Jane Austen's Writing Desk.

There is a room in the British Library called the “Treasures exhibit.” Each section boasts its small wonders, and simply placed between Jane Eyre and Kubla Khan sits a plain, wooden writing desk.  

It isn’t much to look at—just a dark, nondescript wooden border surrounding a simple, angled surface. Even the brass of the hinges, lock, and tiny inkpot glint only dully through the glass. It is a literary relic, just a piece of furniture that Jane Austen used. But I stared at that desk, awash in waves of emotion, pulling meaning from the woodgrain.   

Though separated by 200 years and a thick sheet of glass, I felt the love and support of her father; a father much like mine, who gave her that desk and encouraged her writing ambitions in a time when so few would have. I saw the shadow of Cassandra, sketching figures for Jane’s stories and supporting her like only a true sister can, the way my sister does. 

I stood in awe, remembering each timeless classic that had been etched out upon that wooden slat, unable to fully express what those novels have meant to me. I constantly encounter her characters, as my cousin lives like Lydia and my little sister mimics Mary. I have sometimes dodged a Colins or befriended a Mr. Bingley. Jane’s witty scenes help me humor my Mrs. Bennet and weather John Middleton’s well-meaning blows. But what’s more, I have framed my own pain in the plots of her precious novels.  

I have suffered an Elinor’s anguish from a silent, distant Edward; And I know the blow of a “badly done, Emma,” given by a long-term friend. And I felt all of Lizzie’s bitterness when I saw my Charlotte settle. But living through these moments was bearable, because an Austen heroine had paved my way before.  

 And so I stood—enveloped in a timeless moment at the summit of emotion. And I stared, with increasingly watery eyes, at something that was just a desk, but symbolized a life and a work that was deeply connected to my own. My final surging feeling was of gratitude to Jane, for what she’d given me: a life enriched by stories, her wisdom and her wit, and a borrowed understanding of human characteristics and behavior.  

The moment passed—all moments do. But the memory of it still surges vibrantly in my soul’s center.  

In her own skin

"Alayna, do you think I'm fat?"

I stop whatever I was doing at the bathroom sink to stare at her reflection in the mirror. I call her "little Melissa" because she's my little sister... but also because there are a lot of other Melissa's in my life and I needed a way to keep them straight. To be honest, the nick-name doesn't really fit. She's already far taller than any of us were at her age (and we've never been 'short'), and it's even more apparent as she stands in mock nonchalance by the door frame.  

I have to answer her question, I know that, but I'm hesitant. I know that what I say in this moment -whatever my answer to her question is- could follow her through her life. That's just how girls work. I knew a girl of average weight and build (honestly, she might even be considered thin) who was insecure and self-conscious all through her tween and mid-teen years just because her family members teased her about being fat. I don't think that they were ever serious, but it didn't matter. The damage was done. 

I keep my breathing steady, trying hard not to let her see any extra hesitance or tension in my manner. You see, I never learned how to say something like this to a ten year old girl.

After the pause of another nervous moment, I say, "I think you are growing" in a voice so casual it borders on boredom. 

And really, it's true. It used to be that she wasn't very 'size conscious.' If a pair of my shorts ended up in her laundry basket, she'd don a belt and wear them around as Capris without being any the wiser. I guess those days are gone. I won't miss her days of poor fashion sense -packing her clothes myself when we went on trips because I knew what matched and fit her better than she did- but it's another phase of childhood that she's growing out of. And I remember it, too. I remember when I thought wildly patterned shorts with matching tops were the coolest things ever and that yellow socks completed every outfit. But eventually we all have to grow up and learn the ways of the world. Its just coming up a little quickly on me. 

She's still standing there in the doorway. Her dark hair -so different from my own- frames her young face and her recently cut bangs form a harsh line in the middle of her forehead. Her dark eyes -brown like mine were when I was young- are still trained on mine, so I know I have to say something else. I mean, I guess she has that 'childhood pudge' but she's also wearing training bras now... though I don't feel the need to mention that. Oh well, here goes nothing.

