosity, gratitude, humility, kindness, and love—Christian virtues that may be the parents of English hospitality and grace.

This memoir is likely the first volume of what I hope will be a complete collection of her life’s story. I’m definitely looking forward to the next installment, if she isn’t well on her way to finishing it already.

So, if you haven’t been to England recently, find this audio book and have your teacups ready. You’re in for a great trip.

Janet's Old Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe

My sister is an excellent baker and food photographer. She used to work at a famous bakery in Manhattan known for its cupcakes with outrageous amounts of butter in the frosting, cupcakes which were once featured on SNL.

But a secret they didn't and still don't tell anyone (not even buyers of their cookbook), is that in the actually bakery they use no flour. They have buckets and buckets of Aunt Jemima's pancake mix. (Watch they'll find this comment and sue me. Ha ha, bakery, I leave you anonymous!) But pancake mix, especially Aunt Jemima's, is already salted and leavened perfectly. "Perfectly" meaning it's made to please the masses of everyday consumers.

Anyway, this is my sister's recipe, which I hope she doesn't mind me sharing. I've used this recipe for years, even though she's long ago moved on to even more "perfect" cookie recipes. She is too far ahead of me in the world of gourmet anyway, and I don't even try to keep up.

But the keys to a perfect chocolate chip cookie, which I learned from Janet, are

1) quality butter set out to soften--not margarine or oil. And please do not microwave; it means you're not a conscientious baker (which I'm not--you'll catch me with butter in the microwave), and--

2) not to over-bake for that perfect warm chewy effect. Even slightly overbaking leads to the rock hard cookie.

So here's the recipe:
(I hope I'm remembering this right off the top of my head):

1 Cup White Flour (to calm down slightly salty pancake mix)
1 Cup Aunt Jemima's (or generic buttermilk pancake mix)
1¼ (or 1⅓?) sticks softened butter
1 Cup Sugar
1 Egg
1 tsp vanilla
1/2 bag chocolate chips

Cream butter, sugar, vanilla, and egg. Mix in flour and pancake mix. Add chocolate chips. Roll in little balls and smush a little into cookie shape. Bake 350 for 9-11 minutes.

Photo by Live♥Laugh♥Love

A Response to a Response on Chronemics and a Lesson at the ER

[This is my yammering response to Dani's comment on the chronemics post. Dani is hilarious. Jaclyn and Maria, I know we all look so awful in that picture, and that is why I made it small. Heh.]

You're right, I am teasing those who consider punctuality a religion. (Forgive me, oh punctual ones!) But I do have a lot of respect for on-time people because I am so lacking in that department. Mostly, it's taken me a long time to come to terms with my own tendencies to be late; I've become almost defensive about it so I'm not constantly crushed by guilt over little things.

When I arrive at a doctor's appointment and they're a half hour behind, I'll either be relieved or angry, depending on the relationship at stake. Like if I'm nervous about the appointment and want to think a while and get a feel for the office or keep reading the magazine on the coffee table, I say take your sweet time!

But, if, say . . . well, I dunno, I have a friend who got hit by a car in the parking lot of that hospital right then, I'd probably skip the appointment altogether and not think twice. I mean, what's at stake? A doctor who doesn't even know or even care about me as an individual, perhaps? A doctor who is also relieved I'm not showing up so he can do that urgent paperwork or call up someone who needs more urgent care? Maybe we have better things to do than see each other at all about a slight twinge in the knee. Maybe I should have stayed home or something.

My First Trip to the ER

I'm reminded of this time I went to the ER very late at night because I was having trouble breathing. Turns out I had some form of viral pneumonia. I had tears in my eyes from the fire in my lungs and hobbled into the emergency room, where I ended up waiting, I think three hours before they could see me. But being impatient wouldn't make me feel better--it would make me feel worse, and I knew that. So somehow I detached from time and entertained myself by observing, or people-watching.

There were other people ahead of me--some guy who was unconscious and drunk and beat up, a woman who was expecting and very sick and worrying about her unborn child. There were also two missionaries from the MTC who had swallowed those pills you put in water that expand into foam dinosaur figures. They were desperate to get out of the MTC and relishing the emergency room with the televisions and change of pace. I know, can you believe that? Hilarious, and disturbing--how could they swallow expanding foam animals to cure their own boredom at the ER when other people's lives were at stake?

Anyway, I just sat there for hours, talking with people and the roommates (and gnome stuffed animal--see photo above) who came with me (thanks Jaclyn and Maria) and sleeping a little, but . . . I don't remember being angry about the wait. Waiting and sitting still allowed the pain to subside, and allowed me to watch people who were suffering from greater pain (or stupidity) go on ahead of me. So although I was worried about breathing, the longer I waited, the more the pain lessened. And whatever super-strong medication I sat their waiting for, it was worth the wait either way.

As far as movies go, when I miss a movie I wanted to see, I don't mind because the movie will still be there in some form or another if I miss it. Unless I'm so emotionally in need of a movie right then that I'll be upset if we do anything but see it. I guess I take this to an extreme sometimes, where I care too little and diminish the importance of truly important things (are they important?) I don't want to worry about. I used to suffer from deep anxiety and the occassional nervous breakdown because I worried so much about little things. I remember once completely losing it because I had missed a very "important" bus to a rehearsal in Salt Lake. I had stayed a couple minutes late at work helping the person I was training to close up shop, and when I missed the bus, I completely broke down into uncontrollable hysterics.

Apathy may be a lame cure for anxiety, but it works for me most of the time. No use crying over spilled milk. But my eternal perspective may be a little too eternal sometimes.

