My Favorite Place in the World

     It's called Levan. It's a small rural town right in the middle of Utah with a population of maybe a thousand, and that's generous. We stay at my aunt Lora's parents' second home, which is large enough to comfortably fit several families. You can't even find the house on Google Maps, since the map was last updated before the house was even built. It certainly smells like farmland, and there's really nothing but fields and houses as far as the eye can see—up until the mountains, at least.

    And I love it with all my heart.

    I've always been really in love with it. The first time we went down to Levan with my mom's family was July 2010—two months after a trip to Capitol Reef with my mom's family and two months preceding a trip to Disneyland with my mom's family. But I remember being so in love with Levan. I don't know if it was because it was just our extended family (whom I love dearly) or because it was new or because it didn't feel like a normal vacation; but I just adored it. Though the trip to Disneyland was definitely the highlight of those 2010 vacations, I was still pleasantly surprised by how much I'd enjoyed Levan, and how much I was looking forward to going back.

    Since then, our family has gone—or attempted to go—at least once a year. Lora goes with her family pretty often, but the rest of us look forward to the next annual Levan trip, always ecstatically awaiting the next summer.

    It's a time to just chill. To be with loved ones. To eat good food. To play card games. To explore the area. To relax without worrying about work or other responsibilities. Even when I have to do work or when I'd have to do homework while I was in school, it just never feels as burdensome.

    It isn't without its stresses, of course. A vacation wouldn't be a vacation without stress, right? There are always kids getting into trouble, ingredients depleting too quickly, ATV accidents, disagreements on what to do, familial bickering. But despite all that, we all love it down here. It's basically our home away from home. Even though it's my aunt's family's gathering place, it feels like our gathering place.

    2014 was the lucky year. I managed to go down to Levan three times. The first time was in January—the one and only time I've been in the winter. Lora invited my siblings and me to join her and her kids in going down, assuring us that the sledding was loads of fun. We'd tie the sleds onto the backs of the ATV's and drive around the empty field next to the house. It was even more fun than I'd anticipated, despite the minor concussion I received (but that's for another day). We then went in June for a "moms and kids" celebration of school being out. So it was my mom and siblings, my aunts and cousins, and Lora's sister and sister-in-law and their respective children. If I had to pick, that would probably be my least favorite trip, but that isn't saying much. And then we went again at the end of July into the beginning of August for the usual Wright family trip. It was a marvelous year, let me tell you.

    There were a few years in high school when I wasn't able to go, whether because of work or other engagements; and let me tell you, I was always devastated. Our trip in 2019 was going to be the first time I'd been since 2016, but then they planned it for the weekend I was supposed to move back up to Rexburg to start my third semester of college. But I was determined to go, and my parents knew how desperately I'd been hoping to go, so my dad and I went down the weekend before. It was a different trip, of course, since it was just two of us and we were only there for a night. But I was in Levan, and that was all that mattered to me.

    I don't remember how old I was when I started saying that Levan was my favorite place in the world. It was probably around my seventh grade year, if I had to hazard a guess. Everyone always reacts in shock upon hearing that, including my family. "Even though you've been to Disneyland and to Cancún?" "You don't even like riding the ATV's, so what do you even do?" "But you go all the time!"

    Don't misunderstand; it isn't necessarily my favorite vacation. Cancún is almost certainly my favorite vacation spot I've ever been to. But Levan, Utah, is just my favorite place—or it's at least tied with BYU-Idaho's campus. Levan is quiet and peaceful. I have so many good memories of it. When I say it's my favorite place, I'm not just talking about the house; I mean the town of Levan. The dirt and rocks. The horses in the neighbors' yards. The irrigation sprinklers. The vast, open fields. The not-terribly-distant mountains. The clear-ish sky.

    All I want is to live in Levan. That isn't necessarily a viable option at the moment, but it's still my dream. And I think it always will be my dream.

    I don't know why I had to tell you any of that...but I'm sitting here in the house and just had to explain this wealth of feelings to someone. I'm in my happy place. I hope you know what yours is.

