Lately I’ve been watching a collection of home videos my mom gave me, a blast from my 90s past. I’ve cringed at my obnoxious stages and fashion choices—that goes without saying—but mostly, thankfully, my thoughts have been distracted from bossy little “Sammie” and her theatrical outbursts. Mostly, I’ve fallen head over heels for my siblings, one by precious one.

Miss Mckenna was a cheerleader from birth, and I mean that in the best of ways. If I’ve ever been tempted to call her peppiness “fake,” a few clips of her four-year-old self tumbling across the living room floor in a swimsuit will set the record straight. And there are more than a few. She was all authentic “snuggows” and “giggows” from the get-go. Her pouty, little lips were always ruby red, her hair was always blonde and scraggly. She was spunky and irresistible, and the truth is, not much has changed.

Cale had me at “I’m a Little Tea Pot.” I knew his big, blue eyes and thick, dark lashes had been charming the ladies his whole life long, but I’d forgotten his musical sensibilities had also been alive since the beginning. His little handle, his little spout, his little voice—I was smitten. Even back then, Cale had a special appreciation for the little things of life, like “hamboogers wif cheese and katsup” and little plastic carousels that played Christmas songs. Cale’s world was one of awe and wonder.

Zachary Clark was a devil, and I mean that in the best of ways, too. He was the little man with the mischievous glint in his eye—whatever a glint is. We called him “Mr. Destruction.” You know the kind. He ignored the camera, unlike the rest of us, which of course made the camera want him more. He was the boy who spent his afternoons ramming his tricycle into big kids’ training-wheel-free bikes until they started crying. I devoured his stout legs pumping the pedals, his speedy, gleeful escapes. Watching Zach, my overwhelming thought was, “I want one just like him.”

Casey wasn’t there yet, not in the 90s. But the next round of videos my mom sends will be full of him. And then I will fall in love with him too, in a new way, just like the others. I’ve always loved my family, but I’ve never before been enchanted by them, not like this.

The last clip on the last bit of tape, April 1999—My mom narrates as Mckenna and I watch Zach ride around the driveway on his new birthday skateboard, a toddler version with a retractable handle he refuses to use. We take turns sitting on it and riding down the hill. She pans the camera toward the lawn at the back of the house. My dad reads a book on a blanket on the grass and Cale is sprawled out behind him. He lifts his chin, blinks a few times, slow and sleepy, checking out the camera, then falls back asleep. Cale always had impressive bed head. The trees are thick behind our pink brick house. It’s a rich Ohio spring, dewy and full. And we are happy. “This is a perfect day,” my mom says to the camera, and then the tape runs out.

Sometimes family is poetic.

Listening to: Death Cab for Cutie, “The Sound of Settling”

Yesterday was a hard day. A very hard day. And when I answered a phone call from my friend, Susanna, last night, I was choking back tears. Six-year-old Susanna needed to ask me a question so she could graph it on a chart for her first grade class. It was a very important question.

What is your favorite animal?

a) Starfish

b) Kangaroo Joey

c) Monkey

d) Lady Bug

Kangaroo Joey. No brainer.

I prayed a big fat thank-you for Susanna before I fell asleep.

Listening to: Sufjan Stevens, “Casimir Pulaski Day”

Actually, let’s leave that to the professionals.

I recently listened to a podcast that was—dare I say it?—groundbreaking. At least to me. Mormon therapist Jennifer Finlayson-Fife did her disertation on LDS women and their relationship to sexual desire and spoke about her findings at a conference to an audience of LDS women. The two-part recording is absolutely fascinating. Married, engaged, single, whatever you are—Finlayson-Fife will make you reflect on your own sexuality in important ways.

Read about Jennifer through The Mormon Women Project.

Then listen to the podcast through Mormon Stories.

Twice in the last week I’ve gotten emails from women who are trying to figure out how to transition from girl-with-full-time writing-job to new-mom-with-undying-writing-ambition. They ask me questions about freelancing. They say they want to find a way to be both a mom and a writer and they look to me for advice. It’s ironic that they field me these questions, me being a childless woman who still struggles to find the courage to call herself “a writer.” But I’m trying to help them in the small ways I can. As I dally in the freelance world, figuring out what my next move is, looking at motherhood down the chute with equal parts glee and fear, it’s hard to know exactly how I want work and motherhood to coexist in my future. But this I know for sure—if any of us are going to have a shot at a happy life, we’re going to have to let go of the idea that we can be it all, all at once, all by ourselves.