So if a meeting starts late, I'm happy because I can keep talking to my husband or my neighbor or myself. Maybe I can sneak in bit of reading. I'm kind of a busy body this way--I like to sew and knit and read and think and write when there's a spare moment; so if someone's late, I'm usually glad because, hey, so am I! And if a car ride takes too long, I'm usually a little relieved to keep busy-bodying, people-watching, or staring at the scenery before my attention has to go elsewhere. I love car rides so much, I'm usually sad to arrive at my destination.

And as far as those who are annoyed by tardy individuals, I can appreciate that too--latecomers can be an interruption. But if people are annoyed, I figure they're not empathetic people who have never once been late to something because something more important was worth the sacrifice. Or maybe they think what they're doing is too important. But I know I'm also in the wrong if I think what I'm doing is so important I can show up late for a painstakingly prepared lecture, or miss it completely. I do feel bad. I just try not to feel so bad it overwhelms me.

In this way, I've always struggled with the idea of a heirarchy of activities, and for that same reason I struggle with prioritizing my time. Some things in my mind are just as or more important than others, including blooming versus boring. If someone doesn't want to give me their notes, then more power to them. They obviously found whatever they wrote more important than I did anyway.

The punctuals and the tardies may never understand each other, but I hope we can still be friends!

Homesick, Part 2: Loneliness and Needing

The reason why I found myself thinking of this pool incident is that I was stricken tonight by the remorse and acceptance of a certain characteristic of mine that is both a virtue and a vice: I like to be alone.

I feel like myself when I am alone, and it is painful to admit this. It’s because I can be quiet and still with my own thoughts. I am not misunderstood when I am by myself. I can sit in tranquility and pretend I am a queen, sitting still in my elegant, quiet moment of a throne. I can truly meditate, and my soul rests in the reverie. I feel the thickness, like the density of cheesecake or meringue composed of the substance of just thoughts. The silence is sweet to me—it is kind to me.

While I selfishly enjoy the times when I am allowed to see things only my way, I recognize in this love affair with loneliness the absence of many things I need. Although I fought for years to find my own independence and unique style, now I see that I need friends, family, and people in my life more than just myself. It’s why I got married to Sam, the epitome of kindness in my life. I recognized this need when I was little: I wanted a little sister, I wanted a bigger family. I wanted more love around me and more people to love. I am weak when I'm alone--I knew I needed it. In high school I didn’t want to go to college; I wanted to get married young and have lots of children, a happy family. But I went to college and it was a worthy journey, but it shook me up. [Remind me to write down this post in my head. It’s called “The Smarter You Get, the Meaner You Are.”]

As I grew up, I started doing a terrible thing as a result of my introvert/loner tendencies and the self-conscious (and selfish) mindset that I was different and “chosen” in a way: I set myself apart from others; i.e. I purposefully distanced myself from people.

The first time I distanced myself from my friends was when I agreed to skip fourth grade. And from there, I had to make new friends . . . and I was bad at it. I had to wait for people to make friends with me, not vice versa, and this has become a weak character trait of mine. Eventually, in high school, I decided I wanted to be Mormon, which would set me apart (and distance me in a new way) from many of my friends and family. This decision took me to BYU. I left behind my friends in Colorado, wanting to completely leave behind the old me and start a new life.

But then, with each year at BYU I did the same thing: I left behind my friends in search of a new life in a new year. And as a result, there are very few people who I feel truly know me, having lived with me for enough years to see more than a glimpse of my journey to self-discovery.

This is what made me homesick today for the first time. After individual encounters over the past two months with my three blood family members: Dad, Jack, and Janet, I realized that those three people are the ones who truly know me best because they have lived with me since I was born. We may be very, very different in many ways (me as Mormon being one of them), but as each of them recently observed and addressed my needs in seemingly small but profound ways, today I felt a deep sense of gratitude for those few people in the world who truly know me and see me as I am in a way that only comes with time. I am a daughter and a little sister, and sometimes I like to be just that.

Here, in Lake Oswego, I’m the new kid again, and I don’t know how to make new friends. I sit here just waiting for new friends to find me, and then I gripe about my loneliness. At BYU, after my junior year, I moved seven times within one year. I didn’t do it on purpose—circumstances necessitated the moves (maggots on the ceiling of that one basement apartment, for example). But behind those moves were sentiments of anger, misunderstanding, restlessness, and a search for happiness and acceptance. And with each move, I felt more and more lonely, leaving friends and acquaintances behind left and right. On to a new ward, a new scene, a new crowd, a new start, and a new me.

Or so I thought. But after seven moves (and four more recently in my married life), I learned that I simply cannot move away from myself.

I keep following myself around. And when I’m sick of myself, there is nowhere to go but inward.

Today I called my sister. We don’t talk very often. We’re very different, leading very different lifestyles, but she asked me questions and gave me advice and direction that no one but my family members has been able to give me so precisely--because no one else has lived with me and seen the ins and outs of my behavior for over fifteen years. (Sam, my dear husband, has definitely gotten to know me well in the past two years, and I am excited to continue discovering the depth of our relationship and understanding of each other after fifteen, twenty, and fifty years. I love that we are still newlyweds in the sense that we still have so much to learn about each other. I hope it is always this way—that we can continue seeing more in each other and enjoying that continual discovery over the years.)

I am also excited to develop my newer friendships into lifelong relationships—the kind that mean empathy and home. It’s what we all need so desperately in this otherwise empty world.

So as much effort as I made packing up and moving out at seventeen never to look back or return to the family and friends of my youth—

--I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and I need you, even just the memory of you. I’m blind to think I don’t because you are the only ones who know who I am, and who I was all along.