Life Lessons from Animals (for me, dogs)

• Sometimes it just takes a kind word (and a belly rub) to rebuild trust
• When you’re scared, reach out to those around you. (Maybe hide between their legs instead of under the bed?)
• It doesn't take much to be happy: shelter, food, companionship, purpose 
• Go out and enjoy the sunshine
• Go out and enjoy the rain (unless it’s lightning out--then watch from the window in amazement)
• Go out and enjoy the snow (it is fluffy, after all)
• When you’re happy, show it (let your tail wag)
• Snuggle up to the ones you love
• When it matters, go after it (the big stick)
• Take a nap
• You don’t always have to say something to get your message across (actions, not words)
• It doesn't have to be fancy to be worthwhile or fun (see video below) 
• Life is simple: love lots

What are some of your favorite lessons learned from animals? 

Blogger Envy

So. I recently found out that the founders and writers of two blogs I have faithfully read and adored for years are people that I have actually known and associated with at different points in my life.

Known and....disliked?

It's okay, guys. I knew both of them a long time ago and all parties involved parted ways cordially and with little thought of each other since. Plus, as Cara taught us in a recent post, it really is okay not to like everyone. As long as you still play nice, of course.

Anyway, when I found out that these blogs I read all the time were written by these two particular women, I was floored.

I don't know about the rest of y'all, but I read blogs a lot. Like all the time. And I read a ton of different types of blogs. Cooking and fashion and books and news and sports and travel and typography and photography and family and...everything (except politics. I don't do politics). Basically, if you are a decent writer and can make me laugh, then there is a good chance that I read your blog. I'm a bit of a blog stalker, too, so I don't personally know 90% of the people whose blogs I read.

Don't judge- you know you do it, too.

So, for those unknown 90%, I have to imagine what these people are like. Logically we may understand that people present a fairly limited picture of themselves online, but the longer I read someone's blog, I think the more I forget that fact. I start picturing these people as they present themselves in their blogging lives and, because we are mostly our best selves online, I get blogger envy.

These people are so awesome! These people are so talented! These people are so clever! The people are so beautiful, eloquent, well-dressed, good at parenting and can juggle, too!

Imagine my surprise, then, when I found out that two of the people that I have been idolizing for several years now are, in fact, people that, truth be told, I do not really care for in real life.

It shouldn't have been that big of a realization, but folks- IT WAS.

This is a mantra we hear over and over. Don't let others make you feel bad about yourself. I consider myself to be a person who is actually pretty comfortable with who I am, but even with that confidence, the envy manages to worm its way into my psyche, creeping in through this wonderful thing we call the internet. Thanks a lot, technology.

I try really hard to take all these wonderful blogs and bloggers for what they really are- pleasant snapshots and anecdotes of other people's imperfect lives. As one who loves writing on blogs myself, I know what a wonderful outlet they are. Sure, these people probably take better pictures than me and bake better cakes. They all do dozens of things better than I do, but there's a good chance there are a lot of things about them that, should we cross paths in the real world, I would not care for, and I certainly would not want to emulate myself.

Those two bloggers still create wonderful recipes and take beautiful pictures and are raising great kids and have very successful businesses. I still eagerly read every word they write. But. BUT! I no longer want to be just like them when I grow up. And that's okay.

Lesson Learned, Agata

Essay #11 by Agata Mancini. This is our last essay before the voting begins, so start reviewing your favorites! 


It was January 2006 and my boyfriend of four years and I had traveled to Australia for six months with a couple of friends. We wanted to work, travel, experience the country - just have an amazing time.


About two weeks into our trip, my boyfriend's father was diagnosed with cancer. Stage four. We couldn't believe it and, I guess because we weren't exposed firsthand to what was happening, were perpetually hopeful that he was strong enough and that "everything's going to be fine." We spoke to him on the phone, shared our positive insights and did our best to cheer him up.


In the beginning of May, my boyfriend decided to go back. His mom had asked him to come home; his dad wasn't doing well.


I couldn't leave. I mean, my little sister had purchased a ticket for Australia and was going to be there in just a few weeks.


