“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority— of its being a degradation— of the family obstacles which judgement had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

Yes, my dear ladies of the Yale Theatrical Society, this is the site where Elizabeth Bennet first rejects the seemingly arrogant Mr. Darcy.  Right here, at Stourhead where I stood a mere few days ago, is the same place where Keira Knightley stood for the new Pride and Prejudice.  Even if the new movie is not the epic that the A&E version has become, walking around these large stone pillars is something I'll never forget.  I know that you girls, being the literary experts you are, can appreciate the beauty of this moment.  

Saltwater Sandals and Stonewashed Jeans

In first grade I was in love with a boy named Trevor. Looking back, I'm pretty sure the only reason I liked him was because my best friend liked him, too, and she had pink saltwater sandals. I loved pink saltwater sandals. My mom bought me white. Sometimes she took them off under her desk, and sometimes she got in trouble for it. But, she was my best friend nonetheless. She liked Trevor and that was enough.

Trevor wore black stone washed jeans and a caramel-colored shirt with green paint splashes on it -- the kind of paint-splash shirt he could have made himself in one of those paint spinney-thingies. He was good at kick-ball, had a killer smile and a bowl cut. He was a nice boy and the teacher liked him. Sometimes, just by happenstance, I got to sit by him during spelling tests. I signed my name in my own "cursive" at the bottom of his paper when I got to correct it, resisting the urge to leave a heart at the end of Martha in red pencil. I was somewhat smarter than he, but I was OK with that. He never had to stay in from recess. That would have taken him out of the running most definitely.

We would exchange longing glances from across the room all throughout the day, and every night, I was convinced he snuck out of his house to come peek in my window while I was asleep. Much too young to take such lovelorn journeys on our own, I imagined his sister accompanied him. In anticipation of such visits, I would leave my bottom blind open just enough that he could see me sweetly slumbering, dreaming of him. To ensure such a dreamy state, I would fall asleep thinking, Trevor. Trevor. Trevor. Turning to my right side, I pulled my hair around my ear, clasped my hands as if I was praying and tucked them under my ear. I tried as hard as I could to fall asleep with a smile on my face. Trevor. Trevor. Trevor. Left leg crossed over right, I was determined not to move. I imagined what I looked like through the window. I imagined I looked oh so lady-like and demure in my Lanz flannel nightgown. He was bound to take one look at me, with my endearing (and hopefully enduring) smile and fall even more helplessly and hopelessly in love with the girl who knew "cursive" in first grade. How could he not?! I slept like an angel. Or, so I thought.

I would awake each morning to my alarm clock and find my nightgown up around my waist, hair resembling some sort of bird's nest, and a bed that looked like Max from Where the Wild Things Are "let the wild rumpus start" atop my bed in the moonlit hours of the night. I was devastated and determined; determined the remedy my nighttime ritual. So, night after night, I'd climb in bed, curl my hair around my ear, press my hands in praying position and fall fast asleep to thoughts of a boy in black stone washed jeans.

Last night I slept with my hair down. When I pulled my comforter up to my chin, it was tightly wound in a black elastic as it always is. But, in a moment of nostalgia, in some sort of gesture to the past, I slipped the elastic down my straight hair and set it on my nightstand. I pulled it all to one side, turned over to face the wall to the right, tucked my hands between my cheek and my pillow and tried not to move.

I have no idea where Trevor ended up. I was madly in love with Brad by the time Leopard's Lair soccer started in the Spring. I remember the timing so well only because Brad's dog chewed through my yellow soccer socks, and, instead of being mad, I was a bit giddy his dog picked my socks over my best friend's. (She liked Brad, too.)

Isn't it true...that fashion trends come back around? The latest J. Crew catalog has girls and guys with pegged jeans. My brother has been wearing black jeans since fall. They're not quite the stone-washed variety, but they're close. I'll keep my eyes out for the next Trevor. Until then, it's blinds closed, and hair up.