"Honey, there are a lot of different body types, none of them are 'right' and none of them are 'wrong,' and it doesn't really matter. Sometimes you can't control it, and most of the time, that's ok." I'm grasping at philosophical straws, and I know it. But I hope that somewhere in my pile of words, she can hear the needle of truth: You are a daughter of a loving Heavenly Father. He created you in His image. Your body is a Temple for your beautiful soul, and it's what's on the inside that counts. 

Be comfortable in your own skin. It doesn't matter what I think, or what anyone else says. Accept yourself and your body for the miracle that they really are.

This is what I hope she heard, though it isn't quite what I said. If I had said all that I probably would have freaked her out with my sudden seriousness, so I guess it's better this way.

I guess, I hope I said (or she heard) something right, because after another brief moment she nods, bobbed hair jerking, and walks back to her room.

I am nine years older than little Melissa. Sometimes I call her "Baby Girl," which once thoroughly confused the kids in the swim team I coached and she was in. Maybe it's time for, and maybe she's earned another name. But I think it should be of her choosing. 

And I think she'll be fine.   

Three Weddings and a Funeral

Aria’s Vegas Wedding Reception

In some ways, it felt like it was more mine than hers (I made the playlist, both slideshows, 'oked' the final decorations, helped mom write the agenda, typed it up for the MC/DJ, and provided all of her accessories).

Actually when I say it like that, it sounds like I'm turning into the main character from my favorite rom-coms.

In which case I end up with James Marsden. And I am very much ok with that. 

Aria asked me what shoes she could borrow, and I graciously opened my hoard. But the thing is... Spencer is only slightly taller than Aria, so she was reduced to wearing my silver sandals (coincidentally, the same ones I wore to her wedding in Hawaii). 

Aria couldn't wear heels... so Eliza and I decided to both wear 4-5 inched ones. ;)

We sang "For Good." It was a little unpracticed, but still good. Ya. Still good. 

We danced. We talked. We partied and smiled. We didn't do a lot of clean up because many of the decorations would be recycled for Ari's wedding two days later. Instead I ended up talking with the Crists, a couple that was married the same day as our parents.

They watch Doctor Who. We geeked out.

She wants me to write her son on a mission in Portugal.

Arranged marriage number 5.

Ari’s wedding

I was the flower girl bridesmaid, protecting the bridal bouquet with my life. It was a LONG day. 

I know it was technically my second time being a bridesmaid, but it felt like the first. People asked me to DO things and be responsible for important wedding stuff. *Note to future people: Do NOT ask a bridesmaid to do stuff. Bridesmaids are busy taking pictures and looking pretty and anticipating what the bride needs before she articulates it. I say this in all seriousness. Ask me to keep track of vases? I'll forget them on the temple grounds (yes. That happened). Ask me to roll out the carpet for the isle? And how exactly am I supposed to do that when I'm walking down it 5 seconds later? Think about it.*

Holding the bride's bouquet? That I can do.

I really liked taking pictures as bridesmaids and with the groomsmen. We didn't really do that at Aria's because we were all just family. There were a couple of great ones that I hope to get eventually. *Note to future self: Brides are busy people and pictures aren't really the foremost thing on their minds. Have patience. You'll see them eventually.*

Grandma's Funeral

I saw cousins I haven't seen in years. It's amazing how much some people have changed... and how much some people have stayed the same. 

My mom often says that funerals bring people together in ways that no other event will. Not everyone will come to a wedding or mission farewell, but EVERYONE will come to a funeral.

I loved seeing everyone, and spent some quality time laughing and playing with some of my cousins. Others... I don't remember speaking to. Funny how that works out. The viewing was full of music and memories and family. It was good... even though it dragged on. 

The actual funeral was very much the same: full of music and good, even though it dragged on.

But I didn't cry.

Not even when we sang Aloha Oe and wheeled her casket down the isle. 

No, the only time I teared up was when I mentioned being hungry and someone accused me of being insensitive. So in essence, I cried because I wasn't crying, and realizing this made me cry even more. 

I was a mess that day for all the wrong reasons. Urgh.

We took a family photo, the most complete one ever, probably. My great uncle even photo-shopped out some of the headstones. Thoughtful of him.

