The Art of Depression (Pt.2)

I found this Google searching "anxiety art". While it accurately expresses
the disorder, it also poignantly captures depression's infuriating clutch

He's slowly waking up to the morning hollow;

the tears tasted sour and so did the air.

should he arise or stay in bed's fictioned warmth?

cold was the season and life's spark left him dead.

This stanza is an exert from a poem I wrote long ago. It's somber, bleak, and beautiful. In it a man struggles with understanding his identity and accepting the dreary winter. He's a hopeless mess. "His frost-born brain iced away time/like trees--not losing leaves, but love". Poignant, gorgeous, and miserable. Who is this man? 

It's not me, but he's very similar to the me that wrote it. The character is my thought-child, therefore he is part of me, but not wholly me; and I'll deny that my characters are ever myself, no matter how much they resemble me. 

The same could be said about my battle with depression. Did I ever have depression? Though I was never diagnosed, I definitely say yes. My early high school years were an ugly time filled with dark thoughts. It was a perpetual downward spiral; I always felt controlled, nothing was enough, nobody really cared for me. My dad--my math teacher--would make me count on the white board how many times I smiled in a day (usually under ten). I was enveloped in acting, trying to infuse my soul with my characters (displacing your soul is heavy work). I'd voraciously critique myself, hoping to avoid the pain associated with letting others down. My mother called me moody and my dad and I fought, but to me that was easier than admitting mental illness: some chemical imbalance estranging me from family and friends. 

Sure, I had highs, but with the lows were frequent and agonizing. I didn't have to hide them, but I tried, because if other people could see them, then they would know something was wrong. And there was already plenty wrong with me.

Something was wrong with me.

Eventually, I saw a therapist, started to realize the atonement's power, and began to "lighten up". Life became beautiful, and I a happier person. It's all over now. I currently love life. I haven't felt truly depressed in probably 4-5 years. 

But this post isn't about how I conquered depression (though I did). It's not even about how awful having it is (because it is). It's about how beautiful it is. I don't know if you can read British Romantic literature without catching depressed tendencies in the protagonists. You can't listen to a true break-up song without hearing the illness' sputtering moan. Starry, Starry Night doesn't look right if Van Gogh wasn't a little crazy. Art connects with the soul so intimately because it presses the our emotions' reaches until we feel something naturally eternal. Mother goose's childhood purity, Stravinsky's brilliant climaxes, and A Clockwork Orange's deprecating self-portrait. Depression has a thrill, a lasting truth that exclaims beauty equal to joy's light--it just goes the other way.

MUSIC

Above is a link to Sufjan Steven's "The Only Thing". It's a lovely piece discussing a man flirting with suicidal thoughts, tortured by recollections of his lost love. The music surges passion into your heart, and the lyrics tug at your empathy. The orchestration and sound mixing creates a delicate mist to wander in, and you wonder how something so horrid could be so poetic. Well, I wouldn't say Sufjan is truly depressed. This is the same man who wrote "Come on! Let's Boogey to the Elf Dance!" But he obviously knows how it feels. He uses those emotions to create art. It may be raw, but it is true, and real, and everything you'd like.

THEATER

Othello doesn't directly engage with beastly Depression, but it does torment the viewer. (SPOILER) Othello kills Desdemona, his innocent wife, because he believes Iago's evil whisperings. The audience views in horror as he denies every alternative before he slays his wronged wife. It's cruel and painful to watch, but you can't deny the play's greatness. The play purposefully confuses Iago's evil with accomplishment, making the audience ponder the classic questions "why do good things happen to bad people? Why do bad things happen to good people?" and while excellently portrayed in Othello, little is more depressing than that

THOUGHT

"Maybe they're right"

Perhaps Psychology is a science academically, but it's studying an art form. This particular thought rampaged my mind during my depressed days, and now occasionally slips through cracks during weak moments. It was almost always connected to my family. While many friends will exclaim my greatness, often my family gives little reassurance that I'm excelling. It has always been difficult, to say the least--having the people I care most about most not bother to let me know I'm doing good in their eyes. And if I attempted to break down the wall I'd be called "sensitive" and "emotional". I can get chewed out by my boss, I can get disgraced by a professor, but I am intensely motivated by the idea that I could make my family, God, and loved ones proud. But if I let their impassive observance get to me, "maybe you're right" jumps into my mind, and every accolade and joyful shred becomes dust.