Home Sweet Home

I am honored to be a part of the YTS. Unfortunately, my writing can't hold a candle to the other members, but I will give it a go. The first thing I have to let everyone know is: PARTY AT MY HOUSE IN THREE WEEKS! I truly mean house. Our offer on this house was accepted yesterday, and we will close in a few weeks. I am so excited to have my own house. Actually the house is a bonus, its the garage, and dishwasher I am most excited about.

The house is in Daybreak. It is a neighborhood in South Jordan that was modeled after the Harvard/Yale area. Most importantly, there are not a lot of stucco houses. It's mostly brick and clapboard. There are tons of parks, a swimming pool, hot tubs, a fitness center, temple, basketball courts, sand volleyball courts, and more. We have been looking for a house in the area for almost two years and are excited to move.

Yale Avenue holds so many dear and fond memories. One of my favorite's was when Romney and I were skateboarding (on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles boards) down Yale. OK, confession. When we skated down the street, we sat on the skateboards. It was way more fun than standing up. I got the bright idea to go down backwards and ended up wedged under Mr. Stirbas Toyota Camry with a broken collar bone. I later ended up purchasing said Camry that so kindly snapped my collar bone. I will never forget Gypsies, Pioneers, and Bob Ross. All of these are fine Yale Avenue memories.

Until next time

Live, Laugh, Love

I have been cleaning my room. My room hasn't been cleaned since we moved into this house but I'm making progress. It has been an exhausting euphoria to organize my past 16 years...or probably 23 years, if I think about it. I save everything. Everything. Eleanor's first bandaid? check. My mom's 35th birthday present she never received? check. Every single note I have passed since 6th grade, locked in a safe in case Mr. Hatch or my mom try to read them? check. Among the credit card offers (circa. 1998) and paper towels I saved because they had recipes printed on them (just in case I ever wanted to cook...oh wait, I found my cookbook too...and it still has just one recipe in it: instant jello pudding), I discovered a gem. I found an obituary I cut out when I was eleven or twelve, just because I loved it. The faded black and white picture of an old woman laughing is captioned with three words: Lived, Laughed, Loved. In the margin was a scribbled note in my childish cursive: 'idea for obituary'. Obviously, I learned from my mother who made little notes on everything...to do lists on napkins or ideas for gifts in the margins of magazines. Random newspaper clippings still pile up on my nightstand with information and ideas relevant to me and my life: Curvy Body Types, sunscreen, and my personal favorite 'My Conversion to Eternal Marriage'. I illustrated my childish wisdom by cutting out the obituary and pausing to think about how I want to live. So now, I can't help but analyze my life progress in these three areas of living, laughing and loving. I obviously have room for improvement but I hope I've earned those words beneath my obituary. And I hope in most of my pictures I’m smiling and laughing. I keep remembering that line from Serendipity: The Greeks didn't write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died: "Did he have passion?"
Isn’t that everyone’s quest…to find their purpose? Finding what you love to do the most, searching for what gives your life meaning. Being in tune with who you really are and living a life of purpose. I used to think that I needed to find my passion or my calling in life but I don’t think passion is an end point or single extremity; it is ever evolving. It’s not always an isolated fervor, but motivated by countless people and ideas. Most often, the fulfillment of dreams is not achieved through glamorous serendipity but humble perseverance. I feel most alive during the trivial moments: playing stair-ball with Eleanor, late night chats with Annie or laughing with Richard and Romney. So at the end of my life, if my greatest contribution to the world is a completed family tree of Days of Our Lives and a recording of me singing all the wrong lyrics, I’ll still be happy.

Not trying to impose..

My Dear Yale Girls--

I just want to say that I realized just barely tonight that my week of posting has passed (even before I realized it was my turn) and like Katherine, this is also my first post on a blog ever. I found Annie's post to be quite thought provoking and thought about all the little lies that I tell to myself seemingly to accept my flaws a little bit better. And though for the moment I think that I don't care, I really do, just like she said.

In closing I just want to admit that I would have not had any idea of what to post this last week so its probably good that I didn't realize it was my turn.. But next time around.. It will be a good one. :)

The Truth: Exposing our Lies

After spending quite some time with a downright liar, I found myself thinking, "What a gross person! I hate liars." This was followed by, "I am such an honest person," repeated to myself over and over again. However, before long God played a humbling filmreel of my past. The Best of Annie-Lies featured a biting yet enjoyable bit of memories such as the time I announced to my boyfriend's family that "Yes," the words flowed without any cognitive or moral approval, "I have met Matt Damon. He is really down-to-earth." I have never met Matt Damon.