We took age-group pictures. Eliza insisted that I join in on this one, even though it's her age group and not mine. Everyone in my age group is on missions. I never thought I'd miss Michael so much.

TJ and Roma's Wedding

We had car problems on previous trips to Utah, so this time we rented a van.
Sorry, I should have checked to make sure that you guys were sitting down before sayings something so shocking, but it can be safely assumed that you were, since you are probably reading this at a computer.

Thomas Blackham married Roma Marie. Different people know both of them by different nick-names, so no one knew what to call them or what names to address the card to. I guess I'm kind of glad that my name is fairly nick-name proof. ( Sorry Aria, 'Layn' is never going to catch on.)

But it was time well spent with people I love (and that includes our little jaunt to Fantasy Con with Marissa), and nothing is more important than that. 

We decorated the car, which Eliza and I instigated and was carried on with enthusiasm by about half the wedding party. There's no WAY they didn't notice when we all left suspiciously for that hour...
It was my third wedding in a week, but the ONLY one that had a decorated car. I'm glad we did it.

What did I learn from this fantastic flurry of events?

I learned that it is not impossible to request 10 days off of work, so make time for the things that matter. (It helps if your supervisor is recently married and part of your reason for leaving is a wedding.)

I learned that it all boils down to people. Bridesmaids are there to support their friend, the bride. The guests are there to honor a friendship between some member of the wedding party. The wedding party throws a gala to celebrate this special moment with all of their friends. 

In the end it doesn't matter if the car looks stupid or the wind blew down all the fake floral decorations. It doesn't matter if you cried for the right reasons, or that the Relief Society had 15 different types of funeral potatoes at the luncheon. 

At the end of the day, the person beside you is the only one who matters.
It's the person you'll be embarking on a new life with.

The person who held you up as buried a loved one.

It's the person who has been beside you time and time again.

These are the people who matter.
That's what three weddings and a funeral have taught me.

A Father's Day in Heaven

This morning I woke up to the phone ringing, though I didn't wake up all at once. I didn't even answer it for the first few minutes, looking instead to the clock on my bedside table. 4:30 am? Who would? There's a vintage spin-dial phone on the other side of my bed, just because none of the other phones upstairs actually ring (as we rather inconveniently found out at 3am the day of my freshman year biology trip. I had to call someone else to get me. I promise to get over that some day.) Anyway, I answered it.

"Is your mom there?" Aunt Melissa's shaky voice asked me on the line.
"Probably, let me get her for you." Wow. That was stupid of me. Of COURSE my mom is here, it's not like she'd sneak out this early in the morning

I rolled across my mattress and onto my feet. I walked the few steps into the darkened hall before entering mom's room. For the silliest split second, I couldn't remember which side of the bed was hers. But I remembered, and it didn't really matter anyway because Dad was in Utah for his sister's 50th wedding anniversary and wouldn't be back until tomorrow.

I approached the side of the bed. Usually mom has this weird sixth sense that alerts her to the presence of one of her children in the room, so she stirs. But this time I had to actually grasp her arm.
She jolted awake, which both shocked me and made me feel incredibly guilty.
I spoke evenly and pointedly, "Aunt Melissa is on the phone and would like to speak with you."
She reached for the phone and in a weak, breathy voice, uttered a greeting.

I walked swiftly back to my room. I had no intention of going to sleep, choosing instead to hold the receiver to my ear and listen silently.
"oh wow." My mom said. She said it several times.
In the seconds it had taken for me to cross from mom's room to my own, I had missed the big news.

But it didn't matter. I already knew.
Of course I knew.
I think I had known it from the moment the phone rang.

She died at 5:00 in the morning, mountain standard time. There was a nurse with her at the time, doing her hourly check up. Grandma was trying to get out of bed, something she has been unable to do on her own for the past year. But the nurse tried to help her anyway. Apparently, Grandma sat up, gave a single gasp, and died.

Aunt Melissa probably felt guilty because she hadn't visited her that day. Her final day on earth without a visit from a family member? It must have been unthinkable!

