We're Just Good Ol' Pals

6 years ago I met someone that would change my life forever.

She was lost. Like so many other times in life, we helped each other figure out where we were going.

I asked her to sit by me. It was a simple question, but one that has changed my life forever. You see, that seemingly unimportant exchange, was actually a profound moment : I met Whitney Smith.

This is a list for all the world to see! This is who Whitney Smith is. Isn't she beautiful?

She has been my ultimate source of friendship
She has made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry
She has given me self-esteem when all I saw were flaws and defeat
She has allowed me to be who I am and loved me for it
She has supported me (and my family) despite set backs, disappointments, and tough times
She never gossips (and that's sayin' something!)
She always sees the best in people
She is forgiving - she holds no grudges and never looks back
She is an example to me of who I can become and the power of free thought, dreams, and hard work
She is absolutely gorgeous and doesn't even know it
She willingly sacrifices for others
She's not afraid of anything...including the words, "I'm sorry" and "I love you"
She lights up any room she walks in
She has this special talent of making people feel special and comfortable with who they are
She has SO MANY TALENTS I don't even know where to begin...
She grabs life my the horns, firmly with both hands. She rides life. Not the other way around.
She has a strong and steadfast testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Evident by the way she lives.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY WHITNEY SMITH.
I Love You.

Ode to my Father

It's eleven-thirty at night, and I'm watching an infomercial on television because it reminds me of my dad.

The infomercial is one based on music from the 1950s. Displaying such pleasures as bobby darin, the everly brothers, paul anka, the shirelles, and the chiffons. (Man, they certainly don't name music groups like that anymore, eh dad?)

Every time the hosts appear, dressed in their ridicules pseudo 1950s outfits, I cringe at their over the top selling schemes.

But I patiently sit through the less-than-tasteful salesmanship, and wait for the music. It's the sounds of my childhood. It's the sounds of my father. It's every saturday morning as I groggily rolled out of bed. It's part of why I love him. It's part of him, and consequently a part of me.

I am sitting here listening to the infomercial repeat through the words, and through the music for one reason; because it makes me feel as if my father is here.

I'd give anything to have him here with me now. Singing along, and hearing the stories he's attached to these songs. In other words, to be with him and hear of his life. I'd give anything...

I miss you dad.

The Writing Place

A real writer told me once that you have to go to the painful places and stay there.
Then when you think you can't stand another minute- you write.
You write about THAT place. You write about THOSE feelings.

..............................................................

I stare into my eyes - all blemishes and flaws melt away.
What remains is foreign. I don't recognize her.
There is only Potential staring back - timid and scared.



This is called Ramona by Cassandra Christensen-Barney, one of my favorite artists. I went to a lecture of hers. She inspired me.

Someon Told Me Once

Someone told me once I was moody. In offense, I denied all allegations and shrugged off any thought that they could be right. But I kinda wonder if they're right. Is it normal to be moody? Or maybe most people just don't express themselves. I've never been very good at covering up how I feel.

Someone told me once I had eyes that communicated more than my words could express. I've watched other people's eyes. Almost all eyes communicate something: sadness, excitement, boredom, pain, lies, hope. How are mine any different? Or is he seeing in my eyes the words he wants to hear?

Someone told me once that they loved me. Did they even know me? How much did they love me? What kind of love was it? Was it the kind that changes your soul forever, heals all broken pieces, and becomes an addiction that only they can satisfy? Probably not.They left. But they told me once...

Someone told me once that I have a really loud laugh. I hate it when people say that to me. Every time someone says that to me, I picture myself putting my mouth right next to their ear and laughing so loud, and so hard, that they instantly become deaf. Aren't laughs the ONE thing in this world that should be loud?

Someone told me once that I will be successful. I don't even know what that means anymore. I've analyzed, planned, and fought so long for success that it's become distorted. I don't recognize her anymore. Where is she? What does she look like? How will I know when I find her? Success. Failure. Who can tell them a part anymore? How do you know if you're flying...or falling?


I love this painting. It's by Taras Lobodas. He's Ukrainian. I think that makes me like it even more.

A Re-Goal!

Reader, I think I may have over estimated myself. I set a goal that I would do a blog a day. A blog a day?! I couldn't even go a week before I messed that one up! So much for that streak, eh?! Ha!

Oh well...

But hey, I think every other day or perhaps 5 times a week is still an accomplishment and very do-able. BESIDES...if I do one post a day, my readership (3 people) will grow accustomed to my entries. My blogging genius will become another part of their everyday lives...like brushing teeth. So expect a lot of awesome new entries to follow...just not everyday.

summer chats

One of the beautiful things about life are conversations that leave you hopeful, confident, and stimulated.

I've had 2 today.

I'm one lucky girl.

Death Be Not Proud

I have always been afraid of death. Always. When I was younger, I was obsessed with the idea of a permanent separation from this life. It seemed cruel to rip a person away from this world, away from family and friends. I couldn't help but think, I LOVE living! Why would I ever want to die?

Every funeral, made me think of my own; every casket seemed ready to display my remains; and every headstone appeared ready to etch my name in it's stone.

I became curious and fascinated:
What would the headstone say?
Would anyone really come and visit me?
Would I care?
Where would I rest?
Would I even like where I ended up?

Over the years, I have grown to not only fear death it's self, but all earthly resemblances of death; to fear all the euphemisms we have appointed to those who have left this earth. You know: the caked on make-up which covers their faces and hands; super glue used to glue the mouth shut; flowers that cover the smell of the dead; the hearse that slowly creeps toward the cemetery; the bright green grass that appears lush and beautiful as it creates a facade of life while covering death and decay; and the embalming process - removing all semblances of life - is something that I have always hated to think about. CREEPY!

Anyway,

This has led me to ponder my own death and what I want. Naturally.

For me, I have decided that the least creepy post-death ritual I would like to endure is cremation. That's right reader, I want to be cremated. I have decided it's the most sanitary processes, the least ritualistic, and the most likely choice for me. I feel good about it. I would like my ashes (dust to dust, right?) spread around rather than in some creepy shrine for people to come and "visit" me in.

A shrine of death? Yuck!

Here's what confuses me though: everyone (and their mother!) thinks it's there responsibility to try and change my mind about cremation! Why? Why are so many people freaked out at the thought of removal by fire, and NOT freaked out by the thought of removal by earth worms?! I have most likely thought about the whole death processes more than most people, and I have decided that this is what I want; so then why are so many people disturbed by it?

Good Question Right?

Well, I have thought about this for awhile and the only conclusion I can come up with is that for most people the idea of having a wake (creepy!) and then being buried (super creepy!) is what brings them comfort. The process and the ritual is what allows them to let go. Perhaps the normalcy of the sales man at the funeral home, complex family arrangements, and the tombstone of accomplishments is what makes them feel like all is right in the world. Their loved one is gone, but they are still here. The world hasn't completely changed just because their personal world has been permanently altered. I get that.

I just don't get why they don't get me...or cremation for that matter. And I'll never understand why, without fail, everyone appears more disturbed by cremation, than by the death...or the rituals that surround us.