Lessons on love Part 1

I have a tendency to see the bad in the world. At least in my immediate world. When I get like this, I want to punch myself in the face and say, "Don't you see all the good going on? Do you not know how lucky you are?!" It is in these moments that I need to sit back and think of all the good things going on, the moments in life where I wasnt so frustrated and I saw with more perfect vision, and felt with a more tender heart.

Let me share a few moments in my life that have taught me powerful lessons, mostly about love.

When I think of love, here is a list of what comes to mind:
Chapstick, Paisley, Ski poles, throw-up.

I'll go in chronological order.

Ski Poles:

The first time I fell in love (that I count as real love, first true, cognitively appropriate love) I was 14 years old. I had glasses and a gap in my teeth. I had a thing for country music, trampolines and snowcones. Some people wonder what happened to their first love, if they grew up to be anything like the flawless person you saw that first day at the snow cone stand. My first love's wife reads this blog, so it is to her that I address this post. At 14, I was blessed with a great friend, my best for many years to follow. Here is one snippet of my life that taught me about love:

He is a great athlete, at the time an avid skiier. He wore a bright yellow coat that was easy to see in a blizzard. I loved that. I was a beginner snowboarder and I was not talented in any way, which meant I fell ALOT. We skiied at the Canyons or Park City that year, both of which have areas that are very flat. Not only did Mr. Yates ski at a third his normal pace, just so we could ski "together," but every single time I fell, he did not laugh or lose patience. Instead, he walked slowly back to where I had fallen, extended his ski pole and pulled me the rest of the way to a steep spot. That was a lesson in true love.

Chap Stick:

I don't have an adorable anecdote for this memory and love, however I cannot seperate the scent of Cherry Chap Stick and love in my mind. The first kiss I ever had was laced with that scent... however that was not love for me. I loved the keeper of the chapstick and the way he removed the lid and applied the balm with one hand. Try as I may, I could never do that. Sometimes I still try to, and cannot. It was nothing special, and my heart was obsessed. I love that smell still, makes me feel 17 all over again.

Throw up:

Sound sick huh? Well, it's not, in fact it is the most beautiful moment I have been blessed to witness, a turning point in my life.

I have a best, best, best friend, Whitney. My right hand and love of my life since before anyone even knew who Blake Shelton or Harry Potter were. When we were 17 Whit got a boyfriend that I was not a fan of. I was not sure if he could speak and based on his dress and taste in music, I questioned if he knew he was white at all.

And then Whit got the flu. In sickness and in health, I was doing my duty to come sit outside the bathroom and keep her company and maybe take her mind off of things. I walked in without knocking like I always do, called for Whit but no one answered. I went downstairs. There before me was my Whitta, leaning over the toilet, sick as can be. Behind her, holding back her hair, stood Jordan. In that moment somthing said to my mind and heart, this is true love, your Whitta will be fine. In that moment Jord did what I would have done, and he looked at her like I look at her. They have 7 wonderful years under the belt and 3 beautiful babies (almost). That is love.

That leads me seamlessly to my last thought,

Paisley:

Paisley Belle is one of those 3 beautiful little girls I mentioned above.
I had been in the MTC 2 weeks when Whit wrote to tell me this little baby was joining their family. I was so happy, and yet a part of me hurt to be missing the first baby of my very best friend. Several babies were born while I was in Germany and each of them were terrified of me when I got home. But not Pais. She was instantly my best friend and love of my life. I thought I could never love a soul as much as I love her mama, but my goodness I was wrong. I cannot fathom the love I will feel for my own babies, because when I think of my Pais, my goodness I would die for her a billion times over. There is a strange bond between us, I do not know why, but I am so thankful for that little girl. I wish I spent more time with her, and I cannot wait until she grows up and finds her own best friend. I look forward to telling her funny stories about her mom, and teaching her what a best friend looks like.