I couldn't leave. I knew I needed to support him, but I couldn't leave my family either... My sister was young and my mom was terrified of her being in the country on her own.


I couldn't leave. And what about the rent? We were renting with two friends and I couldn't just leave them hanging like that. They wouldn't be able to afford rent.


So he left May 9 and I stayed.


It was hard.


We broke up a month or so later because he simply couldn't really handle everything that was happening. He needed more support than I could give him over the phone. His father passed away on July 14. On July 16, my birthday, I was on a plane headed for Canada, desperate to make it to the funeral on the 17th.


I made it.


But he didn't want me there.


It was hard to accept. I had been there for the family for four years... but I wasn't there for them when they needed it most - I couldn't just show up when it was all over and offer support. I had let the entire family down, not just him. Worst of all, I never said goodbye to his dad and the last memory he would have had of me was that I had forsaken his son and his family. It was awful.


I still hurts now.
It still brings tears to my eyes to write this
Even though we got back together
Even though he forgave me
Even though we are now married and in love and happy.


In the end, the rent wasn't important. I could have kept paying my share even though I was gone. My sister would have been okay on her own - my friends would have made sure of that. I made the decision I did, because I was worried about disappointing other people. I was thinking with my head, about the logical thing to do, about everything that needed to be taken care of by me. I should have thought with my heart. If I had, I would have been on that plane with him.

Lesson Learned, Summer: It's Still Okay

Here's essay #10 by Summer Myers. Are you getting your votes ready? We're almost there! 


My son Elliot is sleeping in the room next to me with a mild fever, and I'm not worried about it. This is in contrast to the weeks following his birth when every fever, every vomit, and every sniffle warranted tears for me and an immediate doctor visit for him. He was sensitive to my milk when I ate chocolate. He had asymmetrical circulation that caused a red line down the center of his face when he cried. He had torticollis so severe that a lump formed on his neck and projected past his jaw over the course of a day. We took him to the Emergency Room at one o'clock that night; he was sixteen days old. And I sobbed because somebody somewhere mentioned the word "cancer."


None of these amounted to anything. The doctors would say, "It's just one of those things. He'll get over it." And he did. I made myself sick with worry about a bunch of red herrings. I fantasized about a book for new parents - an encyclopedia of every problem a child could ever have - and next to every entry the book would authoritatively state: "This is perfectly normal. It's okay. Don't worry about it." Then we new parents would all sigh and smile and clink our glasses of apple juice together.


There were two little things I wasn't worried about. Elliot was jaundiced. It was bad enough that we were ordered to come back to the hospital after two weeks to check up on it, but I knew jaundice was common and that it was likely to resolve itself. It did. Also, he didn't pass his newborn hearing test. No problem. This is common enough, especially for babies born by caesarean, and there's no history of hearing loss on either side of the family.


But he didn't pass the follow-up test, or the one after that, or the three after that. Elliot was a few months old when we faced the obvious conclusion: our son was deaf. Further testing would be required to determine the severity. My husband and I were heartbroken. We talked to him and sang to him into the evening, aching for him to hear our voices.


Elliot received his first pair of hearing aids at five months old. We had adequately adjusted to the idea by then, though the wound was still healing. We had to laugh at the stares and the questions from strangers around town; it's not every day that you see a little baby with chunky, ill-fitting machinery flopping out of his tiny ears, and a lot of people have a lot to say about it.


One evening, my husband was holding Elliot in an aisle in the grocery store when a little boy of undetermined age walked up and wordlessly hugged our son. He had hearing aids, too. In this one healing act the boy expressed empathy, fellowship, and acceptance to my son. He had hearing aids, too, and it was okay.


Now I fantasize about a different encyclopedia of baby problems - one which reads next to certain entries, "This is not normal. Everything is not perfect. And it's still okay." I am nearly nine months pregnant with our second child, and my husband and I still don't know the cause of Elliot's hearing loss. Our daughter may have hearing impairment, too, or maybe something more complicated. Maybe in the end we'll have a house full of half a dozen kids with twice as many hearing aids: small, expensive things to lose and find and break and replace. Maybe Elliot will struggle with some things in his life that I never will, and I will have to watch from the outside and feel the special heart-sickness of a mother who can't do anything about it.