Depression has claimed your life sludge. You are guilty for not being enough, then ashamed for not trying hard enough. Even when you realize you are thinking with depressed perspective, depression oppresses you for doing so, slashing you for your weakness. The thought process is horrifying. It is impressive. Depression is anything but beautiful, but it proves itself powerless, because it empowers itself by beautiful things. It dethrones that which it uses to raise itself. Depression uses logic, intuition, counterargument, all the same tools given to us by God, the source of light. Its sound argument that you are worthless is the same argument God uses to argue you are worth everything. And when your life includes God, you cling to the good.

It should be noted that I love my family, and I recognize their love frequently. 

Depression contains truth. And anywhere you find truth, you can find real knowledge. And that is a beautiful thing.

Capturing Happiness (Pt. 1)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d13_LoHQkRM

I haven't watched all of You're a Good Man Charlie Brown, and I probably won't, but there's a gorgeous song right after Charlie Brown discovers the Little Red Haired Girl chews on her pencil. "Happiness" touches the memory's most innocent, untouched areas, reminding you that childhood's beauty isn't far away. Tears pressed on the corner of my eyes the first time I heard it (about 6 months ago). On this lazy Sunday I reflected on the simple lyrics, and gave thanks for the happiness gracing my life.
Happiness cultivates a purity that elevates it past other emotions. Often happiness stands alone; it doesn't rely on other events or people. When you run into a chipper person, they're separate from their surroundings, like an orb of light floating in a grey world. Sometimes you wonder if they even belong. Happiness is inherently transcendent, and noticeable.

Part 1 of this series will attempt to magnify snapshots which caught happiness: precious moments that shouldn't be forgotten. Searching for happiness has its benefits. For one, once you find it, you've found it. You know where to go! And eventually, you'll realize happiness starts in moments and ends in lifetimes.

SONYA AND MOSBY

Happiness is a pleasant surprise. These pictures encapsulate joyful bursts. To the left is an extra photo taken between poses. Sonya moved to Jerome from Utah State before her mission and we grew to be friends. She was struggling in the dead space of a relationship's end and a mission's beginning when my good friend Benny, his girlfriend and I grabbed her and escaped to Sun Valley. We were taking pictures in front of a lovely resort, and I was being my usual self: silly, clever, dumb. I made a stupid joke and she laughed, which made me laugh. And now I can share this simple laughter between us forever. I guess she needed it.

My sister Callie and her husband Spencer and their celebrity-status dog Mosby visited me sometime in March. On our way to dinner we realized that we had no place to keep the dog in the meantime. Well, there's only two front seats, and I wasn't getting shotgun. Driving through Provo with a giant poodle trying to cuddle with you is absurd. It's also hilarious. My sister turned around and saved this ridiculous memory, and it makes me smile every time I see it. These little moments make for all kinds of joy.

TWO NORDQUISTS AND ONE VINCENT 

Happiness is a finish line. There are few photos which capture bliss as well as this one. Erik and Nathan Nordquist flank me after the Redfish Lake Fun Run. The two brothers were my first friends in Idaho, and 11 years later it's stilling running strong. This occurred only weeks before I became a missionary, and it would be my last moment with them for a while. Countless hours of backyard football, Lego-building, speech-writing, cross-country practice, Calculus studying, culminated right here. What could be happier? 

I was talking to my dear friend Ashley after she finished her final ballroom performance Saturday night. Having done my fair share of musicals and plays, I know what the feeling is after a good show's closing night: a sort of electric serenity hard to define. So I asked her "how do you feel now that it's over?" "I'm happy." "Happy that it's over?" "Happy that it happened." 