In the words of Debora Spar in her spot-on essay from The Daily Beast:

“We have become a generation desperate to be perfect wives, mothers, and professionals—Tiger Moms who prepare organic quinoa each evening after waltzing home from the IPO in our Manolo Blahnik heels. Even worse, we somehow believe that we need to do all of this at once, and without any help. Almost by definition, a woman cannot work a 60-hour-per-week job and be the same kind of parent she would have been without the 60-hour-per-week job. No man can do this; no human can do this. Yet women are repeatedly berating themselves for failing at this kind of balancing act, and (quietly, invidiously) berating others when something inevitably slips.”

In order to be happy, we’re going to have to figure out our own individual concoction of working hard, seeking help and letting go. We’re going to have to stop trying to have a perfect career, perfect house, perfect body and perfect family. We’re going to have to get help from the people around us and we’re going to have to stop judging each other for the ways we aren’t so perfect.

British journalist Caitlin Moran has similar things to say about equality issues, noting that a big part of the problem is the expectations women put on themselves.

“Gender equality simply means ‘‘women being equal to men’’ — however nuts, dim, deluded, underachieving or ill-kempt the men may be. I mean none of this to belittle menfolk. On the contrary. As a woman, that’s the bit I want in on. That’s the sweet stuff. For when we imagine the fully emancipated 21st-century woman, we are apt to think of some toned, immaculately dressed overachiever, leading a Fortune 500 company while bringing up bilingual twins. And that’s what simultaneously stresses women out to the point of living on a Pinot Grigio drip, and terrifies insecure men. This idea of perfect, sexy, superhuman lady-titans, winning at everything. That’s what scuppers moves toward gender equality. For my feminist money, I don’t see gender equality as ‘‘women exhausting themselves to be more incredible than any other human beings have ever been at any other point in time.’’ Mainly because it sounds a) pretty unlikely to happen terribly often and b) like a massive administrative headache. For me, true equality would be getting in on a bit of that male, ‘‘14 pounds overweight but I don’t care,’’ ‘‘getting sexier as I get older,’’ ‘‘confidently chipping in at meetings with crazy idea,’’ ‘‘I definitely need some golfing me-time’’ action, instead. While one hugely important part of equality is to have extraordinary people’s achievements facilitated and recognized — whatever their gender, sexuality, ethnicity, religion or ability to accessorize — an arguably even bigger part of equality is for everyone to feel comfortable being a massively average schlump.This, clearly, is not the case for women, who treat themselves like a massive ‘‘To Do’’ list. What an intolerable burden! And that’s why gender equality means ‘‘women being equal to men’’ — however nuts, dim, deluded, underachieving or ill-kempt the men may be.”

“Feminism wasn’t supposed to make us miserable. It was supposed to make us free; to give women the power to shape their fortunes and work for a more just world. Today, women have choices that their grandmothers could not have imagined. The challenge lies in recognizing that having choices carries the responsibility to make them wisely, striving not for perfection or the ephemeral all, but for lives and loves that matter.”

Amen and amen. Read more of Spar’s piece here.

Listening to: The Civil Wars, “Barton Hollow”

Have you ever heard of pseudopregnanacy or false pregnancy? I read an article about it a few weeks ago. It’s when a woman who is not pregnant becomes so convinced that she is pregnant, she begins to exhibit actual symptoms of pregnancy—morning sickness, weight gain, even abdominal distension.

I’ve always known that I had hypochondriatic tendencies (a.k.a. I tend to believe I have every medical condition I hear about). But this week, I’ve taken things to a new level. I have convinced myself that I am experiencing pseudopregnancy.

Yes, I have a mental disorder that compels me to believe that I have another mental disorder that compels me to believe that I’m pregnant.

I’m not pregnant. I’m crazy.

Good luck wrapping your head around that one.