And it's still okay.

Lesson Learned, Miki: Channel Your Inner Drama

Here's essay #9 by Miki Esplin. 


It's been almost 10 years since I came to the U.S. It feels like I have gone through many changes, trials, great happiness, and transformations in a very short time. I sometimes feel I am on a crazy ride and I need to get off for a bit so I don't get dizzy... Woo!


I was thinking about becoming lovely and for me, a wild, quite odd person who DOES NOT blend with the crowd, I feared my essay will be misunderstood. Which brings me to the lesson I have learned.


The fear of not being understood made me terrified and anxious communicating with people on deeper levels, human levels, bluntly-said levels. This fear made me try to talk and act in a way that I perceived to be "the right way."


Realizing I was acting out of fear, which is never a good thing, I went upon a learning journey to get to the root of the fear and yank it. What I learned is mostly awesome and somewhat sad but true.


When I am true to myself, respect my true core, and respect others' place in life, I am doing the right thing. With that said, being true and not always understood leads to the loss of "friends" or "loved ones."


Seeing life in a positive lovely way sometimes requires stepping in mud and having no one say, "Aw, you poor thing." The loneliness that comes with retrieving your real self is the "downside." The upside is that I have a true sense of who I am: complex, funny, silly, blunt, naive, loving to the point of puking, weird, unique and quite imaginative and dramatic.


Instead of letting that drama come out in my relationships, the drama is to be channeled into my art. Writing. Photography. Music.


The beautiful irony in that is that writing will lead to exposure of feelings and experiences that can make people, once again, not understand me. But the greatest lesson is that my truth and my art is ME.


Those who love me will stick with me, appreciate my sincere intentions and remember always that I love them in my odd, silly, sometimes overwhelming way.


I have released the need to be loved by everyone. How? I have learned that I love myself- and just like I would not give up on a person I love because they are not what I "decide" they should be, I have full confidence that I will not give up on myself, with all my weaknesses and oddness (which I now embrace).


Learning to have a positive outlook on yourself and others is a wonderful inner journey. As we know, we are our thoughts. Which is why repressing hard things can control me- so God gave me art!


I embrace imperfection- It's PERFECT and lovely and I love unconditionally. Peace.

Lesson Learned, Whitney: Be Someone Else's Biggest Fan

Here's essay #8 by the lovely and brilliant Whitney Roberts Ehle.

As a teenager, I remember several older people at church who would ask me about all the details of my life: my favorite school subjects, crushes on boys, my life goals, etc. These mentors would also tell me that I could take my talents and interests and use them to reach my goals. Their confidence made feel confident that I would be a Broadway singer, a heart surgeon, a famous novelist. I invited my mentors to my high school plays, and they came. After I sang a solo in church, they always made sure to tell me how well I had sung. They encouraged me in my desire to live a Christ-like life by praising me for the good decisions I made. Above all, their interest in my life made me feel insanely fascinating and exciting. I felt good about myself and my abilities when I was with them.

When I left for college, I found myself living in an apartment with six other girls who were all amazingly talented, intelligent, and beautiful. I loved my roommates dearly, and we were really good friends. But I found myself feeling mediocre. My ability to sing or play the piano was no longer anything out of the ordinary. After all, every Mormon girl can sing and play the piano, right? For a long time, I tried to do anything that would bring me the praise and confidence boosts I missed receiving from my high school mentors.

One day when I was singing slightly louder in church, so that the person sitting next to me would compliment me, I realized how ridiculous I was being. Yes, I was being plain ridiculous! The girl sitting next to me had a beautiful voice, and she probably liked it when others told her. After the song was over, I told her that her voice was beautiful, and I learned that I didn’t need to begrudge others the compliments that were their due. Rather than diminish my self-worth by complimenting my neighbor, I had actually increased my confidence. No, I didn’t necessarily feel more capable of conquering the world with song, but I felt more confident in my ability to love.