I had a bad day a few weeks ago. I didnt get into a graduate program that I wanted so badly. Moments after I got the news my phone rang, on the other end I heard this, " Hello?.... Hi Hayley....I love you....". It was Pais. Her brilliant and always in-tune mother knew exactly the one thing that would instantly heal my broken heart. My eyes filled with tears and do so now just writing this. Things will not always go my way, dreams may not be realized, but I will always have that angelic voice in my head and those little arms to wrap around my neck. That is love.

Somthing that never fails to make you HaPpY

Happiness is a fascinating concept to me. In the last 2 years of my life it has also been the most complicated of emotions. In my earlier years I believe I may have been the happiest person in the world...not a cloud in my robin-egg sky. And then I got old, I got frustrated and I believe I had my first few teaspoons of sorrow. Theses moments were gifts, however trying moments spent in the Gethsemane's of my life. I see and feel sadness more regularly than ever before, but I am thankful for the many, (not one or a few) things that never cease to remind of the good in even the darkest moments of life.

A few recent and not-so-recent JOYS

- Remembering the first moment I saw Simi, the missionary I trained on my mission. When God's will for you and your own agenda are on the same page, miracles happen. Simi is my miracle. My soul recognized my dear friend and my soul will never, ever forget how it felt to hold her in my arms. My angel.

- A weekend I had with the Posse of Love (see previous blogs for their story). One summer my 4 favorite boys came to town and shared their lives with me. Distance does something powerful to my heart, and embracing my long-lost boys is heavenly. I can't drive past a Jason's Deli without my heart wishing Ry would materialize out of the walls and hold me.

- Allie-Bug (she is my niece, age 2.5) running, talking, laughing, smiling, scolding, praying (in which she names every member of the family and the 3 pets and says ahmen), hugging and just being. She is a ball of stubborn, petit cuteness that I cant get enough of. I love nothing more then coming home to my girls and just hugging them, brushing teeth with them and telling them how much I love them.

- A good conversation. I have always loved a good chat, but this is the first time in my life that I have really physically craved a valuable talking partner. I love to talk to a good friend, or a stranger who captivates me because they are fascinating or faithful, perhaps they are eccentric or simply curious to know what makes my heart thrive. I love a genuinely interested person. I hope I am someone like that.

- The Aim and Ignite album by Fun. there is something about this band that just puts me in a good mood. This is my default pick-me-up album, every single time.







- Slurpees. Seriously. What would I do without them? I wouldn't, that's what.

- A full gas tank. I'm not joking. Even if I just filled my tank up 2 days ago and am frustrated at the price of gas, seeing my tank on that lovely F...man. I feel like I could go anywhere, do anything even for just that moment. Full tank = endless opportunity!

- You've Got Mail. Meg. Tom. Nora Ephron dialouge. Cardigans. Books. Fall. ARE YOU ONLINE? Best 90 minutes of my life. This time. Every Time.

I could go on and on but I need to be up in about 7 hours, and I am old, like I said. I sleep 8 hours and I don't care who knows it. Add some of your JOY to my list. I'd love it.

Somthing You Can't Seem to Get Over

Something you cant seem to get over

When I was 21, I felt a strong impression to go on a mission for the LDS church. Of all the decisions I have made in my life, that one will never be a regret. Some people must sacrifice a great deal to follow their beliefs, be that money, distance, or even their lives. At 21 I had not yet learned what it means to sacrifice.

I would come to know what sacrifice means through studying the life of Jesus Christ and his seemingly constant concern for others. I came to know that sacrifice meant giving up your self esteem because your calorie intake just skyrocketed. I met sacrifice on cobble stone streets where everything I believe was mocked, hated and laughed at. I came to see sacrifice in the hem line of the skirts my companion wore, because each skirt was lovingly paid for by hard hours in a cement factory. Every second of my mission filled me with a better understanding of what it means to think outside of yourself and I could not wait to come home and share that love and perfect vision that I had gained.

I felt that God has chosen me to be exactly where I was, each second of each day, to refine me to be the best version of myself. I could not wait to share my new wisdom with the person I loved most. Of all people, the one at home had to put up with the old selfish me the most. The one at home, deserved so much more but settled for me. He was my love at first sight, my hero and my best friend. And he loved me even though I had not yet learned what it means to sacrifice.

