There Is No B

This past week for my late birthday present my friend took me to Painting With a Twist. We had chosen to paint a scene of two cranes siloutted in flight against a red moon. The painting is called Hope. And that's what it gave me. Not the painting itself, per say, but the experience.



We were the only two in the class and so we got to chatting with our instructor, a smiley blond that reminded me of a gum-drop (don't ask why). She asked us about what we were doing and what we were studying, and it was the second time I realized how different we are, my friend and I.
"So how did you meet?" she asked us.
It was then that the full weight of it hit me: without Mandarin, we wouldn't have. We've always lived on opposite ends of campus, and would never have taken a class together otherwise.
I remember one day within the first semester we had met as I walked her to class and she talked of horror films and Marvel while I spoke of Aristotle and orchestra pieces, realizing how different we were. And so for the longest time, I assumed it was Chinese that held our paths together.
Lately, though, with a little bit of heart ache, and a huge breath of relief, I have come to the realization that isn't it at all.

This realization first came to me late one night as I walked around south provo in my pajama pants and slip on sneakers, talking on the phone with my friend. Although on the mission I often despised having someone over my shoulder almost literally 24/7, since coming home, I have found more than ever, a constant desire to talk with people, and a much more frequent (though still not constant) desire to be with them. I realize though that this can't always be reciprocated, even by those who mean me the best. And this was the subject of our discussion that night.
"If I ever need space," she said, in effect, "I'll let you know."
She paused. "Does that frighten or comfort you?"
"What, the idea of a warning?"
"Yeah."
"Both." It's true it held some comfort, except that in all honesty it wasn't frightening--it was terrifying.
"Why?" she asked, and I struggled to explain.
"Let's say the warning is A," I said at last. "And then let's say that B is the point at which you push me away forever. The point of no return, we'll call it. Well, it's comforting to have A because then I'm much less likely to reach B. But it's frightening because when I reach A, I know that B is that much closer."

We talked for a few minutes more. Me, expressing my fears, my friend subsequently coming to an understanding. At last she said the words that haven't left my mind since that night.
"You've got it all wrong," she said. "There is no B." 

I wanted to believe her. It was such a beautiful thought. But as much as I tried, I couldn't.
I read on the advise board at my friend's wedding reception that there are two words which must be used with much caution in any relationship. They are always and never. And this sounded much too like an always for me to trust it.

The second part of my realization came to me later that same week. I had decided that I wanted to study in China. Well, I had almost decided. The decision rested on one thing: would my friend go with me? I called her all week with no response. Walking home from campus at the end of the week, my decision still uncertain, I realized perhaps there was a reason she hadn't answered. God knew I needed to make this decision irrespective of my friend's response. This needed to be for me. I decided I'd go.
A couple minutes later, my phone rang. It was my friend. When she told me she didn't want to go to China again--she just wanted to graduate--I was honestly heart-broken.  We were on different levels of Chinese classes, and we would never go to China together. If Chinese was what held us together, we were certainly falling apart. Then came my second paradigm shift of the week. I thought about what she had said over the phone that night a week ago--there is no B--and realized Chinese did not keep us together; Chinese had brought us together. And nothing could bring us apart.

I know, that sounds a super lot like a never--or an always, depending on how you look at it. And I'll be honest always doesn't sound all that trustworthy or certain. But it is hopeful. And I have found few words so hope-filled as these: there is no B.

Candidly,
Cookie

Just Talking

“What would you have today if you had only what you had thanked God for yesterday?”

These past few days I have been reading over the emails that a friend and I sent back and forth while I was on my mission. It’s heart-warming and inspiring to remember the miracles and mercies I saw almost daily, to see how I struggled and overcame, and to recognize anew the love and prayers of family and dear friends which were, if not my foundation, in the least the walls I leaned on.