Lesson Learned: Rachel Learns to Kill Vampires

Contest entry #7 by Rachel Slough. The contest is now closed, but we're glad we extended it, because more of you responded (including some right at the wire)! (Don't forget that you can alway send us guest posts too - even when there isn't a contest.) Look forward to another week and a half of essays before we vote for a winner! 

I love teaching and get a thrill from the surprises and constant variety, and the energy when students make new connections. While teaching one-on-one has always been fun, teaching a full classroom was absolutely terrifying for a long time. All of those eyes on me, the expectation that I keep a room of people engaged and learning; everyone silently, or not so silently, judging my words and actions. I had nightmares about all the horrible things that could happen in a classroom, yet I couldn’t shake this gut-level feeling that teaching would be worth any of these challenges. I knew that I’d have to get over this fear of teaching full classes, so I forced myself to teach as often and in as many settings as I could throughout high school and undergrad. I asked people I trusted for suggestions, I read books, I had others critique my teaching, I learned yoga and breathing techniques. I even spent a year abroad on a teaching grant, which allowed me 30-40 hours of teaching each week and seminars each month related to education and the art of teaching.

But the terror remained and, no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop the rising panic that started every time I began a class and the rushed pace and frantic atmosphere that resulted—exactly the opposite of the safe, comfortable learning environment that I wanted to establish for my students. After all this effort, I still loved teaching, but I was beginning to doubt if I was really doing myself, or anyone else, any good by keeping this up. Maybe it was time to accept, move on, and find something else that I’m better suited to do.Stubborn as I am, I gave myself a mental deadline of just one more semester of effort and kept asking experts for ideas. My graduate supervisor suggested a zen-like approach of just accepting, ok, I get panicky when I teach. That’s just what it feels like. Accept, embrace, go with it. While this helped somewhat, it wasn’t enough to help me slow down or eliminate the panic. I asked another friend, who advised me to Just Kill Those Vampires, explaining that the song “Die Vampire, Die” from Title of Show says it all (warning that there is explicit language).

In other words, identify the demons and thoughts that are keeping me from doing what I need to do, and show them no mercy.

In teaching, it was helpful to be able to name specific vampires: I’m afraid I can’t do this, I’m afraid the students will hate me. Okay, DIE vampires! I can teach; if the students hate me, it doesn’t matter.

Or something like that.

Once the fears had names and identities, eliminating or minimizing them suddenly became easier and made the classroom much more enjoyable. It allowed me to slow my pace, just a little, and to laugh more.

I’m not claiming that this song, or this attitude of trying to identify and kill life’s vampires, has transformed me into a perfect teacher or human being. I still have a looooooong way to go, and, if you were to watch me teach, you’d notice that my pace is still faster than most, and often faster than advisable. I think I may always have a moment of panicked energy right before I teach or face any situation that seems scary for whatever reasons. But being able to notice, name, and kill my vampires has allowed me to find more joy and peace in what I do, both inside and outside the classroom.

Lesson Learned, Emily: Love the Curl

Contest entry #6 by Emily McBride. Don't forget, tomorrow is the last day to submit an essay.

When I was just starting Kindergarten, my hair fell in long, light-brown ringlets. People would ask my mom how much time she spent curling my hair every morning, to which she replied with a smile, “It’s natural.”

As I grew taller, my hair grew thicker and heavier, leaving me with unruly and uneven curls. I didn’t like my hair anymore and my flat iron became my new best friend. But this wasn’t an easy straightening job. My hair was thick and long and extra curly in the back. Every morning I would drag myself out of bed an entire hour early—just to straighten my hair.

I faithfully straightened my hair every day, and if I woke up late or didn’t feel well, I would just put it in a ponytail. I didn’t know how to control my curls, and I didn’t want to control my curls—I just wanted them to go away. Straight hair was in. I was so jealous of my friends that had naturally straight hair, who could just get out of the shower, part their hair down the middle, and let it dry in the sun.

