Goodbye

It’s been fab, but the days are counting down, and really—-I only have time to write in my private journal, which will be going with me on this journey. I wish you all the best, and I’ll see you 2006.

The Last of My Nanny Days

Their house is exquisite, something inside a fancy décor magazine or the fabulous mind of only the truly chic. Vaulted ceilings, solid oak doors, flooring with a shine faintly like koa, marbled tile, granite countertops, textured walls, tailor-made furnishings, plush carpet, customized staircase, plantation shutters, delicate lighting, and elaborate landscaping all blending to make this home recherché.

But it is not the home I will miss. They feel like family—are family, really, after these nine, almost ten years. I have acquired the title “Big Sissy” from the children, and watched them grow, change, and mature in many ways. Phil and Shani, at times, have been like my own parents—endearing, watchful, giving. Oh and the memories I’ve gathered…Late night stories, all in animation, of Rupunzel, Rumplestilkskin, Snow White, The Six Dancing Princesses, creating laughter and bedtime eyes; my first flight and wacky dose of Dramamine; beautiful, peaceful weeks in Hawaii; cooking spaghetti with curly noodles; being spooked by the ringing alarm; being tackled to the ground by four, silly children; surprising them with news of my decision to go on a mission.

“Did you miss us?” Phil asked Easton today when they returned from Las Vegas. Easton looked at his father, licking the yellow sucker, and simply grinned.

“Of course not,” he laughed. “Mckenzie is like your big sister.”

I wanted to cry, but happiness unexpectedly tugged at my heart. They are a part of me forever, a sure blessing in this strange life, with no words to express my gratitude.

Discovering the Girl

Fireworks cracked and popped, flashing like confetti in brilliant blue, red, and white, invading the air in magnificent pandemonium like it does every year. Except this year the earsplitting whistles, claps, and bangs were celebrated a day early to keep reverence for the Sabbath. Little Cole snuggled against me and peered over the edge of the green blanket we were cuddled in, observing the display of bursting colored-sparks with wonder and some objection, for he hates loud noises. I kissed the top of his head and said in his ear, “Do you want to go inside with Aunt Kenzie?”

We left the plethora of little children, teens, and adults lined up against the neighborhood sidewalk, and inside of Aunt Roberta’s, I flipped on the television while Cole climbed onto the couch beside me. He occupied himself a moment later with the plastic play sword of Conner’s, explaining to me that he is, indeed, Frodo Baggins. Who am I to argue with a four-year-old? Cole bounced and waved the sword along the rounded leather sofa, and I watched the old black and white version of The Man Who Came to Dinner, thinking briefly about but not hungering for the stage. Those days are gone, the passion has subsided, and I am only a spectator with no want or need to perform. Perhaps in the future this may change, but I do not think so.

Days of bitterness, of anger and frustration have passed away, and I see, now, the purpose of my time away at college. Reflection has taught me a number of things, not just about influences, but choices and myself and what I want in life. After that long period of vacancy, the inhabitance of the chalk mask weighing me down into an empty mausoleum of vanity and obscurity, I found meaning in the depression. I think of Viktor Frankl’s book and how he quotes a poet saying, “Was Du erlebst, kann keine Macht der Welt Dir rauben.” (What you have experienced, no power on earth can take from you.) Never can I wish that drab and demoralizing melancholy upon another—never never, but the personal knowledge gained in this battle of the languid merry-go-round has been, now, strength to me. It is personal, intimate, and private.

In exactly one month I leave home. I say goodbye, correspond through writing and rare phone calls, and stride willingly into a time that will inevitably change my entire life. “Aren’t you scared?” people continually ask me, but the sweet reassurance, the fact that everything is falling faithfully into place leaves peace resting in my heart. Tears are bound to come, surely, but with a deep breath, with faith and hope, I quote to myself Melville, “I know not what comes my way, be what it will, I’ll go to it laughing.”

To Wordsworth

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return:
Childhood and youth, friendship, and love's first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude:
In honoured poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.

Resolved

Brother Sariako announced my call yesterday. People congratulated me right and left, but the congratulations that meant the most is Tiff-Marie’s. Three months have passed since that dreadful night. By selfish anger and pride, through the aloofness and fleeting glares, I was certain our friendship was destroyed…let go, move on, forget…but the pitiless twinge in my heart kept saying I was wrong. When I tried to suffocate my heart’s protest, it only beat louder: You are wrong! You are wrong! Sister Mansfield’s lesson, the burning of my heart, compelled me to finally listen to that relentless pang. You are wrong, I thought, the muscles in my stomach tightening. You foolish, temperamental girl!