But honestly what has struck me most recently about these emails is the things I was excited to do when I came home—everything I looked forward to and everything I missed, everything I thought of and added to the after mission bucket list. There were things as small as listening to some music my friend had recommended, attending the Krishna temple worship service, watching Beauty and the Beast live action, and taking a Latin dance class. And then there were things as momentous as sitting on a wall on campus with a good friend and just talking about life. When every week I attempted to pour out my soul and experiences in one typed email I had only an hour to write, that’s what I looked forward to the most: just talking.

Honestly, looking back, most of the items on that after-mission bucket list have yet to be crossed off. There are times I wish I could go back to the mission just so I could keep dreaming about the life I might be living now. I could dream about the classes I’d take, the people I’d meet, the shows I’d watch, and the time I would have alone to read all the books waiting for me on my goodreads shelf (which, to be honest, I still just dream about).

But then gratitude stops me to take an inventory. Yes, there are things I have yet to do, but back then when I dreamt of this perfect world I’d come back to, even then, did I dream it as good as it is now? Could I have dreamt that I’d finish my first semester back with a 4.0? Could I have dreamt that I would love my chemistry class and make such good friends? Could I have dreamt of the jobs I luckily landed? Could I have dreamt of the wonderful dates I would go on, of how kind, fun, and supportive my roommates would be?

After our morning run yesterday I asked my boyfriend the question, “What would you have today if you had only what you had thanked God for yesterday?” His reply was clever, “Well, I’d start thanking him for all the things he hasn’t given me. For the million dollars that would fall from the sky, for plane tickets to Japan . . .”

I thought about that and about what I would thank him for, and I realized, quite happily, that if I were to thank him for all he hadn’t given me, there really wouldn’t be all that much to thank him for,  except for one thing. I'd thank him for the time I'd spend sitting on a wall on campus or on the grass with a friend, just talking. 

Candidly,

Cookie

Okay, so being honest, there are of course times that I have just talked with a friend, and many wonderful family and friends who do more than their share to oblige me in this insatiable desire, but in my opinion, if I could be so greedy, there could always be more.

Buying the Future

It’s strange what I have deemed fitting to finally break my prolonged silence. 

You’d think it would be when I got asked on my second date after a very impressive and enjoyable first one, when I decided my Spanish teacher was not the devil’s advocate and her class wasn’t intended to rip down all my confidence, when I finally consented to watch the first season of My Hero Acadamia at my roommate’s insistence and have since let it eat away at my nights like a welcome parasite, when I run into my old mission companions on campus, or any number of any such not-so-dull occurrences.

But no, instead it is the moment I agreed to die my hair with a friend. And I think that it will soon become apparent why.

Rachel and I both have schedules far too busy for our own good, but on this particular day we had found a barely-thirty-minute slot to meet for a quick dinner before splitting off to our separate endeavors once more.

We were sharing a piece of strawberry shortcake my roommate had left for me when Rachel commented that it reminded her of our favorite character from the last animae she hooked me on, a rather genuis black-haired detective named L.
"Remember when I did a cosplay of him?"

A little ashamedly I admitted that I just might have been looking at the pictures of it on FB the other night. Not stalkerish or anything, just that last time I talked with her we had gotten to discussing her hair and I mentioned that I had liked it best red, but then I couldn’t really remember what it had looked like black . . . (Within the first year I had known her, Rachel had four different hair colors. That's Rachel). 

Well, anyways, she agrees that she liked it best red too, but then adds that what she really wants is black with cyan tips, so I confide that I’ve always thought darker brown with dark red tips would look cool for myself.

“Do you want to dye our hair together?" She asks.

“Yeah!” I exclaim without a second thought. (I’ve been doing that a lot lately, and I should probably stop, but so far it’s been all good things.) 

The conversation moves on to other topics so that it isn’t till she is about to leave that I ask her, “So when are we dying our hair?”

“Oh, well BYU won't let us do colored tips, so it would have to wait until after graduation.”

At this I’m honestly a little frustrated. I was kinda hoping it would be within the next week or so because otherwise there is no way I’m going to hold through with this.

And then suddenly it clicks.

She had planned me into her future.