I loved to testify of love, of family, of the priesthood, because I felt that power from the one at home. I had seen his life change, and mine get better because of those principles. I thanked God for letting me live in northern Germany, become the best version of myself and come back home to a life I also loved.

And then it was November. I was 4 weeks into a transfer of painful silence. I had a companion who had a hard time loving me or most days even getting out of bed. Mail from home felt like the only conversation I had that whole transfer. Except for that mail.

The spirit has a way of warning us of things that could cause us harm. A part of my heart died with that letter, though I hope it never showed on my face, nor in my stride, nor my faith. There was no time to hurt when on the Lord's errand.

Love had changed, that I could accept. But my concept of myself has never been the same. The words hurt, but more than that they cut because they were true. They were all true. I was that terrible person scribbled in small, slanted print on the page. WAS.

But I had changed. But he will never know that.

Post #2: 10 things about you people don't really expect

1. My ultimate hero growing up was Karl Malone, #32 of the Utah Jazz. Best ball player ever (next to MJ). Not only did I admire him, but I thought for sure that I would either become him, or be adopted by him. Either way... Winning.

2. My parents own a preschool... but I really don't care for kids at all unless they my blood relatives or best friends children. Love of little kids is NOT genetic.

3. I got my first kiss at 18

4. I can name every country in Africa...in order. I believe there are 38.

5. My #1 goal in highschool was to manage the boys wrestling team. I got the job but chose other activities instead. I still wish I had done it.

6. I am a major fan of Jimmer Ferdette.

7. I prefer to walk on the right side of whoever I am with or I feel off balance. I dated someone who was deaf in his left ear and the habit stuck.

8. I cannot move the toes on my left foot independent of each other. They are basically paralyzed. I was born that way.

9. I can name almost any song and artist on the radio within the first 2 notes.

10. I will not support legislation that prohibits gay marriage until I can answer the question, "When did you decide you were heterosexual?"

Challenge: A post a day

A friend of mine had a 30 day challenge with prompts to post each day. I realize that the month is half over...but I want to write, therefore I do. So, consider this post one for the next little while. I wont promise to post daily, but I will get through the 30 prompts....just watch.


Post #1: Things that make you scared

Everything.

Seriously. I have an abnormal amount of fear. If you know me, you know that this statement is sad but true. For example, on the Lady Bug Drop at Lagoon... its like a ten foot ride that drops you. It is intended for small children... I gripped the security belt like death and screamed the whole way down. Meanwhile, my niece who was 3 turned to me and said, "Hayley, it isnt scary, put your hands up, like me!" She then proceeded to chatter away and giggle with her arms in the air. Eventually she saw that I had not released my death grip and said, "Ok I will just hold your hand."

There is something very wrong with that picture. I am the adult, I comfort her. So besides my pathetic fear of rides or anything that moves for that matter, I will expound on one or 2 more.

Serious relationships with the potential to end in marriage.

Stress me out. It is not so much the relationship I fear, nor someone loving me for a very long time. I fear me and MY ability to truly say I am in this, for good, for bad, for ....Eternity. I wonder if it is possible to truly grow and change and do so together. I fear losing connection, intellectual stimulation... I fear. Yet, I love to be in said relationships. I take them seriously and have had nothing but consistently wonderful, long-term relationships since I was old enough to date. Yet I am not brave. Puzzle.

Big Dogs

I am not a very big girl, therefore large animals that easily weigh double my weight and are a foot taller than me on their hind legs... Ahhhhh! Once I get to know the dog then I am fine, but that first time....so freakin scared. Ironically my favorite dog is a Chocolate Lab....can anyone say... good luck? I know. I am in for a treat. This fear is logical... as well as familial....I grew up with 3 corss-eyed cats that feared humans, therefore my contact with animals was pretty much non-existant.