After church, before I knew realized it, Tiffany and I were hugging.

“I am sorry,” I cried. “I should have never called you that horrible name, and it was wrong to lose my temper the way I did.”

“I deserved it all,” she cried back. “I am sorry, too.”

And that was that. The lot of trouble that had nearly destroyed us was gone, dissolved into the past. We pulled away, laughing at one another’s tears.

Tiffany said, “I just knew it could not end. After everything we’ve always talked about—being each other’s maid of honor, wanting our husbands (whoever they are) be good friends, raising our children and all of that…”

“We’ve overcome this disaster,” I smiled. “Not many people would be able to—not really, so we’re okay.”

That is what is fabulous--we are okay, and that nasty stab in my heart is gone. People will never understand our friendship, which is reasonable because sometimes I think it the most impossible thing in the world. Perhaps it is everything we have been through, the secrets we share? Whatever the case, I am grateful. Heavenly Father knew we could not be sisters, so He made us next door neighbors and then best friends.

"Forgiveness is the healing of wounds caused by another. You choose to let go of a past wrong and no longer be hurt by it. Forgiveness is a strong move to make, like turning your shoulders sideways to walk quickly on a crowded sidewalk. It's your move." ~Unknown~

Arizona Sabbatical

I could thrive in Arizona on shopping alone. Rampage, New York & Company, and Kenneth Cole kept me gladly busy sifting their glamorous racks and shelves, and I kept them happy with my splurge of spending. What is life without a little luxury now and then? This sort of shopping is the next best thing to a day at the spa.

I also splurged on a great deal of restaurant food. Bad bad bad. NYPD Pizza puts any of Utah’s pizza places to absolute shame. It is almost embarrassing. I did, however, venture to the health food store, which also puts the one I shop at Utah to shame. Holly has me addicted to dried apricot now, but nothing beats my soy bars. They really are better than they sound.

Palm trees, the intense sun, and a fabulous place called Bahama Bucks reminded me faintly of Hawaii, causing an unexpected urge to walk barefoot on the beach. My brother’s swimming pool sufficed, though, and mostly I was just glad to be in his company. We, the complete family, soaked late into the night over goofy conversations and fun. Having the family all together after so long was refreshing but bittersweet. I could not help crying as we left Monday night, this might be my last time with them as a whole for two years.

Audrey, who is delectably adorable, served her mission in California, too. I met her in Arizona. Her husband and she came into Tyson’s apartment with eagerness to meet us. To my surprise, Audrey grabbed me up and gave me a big squeeze, exclaiming, “You must be Mckenzie! I am so excited for you!”

I laughed, thinking that there are not enough people like Audrey in the world. She spent most of the night telling me stories about the MTC and the field. “It is, by far, the hardest thing that I have ever, ever done,” she told me, smiling. “But I would do it again in a second.”

I am not even on the field yet—and with people like Audrey pepping me up, I would go again, too.

The Good-Morrow

I WONDER by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved ? were we not wean'd till then ?
But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly ?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den ?
'Twas so ; but this, all pleasures fancies be ;
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear ;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone ;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown ;
Let us possess one world ; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest ;
Where can we find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west ?
Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally ;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.

~ John Donne ~

This is one of my favorite poems I have ever studied in literature.

Garden Goblins

Childhood means many different things to different people. To me it means blue-smurf ice craem, fresh mud between the toes, finding a blue-spotted bird's egg on a spring afternoon. Peter Pan, tire swings, and melted cheese sandwiches. My first memory of childhood has no significance, other than that is what it is: my first memory. Odd it is though, that I first recall the fresh mound of earth beneath the drooping crabapples and climbing roses in Grandpa's yard where we buried old Hunter. I remember the dog to be nothing but a big mutt covered in gray and white shabby hair. He wore a red, spike collar with nametags that jingled as his four, heavy paws trudged against the ground and dark eyes, glum-like, stared lazily forward. I was barely taller than Hunter, I remember because as a little child I had an urge to ride him as if he were a horse, which Unter wriggled and plodded away from me when I tried.

My tiny hand brushed across the knoll of dirt with wonder, and certainly I did no understand that Hunter was dead. The idea of his bulky flesh underneath the soil and small pebbles was inconceivable, but sill I had bundled together a posy of tulips, plum blossoms, and new lilacs from the yard and laid them atop the grave. In my world of make-believe, Hunter my brave staillion through many adventures, plainly went ahead on one of his own, leaving me to do the exploring.