At some point toward the end of high school, I got sick of straightening my hair. And I also became more sure of myself. I experimented with my brother’s hair gel and my blowdryer one day in the bathroom. I came out triumphant, with sticky, but nevertheless, curly, hair. I started wearing my hair curly to school on the days where I just didn’t feel like I getting up so early. And as time went on, I grew more adept at working with my curls. As I figured out which mousse held best and discovered that blowdrying my hair upside down worked wonders, my straightener began to serve me less and less.

Now, I sometimes go months without straightening my hair—and not because I’m lazy. I have a fancy flat iron now, one that cuts the straightening time in half. But I’ve embraced my curly hair and have come to love it. Short or long—I like my hair best when it’s curly.

So, what’s the point of my hair history? Am I saying that curly hair is better than straight hair? Or am I saying that it’s not worth it to spend time getting ready in the morning? No, not at all. What I’m trying to say is that part of becoming lovely is accepting and being grateful for who you are and working with what you have. Not only does it help you feel better about yourself—but it’s often more convenient, too :)

Lesson Learned, Jill: Life Isn't Fair

Contest entry #3 by Jill Berrett. Don't forget you still have until tomorrow to enter the contest! We still want to hear from you all.

"This isn’t fair.”

If I could sum up the majority of my thoughts from the past three or four days I think that the above statement would probably be the winner. “It’s not fair. This is not fair. Not fair, not fair not fair!” Apparently I revert back to my ten-year-old state when under duress, but no matter, because to be honest, this really hasn’t been fair.

Coming from a family of all girls, we were overly obsessed with the concept of fairness. We were instantly aware of any occasion where one sister got more than the rest of us. Desserts were painstakingly measured and cut so we all got equal portions. Christmas presents were counted and recounted to be sure that we all got the same number. Closets were compared to see if perhaps a sister was luckier in her clothing selections than the others were. The words, “not fair” were uttered so much by us that in time they started melding together until a sort of “nofeair” sound was recognized by us all as to mean, “That’s not fair!”

We drove my parents crazy. So much so that my Dad created a mantra that continues to dominate our family life today: “Life’s not fair.” As soon as the little girl, high-pitched whine of, “but that’s not fair!” was heard, we knew that quickly on its heels would come the deep, fatherly-voiced reply of, “well, life’s not fair.”

Strangely enough, I think this concept of my dad's really started to sink it at some point. I’m not sure at what point it was- whenever it was, it look a long, long time, but standing where I am in my life now- today- I find myself saying, when the occasion calls for it, “well, Jill- life’s just not fair.”

So I guess this is what I have learned: Yes, at times I wish things in my life were different. But it'll be okay I suppose because, really- life just isn’t fair...

I did my best. I did what I could. Sure, I didn’t get what I wanted in the end, but at least I know it wasn’t from lack of trying on my part. I may not have gotten what I feel I deserved, but no worries. I’ll simply wait for the day to come when I get something far more than I deserve. Because let’s not forget- there are two sides to every coin. You see, sometimes this whole “life’s not fair” thing can really work out in our favor…

This has been an original essay by one Jill Berrett, copyright pending...

Lesson Learned, Melissa: Don't Limit Yourself

Contest entry #2, by one of our frequent guest writers, Melissa Turney, who now runs the awesome blog Living in the Motherhood.

I used to consider myself a pretty adventurous person. I’ve always loved to travel to strange and exotic places around the world and immerse myself in their culture—as far as my dollar will allow. I would love to engage in challenges testing my own limits. Before I got married, there were very few things I wouldn’t consider doing once as long as it remained in the bounds of my moral compass and I could afford to do it.


Then I grew up.


I got married, got a job, graduated from college, had a baby…and pretty soon I was pretty well settled in my new found comfort zone. You know—the one where you don’t take overnight trips to foreign countries just for the stamp in your passport or go repelling off a cliff just to impress some cute guy. It is the zone where you see 9 PM flashing on your clock radio and think “Bed time already…Woohoo!”