At the end of the day, I am not usually someone people call brave. But I like to think I am brave in my own way. I do not take counsel from my fears.

Some people fear love. I have loved, been loved and will continue to do so, knowing very well that I might end up the bad guy, or the one crying in the bathroom because he chose her, not me. I don't regret that.

Some people fear public speaking. I love my own voice. I think my opinions are valid, educated, witty, insightful, inspiring, carefree, intentional. Worthwhile. I hope to always have a voice to speak, the passion and tools to empower others to do so as well, and an open ear to hear those wanting to do the same.

Some people fear inadequacy. To them I steal the words of someone who said it better:


"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

An old story I cant seem to shake

I used to write things, stories, poems, ideas. And then I stopped. I don't know why. I suppose it is because I feel that stories have their own agenda.... Perhaps they understood that I was in Europe and would not be thinking of them for a long time. Perhaps they felt abandoned, replaced. Even now I find it hard to hear them calling me. Perhaps they have stopped doing so. Perhaps I can regain their trust and they will share themselves with me.

And then there is this piece, which has quietly haunted me since its inception sometime between 2005-2007. For a long time I thought this was the seed that would blossom into greatness, but I do not know. So much of me longs for this story to begin, so it can end. It needs closure just as badly as I do, but I do not know how or what story to tell. Perhaps if I share it, it will come back to life for me and I will know what to do. Please not that this is complete WordVomit... no drafts, not even spell check. I just wrote and this is what came out so be patient with the choppy inconsistencies.

At one point I called this story "Jack and Jill".

Here goes.

Its like I dreamed it all up, him talking to me again. Like I am the crazy one for thinking he actually went anywhere. He’s just here, I can hear him in the bathroom, humming while he pees, like he does every morning. The sliver of light from the bathroom door falls across the carpet to the bed where I lay, red clock digits read 6:06 reminding me that the worm is his and I let him have it.

I always go through 3 alarms before I can even open my eyes. He is up by some internal alarm that his body has heard since he was 16. I have spent many a Sunday trying to keep him between the sheets. No matter the begging, cunning and pure seduction I impose on him, he is up and down the hall like a bullet, I spent so much of my adolescents dreaming of the romantic man who would lay in bed just to watch me sleep, I laugh now at the cruel irony, that it is I who watch the man who never sleeps.

We both like orange juice. If we forget every reason we are together now, Orange juice will save us.Orange juice will be the one thing we agree on until our deaths. We like the carton kind with the little blue lid and the oranges on the container, looking so moist and fresh, as if taunting you to just nibble at the carboard, because it really is fruit. Everyone wants to try that, don’t pretend like you haven’t wished that. Anyways. Juice, with lots of pulp, he likes a drink you can chew.

Breakfast is something we mutually understand, it is Switzerland. It is the time of day where we seamlessly work. He has eaten before I even get up but still he sits at the table, sometimes he reads, other times he just sits and thinks. He doesn’t sit for just say 5 minutes and then heads for work, he sits for 1 sometimes 2 hours. I have no idea what he ponders in those moments, they are his and I don’t ask. I eat cereal. That’s all I can handle at 8 in the morning.

“I’ll never understand how you eat that snap crackle crap,” he says

“I don’t get why you stole Paris Hilton’s pansy dog.” At this his jaw clenches, eventually relaxes and he says, “You want more juice?” filling my cup without waiting to hear my answer, stopping just as the juice hits the rim of the glass.

I make fun of his dog, he over-fills my orange juice and smiles snidely as I gingerly sip it down to a manageable amount. So I lied about Switzerland. Truth be told, we have never been to Switzerland and I don’t think we ever will.

He gets self-conscious about his work sometimes. He tells people that he is en route to becoming a professor, a life seeker of knowledge. He and I are the same in this respect, he describes teacher using 17 adjectives, I say I am a weaver of words, a Watson for the human language, when really, I’m just a writer. I think his work is noble but he had some crazy ex-girl friend who dumped him because he made some middle-class sum. She turned out to be a lesbian so I’m not entirely too sad at her selfish departure.