And happiness is that it happened.   

BASEBALL

Happiness is baseball. Next to God and my mother's cookies, baseball has been at my core. The shoe tip pressing on a base, flying down the pitcher's mound, hearing the mitt snag a pop-up, quirky dugout conversations, it's my heart and soul. 

Amidst collegiate chaos, my good friend and I went to a BYU baseball game. It was heaven on earth. Life was good already, but this--seats behind home dugout, eating a two-foot long doughnut, on a bright spring day? Bliss.

"Happiness is anyone and anything at all that's loved by you."
- Charlie Brown

Pray for...

I had to drive the company truck back to the shop to drop off of some pallets. It's a bit of a drive, so I flipped on the radio. While most of my coworkers listen to one of the swath of country stations that cluster Idaho's airwaves, the old man within me flips it to National Public Radio. I heard a reporter shouting over screaming herds of people. He was in Barcelona. A man drove a truck through a crowd on the busiest street at the busiest time of the day. over a dozen dead, even more injured. It was jarring; scary, really. The rest of the world stopped as I drove down a country lane in Idaho, almost as if the next hill over I'd be in Spain. Forget about pallets and orders, this was it. For today, at least.

A few weeks later I took a truck off site and almost the exact same thing happened. I switched the station and heard a massive explosion in Mogadishu, the capital of Somalia. Hundreds of people dead. Clips playing of Somali refugees living in the US were sharing stories about family members that died in the attack. Doctors in the city described looking at the carnage with horror.

These two cities joined a sad slew of other towns that have their name on a map for the wrong reasons. What do you know about Aurora, Colorado? How about Columbine? Or Newtown? Even New York and Las Vegas have been scarred. This year there it seems like there is no time to breathe or
to dwell.

It reminded me of a song by Mark Kozelek. In the song "Pray for Newtown" he uses his intensely intimate writing style to describe what it feels like to go through these experiences, this time on a more personal level.

"I was a Junior in High School when I turned the TV on
James Huberty went to a restaurant, shot everyone up with a machine gun
It was from my hometown
We talked about it til the sun went down
Then everybody got up and stretched and yawned and then our lives went on"

"I just left Safeway, when I walked through my doorway

When a guy took a boat to an island and shot up a bunch a little kids in Norway

Called a few friends, but no one much really cared
But I did, because I got a lot of friends there"

I had a friend serving her mission in Paris the same time as the bombings. She sent out an email saying she was fine. I would occasionally tell people around me of the coincidence. They would be jarred for a second, then courteously sympathize when they learned she was okay. But, there was no reason to feel bad for me if she was okay. It was a strange moment.

Three weeks ago, while flipping on the TV to check in on my favorite team's game, and just like the radio, a reporter is in between me and the game, telling me there was a church shooting in a small town near San Antonio.
Blood began to rush a little faster. I finally felt the same as Mark. "I lived in San Antonio suburbs. I actually know people who that could be." The next ten minutes I battled a sling of emotions as I searched for more information. "Thank goodness, it wasn't a Mormon church." "How could you say that?" "It's also a town I never heard of." "It's still a shooting, there's still something wrong with it." "That's only 10 miles away from where I lived, how are my friends?" "They're probably still in church, how could they have ever been there?" The thoughts blasted on, but this was something that I really cared about., this was something that could have had detrimental impact on me. I felt like Mark, rushing for comfort, but I didn't really need it.
None of my Texan friends said anything about the shooting. My mission friends still in Texas said nothing of it the next day. The story kept unfolding to uncomfortable degrees; politics was tossed into it; opinions began to be made, and the last coals of this heart-breaker are almost out, to sit alongside Newtown, Aurora, and Columbine in the dark halls of history.

What can we do though? To get flustered over these moments simply isn't worth it. We can't prevent what already happened; we can't quite console those who went through it, but there's an overhanging guilt that presses on our empathy.