    "Home is knowing we are loved."

Imprints

    My favorite college professor was Joe. Not only was he a friendly face during the two worst semesters of my entire college career, he was also a voice of encouragement. I dreaded taking Rhetorical Theory & Application, but it was partly because of him that that ended up being my favorite class of the entire semester, and ultimately, my favorite class from college.

    His calm yet determined personality combined with his evident pride for my work gave me the courage to push myself in essays where I never would have dared push myself before. His advice and tips are forever stuck in my brain: whenever I use the word "myriad," I hear his voice telling me the right way to use it. He once told me that he always enjoyed reading my work, and it remains one of the greatest compliments I've ever received. When I thanked him for everything in an email during my senior year, his response was typically sarcastic and beautifully genuine all at once, and to this day, it gives me comfort.

    Even after I no longer took classes from him, if I ever saw him around campus, he'd chat with me. Or gently tease me—pretend to throw a dart at me or make a sarcastic comment about the book I was reading. When I got caught in a rainstorm and ducked into the nearby building to wait it out, he passed by and laughed to see me soaked through.

    I'll stand at work and listen to my coworkers talk to patrons on the phone, and my mind wanders to the rhetoric of their conversations. I can't help but think about how I could analyze their choice of words, their tone, the way they answer and hang up. I also can't help but think about how Joe would have analyzed their conversations as well, remembering how casually he'd explain an aspect of rhetoric that normally would have left my mind reeling but somehow made sense when he talked about it.

    Joe has forever left a mark on my life for the better. I don't think I'll ever forget him as long as I live. And he barely remembers my name.

    Which is to be expected. When you have hundreds of students every single semester, they tend to blend together. Honestly, I was just impressed that he actually did remember my name the last time we spoke, as well as the classes I took from him. He didn't remember where I was from, whether or not I'd graduated, or any of our inside jokes. It didn't hurt my feelings, but it did make me think.

    I have random little quotes from him written in the margins of the notes from his classes, and I retell his stories to my friends and family; and he probably couldn't remember what apartment complex I used to live in, even though we discussed it multiple times. His lasting impression on my life is not at all equal to the impression I've left on his, if there even was one.

    And he isn't the only person.

    In sixth grade, I met with a girl named Grace. We were in the same class, and we bonded over a highly energetic and silly game of Capture the Flag in P.E. As we walked back inside, she beamed at me and said, "I'm so glad to have you as my friend, Odessa." Less than two months later, she'd moved away, and I haven't seen her since.

    I don't remember much about her. I vaguely remember what she looked like, and I know that we shared a love for Harry Potter. I remember being so distraught when she told me she was moving—she was only the second friend I ever had move away. We never hung out after school, mostly because our friendship was so short-lived, but in class and at recess, we enjoyed every second together.

    Does Grace remember me? Does she remember that day in P.E.? Did she feel that empty hole in her heart when she moved away? Did she still count me on her list of friends three years later, like I did for her?

    It's been probably around twelve years since I last saw or talked to Grace, and yet, somehow, there's a small part of me that misses her. For whatever reason, I felt a connection to her that was cut far too short. But did she feel that same way at all? Is it possible that maybe she felt the sting even more keenly? Is it possible that Grace still thinks about Odessa Taylor?

    My old coworker Kylee was truly one of my best friends during my junior year of high school. She was hired a couple months after me, and we got along almost instantly. Every shift we worked together was full of laughter and camaraderie. We begged our manager to have a kiosk shift (the outdoor pool entrance) together during summer 2017, and we got it.

    One day, it started raining so hard that we closed the outdoor pools, but Kylee and I were supposed to stay at kiosk, just in case it stopped and we reopened. We sat there and joked and laughed for at least an hour and a half. Another day that summer, we actually went out and got dinner together before going back to my house and watching a movie. After she left, my mom said, "I like her a lot. You have a good friend."

    When she quit, I was devastated. We managed to keep in contact for a while afterwards, but ultimately, we grew apart, and now, we haven't had a conversation in years. She doesn't even follow me back on Instagram. She could have no idea that I still remember her birthday and her wedding anniversary every year, even if I never say anything to her about them.