But she hadn't been alone. Because my darling, darling father had spent the previous night with her, his ailing mother-in-law. He'd driven the 30 minutes each way from Brigham City (from his sister's house) to Holladay. He visited her. He called us, and every single one of us talked with her. She was excited to hear that my mission papers were submitted and in Salt Lake. She laughed at something David had said (which no one can remember). She was... there. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Present.
After we hung up, Dad sang a Hymn with Grandma (Sweet Hour of Prayer?) and recited his favorite scripture (1Nephi 1:1) because there were no English Book of Mormon's on hand. They closed the visit with a prayer.

Back to that morning in my mother's room, the remainder of the phone call continued in a fairly predictable, though emotional, stream. Who has been called, what else needs to be done, etc, etc. Eventually, the call ended.
I immediately rolled off the bed and was in mom's doorway within moments.
She started to say something, but I just hugged her and said, "I know, I listened in on the other end."

I don't know a lot of things. I don't know how to act at bridal showers or how to comfortably interact with former teachers. I don't know how to flirt or act around couples.
But I know how to be there for people. I know how to be a still, silent, comforting presence. I can play with hair, pat a back, or massage with a gentle thumb to calm the troubled heart.
So I sat there on the foot-end of the bed with my hand on my mother's knee. Every now and then, we'd say something or make some small realization.

"Mom's spending Father's Day with Dad this year."
"I learned 'God be With You 'Till we Meet Again' in Organ Camp and said that I could polish it if I had another week..."
"Dad used to wake at about 5am when he was feeling well. He probably came and got her."

Then Mom called Dad. I went to get the cordless phone from downstairs and a pillow from my room. I had every intention of staying the remainder of the morning with my mother in her room (my theory: I can sleep when I'm dead... though something tells me that I might be even busier in the next life).
Why? Because she needed someone. And 'Someone' is practically my middle name.
Dad told us about his trip. We weighed the pros and cons of calling Aria right then vs. waiting until later. Though it probably didn't matter, because she never answers her phone anyway (it probably runs in the family). It was a good talk. He's a good man. We hung up.

Then she called Aunt Nan. God bless Aunt Nan. She took the edge off. Yes, they talked about their Mom, her last moments, and what would happen next. But they also talked about... future job openings, receptions, their children... and other things. By the end of this last phone call (oh believe me, it had many false finishes and it only took four times of Aunt Nan saying she had to plan her Sunday School lesson for the call to end)... Mom didn't need me anymore. She never said it, but I felt it. The time was now 6:40 am.

I returned to my room, pulled down my light-canceling blinds, and slept until half an hour before church started.





There are a thousand little miracles.
1) Eliza and I (for different reasons) both have this Friday and Saturday off of work.
2) Aunt Melissa has been organizing Grandma's house, and the division of the assets and such was already well under way by the time the news came. She was trying to beat some sort of tax deadline for selling the house. But the timing is... impeccable.
3) If Grandma had died next week... we would have been in the middle of receptions and weddings and such. It would have been a scheduling nightmare. But now... it's just enough time to let people change their plane tickets for a little bit earlier than planned.
4) An Een isn't truly fulfilled unless he/she is doing at least three things consecutively. Three weddings (2 and a delayed reception) and a funeral? That's how we roll.
5) We ALL talked to Grandma mere hours before she passed. Closure.
And the list goes on and on. We have SO much to be thankful for.

Grandma's health has been up and down a lot over the past few years, and I've heard my mother mention (several times) that she must have some work still to do on this Earth... or she wouldn't be here. Which leaves me to wonder... what was it? Did it have anything to do with our last conversation?

My siblings awoke to the news that their Grandmother was spending this Father's Day in Heaven. David had new material for his talk in Sacrament meeting. We've had an outpouring of love and support from our ward family.

The Lord truly is in the details of our lives. All things considered, we couldn't have asked for anything more, or chosen a better time.












Today truly was what should have been an emotional time for me.


And yet I'm pursued by the nagging guilt of a single solitary fact
.... I still haven't cried.
And I don't think I will.
I don't know why I don't feel anything. I feel the need to be there for my mom, to defend Aria's radio silence, to look concerned, to smile, to share stories. I feel the need to live, to breathe, to move on.
But I don't feel ... grief.

