Planting Heaven

My assignment has come,
My call is sure,
I will go willingly
And continually endure.

The sweat on my face,
The dirt on my shoes,
I commit to press on
Undeterred by scratch or bruise.

God saw my blue eyes
And looked into my soul,
And there he saw goodness--
Someone who could be whole.

"I'll send you to Africa,"
He said with elation,
"Where you will change lives
And help others to salvation."

You may be an imperfect
Servant to me
But you are planting heaven--
A reaper you'll be.

And when the reaping
Is finished and through
You'll leave your heart in Africa
When you say adieu*. 

*In Joseph Smith's day this word was defined as a farewell; an expression of kind wishes at the parting of friends’ [meaning that I commend you to God]. 

The Imperfection in our Luminous Sphere of Plasma

Yesterday, I may or may not have spent half of my day starting and finishing "The Fault in Our Stars" by John Green. Ok, I confess. I relented to the tear-jerker of a trailer and read the semi-predictable book that inspired it. Obviously I was intrigued enough to finish it in one day (which could debatably be a result of finishing "The Kite Runner" yesterday and needing a little teenage romance to get me out of my beautifully depressed slump.  "The Kite Runner" was good, by the way--not all heavy and scarring. The redemption at the end (spoiler alert) redeemed it).  

I have to admit I laughed out loud quite a few times while reading the book as well as felt a few pangs in my heart but what drew me in wasn't the love story of two dying cancer patients. It was the intelligent and clever words that flowed from Hazel's brain--her effortless ability to mush fabulous diction together into an interesting and genuinely humorous response. And the way Augustus took every idea in his hands, rolled it around, and questioned every angle. He found the metaphor in everything. And it was absolutely normal to have an intense discussion on the topic of scrambled eggs sequestered to breakfast time. 

I would claim they were both intellectually adorable. Though they didn't conform to the normal teenagery stereotype, they were passionate about things enough to pursue them notwithstanding the cancer cells eating away her lungs and his bones. They didn't really need to travel all the way to Amsterdam to meet their favorite author but their passion took them there.

Don't hate me but there might be spoilers coming up so if you don't want the book spoiled stop reading...now.

I know this is a fictional book (as explicitly stated by John Green before the book even begins) but I closed the book not feeling sad that Gus died or angry that Peter Van Houten ended up being an alcoholic bum but wondering where I could find me a Hazel Grace or an Augustus Waters. In an absolutely platonic way I was in love with their brains and I closed the book envying their intellectually adorableness down to the last page. 

As ridiculous as it sounds being a full-time college student and preparing for a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I feel like I am missing something really essential. I'm not pursuing anything I'm passionate about right NOW and it's unhealthy for my generally passionate heart. I know we don't all have the pleasure of pursuit every moment of our lives--sometimes relenting to the monotony is what we have to do to keep ourselves alive and stuff--but dreaming a dream and realizing it passionately makes life a little less cancer-ridden and a little more "adventure to Amsterdam"-ish. 

I don't know whether I'll take up water colors or start taking writing more seriously or get in the car and pursue the horizon but whatever it is I want to be a little more like Hazel Grace and amidst the TV marathons I want to really, really love something to the point that it's mine.

Live passionately, my dear friends.

Timeless

Her lips were cherry red.
His hands were shaking.
The observant nurse said,
"Is this your first baby?"
"She's actually our eleventh".

They were as excited as first-time parents,
enough so that he [the professional photographer]
forgot how to use his camera.
The moment had finally come.

She patiently labored.
Their shiny infant was born. 
Though only hours old,
she smiled her first smile in that hospital room.

A Love Story

He was unmistakable. He lit up the world the moment he peaked out of the covers in the morning until he laid his head down at night. Even on cloudy days his light would shine through to lift the world in its dreary wonder. None compared to his effulgence. He underestimated his power.

She was unnoticed. But against the darkness that engulfed everything she held up her quiet light. Though surrounded by many, she felt she didn't connect. She admired his bright intelligence and his warmth. She couldn't help but notice that inspiration and beauty grew with each burst of laughter.

And so the moon fell in love with the sun. 

She shyly cherished the way gardens leaned towards him and people basked in his incandescence; the way photographers blinked their shutters at his beautiful "good nights" and lovers blinked their passionate eyes at his stunning "good mornings". He changed every life he touched. 

"My quiet light will never be noticed by his brillance," she thought. He was just too genuinely good. But fate was on the moon's side. Their paths crossed in one exquisite eclipse. 

And so the moon came in front of the sun. 

His view of life was quite altered that day. Where once his sights had been set on seeing the world, all he could see was her--the way she influenced the tide and the patience in which she listened to the lone wolf cry. 

He loved her imperfections and her inconsistencies almost as much as the romance she graced the world with. She didn't know just how much goodness she brought about and he treasured her humble existence. 

And so the sun fell in love with the moon.

And so the universe sighed and was pleased.