Plenty of exploring there was, too, in the vastness of my Grandparent's yard. My favorite spot was in the far back, down the crooked sidwalk, pass the blooming irises and cherry tree into the ticky hotness of the greenhouse. Salmon-colored vases lined wooden shelves packed with dirt and an assortment of different flowers, yellow, oranges, and gold. Even now I can feel the small beads of sweat on my forehead, the heaviness of the old water can as I carefully lifted it and watered the pots on the lower shelves. Out of all the flowers in Grandpa's yard, these were the only ones that could not be picked, and somehow that made them appear more special. During my hours of play, imagining me as a princess in search of her lost kingdom, the little greenhouse and all of its special flwoers was refuge from the evil sorcerer and goblins outside.

Goblins, for all their ugliness, are nimble creatures, and they frolicked freely in Grandpa's yard, darting from one place to the next. Their simpering, wart-covered faces hid behind tomato bushes and berry trees; their bulging eyes cleverly watching for me, the wandering princess. If I was not careful, they might jump out, seizing me up with their long, bony arms and crooked fingers and pitiless chortling. All in a cheer they would drag me away and throw me down the stone well, which would not be pleasant at all. Not only did all sorts of nasty, slimy bugs invest the well, but there housed the darkest sorcerer ever to live.

The dark sorcerer was the king of the goblins of my make-believe land. He was a spidery looking fellow with a golden smile, and appeared to be somewhat of a gentleman, though a gentleman he was not. His spindling fingers would draw off the shiny, long hat, after which he would give a chivalrous bow until his pointy nose near touched the ground. With long striped pants, a pirates white shirt, and a velvet tailcoat, he greedily sought what his small heart wanted most: gold, gold, gold, and more gold, and a princess to marry. Always, I scarcely escaped the goblins' clutch, hoping never to meet the dark sorcerer face to face, for I certainly would not marry him.

But they would die away when Hunter, my faithful steed, could not longer lug along the exciting journey. A new world of make-believe would emerge, making days of the dark sorcerer and his subjects vanish into the garden soil and rundown well.

Do You Know the Way to San Jose?

The idea of California first fazed me. Regardless of various experiences, I am still something naïve, a pretty sheltered girl in the amenity of suburban life. This will be new, exciting.

Mom and I sat on the back veranda last night.

“Your life will never be the same. What you are going to experience—good, bad—no one will ever take from you, or quite understand,” she said, smiling earnestly.

Her green eyes shined, wanting to shield the unexpected tears from falling. My little girl is leaving me, was the expression on her face. I wanted to say not to worry, but mothers worry anyway.

To be certain there will be immensely trying days ahead—-slamming doors, derogatory comments, discouragement, but hope rallies inside that there will be good days, fabulous days, even.

Often I reflect the lyrics of the church hymn, Come, Come Ye Saints. Playing this on the piano, singing it alone or in a meeting has always brought me near tears. The year I was on the pioneer trek, and we stood before the ground where near fifty people died in one, terribly chill night—-I knew, right then my heart knew, truly, what faith was.

Come, come, ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear;
But with joy wend your way.
Though hard to you this journey may appear,
Grace shall be as your day.
’Tis better far for us to strive
Our useless cares from us to drive;
Do this, and joy your hearts will swell—
All is well! All is well!

Why should we mourn or think our lot is hard?
’Tis not so; all is right.
Why should we think to earn a great reward
If we now shun the fight?
Gird up your loins; fresh courage take.
Our God will never us forsake;
And soon we’ll have this tale to tell—
All is well! All is well!

We’ll find the place which God for us prepared,
Far away in the West,
Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid;
There the Saints will be blessed.
We’ll make the air with music ring,
Shout praises to our God and King;
Above the rest these words we’ll tell—
All is well! All is well!

And should we die before our journey’s through,
Happy day! All is well!
We then are free from toil and sorrow, too;
With the just we shall dwell!
But if our lives are spared again
To see the Saints their rest obtain,
Oh, how we’ll make this chorus swell—
All is well! All is well!

Mission Call

I have a thousand different emotions running through me right now, mostly excitement. I have been called to serve in the California, San Jose mission! I leave soon, too. August 4th.

There is Nothing to Fear but Fear Itself

All right, not all of these are my fears—something that I really, really, really dislike—but you get the point. I have highlighted the ones that would, most certainly, count as as genuine phobia.

Arachniophobia: fear of spiders
Acrophobia: fear of heights
Philophobia: fear of falling in love or being in love
Pediophobia: fear of dolls
Cleithrophobia: fear of being locked in an enclosed place
Coulrophobia: fear of clowns
Graphophobia: fear of writing or handwriting
Nosocomephobia: fear of hospitals
Pteromerhanophobia: fear of flying
Spheksophobia: fear of wasps

What do you “fear”?

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