    Does she remember the time she called me on a weekend, on the verge of tears, to tell me about how the guy she'd been interested in had led her on? Does she still have the picture of us in matching work shirts? Does she remember how we sat outside Rumbi Grill, ranting about everything under the sun? If she passed me on the street, would she run to embrace me like I'm sure I would run to embrace her?

    It overwhelms me sometimes to think about the hundreds of people who have left something on me. Even more overwhelming is to think about the hundreds of people that I may have left something on. Just the thought that there could be someone out there who remembers me for giving them a compliment on their clothes on a day they were feeling insecure...that's crazy to me.

    I once bought a KitKat and left it in a stroller that was sitting outside a classroom at college, along with a quick little note wishing a good day to the exhausted mom I'd seen pushing it earlier. Did she enjoy my gift? Was it an answer to an unspoken prayer? Is she the type of person who doesn't eat candy and thus didn't even enjoy it? Did she pass along that little moment of joy?

    Perhaps the person I think about the most when this thought of imprints crosses my mind is the guy from Donut Falls. It was during a summer in high school, either before my junior or senior year, and I was really starting to feel the pangs of not attending the same high school as my church friends. Being the dramatic teenager I was, I also felt like those friends were doing very little to bridge the ever-increasing gap between us. After hiking Donut Falls, we were all walking together and talking, and the conversation turned to things that I just couldn't get involved in—things that had to do with their high school, their extracurricular activities, their hobbies.

    I subtly slowed down so that they all moved on without me. The fact that not one of them out of a group of at least six turned to see where I'd gone was confirmation to me. I felt that I'd just lost all the friends I'd had since first grade. Morosely, I walked along, lost in my thoughts.

    A man and a woman, probably in their late twenties, soon passed me. They were engaged in conversation, but quite suddenly, the guy made eye contact with me and smiled. It wasn't the typical "grin politely at a stranger" smile—it was a smile that communicated instant compassion. "Hey, you doing okay?" he asked.

    And that was all I needed. It could have ended right then and there and I would have been totally fine. All I'd really been looking for was someone to look at me and smile and ask me how I was. That was it.

    So, I smiled back and said, "Yeah, I'm doing fine."

    But it didn't stop there. Still smiling at me with understanding, he said, "You sure? You just seem really down."

    Dear reader, I could have poured my heart out to this guy. Me. Odessa Taylor, who never reveals her emotions to even her closest friends, could have started crying and telling this guy the oh-so-miserable woes of being a teenager and growing apart from my childhood friends. But I didn't, and the only reason I didn't was because he was looking at me like I had never been looked at before. No—he was seeing me in a way I had never been seen before. He had noticed what my parents, my siblings, my leaders, my friends hadn't noticed, or at least had never let on that they noticed: I was sad. I wasn't myself. I was in desperate need of something.

    Of course, he didn't know any of that. All he saw was a high school kid walking down a well-populated path all by herself, head slightly down, face neutral and maybe even a little droopy. It would've been easy for him to walk past or to just nod and say hi; but instead, he chose to truly acknowledge me.

    I reassured him that I was fine, and he nodded and said, "Okay," still smiling. And a little farther down the path, he passed me in his car. He caught my eye again and waved, that wonderful smile on his face again. I waved and smiled back, and, rejuvenated, I hurried to catch up with my friends. They turned as I approached and smiled. "Odessa, where have you been?!" they cried enthusiastically.

    If I had been truly, truly struggling in that moment, that man would have saved my life. Does he know that? Does he know that, from that moment on, I felt okay about things? Does he have any idea that I think about him often? Does he even remember me? I doubt it. Does he do that often? I so hope he does. I don't really remember what he looked like, but I just remember seeing that smile and feeling instantly calmed. His empathy and kindness are great gifts, and I desperately, desperately hope that he uses them often.