Mark goes on:

So when Christmas comes and you're out running around

take a moment and pause to think about the ones who died in Newtown

They went so young, who gave their lives

To make us stop and think and try to get it right...

When you're gonna get married and out shopping around

Take a moment to think about the families that lost so much in Newtown

Like the other attacks, Sutherland Springs is another dark spot in life that we must walk away from. For Mark, it's enough to think. Just take a moment out of life to sympathize and especially apply. It's perhaps the only we can do in these circumstances. Ugly things are not fun to look at, however there's still something to learn from them.

Premature Maturity

This morning I got a ride to my new Ward with a man I’ve known for a good 18 hours. As I entered into the lecture hall which doubles as a chapel on a weekly basis, I see a room fllled to the brim with nice haircuts, slim-style sweaters, perfectly fitted dresses, and anything that has ever been on sale at H&M. There were two special musical numbers, one featuring a recorder and the other a gorgeous piano solo. The brief talks were sculpted beautifully and featured the right balance of humor and spiritual experience. Couples looking almost too ideal hold hands while singing “Behold! A Royal Army!” And I come to a rapid realization that I am not in Jerome, Idaho anymore.

Welcome to the start of the newest (yet not so new) and most anticipated chapter of my life. Here, surrounded by people who look impossibly complete, is my new home. Attending Brigham Young University was my dream growing up; part in love for the gospel and part in admiration of my siblings whose paths went through the church school. I lived that dream vividly for 8 months then took a hiatus to serve the Lord. Yesterday my sister and brother-in-law lovingly plopped me into an apartment filled with my roommates’ things, but not my actual roommates. With time to myself, I have been left to think that this may not be the same dream I had long ago. 

For starters, it isn’t the same vision I had of myself when I came home from my mission. With the instilled faith of an Elder, I sketched a Utopian Richard. Six months after returning, I dreamt of being halfway through my sophomore year, catching a wave of hard work to straight A’s, most likely with a girlfriend, definitely owning a car, and soaking in a Christmas break. 
In case you haven’t been following my life, that’s not the case. Instead, I lost much of my funding for college, so I took an extra semester to work, which leaves me crashing into an already set social spectrum, used to the easily lovable, down-to-earth YSA of Southern Idaho. My work lulled me into an affection for the smell of silage. The car which I devoutly cared for lost its fight and left me with my feet for transportation. After some tough luck I remain single. And I was so longing for my idealistic collegiate life that I’m spending a week of Christmas break in Provo, 4 hours closer but still a week away from what I’d really like to happen. Perhaps this version of me is better described as Bizarro Buckets.
However, with the undaunted faith of discipleship, I still trust this is all part of God’s plan for me. Because if it wasn’t, then I would be miserable. I’d hate to live a life where you believed or knew you were off track. To me that would be true dystopia. 

While sitting in this morning’s sacrament meeting, feeling a little underdressed maybe for the first time in my life, a thought budded in my ponderings. “Humility is WAY underrated.” 
Hey, that’s right. Being a young single adult is an awful time of life to be humble. It’s something that God has been kicking into my head for the past years, but especially the past few months. In my early teens recognition of my own vanity and pride shook me to the core and devastated my self-worth. It took a while to realize imperfection was accepted so long as I improved.

Tomorrow is a universal beginning for everyone, but why not make it a personal beginning for me? Sit down. Be humble. You don’t have to be the best, you just have to be your best. It’s easy to distort proper perspective. More important than what I’m wearing at church is that I’m actually in church. My social life at BYU isn’t as impactful as the fact that I am going to BYU. Don’t have money? At least I got brains! And family. And true friends. And hope. That doesn’t sound too bad at all. So with the next phase of life staring me down, and I’m not where I’d thought I’d be at this moment, I should think, “You have what you need.”

Humility is way underrated.

I Have... What?