This summer I took a trip with my daughter up to Island Park Idaho where I spent the better part of my summers as a youth (proof that I’m old…I’m using the word youth). Most of the cousins I spent my time with as a kid were off being adults, so I had the privilege of getting to know some “youthier” cousins and my sister who are all in the 15-19 year range. For some reason this brought out a side of me that I thought had vanished.


Several of my cousins decided it would be fun to go bridge jumping. I do not like heights, falling, or becoming paralyzed so I decided against it. Unfortunately for me, as I stood there watching my cousins hurl themselves off the bridge into the water I began to get that "old" sinking feeling in the depths of my bowels.


I had to jump.


Yes it was hard, yes it took me about ten minutes of standing on the very edge picturing my dead body floating in the river while making others jump before me (including my daredevil 6 year old cousin), but I closed my eyes and jumped into what seemed an eternity until I hit the frigged water of the Snake river and came up feeling awesome. When I emerged from the water my grandpa said, "There is the mother of the year!"


Why didn't I want to take the chance in the first place? Why would I think that becoming an adult would exclude me from such ridiculousness? I was using adulthood as an excuse to prohibit myself rather than a jumping point (no pun intended) to reach my full potential.


This is why three days later I found myself standing on a rock in Yellowstone National Park absolutely naked.


Bridge jumping renewed my desired to go beyond my comfort zone and be spontaneous. My sister and cousins invited me to Mystic falls to go skinny dipping. I'll spare you the details but know that I absolutely did it and I have never felt better doing something illegal in my whole life. Sure, I was afraid I would get swept up in the currant and my naked body would go over the waterfall, sure I was afraid that someone would steal my clothes, or I would get partially eaten by a bear-- then be found naked, but I learned that you are never beyond challenging yourself, you are never beyond adventure.


Life is meant to be lived. For some people it means ignoring your diet to indulge in your favorite dessert, for others it is jumping out of a plane. I learned that you should never limit your choices based on the stereotype you have categorized yourself in. Sure I am an adult. I’m a mom…but I am also Melissa Turney, and she likes a little adventure now and again.

Lesson Learned, Cara: Love, Hope and Loss

Here's our first contest entry, written by Cara Stone. Don't forget the deadline is August 7th - keep sending us your essays!

"The kind of hugs you give during times of grief are those when you can’t tell which person is the one holding the other up. They are the kind where you are holding so tightly that one could go limp with sorrow and neither would fall. They are the kind where you are trying to convey that, somehow, the world will go on and that you can rely on your friends to be there and understand that your heart is broken and they won’t try to fix it but, rather, just be there with you as you relearn how to navigate the world.”

I wrote those words three days after he died. Let me back up. Over the July 4th weekend a close friend of mine from college got married. Less than twelve hours later one of her closest friends, an usher at her wedding, died unexpectedly at the age of thirty. He left behind a wife, a three-month-old daughter, a father, and friends who loved him like a brother.

I got the call at 1:57 a.m. from the bride, Beth, saying something had happened to Jeremy; she didn’t know the extent of it all but she wanted to let someone else in the wedding party know where she was and what little she knew, and that she’d call back when she knew more. The next call came at 2:09 a.m. Beth managed to get out three words before she couldn’t speak anymore. Before her voice became overwhelmed with grief for the friend she considered a brother. “Jeremy didn’t make it...” she said. The “it” trailed away into sobs. She managed to find a few more words, getting them out through the cries and gasps for air; the message was something along the lines that she didn’t know what to do and she needed someone who could think straight to come to the hospital right away.

I have never been in this kind of situation, so close to the actual moment of death. My heart ached, and continues to ache, for Jeremy’s wife, for Beth and her partner on their wedding night...I couldn’t imagine what they were going through...what they continue to go through.

And yet, I had a different perspective. Though I was greatly saddened by the loss of Jeremy, more of the grief and sadness I felt was that for those who have lost their shared future with Jeremy. I’m not married, but I can’t imagine losing my (someday) husband and never again seeing his smile, the one I would expect to see on the pillow next to me every morning for the rest of my life...to lose the plans we might make to go visit friends next week...to lose the conversations about how to raise our children... to lose the times when the pile of dishes in the sink would be too much and I might wash and he might dry...to lose the idea of growing old together...to lose the shared laughter...to lose the times when we might just sit and be, together...

