Foundations

My brother Tucker paid me a high compliment this week. In telling him that I may go back to school to get an MBA, he responded, "Well, Kell, you know you never do anything half ass, so I'm sure it'll work out great." I thought a lot about what he said and appreciated how he viewed me. He believed I lived "pedal to the medal"—not necessarily in the context of speed, but in commitment.

And at the end of the day, it's true, and I'm willing to pay myself that compliment. I am committed. I am committed to my family. I am committed to my friends. I am committed to health. I am committed to searching out, and refining within myself, genuine goodness. But when this philosophy starts to fall apart for me is when the future is so uncertain that I'm unsure where my footsteps should lie and how safe it is to tie myself to so many unknown variables. But the truth is, I can. And the ingredients to do it are this: faith and hope. Sometimes these two principles to me are like clouds, these light, happy, fluffy things we talk about to keep us from giving up. But really, they are the earth instead. Hope and faith (coupled with commitment) are the foundation of a fully lived life. While we can't see them, touch them, or taste them, they are more solid than anything we can currently reach out and hold. And most importantly, they are as solid as we decide them to be.

So here's to my commitment to a future that is new and unknown, but always grander than I imagine. And here's to walking toward it all on the unshakeable foundation of faith and hope.

Culinary Journey

For whatever reason, I sometimes get squeamish talking about food, weight, and fitness outside of a few choice people. The reason is, different things work for different people. Few fitness programs or eating plans can be applied to multiple people without personal adjustments being made. I think the cornerstone to good health (the part we can control) is learning about ourselves and what we like, first and foremost. What healthy foods do I like to eat? what unhealthy foods do I like to eat and when do I usually eat them? what form of exercising do I actually like to do and what time of day is best for me? We are the only people who can answer these questions.

These thoughts come as I make some big changes this year. I scrapped my old workouts for others that have me challenged and energized. Most importantly, I swapped my old way of eating, which was often unplanned and half-hearted, for the kind of eating that requires me to do dishes four times on a Saturday (not an exaggeration). I decided to educate myself, to review my eating and make a plan for my health—the kind of plan that involves a lifetime of learning and loving to cook, eat, and to keep moving. Every day is a game of chess that I play with myself: finding a delicious recipe and making it healthy or finding a dessert that makes your mouth water but has only natural ingredients.

So here is to the adventure of finding our personal path to health, our own road to renewed energy and sustained eating. And if you'd like to be a part of my adventure, I have created a new page on my blog for Clean Eating, which is my new philosophy. Every week I try new recipes and will report!

Blinders

Sometimes I find myself walking around like the saddest horse there ever was: Black Beauty. I walk heavy footed with blinders over my eyes, aware only of my own frustrations. But as soon as I take off my blinders and spend a few minutes adjusting to the new bright and unselfish light, I can usually see someone who's feeling the same or worse than me.

As a single gal, some activities are just more lonesome. Going to the Saturday night session of stake conference, for instance, or a too-long Sunday afternoon. And while I actually do "alone" pretty damn well, I'm not immune to moments where I wish things were a little different. Last week, in light of those activities I mentioned, I decided to look around for someone who might be feeling the same as me. Not surprisingly, I found someone. A phone call led to a simple pre-stake conference dinner (simple, because I'm still learning to cook), someone to sit next to at the meeting, and then the idea to take a long walk together on Sunday afternoon. Two people were helped, and one was me.

The fact is, the world is full of people, despite our sometimes feeling alone. And the second we unfold our arms and raise our eyes, we can usually see someone to wrap our arms around and someone to make eye contact with. The simple gesture of removing our blinders and seeing past what we often think is most important (a.k.a. ourselves) helps us to see what is always true: there's someone needing something more than you.

Laundry Night

Last night, after a workout so brutal the gym owners walked around wiping sweat off the floors while people dripped from their pushup positions, I took a pealed orange, a fresh copy of The Hobbit (a first time read), and a huge bundle of clothes to the local laundry mat. Being able to do four loads of laundry in under two hours is quickly becoming my new favorite thing. I like the quiet time to read, and if that ever gets old, I look out of the huge frosted windows at the people walking around.

