It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart ~ Finnick Odair

This has potential to be an angsty, jumbled post.  But I feel the need to write, so write I shall.  It’s not about anything specific, just thoughts I’ve had swimming around in my mind this week.

Memories are a tricky thing.  Both a blessing and a curse.  Sometimes the memories you want to hold on to the most seem to wisp away, and the memories you want to lose forever seem to throw themselves against you every chance they get.  Those can be annoying, exhausting, painful, stupid, pointless, frustrating – all things you would rather not have to deal with in life.  Or they can be wonderful, they can make you laugh out loud in a silent room because you remembered something, they can make you smile when you are down, they can help you remember why you went through something and why you are better because of that experience. 

I think one of the main ways the devil attacks me is by throwing old, unwanted memories into my mind when I least expect it.  He’ll use things from as far back as middle school.  I already have an amazing memory; I was dubbed Memory Girl by my friend Bek, but sometimes being Memory Girl sucks.  The devil knows this.  The devil uses this. He knows that memories and words can influence how I feel.  He likes when I hurt.  He likes it when my heart throbs painfully.  He likes it when self doubt creeps in to my thoughts.   He likes that I feel weak and embarrassed because it’s hard to forget sometimes.  He knows I tend to associate places with memories and sometimes those places can feel tainted because of the memories.  It’s hard when a good memory becomes painful because the person or place or thing associated with it has left a bad taste in your mouth.   Which then makes me feel absolutely dumb because really, nothing should have that much influence over how you feel about something.  But I can’t help it sometimes.  It’s overwhelming sometimes.  I feel like breaking sometimes.

But I have a hero who will fight for me when the not so great memories threaten to break me down.  I have called upon my hero so many times I sometimes fear I am annoying to Him.  But every time I need Him, He is there to throw a shield up around my mind and I feel like He sets up angels to aide and protect me.  He never fails me.  Never.

And so I know the devil and his unwanted memories won’t drag me down for long.  I know I will be rescued by my Savior.   I know that sometimes bad memories turn into memories that don’t sting anymore.   That sometimes you can look back on annoying and frustrating times and see the good from them when in the moment it all seemed hopeless, that sometimes memories of betrayal and hurt really do fade away and are lost forever, and that places that felt “tainted” go back to being just places. 

I also know that because my Savior loves me more that I deserve, I will be okay.  I know that I am a princess in His kingdom and His plan for me is more than I can imagine.  I know that the angst and worry and the sadness I feel will pass.   Because clearly things that can drag me down are not God’s best for me.  I deserve better and every time I cry out to my Lord, he shows me that.  He holds me together.  He has placed wonderful friends and family in my life who love and support me though everything. And  He gave me my equine soul mate.   I am unbelievably blessed.  Unbelievably lucky.

So thank you Father.  Thank you for protecting me, for loving me, for blessing me in more ways than I can imagine.  Thank you for fighting for me and soothing my fears away.   Thank you for understanding everything we go through because you were human and felt these crazy emotions too.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.


Mischief Managed


F.Y.I. You Can’t Pick Your Boogers at the Opera

Me: “Daddy, you’re not supposed to pick your boogers at the opera are you?”

Dad: “No, you’re not.”

Me: “No, that’s a rule.”

And thus began my love affair with one of the greatest musical genres known to mankind, opera. A strange beginning one might think, but taking into consideration I was a mere five years old, a tender little sproutlet, that sort of thought process is acceptable. At least, I hope you would agree. When you really give it due consideration, I believe it is commendable that such a small child would even enquire after the proper etiquette required for such an elegant occasion. Sufficient booger pickage is just as important as posture, dress, applause, and such. I didn’t want to shame my parents. We were, after all, attending a recital of our landlord’s wife. Just think how awful it would have been had she, in the midst of her aria, looked down to see her serf’s child rooting around for a large cache of gold. She already knew of my eccentricities. Whilst dining in their home on a separate occasion, I had noticed the dainty pickle fork conveniently placed within my reach. Immediately I had decided the time was nigh for dazzling the dinner guests with my impersonation skills. My spot on rendition of Ariel-uses-utensils-for-the-first-time was a sight to behold. I learned that night, pickle forks weren’t designed for combing one’s hair… No, No, I couldn’t disgrace my family again. So, I resorted to being content with the state of my nasal content and became completely enthralled with the wonder that was before me.

Some time before while watching Sesame Street I was made aware of a curious style of singing. As Kermit the frog harmonized with two heifers, I took note of their voices. What was that melodic wobbly noise I heard!? The effect was rather pleasant. I was perplexed. Be they angels? I had to know more! From thence forth I set out upon a mission to make my voice wobble in the same manner. At first the attempts were disastrous, sounding something akin to a yowling cat being beaten with a rug beater (greatness has to start somewhere). Over time the yowling turned into underwater warbles and the underwater warbles turned to something resembling that of the desired goal, a vibrato.

With the recital fresh in my mind, I threw myself headlong into forming my meager warble into a full blown operatic vibrato. As I became increasingly successful I knew my destiny was set. I was born to be an opera star. Talent such as mine was meant to be shared! And share it I did.

 Music time in kindergarten was never the same. A true opera singer sat in the midst of Barney’s buddy wannabes. “You can sing everybody clean up? Well, I can sing Queen of the Night! You can spell red? Well, I can spell Rossini! You blithering idiots.” (My words exactly, to be sure.)

Staircases were meant to be ascended and descended in crescendos and decrescendos of glory!

Delusions of grandeur flitted before my eyes. The glamour knew no bounds. Silk and satin were made for me. Jewels dripped from my body. Oh the lavish life my mind concocted!

But soon other notions caught my fancy and I neatly tucked my opera obsession up on a shelf. I merely tucked it away, mind you. My love was never fully extinguished.

Almost a year ago, I snatched my little obession off the shelf, gave it a good dusting, and once more let it have free reign over my musical heart. Now, more than ever, I have become a true believer in the beauty, passion, and wonder that is opera

Opera my love, never again shall I forsake thee! I will sing you once more! We shall pass through this life as bosom companions. I give you my word.

Yours Truly – M

My Lightbulb is a Bully

Last Wednesday I went with my siblings to go see Ben, Duncan, and Dave from The Buried Life.  It was an awesome evening and we got to meet them for a quick second after they spoke.  Suffice it to say, my love for them has only increased after listening to them talk.  And when they met us after, they were so, so nice and Dave even said he liked what I was wearing. We took a picture with them and then went along our merry way.


When I got home, I decided to organize my nightstand and while I was moving some stuff, I accidentaly set my arm across the top of my lamp.  It took a second for my mind to register that my flesh was buring, and when it finally registered, I was stuck with this:


The next morning I was happy because I thought it looked a little bit better:(ignore the fact that my wrist looks broken, I don’t know what was going on with that)


On Friday it got scratched by a sweet little puppy named Chloe. 


And today (Monday) it looks like this:


I don’t know if it is healing, but I do know that the moral of the story is this: nothing good from trying to clean and be organized. 

So there.  🙂

Mischief Managed