Inside the bounds of social media, many times we only see what's on the outside of someone's life. Our vision only reaches as far as others will let you; which usually is only the surface. And when somebody gets too honest or ugly (deep criticisms, fights on the comments section, discussions on breakups) it easily gets uncomfortable. However, our censorship is often misleading. Major moments of our lives become uncharted by others because they're taboo to share.

I've been struggling with this idea, because I want to discuss something that has been a large component of my life, but at the fear of being uncouth, I haven't. But today is the day I'll share with the world what's really going on in my life. I'll let you see what's going on underneath Richard Hall.

What's going on inside of me. 

Literally.

This is me. Well, this is a picture that looks a lot like me. I've been inexplicably sick. I've lost my appetite to eat, and when I do eat, I get stomach pain. I get fatigued easily. I've lost 20 pounds in a month's span. More than half of the day I am nauseous ("Life in Nausea" is a great band name, by the way).

A few weeks ago I went into the doctor for a diagnosis. After he poked and prodded me, did all of the doctor things, the first thing he says is that we're going to run some tests for cancer. He gave me some medication for- 

Wait, did Dr. Brown just say cancer? Why didn't he say it could be something else? He could have at least added a different probable diagnosis. What the heck, Doc! Cancer sounds like the worst. Everyone has a similar reaction when they find out someone has cancer. In the most sentimental way possible, we think, "Wow, that person's life is hard." "Wow, they must be in a lot of pain." We think that because it's true! Cancer is hard, it's painful, it's something you never want. But here I am, 20, scheduling CT scans and giving stool samples (gross) for an unknown sickness.

There's a strange occurrence while waiting for test results and frequenting med clinics: life goes on. I put in my work hours, I go on a date or two, I attend church meetings. When people have cancer, they often say that they fight cancer, or they beat cancer. In fact, some people beat cancer even when they die. That's because it isn't the tumors and cells that kills you, it is the concept of cancer that is deadly. Just the idea of the illness is debilitating. Knowing that your life is being counted on a breaking clock, being able to inoculate yourself only so much, a day for one person is a marathon for yourself, that is disparaging. That is the lethal crush of cancer.

Between my Dr.'s appointment and the CT scan (which would reveal the existence of cancer) I had two weeks of this Schrodinger's Cat time frame where I maybe have cancer or I maybe had something that wasn't life-altering. On one hand my world was about to flip, on the other I was a prescription away from being normal. I don't want to say anything, because if it doesn't work out I'll be an overreacting drama queen, but you can't hide something that's a part of you. Well, on social media you can. But that's not real life.
This is what everyone with cancer has to deal with. They have to choose whether to let the illness define who they are, or they have to face it head on and forget themselves. In two weeks I had to learn how to fight cancer, with the possibility of not even having it. That's the darkness of cancer. You can't control it, you can only control yourself.

Last Wednesday I got the results from the CT scan. Negative of cancer. Thank the good Lord. But the pain is still there. The nausea has only gotten worse. the fatigue is more prominent.
But it's not cancer.
So what is it? They don't know. If you don't know what you have, you can't be treated yet. I still force myself to eat, I still feel awful afterwards. Knowing that I don't have cancer doesn't solve the problem.
But it's not cancer.
And life goes on. And my Facebook posts and comments stay consistently light-hearted. And I continue to work two jobs. And I just got a new calling in the church. And I'm still watching episodes of the West Wing ever night. And I am surrounding by amazing friends. And this is still one of the most difficult illnesses I've faced. And that's okay, because life goes on.

Listening to the radio one day I heard a quote that I'll keep for a while. "Courage isn't the lack of fear. Courage is facing your fears head on until you've conquered them." Because we all know fear doesn't go away until you defeat it. Fear is not only opposed to faith, it is overcome by faith. Hope smiles brightly before us, because it has chased out the darkness. Sickness, even unknown sickness that slips into every part of life, can be conquered.

Spoon, and the Beast Inside Richard Hall

I was sick today and had to take half a day off of work. I've been feeling unwell for the last week and a half or so, but today just sucked. Laying on my bed at 12:00 pm, I swath through my very modest and new Instagram account and saw Spoon's new post, knowing that in four days I'll be missing a major milestone of my personal life.