Yearning for the past, Ready for the future

I could feel the exhaustion in my gut as the music 
intoxicated my mind. 
The flashing lights were a sort of hypnosis 
but they did not let me forget the dizziness that 
permeated every limb and the 
desperation that filled every particle. 
"40 seconds!" 
Strangers' sweaty bodies pushed up against mine and 
I looked up to the kaleidoscope of flesh and colors 
and I wanted to run. 
As hard as my feeble mind was yearning, 
the seconds would not pause to take a breath or pay respect; 
they barreled forward like brutish warriors, 
forging a path through a thorny wood. 
"Here we go! 10, 9, 8..." 
Wait. 
What about the magic and the love and the heartbreak? 
What about the memories 
and the high that life gave me on the regular? 
What about the friendship and the endless starry nights? 
What of who this era has made of me? 
"7, 6, 5..." 
Tears threatened to erupt but I held them in for the sake of the
strangers. 
"4, 3, 2..." 
Tender look between friends. 
"1, HAPPY NEW YEAR!" 
And the moment vanished like smoke in my calloused hands. 
I swallowed down a dose of disappointment with 
fireworks and snow 
and it all mixed together in my exhausted gut. 
I let it marinate. 
And the sourness of the blow was 
transformed by the lights in the sky 
and a little voice said, 
"The best is yet to come". 
The memories of the past may be buried 
by particles of soil made up of every fleeting moment 
but they are seeds that will grow in the secret garden 
walled by my tenacious ribcage. 
They will grow with the light of the new year 
until they shoot out my toes and heels and change 
the very nature of who I am. 
And they will propel me forward in search 
of even greater seeds to plant 
and even greater views to breath-take.   

Because let's be honest. Longing for the past is about as satisfying as yawning with a broken jaw. Negative satisfaction. I would know.

Dear Brother Joseph,

    Words cannot express the eternal gratitude I have for you. How little you understood as you entered that grove and how great the mantle you carried as you stepped out. Your vision was magnificent and you were ridiculed for what you saw, but you knew it, you knew that God knew it, and you could not deny it. Your suffering was not in vain, Brother Joseph, because I know it too and despite the turmoil and confusion of this ever-changing world, I absolutely cannot deny it. 
    They say that men try to change the world with battles, but when God wants to change the world he sends a baby. On December 23, 1805, he sent you on the darkest day of the year, just as light began to come back to the earth. You were the light. You were the instrument that has made it possible for millions to have the gospel--even all the earth. Can those two words suffice? Thank you? They are so minute compared to the expansive, everlasting, eternal blessings you have given me the opportunity to partake of. 
    Through you, I have come to better know my Father in Heaven and that it's ok to ask questions. You've taught me to have an eternal perspective and to endure trials well. Your example has shown me the way to be a steadfast, stalwart disciple of Jesus Christ. I love you. And as I reflect upon all the suffering and sacrifice you undertook, I can also feel your burning pride for this generation that is rising to be a force of good in all nations. Your endurance brought this to pass and I want you to know that I will be joining that force soon. 
    O, the joy you must be filled with in the kindgom of our Father. And though these words are feeble, as am I, thank you. I'm proud that you are my heritage. You are a great and noble man and if every man were like you, without a doubt, the very powers of hell would be shaken forever. Happiest of birthdays to you.

    Love always,

    Michaela Maurine

I've gotten into the habit of writing on this blog when I'm upset and I need to be heard. I guess cyberspace is a pretty good listening ear. But I think I have mis-informed my readers (if I have any). I have been representing myself in a cryptic, deep, dark, dramatic kind of way and I realized that's not what I want to be. That's not who I am. And that's not what I'm advocating.

Yes, I am sometimes cryptic. To most people that know me, I am the girl that will tell you anything because I am so open. If you ask me about my life I will disclose my whole heart to you. But in reality, I don't disclose myself to almost anyone. I can count on one hand the people that really know me. Sure, I will tell you any story you want to hear and if you ask I will tell you even the deepest part of my heart, but my soul is still pretty untouched. My crypticness stems from a longing to be known. I guess that really doesn't make sense at all. I'm still trying to figure myself out.

Yes, I am deep. Wow. That felt good to say. I don't claim to be the most knowledgable, interesting person on the planet, but I have a constant flow of deep things in my mind and I want to share them. My little neurons are just trying to comprehend how to get these thoughts out in an effective, pleasing way.

Yes, I am sometimes dark. Not in a Satanic, evil kind of way, but in a focus on the negative. It is just so easy to feel upset and turn to the pen for some relief. And then I end up hitting "Publish" because I think my writing seems kind of beautiful and then people think I am weighed down and depressed. 

Yes, I can be dramatic. Like right now for example. "Look at me! I am so misunderstood and mysterious!"

But all of this isn't the essence of who I am. This is who I am:

I am a human trying to understand herself through writing. I am a girl trying to develop her talents. I am a chaser of light. I am a seeker of good things and satisfying connection. I am a friend and a counselor. I am positive even when there isn't a clear solution. I am a baby and I get scared sometimes. I am strong and I can face hard things with my chin up. I have an undeniable testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I am content with who I am. 

I can't tell you that I won't post any more sad things on this blog. Writing is my outlet. And hard things do happen. But I can tell you that I am a happy person and I want to represent myself more accurately. The truth is, happy people are flippin' attractive and there is nothing that can replace a joyful heart.

Me as a wee lass. Haven't changed a bit.