    My life is made up of moments—moments shared with other people and moments kept in my private heart. Moments that plenty of others remember and moments that only I will ever recall. Seemingly small and simple moments that have added up to create the Odessa Taylor here today. Would I be any different today if I'd never met Grace? Probably not. But I did meet Grace, and now she's forever part of the story that's made up my life. So is Kylee. And Joe. And the guy at Donut Falls. So are all my other coworkers, all my teachers and professors, all my roommates, all my classmates, all my church leaders, all my family members, all my friends—even the strangers I might never see again have briefly passed through the very narrow window that is the life of Odessa Taylor.

    And there is no way of knowing what moments will stick with me forever and what moments will fade away like millions that have come before them. Moments with friends that seemed so unimportant to me at the time that I immediately forgot they happened. Moments in classes that I thought I'd remember forever that I couldn't recall if you paid me. Moments that others will cherish the rest of their lives that I was oblivious or indifferent to.

    Nicole might never remember I was the girl who sat next to her and cracked jokes during All-State rehearsals. Debra might never remember that I was her boyfriend's niece, sitting on the living room floor and listening to the "adult" conversation instead of reading Percy Jackson in her room. Peter might never remember that he called me "beautiful and intelligent enough for the both of us" during the one time we chatted on a phone call that wasn't even for me. Joseph might never remember that he made me laugh almost constantly during my first weekend of college.

    But I remember. And even if none of those events were important enough to change me, they were moments that apparently had enough value that my brain decided to keep them around. Or maybe I just have a brain that can't decide what's valuable and what isn't and thus keeps everything, just in case it comes in handy later on. Either way, I have those moments imprinted on me, and I hope to be better able to recognize those moments as they come my way in the future rather than just after they've happened and gone.

    There's a whole world to find out there—and in you, too, believe it or not. So good luck.

    "Find eternity in each moment." -Henry David Thoreau

Farewell to a Home: Part 2

     A year ago—exactly—I delivered to you readers quite a sad post. I told you about the home I was leaving and how very much I was dreading to do so. And surely that was such a landmark moment in your life that you took note of that post and have thought about it every day since, right?

    No, you haven't, but I'll update you on what's happened in that year, anyway.

    Do I like 516? Nope, not really. It is by far an inferior apartment, and I don't say that just because I'm stubborn. This apartment just isn't as good as 703 was. I've made some pretty good memories in this apartment, though, so I don't hold quite as much resentment in my heart for it as I did when we first moved in. Summer Odessa was quite peeved to live here, but current Odessa's a little more relaxed. Only a little.

    I've continued attending school. I've had roommates come and go, I've had friends get married, I've watched The Shawshank Redemption several times (but not enough). Life has continued on. The world didn't freeze when I left 703, for which I'm thankful...I think.

    It's been 365 days since I sat in the armchair in 703, feeling a cold emptiness in my stomach and a hole in my heart as I looked around the apartment I loved so much and knew I only had two more days to enjoy it. And now I'm here on the couch in 516, lying down on the couch and looking around at this apartment with notably more detachment. I have come to like—maybe even love—this apartment, but not that much.

    The home I'm leaving is BYU-Idaho itself.

    Yep. I've made it. I'm graduating.

    A couple weeks ago, I read back on the blog posts I did during the first few days that I was ever here in Rexburg. It was crazy to see how much I've changed since then. In some ways, I'm a completely different person; but in much more real ways, I'm still the same Odessa Taylor who moved up to Rexburg on September 14, 2018.

    Tonight is my last night in 516. My last night in this apartment complex. Potentially my last night in Rexburg ever, though I'm confident I'll be back for visits. Most of my friends are up here; I'll have to come back at least once.

    In a way, it's probably a good thing that I got kicked out of 703 early. I think it would be a lot more painful for me to say goodbye if I were still there. But I'm not. I've said goodbye and I've started to heal, and now the burden of losing the home I loved—a burden which you know was quite heavy—is not crushing me. I can focus on how I feel about leaving and graduating and moving on with my life.

    What do I feel, you ask?