Before now, you could ask me a million things about love, life, the future and I could tell you down to the second what my plans were and how I was going to get there. Somewhere between Phoenix and Dallas, plans changed and I am here yelling at a dog that looks like a football sized cotton ball, sucking up scrabble pieces with the vacuum yet again, and wishing things would never change.

By the time I was in my mid twenties I had kissed a few dozen men. I needed to keep my skills sharp, my commitment limited, my lips soft. I found with him, kissing stopped, conversation started. Our fist conversation was about sex. I still wonder to this day how we managed to talk sex without actually being semi perverted or even saying the actual word. To an outsider we could have been talking about Ghandi’s pilgrimage or my neice’s 3^rd birtday, it was simply astounding. He knew it and so did I.

Even when he’d leave for work I’d feel this sudden urgency, like a premonition of something terrible, but nothing ever happened. He always came back, kissed my cheek and it was fine. I was fine. I couldn’t imagine being one of those military wives who had no idea where on God’s great earth there husband was at any given moment. If he was dead, or alive, how long it had been since he ate or brushed his teeth.

2 nights later I found myself sitting on the toilet in our bathroom all of my clothes still on, pants up, sitting on the toilet, humming. I hummed, the melody, so familiar, so simple. It was a song his mother used to sing to him to help him sleep. I hummed louder, rocking my body back and forth to the rhythm. I hoped that it would help me sleep. I could hear the dog’s claws scraping at the closed door. I closed my eyes and sobbed.

I think I knew it was too good to be true before I even saw the end. I read him this quote once about the person you will marry. The quote melted on my tongue like butter, he was silent well after I had stopped reading. “I know what they mean.” I knew too. The quote says you marry who you do because they see past all your crap, you can no longer get away with anything, and for some reason you aren’t mad, in fact, you’re impressed. You think, well done, ladies and gentlemen we have a winner. And you stop looking.

I made that all up now Im thinking. The clock still reads red 6:07 am. I listen for him humming at the toilet. It is silent. I reach across the bed and caress where his body lay so many nights, familiar and warm, the mattress worn to fit his body and his alone. I remember the first few nights after I tried sleeping in his spot. I layed so still my breathing startled me in the silence. I tried to take smaller breaths as if that would make the suffocating silence decrease. The dogs jumped up beside me and I didn’t push them away. Their dissapointment at finding me and not their papa lying there was as poignant as a pained child. “Im sorry,” I whispered to them. Finn curled up agaist my rib cage, he usually ran from me, but he understood that now, more than ever that I needed him, that some how he could fix this, even just a little. We laid, breathed and tried to fill the void.

The next day I went to the shop where we bought his watch. He demanded that he pick his own watch, I obliged, after all he had to wear it. It had always been heavy but today I was certain it was made of solid gold, heavy, priceless.

“can I help you maam?

“I want this sized.” I said laying the watch on the glass

“For?’

“Me”.

“This is a man’s watch, perhaps I can interest you in one of our female styles?’

“This watch is fine.”

“And what about the owner, doesn’t he want this watch?” He said this to me like a child who has just been scolded for a mundane thing.

“The owner” I gasp, “ gave it to me.”

I watched the man behind the counter take out link after link

Sometime later I left the shop, his gold watch, the familiar tick, cool gold, loose enough to slide off without touching the clasp, good thing too, I could never figure it out.

Revival of the Old Blog-a-Roo

GUTEN TAG!!

I just wanna take this chance to thank my trove of faithful readers who have stuck with me through this anti-blog hiatus----- That's a shout out to my 2 faithful followers, (you know who you are... # Paisersmama/Broboy).

For a few years (almost 3 to be exact) I've either been off talking about Jesus with strangers, being corrupted by the liberal ways of higher education (#my dad), or stalking mostly unfamous, totally married, yet deliciously talented musicians.