Few people who come to the laundry mat know each other, but quick relationships are formed in sharing quarters, borrowing dryer sheets, and like last night, working on the broken change exchange machine. I laughed with strangers as we pooled together our money so that a designated runner could go to another laundry mat to get us all quarters; we laughed again when someone new walked into use our change machine and it began to miraculously work. The four of us—an old woman in pink sweatpants, a young Asian student, a recently immigrated Kenyan, and myself—stood around the folding tables talking about the weather in Utah, the culture and the religion, and how hard it is to go to school and work at the same time. Outside of the laundry mat, I would never have told my life stories to these people, nor heard theirs. Still, for a night, we enjoyed our unexpected conversations with the hum of the dryers as background music.

The truth is, every day when we walk out our doors, we have an opportunity to experience something new if we want to. They may not be the experiences we were hoping to have—in fact, they may be nothing short of weird. But I am starting to believe that the weird and the unexpected add the most color to life.

Another Year Older

It's true, I don't do this for everyone's birthday (on purpose actually, as I deliberately don't set my own bar too high), but I couldn't resist celebrating a big, big birthday this week. As of Wednesday, my larger than life Dad is 75. And instead of bringing in his birthday at home with a ski day at Snowbasin and a fancy meal fixed by my mother, he is almost exactly halfway around the world surrounded by vanilla beans, mangos, and geckos he occasionally vacuums up. For him, I am going to share three memories.

Memory une. When my Dad had back problems years ago, he would walk up and down our street because it made him feel better to be in motion (imagine that). I still remember the way his loose Chaco sandals sounded as they scuffed on the pavement. I don't remember any particular conversations, only his invitations that I walk with him anytime I was home.

Memory deux. My Dad still sports a Velcro headband with a Hawaiian print when he works in the yard. And the widest, old school brown belt you'll ever see. He mows the lawn like someone is holding a fire torch to his heels. And he used to throw his awful socks in my face when he was done.

Memory trois. I remember my Dad coming to check me out of school early when I was in high school. He was wearing a checkered, light pink dress shirt with a beautiful tie and slacks. Even at 16 years old, I knew that he was sharp dresser. And I felt proud.

Here's to another 25 years of that great headband, Padre.

Power of Presence

In the past week, three very sad things have happened to people I know. And while hearing about trials is not at all the same as living through them, those of us bystanders feel their ache and are left wondering what to do, how to reach out, and when to simply let things breathe.

In thinking about this the last few days, my mind keeps recycling back to an essay I read from "This I Believe," a collection of personal papers gathered by NPR in the 1960s and 2000s. In one essay titled "The Power of Presence," a woman wrote about hearing that her good friend's mother had died and her conflict in not wanting to intrude on her friend's grief while also not wanting to leaving her alone with it. Someone finally told the woman to go to the hospital, to just be there with her friend. Since that moment, the woman wrote, "I have not hesitated to be in the presence of others for whom I could 'do' nothing. 'Being with' another person carries with it a silent power. [I am] repeatedly struck by the healing power of connection created by being fully there in the quiet understanding of another. In it, none of us are truly alone."

However much we'd like, sometimes there is nothing we can do for someone who is hurting; we can only be. We cannot remove their deep ache or real fears; we can only bear those feelings alongside them, as a silent but fully present companion.

So here is to our efforts to help those we love—not by removing what they feel, but by standing by them while they feel it.

I Hope

As I am sure most of us are, I am still gathering my thoughts for the new year. Most everyone I speak to has this tangible, yet unexplainable feeling that 2013 will bring great things, like we can almost taste it in the air. Some people I know will be having babies; some want their businesses to thrive; some want to make more of a difference where they're serving; some want to finish the year in love, to bring in 2014 by someone's side.  

 

I too feel hopeful for the coming year. Maybe some things will change; maybe nothing will change; maybe some tough times are ahead. But taking the words from my favorite story, "Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies." So maybe the best thing we can take into the new year, whether the wishes we squeeze tight in our chests come true or not, is sustained hope. Hope for happiness; hope for goodness to come to the people we love; hope that the things we want most in our lives will be closer to our attainment or, in their continued absence, that we will feel peace. And most importantly, hope that we'll take every opportunity, ride every roller coaster twice, so that we can look back 12 months from now and know we did our best. Or, even more, that we lived our best.

 

"I find I am so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it is the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain...I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams...

....I hope."