Since I started calling myself a feminist, I’ve experienced a fickle kind of insecurity, a heightened sensitivity to the way people perceive me, a persistent urge to launch a comprehensive reputation damage control campaign complete with regular Facebook links to articles about princesses and a Pinterest board devoted exclusively to cutely designed General Conference quotes. At times, my paranoia has been so overwhelming I’ve found myself debating whether or not I should put postage stamps that say “Equality” on birthday cards to certain friends and relatives. “They’ll read into it,” I tell myself. “It’ll solidify in their minds that I’m a crazy extremist who burns bras and hates men and turns every conversation into a soapbox.” So I cower and go with something more benign like “Liberty” and trudge along to the mailbox.

My great-grandmother was named “Man of the Year” in Utah in 1956 for her work with the National School Board Association and later served as the Dean of Women at Brigham Young University. My grandmother was one of Utah’s first female nurse practitioners. My parents raised their daughters to pursue educational goals that would do more than give us a back-up plan if something happened to our husbands. They wanted us to make ourselves useful to the world and find personal fulfillment in doing so. They wanted us to feel free to make choices that were right for us. I come from a long line of feminists. And yet, I’m not sure all of them would accept this label. “What do you think a feminist is?” I wonder. Something tainted, it seems, something that oversteps its bounds.

But to me, and I believe to a growing number of women all over the world, the definition of a feminist is simple and inclusive. Feminists are people who believe in equality and empowerment of the human spirit. Feminism, my feminism, doesn’t demand that you subscribe to a specific set of desired outcomes or conform to a predetermined agenda. It doesn’t ask that you reject a traditionally feminine lifestyle if that’s what feels right to you. It doesn’t even require that you know exactly what you think about every issue just yet. It makes room for every person to live out their feminism the human way—in complexity and contradiction—without litmus test or lashing. It simply asks that you come to the table with an open mind, united in your desire for positive change, ready to talk, to try and to make mistakes if necessary. And sometimes, it’s necessary.

But feminism is still a hazardous label, loaded with different meanings to different people. I recognize this reality, although I don’t care for it much. I’m sure there are feminists who would tell me that, based on my beliefs, I don’t belong to them, and Mormons who would say the same. But, in my humble opinion, that’s an ugly way to do business. That’s the kind of thing that leads earnest people to disassociate themselves with words like “equality” when equality is nothing to shy away from. It’s a beautiful principle—eternal, essential—and it’s stamp is found on all of God’s children, even the paranoid cowards like me.

Listening to: Cat Stevens, “If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out”

If I am a bookworm, then Trent is a tapeworm.

He listens to books on tape like they’re going out of style. (And, ironically, the phrase “book on tape” is most definitely out of style. Audiobooks, I guess? Is that better?)

He listens to them on double-speed to consume them faster. I’ve tried it myself and find it incredibly stressful and, if I’m listening while driving, dangerous. My fight-or-flight response goes into high gear. But he swears by it.

Here are Trent’s most recent recommendations.

Learn more about these books at Audible.com. (Also the image source.)

At some point, you start seeing your parents as people. You start realizing they have hopes and fears that have nothing to do with you. You start believing they have stories you haven’t heard, secrets, unfilled dreams and sex. Yep, they do. And the weirdest part of it is that it’s not that weird after all. They are people, whole people, and parenting is just a piece of the pie.

I was talking to my mom the other day and she said this: “I feel my way through life. Dad thinks his way through life.” And all my upbringing came rushing into focus. Context—somewhere along the way we piece it together. Evolution—our parents’ relationships are dichotomous organisms. Two distinct backgrounds. Two distinct brains and hearts and opinions and personalities. Two distinct people.

It’s easier to love my parents when I see them clearly. It’s easier to wrap my head around the ominous idea of parenting when I know that it will only be a slice of me—important, at times all-consuming, but still just a piece of the pie. In order to become a parent, I won’t have to transform into a selfless robot, sterile of imagination and passion. I won’t have force my round marriage into a square hole. Trent and I, we will just be ourselves with kids, better for the adventure.

