Malcolm.

I made a new friend recently.

His name is Malcolm.

Before I saw 

Seventh Child: A Family Memoir of Malcolm X

on a shelf at the UVU library,

I really didn't know anything about him.

Ask me about him, and I would have said,

"He was a black civil rights leader

who got assassinated.

He was a little crazy.

And he wore those glasses.

You know--

Malcolm X glasses."

I'm pretty sure

that I thought he was a Black Panther.

Not true.

He was Muslim.

And he wasn't just an advocate for civil rights,

but for human rights--

which the American government was,

for hundreds of years,

unfit or unwilling to secure for its black citizens.

He believed that his people

needed education and self-respect,

and to do whatever was necessary

to secure better lives.

What he believed in,

he believed in strong and true

and without apology.

And he gave his life to it.

The person I met in that book

was so dear.

And I miss him,

now that it's over.

Kati Dear.

This is Katilynn.

Not Kaitlyn.

She wears soccer bruises as a badge of honor.

She wears high heels like it's nobody's business.

The color of her hair is always changing

and it's always beautiful.

She was there the first time I gave blood.

I recognize her handwriting no sweat,

because she's written me about 200 nice notes in her life.

Before I even knew we were friends,

she was always telling me

that she loved me

and was happy to see me.

She's always doing that

to someone or other.

This Bitter Earth.

I have loved a lot of things lately.

The sesquicentennial of the Gettysburg Address.

Learning the origin of "The Princess Pat."

Reading a memoir of Malcolm X.

But one important thing hasn't made that list:

people.

It seems that the list of people

whose lives inherently interest me

has decreased dramatically in size.

If that sounds horrible,

it is.

I used to be shy

because I didn't know

that I had it in me

to be otherwise.

Then, I learned how to make friends,

and I had so much love in me

that I'd hold anyone's hand

that was near enough to grab.

And now,

I don't talk to others

not because I can't,

but because I don't want to.

But as it turns out,

not wanting to for a long time

makes you feel like you can't.

And if my life is like the dust

that hides the glow of a rose,

what good am I?

What good am I?

Heaven only knows.

...

This story doesn't have a moral

or an adage

or a word of advice at the end.

I don't know how to fix this.

But I still have faith

that somewhere between all these poles,

there's a happy nook to live in.

Humanism.

Today in church,
I looked at the hand

of the person sitting next to me.

And it was incredible!
It was as beautiful as this:

Zombie.

Before zombies were cool,

the Cranberries were cool.

Chats with Pops.

I just talked to my dad on the phone

for an hour and a half.

He stayed up until 11:30 his time

(and this man goes to bed early)

to tell me about

my great-great-great grandfather,

Christian Olsen.

I asked him about when he proposed to my mom,

because I never get tired of hearing

that he was so in love with her

he just had to call her on the phone

on a Monday morning,

and ask her to marry him.

He told me about military police

patrolling the streets in Uruguay

when he was a missionary there in the 1970s.

He told me about how he missed America's bicentennial

because he was in South America.

I wanted to cry.

His dad died when he was 29

and his dad was 66.

In seven years,

I'll be 29,

and my dad will be 65.

I told him not to die,

and he said okay.

Christmas in the Kitchen.

Usually, I get into Christmas music

pretty early.

Like, mid-October.

But this year,

it doesn't feel right yet.

So I'm dipping my toe in slowly.

 But no matter what mood I'm in,

it always feels right

to listen to Christmas music

when I'm cooking.

Especially when I'm making

butternut squash pie

or apple chutney and pork.

(As you can see from this photo,
the apply chutney was kind of
a culinary misstep.
As was the pie.
So don't be too impressed.)