And I don't know whether or not that's ok.
But that's the way it is.

This is my story. These are my thoughts.
And I guess that is it.

Only the good die Young

I wanted to be there

When she fell

Though I know I couldn't catch her.

Without ceremony this morning,

They broke her down. 

She's more than mostly gone, now.

I wish I had been there to see her go.

Not because I like the view

Not to see the empty place

         in her heart where I once lived

Nor to witness the death 

         of a place I once called "home."

But

I wish I had been there to see her go 

          so she wouldn't have to die alone.

Farewell to Young

When I was signing up for housing here at BYU, I was told to get into "New Heritage" if at all possible. Sure, the rent was about $300 more a semester, but they were so much nicer, newer, and they had free wifi. Unfortunately, by the time my registration date rolled around, none of the New Heritage rooms were open. In fact, hardly any of the Heritage halls had openings. As I hesitated, the bed I was going to click was taken. So without another thought or moment's hesitation, I claimed the first bed that popped up as "available" on my screen.
And the rest is history.

Young Hall.

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if the shower head was just a foot and a half taller, I might be able to stand under it without hunching over. ( As it is, the shower head is the same height as my nose.)

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if the mattress was a little bit longer, maybe my feet wouldn't hang off the end. Oh, and it might help that I have to sleep about a foot lower on the mattress to avoid hitting my head on the random shelving unit that runs inconveniently across the room.

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if I could reach the shelves without standing on the ridiculously unsteady rocking chairs, it would be even better. (Seriously, for a Hall made for dwarfs, there sure are a lot of floor-to-ceiling cupboards.)

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if we could control the temperature, it would be even better. Unbearably hot in summer, sweaters inside in the winter. 

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if the door to my bedroom would quit rattling whenever it's fully shut, that would be great. I might get to sleep faster.

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if we had more than one bathroom for SIX girls, it would be even better.

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if I could stop hitting my head on cabinet doors, that would be really great.

Young Hall is a great place to live. Even though my bedroom door has a crack you could fit a credit card into.

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if the water would quit having random hot flashes, I wouldn't have to plaster myself on my shower-wall, waiting for it to pass.

Young Hall is a great place to live. Since there's no wifi, it's common practice to try and find that perfect spot in the lobby, where you can steal from the neighbor's router. Thank you, bubba.

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if there were some couches in the lobby that were... actually comfortable... or that didn't have seats falling into themselves at an angle, I might even be comfortable.

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if the storage cages looked a little bit less like the cells used in "Planet of the Apes," that would be great. I might not be afraid to go down there. 

 Young Hall is a great place to live. And if the washers accepted signature cards like all the other machines on campus, I wouldn't be swimming in quarters.  And if the washers didn't shake like a man's dying breath, that would be great. 

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if we had paddles for the ping-pong table in the basement maybe we could actually use it.

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if the outside stairs were a little bit less treacherous, we might be able to use them without watching our every step. 

Young Hall is a great place to live. And if I could reach the Ethernet plug-in without lying on top of the desk and shoving my arm down the crack between the wall, I would really appreciate it.

In spite of all that, Young Hall really is a great place to live. 

It's old, there's no getting around that. But there's something comforting about the sturdy "brick, wood, and cinder-blocks."

We have a fireplace in the lobby.

We actually HAVE a lobby. It's a great open space... where you can actually... hang out.

But more than all of that... This place holds my memories.

The winter chill settled in, and the air was so cold and clear that I choked breathing it in. Trudging up the many steps to the front entrance, sheltered by a tree with yellowing leaves, Young Hall welcomed me home with a warm embrace.

I loved walking the path to campus, followed by the little stream, and getting a strange satisfaction as I stepped on those weird ball-shaped berries that frequently fell from the trees lining the sidewalk.

Those trees are gone now.

I loved those Friday nights when my dormmates crowded into my half of the room to watch Merlin. Sitting on chairs or perched on the end of my bed because the Ethernet cable meant we couldn't move the laptop, we shouted, cried, and fangirled.

