Sometimes you look pretty.

I've never thought I was pretty.

In fact,

I've spent a lot of time

thinking that I looked like

an alien.

But lately,

as I've walked in the sun,

I've looked at my shadow

and admired the way

my hair falls behind my shoulders.

When I lace my fingers together,

I love feeling the size and shape

of my hands.

And last night,

(I'll be honest)

I spent an hour

looking at pictures of myself,

thinking

What if I came at these

thinking that I was pretty?

So I tried it,

and it wasn't too hard.

There are a lot of situations

where you look pretty.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you love your best friends.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you're on the top of a mountain
that you just climbed.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you're admiring a sunset.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you're pretending to be

a Russian spy

at a murder mystery.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you made friends

with a lamb

at a county fair.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you're hugging a tree.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you love your parents.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you're a little bit sunburnt

and you think it's funny

to dress up like a pioneer.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you're having

a stinkin good hair day.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you're playing
at a playground.

Sometimes you look pretty

because you're being crazy.

What I'm trying to say is

sometimes you look pretty.

And that's just true.

Ordinary.

Sometimes on a Wednesday

you feel particularly ordinary.

You feel like

you're not especially good

at anything.

You wonder why
people laugh at your jokes.

And why people have missed you
when you haven't seen them
in a few days.

You're not sure,
but you have the feeling
that you probably talk too loud.

You feel a weight
in the air
right around the physical space
that you take up.

.
.
.
Then you realize
that you feel ordinary
because you're scared.
.
.
.
The first day of kindergarten
was the worst day of your life.

Because the minute you smiled at
the girl next to you in line
and said,
"Do you want to be friends?"
you were a goner.

The minute you made a friend
is the same minute
that you made
your five-year-old self
vulnerable
to someone else.

Sure.
It seemed like a good idea
at the time.

But what if
she decides
that she doesn't want
to be friends anymore?

What if she decides
there's a friend
that she likes better?

Actually,
you've been in grave danger
since you were five.

So some days
you tell yourself you're ordinary.

That way,
if your friend says,
"I don't want to be
your friend anymore.
You're ordinary," 

you can say,
"I know."

This century is for the birds.

Today, I talked to my friend Taylor

about his family's mink farm

and how good it is for kids

to spend summers shoveling poop.

And then later we all talked about

dads who make their kids

shoot their own pet dogs

because they killed one of mom's chickens.

And then I found out

that they're going to make

"at least" a trilogy of

Harry Potter spinoff movies

about Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them.

And then I went to the grocery store

and all the foods

were packed with sugar

and fat

and sodium

and they were all expensive

and I couldn't buy anything

because it's all going to kill me

or at least make me go broke.

By the time I got home,

I was almost in tears.

Can't we all live on farms

and grow our own food

and eat it

and learn hard lessons about life and death

and spend time outside for fun

instead of paying $10 each time

a new version

of the same old movie

comes to theaters?

I know I'm overly romantic,

but I don't think I want to live

in this world anymore.

I feel exhausted.

How I Felt at Church Today: The Dish and the Star.

Sometimes I feel

like my chest

is a concave dish,

curving from shoulder to shoulder.

My heart is an eight-pointed star--

the kind they show in the sky

on the night Jesus was born.

And that star,

my heart,

hovers in the middle

of the dish,

its light hitting

here and there

and reflecting back

there and here,

so that the whole brazen dish

is lit up with sharp golden light.

Light that buzzes and pings softly

as it bounces off

the sunken brass surface.

Its most distinguishing feature

is how it lasts--

on and on,

perpetuating its own glow

and buzz.

For minutes at a time.

It feels good,

but good seems

too simple a word.

It feels so bright

that it is warm.

And it feels so warm

that it's joyous.

And it feels so joyous

that it's sublime.

And it feels so sublime

that it's terrifying.

Terrifying in the way that

awe is terrifying--

reverence mixed with fear.

Fear of losing

the dish and the star.

And having

a normal chest and heart again.

But even more,

fear that,

if life can be this good,

I am going to have to be

something more

than what I am now.