Listening to: Bob Dylan, “Lay, Lady, Lay”

I like to think of myself as a tolerant person. I like to think that I can see through behavior into background, looking to understand before I look to condemn. But the truth is, I’m just as judgemental as the next Joe.

I’m judgemental of people who judge.

Most of the time, I have all of the love in the world for the screw-ups, dissenters, misfits and underdogs. I save up all my stones for the stone-casters. It’s the arrogant, critical, closed-minded majority-dwellers who are in my line of fire.

I like to think of myself as an easy-going person. I like to think that my feathers are hard to ruffle, my buttons hard to press. But the truth is, I’m irritable. And sometimes, I’m downright mean.

I’m annoyed with people who are annoyed with me.

I have a few pet peeves here and there, but nothing gets under my skin like sensing that I’ve gotten under someone else’s. I hate when people are unjustly annoyed with me. And let’s face it, there’s no justification for being annoyed with me. No, not one. My intentions are always good, and if someone has a problem with me, the problem is with them. At least that’s what I tell myself.

I’m trying to recognize these flaws when they surface, trying to stop myself from feeling a sense of false superiority over them. I’m learning to see that my flaws are, in many ways, the most juvenile of all. “He judged first! She got annoyed with me!” Get the picture?

Deep in my heart—the part of it that sees things as they really are—I know those closed-minded majority-dwellers are just as complex as the rest of us. They have backgrounds behind their behaviors that need to be considered. They need understanding, and the people who are annoyed with me need understanding too. As flawed as I am, they likely have good reason.

Listening to: Nashville Cast, “When the Right One Comes Along”

Back from the Bahamas! And I’m a little wiser post-vacation. I learned some valuable lessons on our trip.

1. The world is vastly more romantic when viewed through a porthole.
2. If I drank, I’d probably be more fun. If I drank on a cruise, I’d probably never be able to stand up. No really. I’d be a helpless, stumbling mess. I could hardly keep my balance sober.
3. Those towel animals you always hear about? They do not disappoint.
4. Watching a pod of dolphins weaving wildly through the waves is one of the most exhilarating thrills a girl can experience. And getting credit for spotting them first is worth speaking up about. And when you spot an alligator in the swamp at the rice plantation you tour back on shore in Charleston, you’ll want credit for that too. Don’t be shy. Your hawk eyes deserve recognition.
5. Not all karaoke is equal. If you have to choose a song you don’t love just to play to the crowd, you’ll feel false and possibly a little bored. And if the people you’re with feel more awkward about your performance than you do, you’re already sunk. Just save your cruise debut for another time. It means too much to you to do it this way.
6. Even if you don’t gain much weight from the all-you-can-eat dining on the boat, you will come home with your stomach all stretched out and angry. You’ll probably need to bump up your instant oatmeal intake to five or six packages a day to satisfy the new you.
7. It will rain when you go on vacation. Always. At least one day, usually more. Just get used to it. Learn how to love drinking hot chocolate on a pool chair and laying out on cool, damp sand. The hot, dry sand designed to make you crave diving into the ocean is a tease. It comes and goes at will. Just dive into the ocean anyway.
8. If you’re real nice to your husband, he might agree to have pretend tea party with you on the ocean floor, just like you did with your sister as a kid. And when the water is as clear and blue as it is in the Bahamas, it’s worth opening your eyes in the salty deep to see him sitting Indian-style under water, an imaginary teacup daintily pinched between his thumb and forefigner, pinky up. He’s a babe.
9. Getting stung by a jelly fish while snorkeling is a vacationer’s rite of passage. Embrace the experience. And whatever you do, don’t let it distract you from the giant lobsters hiding in the coral. Those are awesome.
10. The Atlantis Resort is just as cool as it looks in that Mary-Kate and Ashley movie.
11. You will be overcome with envy when you watch the Disney cruise ship pull out of the harbor beside you. The good news is that you’re far from alone. Just joke about it with your in-laws. It’ll take the edge of the jealousy.
12. Never start believing you’re too old for arcade games, especially when you’ve got Murpheys around. Those young-at-heart Murpheys will prove you wrong in a heartbeat. Soon enough, you won’t be able to pull yourself away from that “Deal or No Deal” game. “Better this than the slot machines,” you tell yourself.
13. Charleston is just as quirky and charming as you imagine. The carriage tour of the historic residential neighborhoods, the ferry to Fort Sumter, the Magnolia Plantation, the old Episcopalian church and cemetery, all of it. It’s spooky and pretty and set in its ways.
14. My in-laws are fantastic travel buddies. I suspected this before, but now I have conclusive evidence.

