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.

the happiest of happy

For some reason it's been so hard for me to write a blog post lately.
Almost every night I sit and stare at the computer screen for ten minutes and then decide to put it away. Because there has been so much going on and I can't always find the words to comprehend how I'm feeling.

Because one day I'm getting excited about summer semester and the next second I find out that my student loans have been denied without any warning. (FYI college and government loans are shiz sometimes and there is a bunch of illegal stuff you shouldn't do THAT THEY DON'T WARN YOU ABOUT.) Idiots.

And then the next second, I'm going to summer semester and everything is okay.

And then we realize that we can't pay for a New York honeymoon because we are paying for summer semester. And I'm devastated all over again.

And the next second we're at Lagoon and we think: why not Disneyland for a honeymoon?
Because who doesn't love Disneyland?  IT'S THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH. If you don't love it, you're just as bad as my student loans and college.
Sorry not sorry. 

Sorry not sorry for using a cliche term.


And now we've decided to go to New York when we are both finished with school as a graduation present.
Because what's better than a New York graduation present? Nothing.





And sometimes I change my major a bunch of times (from teaching to criminal justice to political science) to finally land on something that was sitting in my childhood all along.

And now I'm content.

Although I've used "And" to start almost all of my sentences and it's making me want to gag a little.

Oh, there you are.

OKAY so I have been inspired from a lot of things this week. But last night I was reading a girl's instagram posts--Rachel Brathen aka yoga_girl. She experienced her best friend's death a few weeks ago (I cannot even imagine) and I stumbled upon this post which made me cry endlessly.

"You are gone but you are not. I have taught only two classes since you passed away and Savasana is almost unbearable. Your presence has been so strong. At the end of Saturday's class I had everyone put their hands to their hearts and as I walked around giving small adjustments, I realized...you are in every single person here in this room. I adjusted a girl's shoulders, she has a wooden earring in one of her ears. Just like you. Another girl has a dread, just one, nestled in her messy hair. Just like you. One person is smiling, just like you. Someone has toes that remind me of yours. A mat the same color as the one you always had in your bedroom. "Look!" you told me one day. "I bought a good yoga mat! Finally!" I looked at it and laughed, "no, you didn't honey. This is a crappy mat. You'll slip!" You frowned: "But it was $20!" When I told you a good mat will cost you at least $50 you looked at me like I was joking. "$50 for a yoga mat??? Tss. You super yogis are so picky. I'll use this one forever and it will be good you'll see." And you did. It's broken and dirty and smells a little bit like mold but you used that thing everyday. And I held it in my arms all the way from San Jose to Aruba but I still haven't rolled it out at home. I can't. It's leaning against the altar I made you, waiting for a time when I'll be able to think of these things and still stay sane but I'm not sure that time will ever come. But in that Savasana two days ago I saw you in every person in that room. And for every person I touched I felt you even more and at one point I felt my tears drip onto the girl beneath me and she grabbed my hand. She looked me straight in the eye and said "it's okay" and I knew right then: that was you, too. She came up to me after class with tears in her eyes. "I lost my husband, I am where you are." And I am understanding now more and more that we are all the same. We are all sisters. We're in this together. If you are in everyone that means you are in me also and that means you never really left. It's the only comfort I have and it's beautiful."

If that doesn't just make you weep, I don't know what will.

Throughout my life I have seen death come. Sometimes quickly, unannounced, other times slowly and patiently. But it comes.



It's hard and painful and that's all I'm going to say.




But then, days or months or years pass, and you begin to see things.
 
I can randomly take a breath of air and smell the same bush that was in my grandparent's yard. I can smell my grandmother's perfume she wore, and I will always be able to hear her laugh in my sister's laugh. And sometimes, I will randomly hear my uncle's voice say, "Talor," as he did when I was little--like when he was about to tell me to play a prank on my mom. And I will never forget my grandpa's voice when he would tell me I'm beautiful. I will always be able to feel his light hugs and my grandma's nimble fingers on my face.

And that knowledge is peaceful and full of love and spirit and connectedness.
I realize now more than ever that we are never alone. Not ever.

Because we are all human. We are all connected, and we really are in this together.


 They haven't really left.





 In fact, they've been in your heart all along,

and they will stay there.

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

Snow in April.

Sometimes you just hate school and homework so much that you need a pep talk from Abraham Lincoln. 

And sometimes you want everything to work out and have overnight success so badly that you just look at Pinterest all morning.  

And then it starts snowing so you just want summer. 

(Note to self: it's okay to cry.) 

But you have to move on and live in the present. And understand that things take time, but everything ends up happening and disappearing in a blink of an eye, so just love where you're at and breathe.