Of course, those types of bogus lies have an endearing childlike, "I-own-a-unicorn" innocence to them. They are the social lies. Each untruth pads our bruised egos and helps us to survive when we feel inadequate. Although still a LIE, these untruths pale in comparison to the moral lies; and those whoppers haunt us. We remember times of "No, I didn't break it," perhaps moments of cheating on a test and--hopefully not--moral lies like infidelity. We crossed the line of right and wrong but cowered at the chance to realize our step.

However, self-lies stand out as the most potent category of dishonesty. We all do it. I do not know how, but we do it. Even though we subconsciously fabricate falsehoods and then regurgitate those same lies to ourselves--the creators--we sit there as credulous victims. I would argue that some of my most spiritually deadly and emotionally paralyzing maladies grow out of self-lies. I find that I silently broadcast white lies in my personal corridors, "You look great." or "I like raw carrots." or "I want to run a marathon some day." All lies. "I don't care" is my most sneeky one. This lie reverberates hundreds of times in my heart and in my mind. I really do care. Months after the fact, I admit to myself that I did care that someone said my dress was ugly or that I did not understand a scripture or that I missed the big moment. I cared. So why do I feed those lines to myself? Why are we so afraid of our true selves? (the one who hates carrots and would rather die than run 26.2 miles) I think it is because we fail to love ourselves fully enough. So instead, it seems easier to love the pretend self. Funny thing though....in the process we lose our own self-trust and self-confidence; therefore we love ourselves less after lying.

Whether pertaining to social, moral, spiritual, emotional, etc. insecurities, the act of poking out our own eyes--by lying--not only blinds our vision of self but distorts our entire view of the world. What we believe about ourselves makes up who we actually are; and that changes how we treat others. Now I grapple with the question: How do we expose ourselves for the liars that we really are? It is the total Sunday School answer: we need to recognize our mistake. Exposing ourselves to ourselves seems a bit like a grainy Judge Judy episode. But after a couple of painful rip-off-the-bandaids it starts to hit you how self-lying is really ludicrious and how liberating it is to flay those "protections."

As I have tried to start exposing myself to myself, I feel freer and more confident. The process feels like that rare time when you glance at your buck-naked imperfections in the mirror and instead of thinking, "Eww. I hate my body," you let a laugh out saying, "I love myself."

"Everyone has a hobby, right? You're mine."

Annie doesn't know this yet but, since it's her turn, I have decided to blog for her today. This is officially my first ever blog post. And it makes me want to cry. That may have something to do with the fact that I have been watching Hallmark Christmas movies for the past week (which, btw, are wonderful; very mk&a-ish). Or it may have to do with the fact that I have finally overcome my fears of inadequacy to recognize that I will never be among the caste of "Erudites" and our vast readership may never have to use a dictionary to understand my wall posts. As the famous Canadian professor Avril Lavignestein once said, and I quote: "Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?". Her eloquent thoughts mirror mine exactly. After decades of hiding behind the moonshadows of Martha Keats Fetzer, Annie Dostoevstevens and E. Forster Rhoundeau, yours truly, Kat WintourMeyerLovelace Stevens is here. And since I'm here, I'd like to suggest some topics to write about: recent time abroad in China, Italy, France, Provo, etc., the holidays, red signs hanging in windows or going out to sizzler. Can't wait!

redux.

Exactly one year ago this month we met in this little corner of the internet, brought together by the beauties of modern technology and some good old-fashioned hot chocolate conversation in front of a winter fire. In the beginning, such joy! News! Laughter! Wisdom! Tears. We were eager to share, so happy to listen. At least, until about March.

Not much has happened since then.

So let's try this again, shall we? There are emails in your inboxes as I type---with some Back to Basics instructions for what is sure to be one of our Best Years Yet. All that's left to do is a little magic from the rest of you. Ready?

On your marks

get set