Endings-ish

If there is one good ish about endings, it's that they make you appreciate things more.

I think of the people I know now and it's like, wow. Goodbye. Goodbye to them. Goodbye to this year, when I got to meet them and become a tiny part of their lives (or, rather, they became a part of mine). We have been happy and smiling and grateful and talkative and friendly throughout the year. But the end of the year makes us -er: happi-er, smiling-er, grateful-er, talkative-er, and friendly-er. Because we now see through the lens of the future, we are sad to see the past go. That's the funny thing about endings: you didn't realize how much you didn't want them to happen until they do.

I'm not saying I won't be happy when finals are over--good grief, that's just blasphemy. But I will be sorry to see these my friends and classmates graduate, move schools, move apartment complexes, and join the next part of their life while I join the next part of mine. Separately.

They've made my life good-er, though, and that I'd say is a happy ending indeed.

Easter-ish

This is from the view of the fictitious Rachel, Mary's best friend from childhood.

I had purposely stayed at the back of the crowd in order to avoid seeing Jesus. Watching them lay him there on the wood, seeing them drive the stakes into his hands—the hands I had seen and touched and held before—it would be too difficult.

            Mary’s lot was far worse, however, and she had surely kept as close to him as she could.

            I stared at the ground as I pressed through the alleyways, pardoning myself past the people milling about in the morning air. They didn’t realize that their Lord was dying right now, just outside the city. My swallows came more frequently as I tried to keep the sobs from spilling out of my chest.

            One broke free when I came to a crossroads. The dirt before me still bore an inch-deep scar all along the path through the alley and around the corner. His cross.

            I crouched to the ground and held my face in my hands. The people stepped on the fringes of my dress, stepped right on the cross-made furrow with their filthy sandaled feet. My Lord, I cried within my heart. My Lord, my God.

Spring-ish

In between the BIG good ishes (going to the temple, turning in an outline, registering for fall classes, watching the General Women's Broadcast) there is one itty bitty good ish that is yet impossible to ignore.

We call it

THE WEATHER.

Coming from a land that has little in the way of weather (*cough cough* Mesa, Arizona), it is so much more pleasing to come to March and April being in Utah. Even after an exceedingly mild winter, you can feel and see every change that marks the coming of spring.

The ducks waddle in pairs and nestle in the shadows in the grass. The popcorn trees exploded--overnight, apparently--with tiny round white petal-kernels that pepper the sidewalk and rain down whenever the wind blows. The breeze still has the slightest bite to it, urging you to stay in the sun's sight whenever possible. Green grass. Blue skies. Walks are perfect, as are short sleeves.

I call it

beautiful.

The loveliness thereof makes us think of the tie between spring and the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. And is it any wonder? With so much life bursting forth from the ground, the sky, the water, how could we not remember the One who created this beauty as a symbol of His own life and renewal?

Mother-ish

"Are you busy? Stressed? You never texted me back after I sent you the video of Kate. Just making sure you are okay. :-)"

You've heard this before: It's a mother's job to worry. I don't believe it. Not one bit.

It's a mother's job to love--to love so hard that the problems of her children get absorbed into her own soul. It's not her job to worry. It's her job to love, and love makes her worry.

It's good that mothers worry because then we don't have to worry all by ourselves. This is especially helpful when we are young, teenager-ish, and very unable to hold so much worry (or responsibility) at once.

I wish she didn't have to worry. Because I am young and teenger-ish, though, I give her much cause to do so.

Cause to send me a sweet text on a Friday morning to make sure I am doing alright.

I'm doing fine, Mom. Because of you, I'm doing just fine.

Dance-ish

On Thursday, I got to go watch my friend's roommate dance in a dance competition.

"Smooth" was the category, under which fell dances like the tango, the waltz. The partnerships were spray-tanned and hair-sprayed; made up with the darkest eyeliner and the shiniest sparkled hair jewels. The dresses splayed like birds' wings as the girls spun--hot pink, whispering blue, white with black embroidery. Their movements bled one into another like a long silken ribbon.

The individual partners dances gave way to group dances; to music with beats that echoed in my skeleton and punctuated the dancers' gestures. Twirl, pose, stomp, twirl, and twirl and twirl and twirl until surely they will topple over--but they don't.

They are so free, and I am almost free just watching them. If only I could get up and join them myself:

Smiling like mad. Glitter radiating from my bare arms. The shine from my earrings perforating the stage light. Eyelids gliding over my contacts in pleasure, pleasure only half-faked for the stage. Blind to the audience, but alive in my own shining sphere of spotlight.

Few things are so like dancing--singing, writing, drawing, laughing. These things let us open our souls to the world and vacuum up all the good that's in it, and release some good into it, too.

I'm taking a ballet class this summer.

Let the vacuuming begin.

Dream-ish

This week, my brother got his pilot's license.

It is one thing to reach a goal or make it to a milestone in life, but it is quite another to fulfill a dream. See, my brother has been dreaming about being a pilot basically since his toddler years. He drew planes, he wrote about planes, he memorized the names of planes, he collected model planes, he hung the model planes from his bedroom ceiling, he kept his model planes and probably has his favorite ones on a shelf somewhere in his new apartment (he's married now, by the way).

His dreams are real. He can take one of those Cessnas up by himself, for himself, and sail the sky with elevators and ailerons flapping in the wind.

He dreams of sitting in the cockpit of a Boeing seven-forty-something and carrying his passengers through the sea of endless, sunshiney blue to their destination. He dreams of clicking the intercom speaker and telling his passengers, "If you look under your seats, you'll find a free pizza! ... Just kidding."

He dreams still. I so admire that.

Start your dreams, or start your dreaming. Life is short and long and fun and hard and full of possibilities to fulfill whatever you can come up with. So start.

Courage-ish

I tried to listen to the Senegalese man at the front of the auditorium, but even though he was speaking French, his accent was a little funny and my vocabulary didn't match his.

My friend, sitting behind me, tapped my shoulder. He had to leave for a class. That meant it was almost 4:30. Which meant it was almost 4:50. Which meant it was almost 5:00. Which meant it was almost time.

An urge to use the loo struck me across the face (or, bladder?) once the presentation ended and I was leaving the auditorium. But I couldn't stop! It was too late! I needed to make my way up to the third floor.

I met my old French professor at the elevator. We took up a brief conversation (in French, of course) while waiting for the old lift to make its way down to us. He was pleasant and encouraging when I explained the situation. He left me on the third floor at the professor's office.

I had to wait a few minutes for the previous meeting to end. Then, it was my turn.

My turn for the interview. The interview in French. The interview in French, the language I've studied for years but still don't speak very well. The interview in French, the language I don't speak, for the Les Petits Freres des Pauvres internship in France this summer.

Me? Go to France? Me? By myself? During a summer? This summer? Me?

My heart was beating, my mind was whirling, my thoughts were praying.

But, oh good ish--the interview wasn't in French.