Metaphorically, speaking

Dear you,
or me.

Today, something great happened. As you were slicing your Kraft cheese, you glanced at the expiration date. And I know, why do we always start these letters so strangely? Because I'm me. or you. or whatever. The date just so happened to be October 16th. The day you and Dean so lovingly picked out together after finding you had to wait another eight months to be married.
Four months and two weeks, exactly.

And as a Heavenly Father devotee, you instantly felt it was a gift from God. I know, I know. An expiration date is a gift from God? Now everyone just sounds pathetically insane. But you never look at the expiration dates (unless they are in yours and Dean's fridge--and then who knows how long that cheese has been in there.)

BUT ANYWAY. That just made your day so fantastic--to finally have something expire in your wedding month. And then, your dad just plants a giant, fantastic, surprising, metaphorical gift right in your metaphorical lap that you have the option to open now, or wait to open.
And you've decided to open this beautifully metaphoric gift from God.

And now you and Dean will be able to grow together closer to God nightly, weekly, monthly--or whenever you please.

And that is enough to make these next four months and two weeks a piece of cake.

love always//talor

rediscovery.

Dear You,
or me.
Or whomever.

Has anyone ever told you that you have anxiety? Because you do.
You do, and guess what? It's okay.

Sometimes you sit in fear that you'll never know what you want to do with your life.
From not knowing what to major in and what classes to sign up for, to what hairstyle you want for your wedding, and will those colors really match with the fall leaves?

But guess what else?
You rediscovered something this week.
A piece of paper that tells you about your life, about your marriage, about your family, about your talents and responsiblities.

And then you breathe, because you realize that God knew what He was doing when He decided to make you the college-going, stress-ridden, quirky little feminist that you are.

And until you figure out what you want to be "when you grow up", nature wouldn't be a bad place to spend your time.

 

love always//talor

You are a palace.

Dear You,

Or me.

A few days ago I talked to a dear friend. A friend who I swear has all of the wisdom in the world flowing through her finger tips and out of her mouth. She compared herself to a house—how sometimes you need to paint and learn to love the color tan, even though it’s hard to change, even if you love your blue paint. And I’m sure you’re reading this thinking, weird? I promise I’m going somewhere with this.

C.S. Lewis once said that we are all houses.

“Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of—throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running towers, making courtyards.

You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come live in it Himself.”

But to be honest, sometimes I feel more like a trailer. Sometimes I feel trampled on by others. Sometimes I feel trampled on by myself. Sometimes I feel like God just needs to tear me all down and build me back up again. And lately I’ve had a hard time loving my paint chips, my withered creaks.

But CS Lewis also said that if we knew of our potential, we would understand that we are all possible gods and goddesses. And one day I want to walk into my house, or look at who I am, and gasp at all that I am. I think Heaven will be like that. I think our Father will grab our hands and say, “My dear Talor! Look at you.” And we will all fall to our knees when we see what we are really capable of, how majestic and beautiful we really are. We will see the beauty of those paint chips and withered floors. Because those are the things that make us who we are.

I am a daughter of a King. A King. A Father that loves the pieces out of my quirks, my flaws, and my chipped blue paint.

I will get there one day.

I will love myself as much as He loves me.

I think I owe that to Him.

Love always//talor.

they don't teach you to write letters to yourself;

My whole life I have written letters to people.
The second I learned how to fill out an envelope and put a stamp on it, I sent letters.
I had a pen pal once.
I wrote to my best friend when she moved in elementary (no cell phones for children back then).
I wrote my friend who disappeared to her dad's in the summers.
I wrote to my friends that served LDS missions.
I wrote to one of my dearest friends when she was finding herself in Washington.
And I wrote letters to God when I was losing myself.

I write letters to my fiance.
And I've started to write letters to myself.

What? I know. That probably sounds a little crazy. Almost like when people talk out loud to themselves in the grocery store and everyone gives them a weird look.

But I have always been one that's bad at journaling.
I'll be good for like a whole week, or maybe a whole summer, and then I just get so tired of repeating everything I've done!

And writing letters to yourself is kind of like writing a journal.

I write letters to my future self, my past self, or my present self. To help me to remember to be kind to myself, to have patience, and to be happy.

So I think this blog will be officially that.

Just letters written by a 21 year old girl to herself.

P.S.

A Letter to Myself

 Dear Me,

I cannot expect my body to be overly muscley, stick thin, or perfectly perfect. Why should it be? Will it make more people love me? No. Will it really make me happier? Probably not. Does it really matter? Not in the long run.

The women I look up to, who I inspire to be, I inspire to be not for their thigh gap, their toned arms, or their perfect body. I look up to them for their determination, their strength, their ability to love and to laugh and to be courageous. There is no correlation between thigh gaps and courage. So I should stop treating it as though it will give me such.

The man I want to love me for eternity will not love me more for having perfectly shaped legs or a perfectly flat stomach. Because eternal love is unconditional love, and he will love me when I work out and he will love me when I gain 5 pounds. Why? Because a flat stomach doesn't give me love and respect. Because a thigh gap doesn't tell you how lovely my personality is. Because there is no correlation between love and perfect curves. So I will stop treating it as though it will give me such.

 And how sad that I should be so harsh on my own body? The body that wakes me in the morning and puts me to rest at night.
The body that cradles my soul.

So, instead of striving towards a thigh gap, or for sleek arms, or a flat six pack, I will wish for other things.

I will wish to always have legs that can carry me up into the mountains and back down to my home. I will wish for lungs that make it so I can laugh for hours and run for miles. I will wish for arms that hug perfectly and cradle little souls. I will wish for a backbone that stands straight and firm. I will wish for hands that can always paint and inspire.

Because those things create love, laughter, determination, strength and courage.

Breathe.




I deserve love--whether I'm perfect or not.
(repeatx10000)

I love you.

Love, Me