That night I told myself I never wanted to fall in love so I would never have to face the kind of pain Jeremy’s wife was feeling, the despair and grief. Even now I keep going back and forth...But I have faith that there is so much more to love than just the now. That, somehow, the memory of the love that was shared along with the love and support of friends and family would help me continue, to face each day as it comes. Nothing would be “better;” nothing would be “alright.” It would be a different life than I or anyone else could have envisioned...one that I might not want to face. But it would still have love. As long as there is at least a little bit of love I could still have hope. Though it scares me, I won’t (and can’t) give up on love.

Lesson Learned: Megan Decides to Like Opera

This is the last of our sample essays before we turn it all over to you. Don't forget about the great prize. We can't wait to hear from you! Don't forget, the deadline is August 7th.


I like mildly inaccessible culture. I happily stood for three hours at a time to see Titus Andronicus, Coriolanus and four other Shakespeare plays at the Globe.  I appreciate film festivals with especially esoteric films. I love going to indie rock concerts or bluegrass concerts or classical music concerts. I like ballet and can even get behind some modern dance. I delight in postmodern novels and modernist poetry.

And I'm a big fan of opera.

I didn't always like opera. My parents weren't fans and they would always change the classical music station when someone started belting an aria. Bugs Bunny made fun of it. My first live opera experience was nice, but there were no supertitles and I was a little lost, so it was more of a novelty than anything. It was something to check off my list of snooty things I'd done, and I did it. [dusts off hands.]

Then, a couple of years ago I was simultaneously doing an internship at the Music and Dance Library in the Harold B. Lee Library at BYU, and reading a novel called Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. The novel had several characters who loved opera, and the way they talked about it made me want to join their super-special opera-loving club. The internship provided easy access to lots of CDs, libretti, and effusive music majors. It was time.

So I started checking out stacks of opera CDs. I packed my purse with double- and triple-disc cases: Don Giovanni, The Barber of Seville, The Flying Dutchman, La Traviata, Madama Butterfly, Fidelio, Porgy and Bess, The Rake's Progress. 


The thing I think is amazing about this experience is that I set out to like opera, and I liked it. In fact, I loved it. I would sit in the Reading Room with a stack of scores to be cataloged and a pair of those giant headphones, and I would just glory in the sounds. I listened to them in my car or while I was reading in my room. I started having favorite singers and composers (Bryn Terfel, Verdi). I started searching the Utah Opera website for student ticket prices.

My love of opera has served me well. I moved to Indiana the next year, and IU's music school puts on three fantastic operas every semester. I have several operas on my iPod, and they provide a welcome respite when I'm tired of drums and guitars during a long day at work. Operas make me feel good about the world.

But I think more than that, the experience taught me that you can set out to like something and actually end up liking it - maybe even more than you thought you would. I set out to learn to appreciate opera and ended up finding something that brings a lot of joy to my life. Sometimes when there's something I don't expect to like, I remind myself about opera and I think, "I can have positive feelings toward this. I just have to decide that I want to like it."

I'm fond of calling certain things that took me awhile to like "acquired taste  ______." Acquired taste music. Acquired taste art.  And I guess I say "fond" because the things that I have to work to love often end up being my favorite things.  There's something about making a conscious choice to learn to love something that gives me a feeling of ownership and power over my experiences. I choose what I love. I choose to love.

Lesson learned. Thanks, opera.

Lesson Learned: Miri Lets Go

A few years ago I went through a period of missing many of my college friends, and being really frustrated with the fluid state of relationships that occurs in Provo. I'd had some really good, really close guy friends, who had then gotten married and vanished from my life. Even though we'd never had any romantic involvement, they'd cut off all contact with me--and some other mutual friends--when they got engaged, as though they felt that they couldn't be friends with me anymore. 