How has your perception of your parents changed as you’ve gotten older? What has it taught you?

Here’s the thing about Gatsby:

It was brilliant. I was literally shaking when I walked out of the theater. Shaking. And talking really, really loud and really, really fast and embarrassing the crap out of Trent—which, by the way, is usually his domain. I’ve read all the reviews. All of them. So I can easily articulate the criticisms against the film. But, I loved it nonetheless.

The Great Gatsby is a book for the masses, at least that’s what we’ve made it to be. We require every high school student—brilliant or brain-dead—to read it and we expect them to appreciate it. The themes are so nuanced, the language so perfect—it’s concise, but weighty. Every line of dialogue is loaded with meaning. Every masterful sentence says something about the passage of time, the power of hope, money, dreams, carelessness, reputation or ambition. But the nuance is lost on most high school minds, mine included. I reread the book last week before I saw the film and it was a total revelation—15-year-old Sam had missed so much.

Bah Luhrmann and his characteristic overt, flashy style made the complex themes more accessible to us. He had an obvious respect for the text—the script and story followed Fitzgerald closely—but his in-your-face style drew the characters and the message they carried within everyone’s mental reach. Some literature-lovers might see something warped about beating the audience over the head with the story’s core message. They might mourn the abandoned subtlety. But not me. For once, I appreciated that Luhrmann, in his fantastical audio/visual wonderland, said right out what Gatsby means.

Although I was mesmerized by the casting, my one criticism is that Lurhmann did seem to glorify Jay Gatsby a bit, downplaying his screwy priorities and highlighting his innocence, but I can’t blame him too much there. The great Jay Gatsby’s powers of charisma are, for all of us, nearly impossible to resist.

Have you read it? Did you see it? What did you think?

Listening to: The Great Gatsby Original Soundtrack (Obviously.)

THIS JUST IN: Ron Swanson‘s girlfriend is Lucy Lawless, the actress formerly known as “Xena: Warrior Princess.”

If that doesn’t mean anything to you it’s probably because you tragically don’t watch Parks and Recreation (your loss) and/or you spent the late nineties in a cave of some sort. For one glorious, giddy moment, I thought I was the first person to connect the dots, but sadly, it seems the Huffington Post has out-scooped me.

What’s ironic is that I made this life-changing discovery while watching a local screening of “Girl Rising,” a beautiful documentary about girls around the world who are getting an education in the face of unbelieveable hardships, making incredible sacrifices and overcoming substantial obstacles to do it. Essentially, it’s Half the Sky, but more artistic than journalistic. The film finds the poetry in each and every story.

You really can’t miss it. Can’t emphasize that one enough. If being inspired and uplifted won’t be enough to entice you, maybe— fingers crossed—the Xena reference will.

Sharyl, Florence and me after the screening tonight.

Image Source

My mom always talks about how difficult Mother’s Day is to endure. For her, it never feels like a day to celebrate. For her, the holiday is guilt-laden, heavy with the mistakes she’s made as a mother, the expectations she believes she hasn’t lived up to. And it’s to her credit—my mom is a humble woman.

This year, my card to her was simple—Dear Mom, May it be a day of gratitude, not guilt, happy memories, not painful ones. The world you’ve given me is a better one. Progress, not perfection. Love, Sam

A friend sent me this poem a few weeks ago. It’s beautiful and perfect for this Mother’s Day in this moment—in my mom’s life and in mine.

Mother’s Day (To My Children)

I do not doubt you would have liked
one of those pretty mothers in the ads:
complete with adoring husband and happy children.
She’s always smiling, and if she cries at all
it is absent of lights and camera,
makeup washed from her face.

But since you were born of my womb, I should tell you:
ever since I was small like you
I wanted to be myself—and for a woman that’s hard—
(Even my Guardian Angel refused to watch over me
when she heard.)