I’ll post pictures (other than what I’ve Instagrammed) when Debbie, my mother-in-law, comes back from Orlando in a few days with the memory card. Trent and I are back to the grind while they’re off to Disney World. At the risk of sounding like a spoiled brat here, what do I do to take the edge of that jealousy? Disney strikes again.

Listening to: Justin Timberlake, “Suit & Tie”

I have a pile of unfinished work and a queue of Netflix recommendations labeled “Gritty Foreign Dramas with a Strong Female Lead,” both of which seem to me sure-fire red flags that it’s time to relax.

Vacation has come just in the nick of time. We set sail tomorrow on a cruise to the Bahamas in celebration of Valentine’s Day and an early anniversary. I looked up the traditional 3rd anniversary gift. It’s something leather, in case you were wondering. So naturally, Trent got me a new memory card and I got him a book and we decided to save the … eh em … “Leather Anniversary” for a year we weren’t celebrating with his parents. Yes, the in-laws. They’re coming with us.

It’s our 3rd anniversary and their 30th. (We got married on their 27th.) We’re going for fun over romance this time around. And fun it will most definitely be. I can see us now—Debbie and I lounging by the pool, Russ and Trent helping themselves to four entrees a night, the three of them applauding my transcendent performance of “Time After Time” at the karaoke bar.

Yep, sounds like fun to me.

See you next week!

Listening to: Cyndi Lauper, “Time After Time” (On repeat.)

Mike and Florence Cannon teach the “Strengthening Marriage” Sunday School class in my ward here in Atlanta. It’s a 12-ish week course and they rotate through couples each session.

Trent and I refuse to leave.

No, really. We refuse. We’re permanently on the roster. We can’t get enough of it. We’ve have gained so much insight about our relationship from the Cannon’s class, partially because the church curriculum for the course is as much about practical, tried-and-true strategies as it is about abstract gospel truths, and partially because Mike and Florence are awesome. They are honest, open, genuine people, so willing to be vulnerable, so full of understanding. I love them. I really do.

Today, I give you an excerpt from a talk Mike gave in sacrament meeting a few months back. He was asked to speak on what he loves about being Mormon. This is the last of the five points he discussed. By the end of it, you’ll love the Cannons too.

Mike, the floor is yours …

The last of the five teachings that I will talk about is explained in an essay called, “Why the Church is as True as the Gospel.” In it, Eugene England writes that the LDS church is a school of love, perhaps the best one. We go to church based on geography, not based on our interests, sympathies, or favorite preacher. We don’t get to choose our congregation. Sometimes members of our wards can be difficult. “Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you…For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye?” (Matthew 5:43) It is easy to love our friends. It can be harder to love those we must face in church basketball.

So, by attending our wards we are forced to deal with and get to know people of a different race or ethnicity, rich and poor, old and young, Democrats and Republicans, Utah Mormons and mission-field Mormons. We used to pick up our friend Sean for church, who dazzled with his brilliant smile and bright metallic blue suit with tails, a look I could never pull off. For seven years I home taught a man who was gay. He prayed for my family, spoiled my kids, and took me to his favorite Mexican restaurant. I had a deacon’s quorum advisor who discovered a molecule that led to the development of a blockbuster drug. Another deacon’s quorum advisor had a brother, Jack Morris, who tormented the Braves in the World Series. I’ve shared a hymnbook with Gladys Knight and with Harvard professor Laurel Thatcher Ulrich (although not at the same time). Sister Ulrich is best known for her words that have been plastered on bumper stickers and t-shirts: well-behaved women seldom make history.

In church we interact with people who have important lessons to teach us, and we teach them what we know. I’ve taught Portuguese lessons to two apostles, and learned about faithful belief from recent converts like Frank Gomez and from little children like Ava Hansen.