Your dreams are coming true.

Sometimes I think,

None of my dreams

are coming true.

Then I realized

that I can sing alto.

When I was twelve or thirteen,

Emily Schroeder was 17 or 18.

I remember one time,

we were singing a hymn at church.

I feel like it was

Angels We Have Heard on High.

I listened to Emily

sing the alto line--

no music,

no book.

Just harmonies

out of her own head

with her own voice

like it was nothing.

And I thought,

How can she do that?

I wish I could do that.

.

.

.

The other day,

I was at church,

singing the alto line of a song,

no music,

no book.

And I realized,

I can sing alto.

And from there,

it was a short leap to

My dreams are coming true.

And nothing can stop that.

Parents.

When you're a kid,

you go to your friends' houses

to play.

And their parents are there.

Then when you're in high school

and taking the bus home

seems like too much to handle,

you go to your friends' houses

(I'm looking at you, Emma.)

to hang out

and "work on homework."

And their parents are there.

But then you go to college

and then you grow up.

And it's just you

and your friends.

And there's something missing.

Parents.

Of course,

you're not mature enough to realize

until it's too late

how worthwhile it is

to know the one or two people

that made your friends

who they are.

Who took them to the doctor

to get shots.

Who pushed their stroller

up a steep hill

when they were dead tired.

Who sat on the edge of a bed

and told a story

or sang a song

or said a word or two.

Who made cookies

and went to soccer games.

Whose DNA made them.

Whose home made them.

Whose love made them.

Whose life made them.

All I want to do

is meet all my friends' parents

and say,

"I love your child.

And so I think

you must be

pretty great.

You did a good job.

Thanks."

My life is an episode of Blue's Clues.

Sometimes I feel like

my life is an episode of Blue's Clues

and I'm Steve.

I have a question--

what should I be when I grow up?

or

who do I love?

I start out confident

that as I go about

my daily activities,

clues will appear.

Clearly.

Marked by a blue paw print.

And I'll gather them

in my handy dandy notebook

and,

when the time is right,

sit in my Thinking Chair

and puzzle

and ponder

and muddle

for a minute or so.

And then,

with my mental prowess

and reasoning power,

I will hit eureka!

And Blue's Clues

will be solved.

But.

It's not that easy.

Instead of clues appearing

when I least expect it,

I search endlessly for them.

This book I'm reading for class

must be a clue

to what I should be when I grow up.

The way he smiles

must be a clue

to whether I like him or not.

I draw paw prints on everything.

Pretty soon, my handy dandy notebook

is full of drawings.

And instead of one fruitful trip

to the Thinking Chair,

I go there every day.

I languish there,

piecing together my clues.

Why aren't they fitting together?

Do I not have enough?

Have I combined the wrong ones?

At length,

I rip some clues out of my notebook

and decide I was mistaken about them.

But ten minutes later,

I'm taping them back in.

And at the end of the episode,

I look at the camera,

at the silent audience of children

watching behind the television screen

and say,

"I'm sorry.

We couldn't figure out Blue's Clues."

But that's because life really isn't

an episode of Blue's Clues.

There aren't clues.

It's not a riddle

that you can solve.

And no one gets mail that often, either.

The National Parks.

Last year on October 4,

I went to the Rooftop Concert in Provo

to see The Lower Lights.

When we got there,

one of the openers was playing--

The National Parks.

I'm going to go there

and just say it.

You can judge me

for being cliche.

But

hearing them

changed my life.

They were the soundtrack

of the fall,

winter,

spring,

and summer

that followed.

My life became a quest
to hear them play
any time I could.

I told

everyone who would listen to me

to listen to them.

Their music

is full.

It's full of something

that your soul can relate to.

Something that feels familiar to it.

I can't tell you

how many times

my heart has beat wildly

while listening to them,

piqued by some sublime knowledge

that life is good

and it has good things

in store for me.

Happy anniversary, National Parks.
You've made me a very happy girl.

Take a listen.

(I especially recommend Bird's Eye,

The Meadow,

and

Wind & Anchor.

But you really can't go wrong.)