    Well...very little, so far. The excitement of being able to move on with my life is in equal measure to the fear of leaving what I'm familiar and comfortable with, so they've just canceled each other out. There are moments of great sadness, though. But there are moments of great excitement as well. I think I've just come to terms with the fact that it's happening, and there's nothing I can do to make the time stop. It's a more optimistic feeling than it sounds.

    I'm happy. I'm very happy. I've been working for this for a long time now, and I'm so glad that I can go out into the world and be confident in my skills.

    But I will miss this school more than I can say. This campus is just so beautiful to me, and I think I will be devastated when I no longer have it. I know I'll be devastated. This will be a rough transition, but I'm okay with that. I know that things will turn out all right in the end because they've always turned out all right in the end.

    Earlier this week, I learned something about one of my roommate's brothers that filled me with incredible hope, and today, that hope was fulfilled. He briefly came over, and as he was going back to his apartment, Hannah and I asked if we could join him. He agreed, and the three of us walked over to 703.

    It's changed. But I knew it would, so I wasn't really bothered. The fridge has moved, as has the table. In fact, they have a whole new table. They moved the thermostat as well. They fixed the faucet, but not the light above the faucet. Hamilton the microwave is no longer there. Good riddance.

    I was there. It has been almost an entire year since I last stepped foot in that apartment, and I honestly didn't think I would ever step foot in there again. But I did. I stood in the living room, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the hallway. I looked into the bedroom that used to be mine—the place I spent so many late nights dreading the upcoming changes and begging the universe with all my soul that I could stay. It was like I'd never left. It really felt like I had never left.

    If I could handle leaving 703, then I can handle graduation. The world is going to keep on turning, and I'm sticking along for the ride. Feel free to join me.

"You cannot always be torn in two. You will have to be one and whole for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be and to do. Your part in the story will go on."

The Story I Want to Tell

     Ever since I was in fifth grade, I have wanted to be an author. Writing has always been a deep passion of mine, and the thought of being able to do that for the rest of my life is...gosh, it's indescribable. Of course, because writing isn't really a feasible job, I'm going to school to become an editor, and I plan to write as more of a hobby than as an actual career.

    The problem is, I'm not sure what I want to write.

    For the longest time, I said that I wanted to write fiction. That's what I loved to read the most, so it would make sense that it would be what I'd be most comfortable writing. But various experiences over the years have led me to believe that maybe that's not what I really want to do, and that I just chose fiction because it was the most logical choice.

    The biggest thing that's made me question myself was taking a creative writing class this last semester. The poetry section was just as horrendous as I expected it to be--I hate writing poetry even more than reading it. I expected to find more joy and satisfaction in the fiction module than in the nonfiction module, but I was surprised to be proven wrong.

    I had a difficult time coming up with a fictional story for a variety of reasons. I was absolutely terrified to share this part of my creativity with anyone, which meant that I wanted to write something I wasn't super attached to so that I wouldn't feel too embarrassed about letting others read it. I didn't want to feel like I was cutting out my heart to let someone else inspect. But the problem with me is that I become attached to anything and everything I'm exposed to for more than a few minutes; and if I didn't become attached to it, I was absolutely bored with it or couldn't make it work.

    I eventually created a story that I could take some pride in but that I wasn't emotionally invested in. I turned it in and did everything with it I was supposed to, got 87 percent, and I haven't even looked at it since. Quite a lot of effort for nothing, eh?

    But that's why the contrast between the fiction and the nonfiction was so interesting. I wasn't necessarily thrilled about being required to tell my own story, but I wasn't dreading it either. I came up with a topic almost instantly, and I put real effort into writing it. Except that it didn't feel like effort at all. I just wrote what I remembered happening, the way I believe it happened, and how I felt about it. And when it was reviewed by my entire class, I took the suggestions to heart and went to great pains to make it as perfect as it could be. And that work paid off--I got 98 percent.

    It's through this experience that I've come to realize just how much writing real stories means to me. I mean, I have never willingly shared a piece of my creative writing with another human being, and yet here I am, writing my experiences and thoughts for the world to see. I have to be in just the right mood to come up with part of a story to type up, but I am always ready to write in my journal or pen a deep, emotional catharsis.