At church we can observe Christ-like charity in action. When we moved to Tucker, 20 members showed up to help us move. When I became a single parent I had a pit in my stomach for weeks, wondering how we were going to make things work. People brought us meals and gave rides to the kids. They helped me raise them. When our daughter Jessica was a senior, Ralph Cordell noticed that she was recognized for her school achievements on a banner in the Publix grocery store. He told us, “I couldn’t have been prouder if she was my own daughter.” Another time, our former home teacher Louis Chemin spent 4 hours teaching our boys to wash and wax his BMW, and paid them handsomely to do it. When Florence and I were married, the Hardy’s offered to host an open house for us, and then paid for the catering.

Through church we interact with people whose lives we could hardly imagine if we didn’t experience them first hand. I once home taught someone who kept a pig in their house and a sign on the fence that said, “Beware of pig”. I home taught a large young man who got stuck in the slide at the Tucker McDonald’s and had to be pulled out by fire fighters. When I was 13, I home taught a young woman with Down syndrome who pulled me close and asked me to be her boyfriend.

We also attend church with people who believe differently. When I taught Gospel Doctrine I lost track of the number of times my friend Brian Croxall raised his hand to tell me he totally disagreed with what I had just said. Several years ago I had a political bumper sticker on our car. One Sunday after church I went out to the parking lot to find that my bumper sticker had been covered over with a bumper sticker of a different political affiliation. Bumping up against these different members can knock off our rough edges, giving us a great opportunity to be transformed into better people. In other words, the differences and frustrations of dealing with other deeply flawed Mormons is not a bug, but a feature of the Church.

Although I may look like a typical Mormon, on the inside I don’t feel that I fit the typical Mormon mold— I love the members but don’t like most meetings; I attend PEC when I need to, but when I don’t I sometimes like to go on a bike ride before church; I love how the Church places an emphasis on families, but I’ve been divorced; I love the scriptures, but have difficulty making it past the 1^st presidency message of the Ensign; I’m an Eagle scout, but am not into scouting; my politics don’t match up with most Mormons; and I feel like my relationship to my leaders is complicated—for example, a stake president once taught something that transformed my life and yet on another occasion made a comment in Sunday school that I thought couldn’t have been more wrong. For me, the Gospel answers many questions but raises many more.

But even though I sometimes don’t feel that I fit the mold, I have been loved by you. I have felt accepted. I have felt cared for. I have watched you show love towards my wife, I’ve watched you love and care for our children. I believe that faithful practicing of the Gospel has created this community that has truly loved me and my family. That is what I want to share with non-members. And yet I feel sad when, as members, we have a hard time welcoming, accepting, and loving those who don’t believe like us, look like us, dress like us, have a different sexual orientation, or who are having trouble with their belief or with some of the commandments. The part of the Church that I long to share is the part that overcomes such differences and loves and accepts anyway.

Ten years ago my sister and her husband decided to leave the Church. This, I’m sure, was a difficult decision. My brother-in-law was in the bishopric at the time. I know they felt worried that they would lose their network of support and friendship. About that time some friends from the ward, the Bradfords, started having dinner with them on Tuesday nights. I doubt my sister will ever return to the Church, but 10 years later the Bradfords are still having dinner with her and her family every Tuesday night.

Jesus taught that, “…the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and gathered fish of every kind. (Matthew 13:47) The Lord has shown by example how to deal with our fellow fish: “…for he inviteth them all to come unto him and partake of his goodness; and he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto God.” (2^nd Nephi 26:33)

In closing, I would invite you to reach out, find someone who is different from you, befriend them, have them over, try to understand what their life is like. Love them. I have a testimony that such love is a part of our Gospel that is worth sharing. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

And to that, I had my own hearty “Amen.” Thank you, Mike, for sharing your beautiful thoughts.

Megan Geilman. When I knew her, she was Megan Knobloch—graphic designer, cubical mate, cool kid on the block. Now she’s married, pregnant, and writing about feminism, all of which have just made this cool kid even cooler.