I cannot tell you that I know the road.
Often I lose my way
and my life has been a painful crossing
navigating reefs, in and out of storms,
refusing to listen to the ghostly sirens
who invite me into the past,
neither compass nor binnacle to show me the way.

But I advance,
go forward holding to the hope
of some distant port
where you, my children—I’m sure—
will pull in one day
after I’ve been lost at sea.

-Daisy Zamora

These are the waiting days—waiting for school to get out, waiting to get on with our summer travels, waiting to get back and get settled into our bangin’ new two-bedroom apartment with double the space and hardwood floors. (And yes, I did just use the word “bangin’” but it felt right in the moment, so I’m just gonna roll with it.)

These are the list-making days—things to pack and things to finish before we go, things to remember while we’re gone and things to do when we get back, like come up with a better system for the recycling and pitch that story to the Deseret News and plan a girl’s trip to Austin and so on and so forth.

These are the counting-down days—even though we don’t want them to be. Even though we say to ourselves daily, hourly, “Live in the moment. Be in the present,” we are acutely aware of time.

These are the frugal days—the ones where we rest from our eating-out labors, knowing we’ll be back in the fall to resume our quest for the best pulled-pork sandwich and Panang curry in town, reminding ourselves that there is a time and a season for everything. Now is the time to clean out the freezer and the season to save our pennies for the road.

Listening to: Billy Joel, “Vienna” (Can’t stop. So good.)

I’m an NPR junkie. Ira Glass of This American Life as always been a mentor of mine, but now he’s officially reached hero status, which is probably for the best considering that I’ve never met the guy. Can someone you’ve never met be your mentor?

I digress.

This really cool video sealed Ira’s awesomeness forever. Basically, he says to young creatives, don’t give up because the work you produce in the beginning doesn’t live up to your “killer taste.” He says that feeling like what you create falls short is “totally normal” and that every person who has ever succeeded in creative pursuits has put in a lot of work … blah. I’ll just let Ira tell you. Ira is the man.

(Also, the sweet typography formatting thing they’re doing here is a creative innovation in itself. Take note.)

Ira Glass on Storytelling from David Shiyang Liu on Vimeo.

“The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool.” -Almost Famous

I’ve been thinking about coolness a lot lately, not authentic coolness, but the kind that’s forced, consciously crafted. I’ve been thinking about war and how you always hear stories about the unbreakable bond war veterans share, because they’ve seen each other in hell, stripped of pride, scared and vulnerable. They’ve seen each other face to face, without “coolness” fogging up the view. Those war vets, they’ve seen each other as they really are—as we all really are—utterly uncool.

I’ve been thinking about my own relationships, my own wars, the moments when I’ve looked at someone face to face, said “screw it,” and told them something real about me, letting my coolness evaporate between us, giving that relationship permission to become something transcendent and sacred.

I’ve been thinking I should do it more often. So should you.

Listening to: Billy Joel, “Vienna”

I used to think that if I really wanted to be a great writer, I would have to be willing to get depressed—dark, twisty and depressed. I used to think that talent and misery were somehow a packaged deal. Tortured genius is romanticized. History is crowded with somber, suicidal, substance-abusing artistic legends. Happy, stable genius is utterly unglorified.

This TED Talk challenges all that. Here best-selling author Elizabeth Gilbert talks about her concept of creative genius, one that she draws from ancient mythology. To her, artistic brilliance is a beautiful, fleeting gift from the divine, one that has to be captured when it comes, one that should be a source of gratitude, not pride or self-loathing. She thinks about her creativity as something apart from herself, something that visits and abandons her at will, and says doing so allows her to be kinder to herself. It gives her something to blame when ideas aren’t coming, and keeps her humble when they are. It separates her sense of self-worth from her outward failure or success and fosters contentment in her work and life.

A great writer living in contentment—sound glorious to me. Enjoy!