On my bed

Yesterday I came home from work, dropped my bag on the floor, took a deep breath, and just stood there and stared at my bed for a good long minute. 

As I've mentioned before, I sleep on a futon. And because I have no furniture, half of that futon is scattered with random belongings with no place else to go. Normally they're just a necessary nuisance born of the reality of poverty, but yesterday I realized that the items on my bed really tell the tale of my life these days.

Book of Mormon, the one with my name engraved in golden letters on the cover. Scrawled on the first blank page are the words, "In the strength of the Lord I can do all things." That's the theme of this particular book, the theme of my life, really. I highlight in red anything that hearkens back to that idea. I read every day, but I'm still not as far as I should be.

Day book. Between its striped cloth covers I've recorded everything I've done every day for the past 20 months. I love this book. I'm more accountable for my time because of it. I can flip back through time and read about the little things. Things I would have otherwise forgotten. On this day last year I went to the BYU forum with Ashley and Chase, but Ash and I left early because we thought it was boring. I ran into my old friend Keara in the halls of the JFSB, then I did research in the library's "No Shh" zone. I chatted with Sean and Joe because they were inevitably in there doing homework too. In the afternoon I went to my refugee class. In the evening I did homework outside on the grass with Olga. Later Sean came by to talk.

Old BYU planner. Sometimes I like to flip through it to remind myself of a past life.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013--
9:30 Research & Evaluation class. 
11:00 Devotional. 
12:00 Lunch with Jamie.
1:00-4:00 Research for work. 
4:00 Refugee panel & dinner (make cashew chicken)
7:00 Evaluation review. 
Write up 410 extra credit. Design flyers. Meet with Lindsay.

Journal. I write my thoughts and feelings in this one. I love going back and reading my own words. There's something cathartic about it.

Work notebook. Everything from Ashoka. Everyone a Changemaker. You know? You don't. But I do.

Church notebook. Everything from BYU devotionals to stake conference notes to quotes from Relief Society lessons. It's all here in this book of spiritual gems.

Scripture notebook. Whenever I come across a good one, one that stirs my soul, I use my nicest handwriting to write it down in here. I've had this book for ten years. I pull it out when I crave comfort.

(Lots of notebooks and journals, I know. It's how I process!)

Pamphlet on Sikhism from the DC "Unity Walk" this past Sunday. Every church down Massachusetts Avenue opened their doors and their hearts to us. We stepped inside church after church after church. We wrapped our heads for the Sikh service, we chanted with the Buddhists, we chatted with the young nuns at the Vatican Embassy. It was a beautiful, enlightening afternoon.

Back brace. I wear it on the nights I remember, but it's not very comfortable. My spine is getting worse, I think. It hurts a lot.

Tickets from the Parachute concert a couple weekends ago. Oh it was so great.

Tithing receipt.

Tampon.

Postage stamps.

Folder from the NIH, the one they gave me when I signed up for the study allowing them to take my blood and bone marrow in exchange for a pretty penny.

Consent forms for another research study. I really am that poor.

Running shorts. I walk with Alyson almost every morning, along the trail through the backwoods of this beautiful place we get to call home.

Frisbee. Some guy gave it to me at the H Street Festival on Saturday. I used it to shepherd people into the candy booth I was working in.

Scattered bobby pins and hair clips.

Folded program from the fireside at the Washington DC Temple Visitor's Center a couple weeks ago.

Glasses.

Camera charger.

Alarm clock, set to 6:15 a.m. so I could get to work by 7 this morning.

Check book. Three checks left.

Theodore. I am not even ashamed to admit that I hug him to my chest on nights when my heart and head are heavy with worry and fear. 


Things are good here. Good with the gospel, good with good people. It could be easy to sink into despair, but there's this spark of hope that keeps me going. This little light that says "Things are going to get better." It's almost comical, my life these days. Comical and beautiful, but difficult and desperate, too. Different than I thought it would be, but good. Good all the same.

Sunset salutation

It's not often I get to see an unobstructed view of the sunset around here. But when I do, I take full advantage, and I make sure everyone with me does too.

This one was so gorgeous. We just happened to be atop the roof of the Kennedy Center for one of the best sunsets of the summer. Little blessings. 

Silence, suburbia, storms & sky

It's growing on me, this sub-urban silence. Yesterday I was sitting on the couch, watching a storm swell outside between our flowing white living-room curtains. There is something about a dark gray sky and the sound of nothing. It's comforting. It reminds me of what was and what will be.

When Melanie got home from work we decided to go for a walk, despite the impending storm. We got to the top of the hill and across the busy street before the first drops started to fall. Drizzle turned into downpour and soaked shoes turned into soaked selves. The worst of it came from passing cars who sped through puddles and sent up arcs of rain water that slammed us from the side. But I loved every second of it. My best experiences here seem to happen in rain storms.

The rain is magical because it can turn even these dirty city streets into something hauntingly ethereal. Last night, the effect of that bulging jaundiced sky helped, too.

As we neared our destination the sky melted from a stormy gray and yellow to a mellow blue and pink. As I walked with my gaze fixed westward, Melanie asked, "Why do you think you're so passionate about the sky?"

I laughed and told her the story of my junior year of college. The year I lived in a shadowed basement apartment with a bedroom window that faced an indomitable slab of gray concrete. The year I grappled with darkness, within and without. The year I found comfort only when I was standing beneath a wide sky that promised something more.

That affinity for the sky has become part of my identity, as strange as it may sound. I find so much peace in billowing clouds, in glowing sunsets, in silhouettes against the horizon. I always imagine myself atop mountains or skyscrapers, wondering what the view is like up there.

In Thailand they called me Jenna-pa. It means heaven.
In English they call me Jenna. It means little bird.

I like to think there's a connection there.