Reading her essay made me think back on how I perceived gender issues as a young woman and college student. Maybe I’ll write more about that myself. Meanwhile, read about Megan’s experiences, and make sure you take a look at her suggested reading list at the end. It’s full of food for thought.

Take it away, Megan …

I don’t remember when I started to confidently identify myself as a Mormon feminist but I know I was a teenager.  I didn’t really make an outward cry about it, but I saw some disconnect with cultural practices that in my heart didn’t line up with doctrines that I knew to be true and at the very least wanted to label myself that I was not okay with this.  Most of the time I didn’t give much thought to these disconnects, being more concerned with homework and boys and having to explain to my coeds why I didn’t drink alcohol and why on earth I would want to wait until marriage to have sex.  So mostly it was just a label that I shared with my family and close friends, and not completely sure of what it meant but knowing that I needed to identify myself as such.

From time to time an occasional disconnect would get me fired up enough to do something about it, to reach beyond my self-proclaimed label.  Once I met with the Bishop to ask why only the boys got to raise the flag outside our church building on Sunday mornings.  He seemed a little surprised that I would care but simply responded by stating that it was a Boy Scout responsibility so they took care of it.  I don’t remember what I said in response but the matter seemed settled at that point. lt didn’t really satisfy me at the time (still doesn’t) but I certainly wasn’t going to leave the Church over it.  Even though I wanted to show my patriotism on Sunday mornings in equal union with the young men, it didn’t seem a big enough issue to make a scene.  So I left his office and filed that experience under “Maybe do something later about it.”

I remember feeling a little hurt and incensed that we were only allowed to do one fundraiser a year to raise money for girl’s camp while the Boy Scouts had fundraiser after fundraiser for camp/boating trips/hikes etc.  Once I traveled with my fellow young women and leaders on a temple trip to Las Vegas.  We attended the Temple, gazed at all the lights on The Strip, and watched BYU play Air Force in the Las Vegas Bowl.  The leaders were later reprimanded for taking us out of the state, which apparently was not allowed.  A few months later the Young Men went on a white water rafting trip down the Colorado river.  I remember asking my Young Women leaders why this was and they sort of shrugged it off.  Just something else not worth making a scene about, and again, certainly not something I was going to leave the Church over.

I later attended BYU and grew excited when my Professor’s would bring up the subject of feminism and the gospel.  This was why I had come to BYU: I wanted to explore these issues from a perspective I could trust and that wouldn’t lead me away from the things that I cared most deeply about, namely the Gospel of Jesus Christ and His restored Church.  I was also happy to find there were others (women AND men) that identified as “Mormon Feminists” that weren’t the “angry” types that I usually had to disassociate myself with.  I read articles and developed my opinion further, but at the time was still more concerned with boys and homework and enjoying an environment of higher learning where I didn’t have to explain why I didn’t drink and was waiting until marriage to copulate.

At some point last year I realized I had grown incredibly complacent.  Enjoying the newlywed life, my husband was a bit surprised when I started voicing my feminist opinions.  Over time, and not without some trepidation, I was able to clearly articulate what being a Mormon Feminist meant to me and he has since become a huge support for me in exploring these matters further, and speaking up about them when I feel so inspired.  Because even though it’s just a flag, or just a woman praying at general conference, or just a joke about taking a bathroom break when a woman gets up to speak, these little things can send a small but powerful message, and I want that message to resonate with the doctrines we hold so dearly as true and meaningful in this Church.  And I’ve been feeling increasingly that it’s time I do more about it.

A quote from this article resonated with me: “Atkinson argues that LDS women are not taking advantage of powers they already possess. Mormon women need to ‘step forward and embrace these gifts of the spirit, acknowledge the value of what they are already doing, and ask more of themselves,’ Atkinson says. Then the outside world ‘will take notice of their articulateness, skills and worth. It won’t be because a policy or a program changed to bestow that power on them.’”  How much am I not doing and that I don’t need permission for to feel equal in this Church?  How much am I letting my fear of the judgements of men (and women) outweigh what my Heavenly Father wants me to do concerning Mormon Feminism.  In my heart I know He expects me to be articulate and compassionate and strong and I’m gaining the courage to be that even if others of my faith may look down on me or don’t understand.  I’m not perfect, but I’m getting better–and the spiritual growth I’ve felt in the last few months along with the strengthening I’ve seen in my marriage is continuing to bolster my courage.