    This comes naturally to me. Writing in general comes naturally, but when it's just me talking about something real, it's like I don't have to focus on anything else. I'm not worried about who might read it and what they'll think of me for it; I'm too involved in the writing coming to life. And I always feel so satisfied with my work when I'm done. Always.

    Do I still want to write the next internationally best-selling YA novel? Of course. But I love telling real stories, whether they're my own or not. And if I could write my stories, my family's stories, my friends' stories, everyone's stories for the rest of my life, I would be perfectly content. I love diving into fictional worlds and living somewhere outside of this reality, but this reality has some really beautiful, really emotional, really profound bits scattered amidst the grey. And to be able to capture some of that beauty, that emotion, that profundity...that's what I love to do. I love sharing something that's totally unique to me and yet speaks to another individual. I love the connection that I feel to other human beings when I hear a real story. I want to share those stories with anyone who'll listen.

    I'm not quite sure how to do that yet, but hey...at least I'll always have this, right?

Farewell to a Home

    Long time, no see, huh?  I'm going to place the blame solely on you and not on the fact that I haven't posted anything in well over a year.  

    I'm sure you all remember when I first started college.  (If not, I have plenty of past posts about it that you can update yourself on if you so desire.)  I remember when I first started college.  I remember moving up to Rexburg and getting settled in apartment 703 with my best friend.  I cried when my family left, but then I got distracted by other things and was temporarily distracted from my emotions.

    When I used the apartment bathroom for the first time, I was discouraged by the unfamiliarity and I cried again.  Yep, going to the bathroom was too much for my weak heart.  In all seriousness, though, the weight of what I was doing came crashing down on me in that moment, and I realized that I was well and truly on my own now.  That was terribly frightening, and my fears were only exacerbated by the fact that my family wasn't there to help me.  Sure, I could call them or text them, but they weren't there.  I couldn't hug them.  I couldn't eat dinner with them or play a game with them.

    As the semester progressed, though, everything turned out just fine.  I haven't cried in the bathroom since.  I could go on and on about the wonders of BYU-Idaho and how happy it makes me to be here, and maybe one day I will tell you about that.  But I have a different focus for today.

    I have lived in this same apartment throughout my college career.  I'll be starting my senior year next semester.  I've grown quite fond of 703.  I've made friends in this place.  I've slept in two different rooms, and I've shared a room with two of my best friends in the world and one of the most fake people I've ever met in my life (but that's another story).  It has its issues, certainly--it's an old building, after all.  We get mold pretty easily.  Hamilton the microwave hates my guts.  The shower is the most temperamental thing I've ever had to work with.  The heater often either works too well or not at all.

    But despite all that, I love it here.  I love the view out of our living room window with its perfect sight of the Rexburg temple and the sunsets that so beautifully decorate the backdrop.  I love our wall of sticky notes decorated with quotes that range from inspirational to hysterical.  I love the framed photos of handsome movie characters we have on the window sill.  And above all else, I love the feeling of home that this apartment gives me.

    When COVID hit and I wasn't able to come back here for the spring semester, I was devastated.  In the face of a global pandemic, an earthquake, and temporarily losing my job, the thing that distressed me most was the realization that I wasn't coming back to Rexburg anytime soon.  Though I loved my time at home with my family, there were many days where I wanted nothing more than to be in 703.  When I returned after a nine-month absence, my heart felt whole again.

    I realize that this is the most cliché thing, but it's just a fact.  This place is my second home.

    So when we got the news that building 7 is being changed to a men's apartment and we'd have to move to building 5, my poor heart just about broke.  Fortunately, we got to finish out the semester here, but now we're reaching the end.  The boys on the window sill are packed away.  My room is the emptiest and yet the most cluttered it's ever been as I'm trying to pack everything up.  There are boxes everywhere, and there seems to be a melancholy mood settling over everything like a dust.