 Liz would stare at me through the crack in my door until I noticed, and then we'd laugh like the crazy kids we are. 

We wrote our room number in business cards, stuck through the useless vent in our door. 244

Marissa likes to stand RIGHT BEHIND ME when I'm working at my computer, and wait until I notice. Sometimes, it take awhile. 

We ordered pizza for our monthly cleaning checks (since the kitchen had to be spotless) and make creepy/cheesy signs for the delivery guys. We then put those signs on the wall in the kitchen. It's a great conversation starter. 

Roommies keep accidentally crashing each other's dates, as they hang out in the kitchen. But it was never awkward, and no one ever asked anyone to leave. We love each other's company.

My dad came and visited me after his high school reunion. He brought me some of Aunt Melissa's home-grown peaches. We sat, chatting on the cold wall outside the building because I forgot that they locked the doors on Sundays, and we couldn't get back in.  

People always cutting through our dorm to use our back exit. Maybe they did it to save time, but then they chat with us, so its use as a shortcut is negligible.

That one time Emmalie, Marissa, and I sat next to each other in the lobby, all in a Google Hangout, just trying to make some "Auto awesome photos." But the mics got all messed up and would pick up on the recorded sound of the nearest computer. What was the result? An endless chorus of increasingly hysterical laughter and funny looks from people who passed by. 

In the hours after midnight, those of us who couldn't quite force ourselves to sleep would talk in the tiny hallway, partially preparing for bed, mostly enjoying each other's company. 

I met my sister's future husband for the first time in the lobby right outside the door to my dorm. 

And who can forget that night when Liz, Marissa, Elisa, and I played "Alayna Trivia?" Who was my Senior English Teacher? What's the name of my friend in building 27? What are my parent's professions? What is the name of my older sister's boyfriend? What is the name of the cousin I have lunch with on Mondays? What is the name of my blonde friend? What are my sibling's names and ages in order? Does my family own a garden? What is it called? What's the name of my blog? What size are my feet? etc. It's scary how much they knew. 

And later that night, when we moved our mattresses into the kitchen and had a sleep over. (Tonight, since there are even fewer of us, we are going to stack the mattresses and sleep like "Princess and the Pea.")

Young Hall has been good to me.

And we've been good to her, too.

And then, piece by piece, they took out the trees, dug ditches, fenced us in, and started to tear her down.

*Somewhere beyond the barricade, is there a world you long to see?*

We are being moved into a brand new building. They are tearing Young down over Christmas break. 

And so, another generation of weary souls struggles through the snow, pulling and carrying their few belongings along the rugged path toward the promise of a better world while the song "Come, Come Ye Saints" rings through the chilly air.

They had handcarts, we have rolling suitcases. They had the promise of Zion, we are promised free wifi. Their path was long, ours is undertaken again and again. 

The slow death march of Young Hall is underway.

And although we could have moved into the new hall two days ago, I haven't gone yet. I'm sticking it out. I'm a hopeless sentimentalist. And I always will be.

But -surprisingly- I'm not the only one.
Mormons don't usually condone stealing things... but I've never seen a group of girls more eager to get a piece of Young Hall. They wanted to steal their keys, their doorknobs, a couple of bricks maybe. It's hilarious. (All that aside, I'm actually planning on ripping the number plaque off of the wall by my door.)   

We made sweatshirts. "Forever Young." All but 3 of the girls in our hall bought them.

If Young Hall could sing, she would say something like this: 

Just give me a number (seriously, the new buildings are just numbers)
Instead of my name
Forget all about me
And let me decay
I do not matter,
I'm only one person  dorm Hall
Destroy me completely
Then throw me away 
If my life were important I
Would ask will I live or die
But I know the answers are

always untold!

Close every door to me,
Keep those I love from me
Children of Young Hall
Are never alone
For we know we shall find
Our own peace of mind 
For we have been promised
A land of our own (... a new building)

(Joseph and the Amazing Techni-colored Dreamcoat)

I hate change. With a passion. But when I can no longer avoid or imagine it away.... I accept it.
We will be the last to live in Young Hall, and the first to live in Building 10. 

I guess there's something cool about that.