This didn't make me feel very good. For one thing, I began to feel as though my friendship with these guys had just been a placeholder relationship, that they were using me to fill a space in between girlfriends. For another, I just really missed their company. Most of these relationships were actually very short as relationships go--about the length of a semester, on average--but because they involved a lot of loooong conversations, often until early hours of the morning, we'd gotten to know each other really well, and they'd come to be pretty important to me. 


I had a hard time with this for a while. I wrote some whiny blog posts and complained to my girlfriends, lamenting my situation, denouncing the awkwardness of BYU's male/female dynamics and blaming it for my predicament. (I have a slight tendency toward the dramatic in situations like these... I feel things very strongly.)


And then one day I stumbled across a quote that really struck me, and I wrote the following:

"That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet." --Emily Dickinson

I read this quote on my friend Alanna's Facebook profile, and suddenly I felt very silly for being so upset. Most things about life are temporary. That's just something we all have to deal with. So when things change in our lives, when people move on, we should be grateful for the time that we had with them, the things we learned, the memories that we'll always have... instead of being depressed that we can't go back to the way things were. If we could always go back to the way things were, we probably would, because people tend to cling to the familiar. But then we'd miss out on so much of what's waiting for us down the road; and when you look at it in retrospect, you can see that the things that you didn't know were waiting for you are usually just as sweet as the things you had to leave behind to get there.

So this is my lesson learned: That we are meant to experience life, not capture it.

People come into our lives, and then some of them leave. Sometimes we don't know why. But the nature of life is change, and no one can avoid it. Instead of being regretful about the loss of something we love, instead of letting that whole chapter become tainted with negative feelings, we should cherish our memories and be grateful for having had the experience.

Lesson Learned: Lindsey Got Her Bottom Stuck in a Chair

It's time to kick things off with the writing contest! We will be posting our Lessons Learned this week to hopefully help inspire you to write your own. Ours will not be in the running for the prize (even though we love, love, LOVE Annie's posters). Remember, email us your entry by August 7th! Happy writing!


When I was five years old I got my bottom stuck in a chair.

I was watching Muppet Babies and sitting (read: climbing) on a wooden chair. I never listened when my mom told me to use the chair correctly, I always put the back of the chair on the floor and climbed in and out of the legs. Sometimes I used the legs as roads for Matchbox cars. On that day, though, I sat in the space between the bottom of the chair seat and the rung that went across the legs of the chair and my bottom just settled in.

I screamed and cried as I realized I was quite thoroughly stuck. Of course, my two older brothers were the first to find me. My mom came in next and was nice enough not to say "I told you so" as she tried to pull me out. I was buttered up while my brothers (and my mother) laughed at the ridiculous situation. The butter didn't work and my back was scraping against the chair. Soon, my mom announced that she would have to call our neighbor to come SAW ME OUT...with a SAW.

As I hugged my knees (which were hanging out by my shoulders) and cried, I realized that I would rather stay stuck in that chair forever than let anyone else know about it. Also, I didn't want a saw anywhere near me. I was a little nervous about being sawed out of a chair, but more embarrassed that my neighbor would be the one to do it. I mean, how does a phone call like that go?

"Hi Neighbor! Say, do you mind coming over with a saw and helping me free my youngest child from the nefarious clutches of our dining chair?"

"Why certainly! That's a totally normal thing for a neighbor to have to do. I'll be right over!"

Eventually, I was freed and patched up and I resumed my TV watching, feeling completely and totally embarrassed. It's still one of those stories that need only be mentioned and my whole family will laugh. My brothers never let me forget, because that's what brothers do, right? But, up until a few years ago, I never wanted anyone else to know about it, which is funny because I do completely embarrassing things ALL. THE. TIME.

So I guess I didn't really learn a lesson by getting my bottom stuck in a chair, but, in hindsight, I know that it was an important thing that happened to me. I think it was the first time I remember worrying about what other people thought of me. Not only worrying about what they thought of me but wanting to make a decision (to stay stuck in the chair) that would keep me from moving forward (getting unstuck) based solely on what they thought. It's silly to be so focused on what other people will think of you that you lose focus on things you want to do or adventures you could have.