    As I took a walk earlier today in the rain, I realized just how little attention I've paid to the steps I take each and every day.  I've become so accustomed to these paths--how I cross the parking lot to get to the crosswalk, the path I take to get the mail, the familiar path to the laundry room--and now they're all going to be jarringly shifted slightly north.

    Sure, we'll be closer to the crosswalk and to the mailbox and to the lounge.  Sure, it's nice to have something new.  Sure, it's probably better for my own health and safety that I no longer live with Hamilton.  But it's still painful.

    For the past couple weeks, I've found myself pausing in the middle of mundane tasks, realizing the finality of everything.  I may use this same lemon-scented soap, but it won't be at this sink for much longer.  There will be a lamp in the new apartment, but not this lamp I've turned off and on countless times.  The extra chairs, the jokes about Madison the ghost, that confounded shower--all of it will be gone.  We have to start over again.  For some people, that's a thrilling thought, but I've never been one for change.  Starting from the beginning is a terrifying notion.

    But I'm optimistic.  I think back to my first couple days here.  I remember little 18-year-old Odessa disliking this place because it just wasn't home.  But before she knew it, she'd fallen in love with it.  If it happened once, why can't it happen again?

    Yes, it'll be hard to leave this place.  There are countless beautiful, hilarious, sad memories I'll be leaving behind, but it's just so I can make room for new ones.  I have all three of my wonderful, wonderful roommates coming along, and a good friend from back home will be joining us as well.  I don't feel so alone this time.

    So, do I want to cry thinking about how I'll be losing the best view in Rexburg?  Yes.  Yes, I do want to cry.  But seeing as I've already reached my maximum limit of two crying sessions this semester, I guess I'll have to settle for smiling instead.  At the very least, I'll try to grin.

    Or maybe I'll have a good cry.

    Regardless, there's a bit of excitement.  It's not as though I'm moving too far.  And at least I can rest assured that I'll always have that amazing campus with its beautiful gardens right across the way.  In fact, now they'll be a little bit closer.

    After Thursday, everything will be different.  Next time you hear from me, I'll be in 516.  Wish me luck, okay?

    "Remember that sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck."

Reuniting Yourself

     There's something really beautiful to me about reunions.  I don't just mean with people, either.  I can't tell you how many times I've lost a possession dear to me and then found it minutes, days, or even weeks later.  I also can't properly tell you the joy I've felt upon finding these things again.
     Of course, feeling joy in finding a lost blanket or water bottle could be easily chalked up as materialism's hold on me.  Just hang on--I have other examples.
     When I was a kid, we had a CD player in our car.  My parents had their CDs that they liked to play as we'd drive, or even just while we were at home.  The player broke a long time ago, however.
     One night, during my junior year of high school (probably four or five years since the tragedy of the CD player), my sister and I were reminiscing on some of the songs we'd loved.  We couldn't really remember the titles, lyrics, or tunes all that well, but we could scrape up enough that we at least knew what the other was talking about.
     We got stuck on one song in particular, though, and after several minutes of trying to remember what it could be, we gave up and went to our parents.  We never found that exact song, but as our dad went through songs he knew we'd recognize from those CDs and then our mom remembered some as well, the memories came flooding back.  We suddenly remembered actions we'd do, running jokes we had, songs we'd loved.  One song even made my sister, who takes pride in being stoic and emotionless, start crying just because she remembered loving it so much as a kid.
     Did that night really matter?  No, probably not.  But it reunited me with some of the music that defined my childhood, and some of those songs have rekindled themselves as favorites of mine.  So, no, that night doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but it's made life just a little more beautiful.
     This same sister and I went through a period where pretty much all we watched on Friday and Saturday nights were movies that had meant something to us in our childhood.  We had definitely grown out of some of them, and their cheesy jokes and poor acting made us almost embarrassed for our younger selves.  Others, however, made us smile bigger than they ever had when we were kids and managed to retain a special place in our hearts.
     Thus far, my second semester of college is the hardest I've had.  During that semester, though, I came across a stunning video that affected my very soul.  I literally felt my breath taken away, and I'm fairly certain my jaw just dropped.  It was so beautiful.  I'd watch it every night just before bed because the music and the visuals offered a most soothing effect.  After a few weeks, it lost its magic and I didn't watch it.  Months later--and I mean months later--I came across it again and was taken back to that time.
     The interesting thing about it, though, was that I was reminded most clearly about the good things from that semester.  Though I'd been homesick for the first half, I remembered the joy I'd felt in being at BYU-Idaho.  Though I'd felt lonely more times than I could count, I remembered the times I'd spent with my friends.  I just kept thinking of staring up into the night at the sand dunes at the end of the semester and seeing the most beautiful starry sky.
     It's a short video and probably isn't meant to mean that much, but the way it captured my soul that first time was reignited when I came across it again at a later time.  It wasn't exactly the same--I don't think I lost my breath or got teary-eyed.  But even now, I find that by the end, my mouth is open in sheer awe.
     Similar things have happened with music.  I have a habit of replaying songs I enjoy until I'm thoroughly bored of them, so months or even a year or two may go by before I listen to them again.  But when I do, the emotions come flooding back more powerfully than I could have expected.
     Of course, you can rarely, if ever, capture the essence of that first time again.  It's the whole unexpectedness of that initial meeting that makes it so captivating to the heart.  But you can get pretty darn close.
     Now, I'm not saying that you should stop watching your favorite movies, reading your favorite books, listening to your favorite songs, or eating your favorite foods so that you can reunite yourself with them sometime in the future.  That's not worth it.
     You have to reunite yourself with something you've lost.  Think of a movie you once loved and still carry a soft spot for but that you haven't actually seen in some time.  Think of a book that you once couldn't put down that you now can't seem to pick up.  Think of a song you once knew every word to but can now barely remember the tune.  Find something that was once a part of you that you've now lost, and put yourself back together.  Reunite yourself with...well, you.  It's good for you, probably.  I wouldn't know, I'm just a writer.  I just know that I always manage to feel better after I've done so.
     "I'll always come back to what my heart knows."