Whenever one takes a sabbatical, it is usually in the name of self-discovery and personal growth, I however, return to these pages having gained only one piece of wisdom.... blogs are not just for fairytale married Mormon "hubbies and wifeys" to update their fams on their super cute adventures in the exotic land of dental school. BLOGS ARE FOR EVERYONE. So ha.

In short. If I feel that my egocentric cup is a little low...I'll come here. I'll tell you.

Or as a wise old German woman once told me,

"Mach den Topf leer!"

Aka- eat everything in this pot or I will be totally offended.

I figure life is like a pot of soup meant to be eaten until you vomit, if only to make a little old woman smile. This is me, making soup. EAT UP.

Today I spent a majority of the rainy afternoon reading things that make me laugh and I thought to myself, man I miss making people laugh, which in reality is just me, making me laugh. I figure if it’s not funny to anyone else…at least I got the joke. And other people are just stupid.

I find that most humor comes from everyday life. In fact, I am so convinced of this, that most of mission journal consists of character sketches of people I found irresistibly hilarious, people I could not have made up myself if you had paid me. True characters. I may have missed the purpose of missionary journals, but you know, I have a freakin treasure trove of hilarious characters should I ever actually sit down and write that book I’ve been meaning to write since I was 12….

I think if people saw the humor in the every day, there would be more peace in the world. No matter how awkward the situation or how often I think “ man, sucks to be that guy”, some how feel as if I am watching a little bit of myself in that moment. I am startled/ discomforted by this recognition…. And yet, in these moments of mild humiliation it’s kind of like seeing an old friend. Hey I know you, glad you could make it…now please leave.

My desire to write is completely inconsistent. When I feel a need to do so, I need to do it right then or the genius is gone. Writing is very real to me, it is very alive… stories have an agenda of their own, and we the writers are simply the conduit through which theses stories find their voice. Sometimes I feel like a very lucky mommy, that a story has chosen the womb of my psyche as its place of nourishment and livelihood. This is striking me as very Freudian which is never good so I will stop with that.

I have no really story to tell today it seems, and that’s ok. I’m starting a project… its most-likely temporary name- will be something like…”Stuff I feel like writing about, that you may or may not feel like reading, nevertheless furthering my own agenda and divine egocentrism”. CATCHY.

Today’s Agenda:

It’s a soggy Utah fall day. Some people wake up angry, so people wake up surprised. I wake up STOKED. Do you have any idea what this means? If you were thinking rubber boots, scarves and layers, you would correct.

2 Rules about living in Utah

1. NEVER EVER pack you warm clothes away. I don’t care if it is June 5… it will probably snow. Don’t think you know better than the wheatear and heaven forbid don’t think Kevin Eubank has any idea what is going on either. He doesn’t. He is hypothesizing. Nothing more.

2. LAYER LAYER LAYER. Last year I made what might be the best purchase I have ever made. I went to candy store on crack (no, not the Gap or the Vans store), the other candy store known as REI. It’s not like I actually bike or canoe or anything, but it’s the IDEA that if I wanted to, I COULD at any moment start and REI would lead the way.

Anyways, I bought long johns, leggings, spandex, whatever you want to call them and they were TEAL. Good one on you REI. Good one on you. I wish I could wear them on the outside of my pants they are so cool. Staying warm never looked so rad.

You can always tell who is experiencing their first Utah season change, I find myself wanting to say to them “You’re right, it is totally cool that Tom’s are biodegradable and in about 40 seconds when that cloud dumps 6 inches, their going to melt right off your frozen feet. I bet that does suck when your “I heart Pink” umbrella snaps blows away…I guess that’s what happens when something is made of underwire and lace.

For real kids. This is Utah. Its called layers. Better luck next year. And for the record I LOVE rain boots. LOVE LOVE LOVE them. Jeggings and rain boots are my new PB & J. And although he may or may not have had anything to do with Jeggins and rain boots, im giving the cred for today’s Word Vomit to Steve Jobs. I probably wouldn’t even know what Jeggins were without Apple products…. Or Amazon.

But that’s another day, another case of Word Vomit.