Perhaps that’s a dramatic way to view a simple conversation about a crazy idea that may or may not ever even happen, but what did happen in that moment . . .

That alone was worth breaking the piggy bank of silence to invest, with nothing more than promised words and hopeful narratives, in a cheaply bought, yet priceless future.

I Want To Be A Regular

Every Wednesday since the beginning of September has been relatively the same: I've gotten out of Orchestra rehearsal around 9:00, dropped off my French horn at the library, and walked to the temple to do vicarious baptisms for the deceased.
The kind older gentleman at the front desk greets me with a smile, "You're back!" he exclaims. "We've been waiting for you."
Sister Bingham greets me with a hug. "So good to see you," she says. "You're ten minutes early today."
"It's good to see you too," I respond. "Orchestra got out early today."

I love going to the temple; it feels like coming home.

Last month my roommate, Kenley, began coming with me. And just this past Wednesday, her friend Bekah joined us. Most of the volunteer workers at the temple recognize Kenley now.
"It's another regular," they say to Kenley, and her face lights up with a smile.
"I want to be a regular, too," Bekah says.

As I was waiting to go down to the baptismal font, Brother Minert called me by name. "It's Sister Anderson. How I love to see the regulars."
It was then that what Bekah had said really struck me.

I want to be a regular. 

I want to be a regular in heaven. When I get to there, I want the gate-keeper to exclaim, "Oh! It's a regular! So good to see you again."
I want to have come before God in prayer so often, and stood before his face and in his temples so often that He rejoices to see me again. I want to come before him so often that, when I see him again, I will recognize him. There won't be any catching up to do--no, we'll talk as though we had talked just the day before. We'll be familiar friends.
I want him to say, "Brooke. It's good to see you again. Come on in."

I think about how exciting and joyous it is to be recognized at the temple, how wonderful it is to see familiar faces that I know and love, and I want heaven to be that way too.

I want to be a regular to Him. 

Candidly,
Cookie

When Life Gives You Lemonade

We all know what to do when life gives us lemons. Some, like myself, would say to chuck them back and demand chocolate, but the rest of us are probably thinking "make lemonade," which is, of course, easier said than done.
But what about when life gives us lemonade? Obviously, you can't go backwards and make lemons. And you can't chuck it back and demand chocolate either. Now I'm making it sound like it's a bad thing to get lemonade. And it's not. But lately, life has given me a lot of it, so much so that sometimes I'm afraid I can't drink it all. I'm a little sad to say that life has given me a pitcher of lemonade, and after only a glass, I'm left to leave the rest on the table.

This past school year has been little but sweet and refreshing. Last year handed me a few lemons, and I have since squeezed their precious juice into a sugary sweet nectar. I have made some wonderful friends, I've enjoyed my classes, I'm working my two dream jobs, I've been offered a job as a research assistant and editor for one of my favorite professors, I'm volunteering as a senior editor for a linguistics journal in which I'll be published this semester, I have an incredible roommate who lives with (and in many cases feeds) my quirks, giddiness and enthusiasm—toward indexing lately, and toward life in general. And just this past week I was able to start my application to leave this summer on a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

When talking to a friend about a mission I confided in her that last year it would have been so easy to leave, because I wouldn't really have been leaving much behind. But now . . .
"Of course I still want to go, but I don't want to leave you," I told this good friend.
And then the thought occurred to me that if she is a true friend and we stay so for some time longer, it doesn't matter when I leave, for I will always be leaving a friend behind. It may seem like a rather sad thought, that I will always be leaving a friend, but it means the reverse is also true: I will always be returning to one, too.

And so when life gives me lemonade I recognize I don't have to drink it all now, because there will always be some waiting for me. Or perhaps I may return to find something even better. Perhaps I will find some sweeter, juicier lemons while I am gone. Or perhaps, if I am fortunate, I will find with my lemons some chocolate too. And then I can return to a steaming mug of hot chocolate, which beats lemonade any day.

So, when life gives you lemonade, sometimes, but not always, its best to leave some, trusting in better things to come.


Candidly,
Cookie