I’ve been inspired by the examples of our early sisters in the Church’s publication “Daughters in my Kingdom” and appreciated so much of the conversation that has been generated by “Pants to Church.”  As my husband and I have discussed things we can do now to help change the culture of the Church in our little corner of the world, and as I’ve seen the outpouring of this topic on blogs and bulletins of the Interwebs, I am excited about the future.  As we explore the “proper channels” and pray about petitions to make, as we talk more with each other and trust each other to follow the Lord’s inspiration (even as it is different from our own), and more than anything–as we reach out in charity and love towards each other, I know the Lord will bless us immeasurably.  I have felt this awakening in my own life as I’ve never hungered or searched the scriptures and prayed for what the Lord would have me do, with quite as much joy and expectation as I have recently.

Right now I am expecting my first born son.  I think a lot about the kind of man I hope my son to be: caring, sensitive, strong, hardworking, and of course, respectful of women.  More than hoping about the future or trusting in my husband’s wonderful example, having a child has made me realize the importance of being a woman worth respecting.  It means spending more time cultivating my mind, being more proactive about questioning the status quo, and speaking up on things the Lord would have me speak up on, even if I’m scared.

Megan’s suggested reading list:

“The Tongue Can Be a Sharp Sword” by Marvin J. Ashton

“To Do the Business of the Church: A Cooperative Paradigm for Examining Gendered Participation Within Church Organizational Structure” By Neylan McBain

“What is Truth?” By President Dieter F. Uchtdorf

“As Sisters In Zion: Mormon Feminism and Sisterhood” by Kathryn Soper

Sometimes I send myself emails that say nonsensical things in the subject line and nothing at all in the body.

Subject: pg. 191

Subject: mini legal desk with roller top thing, jungle gym

Subject: John Mayer paper ring part

Subject: “It’s a poor kid thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

I file them away into the “Inspiration” folder of my Gmail account. It’s my version of keeping a writer’s notebook, my method of remembering things I want to write about later. Of course, occasionally this system gets me into trouble (pg. 191 OF WHAT?), but generally it works for me. I scroll through the folder from time to time and get a feel for who I’ve been. Those silly little subject lines are triggers that explode worlds of nuanced experiences that I wanted to remember. The little things that strike a person as important enough to write down say a lot about who they are, or were, or wanted to be.

Last night I read an essay by Joan Didion on this very subject. It’s called “On Keeping a Notebook.” I’ve been living in it ever since. (My mom once said that the best writing is the kind you live in for days. She’s a genius.) In the essay, Joan says a lot about how her memory is faulty, how she can’t trust her construction of her own past, because she’s always mentally fictionalizing what’s going on around her, plucking facts out of life and crafting them into stories.

I can relate, and my family would gladly back me up on this: My memory is an indecipherable concoction of the real and the imagined. Every time I try to tell a story, I’m constantly interrupted and corrected. Sometimes I get annoyed, and sometimes just surrender.

Joan also explains that her desire to keep a writer’s notebook is somewhat innate. “Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old,” she says, “I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogther, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children apparently afflicted at birth with some presentiment sense of loss.”

I often look to people who seem to be “delighted with life exactly as life presents itself” and wish I was more like them, but the truth is, I have always been somewhat of a resistant rearranger of things. I have always been a notebook keeper. And if all this means that I occasionally suffer from a foreboding sense of loss (as evidenced by my obsession with the only ultra-depressing verse in the John Mayer song with the paper ring reference), at least I’m in the same boat as Joan Didion.

Listening to: The Lumineers, “Flowers in Your Hair”

P.S. Reading Joan’s work is part of my February read-a-thon. Still looking for sponsors! Learn more here.

I am a TED talk scavenger. And this is my latest find.

If you’ve ever compared yourself to a photo in a magazine (a.k.a. everyone), you need to watch this pronto. In this talk, supermodel Cameron Russell gives the real story behind her stunning photos.

In other news, I have a thing for commencement speeches. And Amy Poehler. This video is brilliant mashup of the two.

Enjoy!