The Personification of Sunrise

     What you're about to read is something I wrote just out of the blue one evening.  It's not based on anyone in particular.  I just came up with the first line, and like most things, it went on from there.  Maybe it'll mean something to you.

     It was amazing, the way she just smiled, like everything was all right when it clearly wasn't.  But somehow, she believed it was.  She had such an unusual propensity towards hope and joy, laughter and optimism, that she truly believed it could all be okay and work out in the end, no matter the odds.
     I think that's what drew us to her--she had a light that couldn't be extinguished.  And she knew how much that meant to us, so she never let us see her falter.  She kept her tears, her darkest secrets, and her deepest fears hidden, because if she were afraid, what chance did the rest of us have?
     Sometimes I saw the chinks in her armour.  I loved her for them, but what I always loved and admired most was that smile, that laughter, those bright eyes that never dimmed, even when she was feeling weak.
     Nothing could make her lose sight of that beautiful morning she always saw, even at the edge of her darkest horizon.  To her, darkness was merely a medium to let the light shine all the more dazzlingly.  For her, the stars and the moon were just as lovely as the sun, if not more so.
     Her smile and laughter communicated a wealth of emotions stored up inside her.  I got to know her well enough that I could distinguish her genuinely happy smiles from those that came after a teary hour or anxious pondering, because those were more akin to those of a rainbow than those of sunlight.
     I never truly understood why she preferred gloomy weather, but I think it had to do with whatever awakening she experienced that made her that way.  She'd told me once that she hadn't always been this way, but she never explained more than that.
     I think there was a time in her life that was so dark and dreary, she saw no escape.  Yet somehow, she'd made it through.  Somehow, somewhere, she'd found just enough light to hold on to, and once she realized how strong that light was, once the clouds parted and she could see clearly, she decided to never let go.
     I wish I had asked why.  I wish I had asked her to tell me her story.  But somehow, I think I already know what she'd say: "Does it really even matter?"

     Anyway, there you have it.
     "So count your blessings every day.  It makes the monsters go away.  And everything will be okay.
     "You are not alone.  You are right at home.  Good night."