Spoon is an alternate rock band that has been around for decades (1994-now); who have always stuck to their unique, jangly, guitars and synths. Their critical acclaim is impressive, and their longevity in making quality music is hard to match.

The Austin, TX-based band which stole my heart years ago

They are having a concert next Tuesday in Boise, which I was on the cusp of going. I sort of owe it to Spoon and myself to go. Spoon was the first non-mainstream band I listened to. My brother walked away from the computer and left his music playing. It was Spoon's "Paper Tiger", and I stared at the track listings for their best album in confused awe. "This doesn't sound right, but it sounds amazing" I thought. Stark guitar, simple yet strange noises, pure lyrics. Mesmerizing. And from their I began my search for musical happiness.
I found out from one of their Instagram posts only a few days ago that Spoon, who started this trip (which if you know me has been a long and encompassing one), is performing in Boise, 100 miles away from my house. That would be sweet to go. Only problem- I needed a concert buddy. Someone to share the experience with, someone to keep me awake on the drive home, someone who'd appreciate the music. There are a lot of people who love going to concerts, but- for a band they've never heard of? On a Tuesday? for 43$? I only know of two people who were up for it. One just moved to Logan and the other can't get out of a commitment. And just like that, no concert buddy. No concert. Missed chance of paying homage to my musical journey.

Back to 12:00 today, I'd like to post something about it. But what do I post? Because I'd also like to post about some of my shirts, and a picture on processing nostalgia through generations, and a post on officiating my second cousin's soccer game, and another on the horrible construction on the freeway. After filtering my mind of potential post ideas, I realized- none of this is entertaining to other people. I'm fascinated by all of these things, which all deserve some attention, but not that much attention.
A small window of recognition begins to expand- I'm not normal. I like things other people don't. What's the first book I read when I got home from my mission? The Screwtape Letters. I didn't totally enjoy Rogue One. I'm an American who follows English Premiere soccer. I listened to a 1988 interview NPR had with the Ramones on my way to work. I spent last Saturday night buying socks- and I loved it.

Rolling down my Instagram, I find the newest post from my girlfriend.

My girlfriend, who, strangely like Spoon, stole my heart years ago

Look at her. She's beautiful. She's contemporary. You could look at this forever. I will tell you this got more likes than I could ever dream of getting. And she posts something like this twice a week. This is the girl that usually matches up with this guy.

This guy, who you wish stole your heart years ago

So where do I fit in? The guy whose nickname is "Buckets" and used to keep his pencils in his socks?
I guess I don't. And I like it like that. It's so hard for me to connect naturally with people. I'm fascinated by outskirts, driven by the unknown. This makes it feel hard to be deeply involved with other people's lives and for other people to be deeply involved in me- which is a pain in the butt sometimes.
Don't get me wrong, I have tons of friends, plenty of loved ones; but sometimes you just want to slip in and not press the edges of social acceptance. It's the Beast Inside of Me. It's the one that you find silent at the party and rambling on stage. It's the one that can't morally understand Snapchat because he's been reading too much Dostoyevsky. It's the one that insists the Muppets are always funny. It's the one that flinches at The Office and watches ESPN Classic. It's the guy that carved his Drama Teacher's head into a pumpkin. It's this guy.

Me, who will not steal your heart in a few years

Usually, I'm okay with swimming upstream, but this scroll through Instagram has made me feel strangely aware of my strokes. I think a little more about what picture I should post. One of my favorites come to mind. I'm on Dillon Beach in California, staring away from the Ocean and into a sprawl of condos. My jeans are rolled up to Capri's, my dark brown skin contrasts against the sky. And there's no one around me. It's obvious that I'm stuck in neutral, and enjoying every second. I'm looking to belong somewhere. I could pick any one of the houses before me, but I choose the beach. And when I get to the beach, I don't pay attention to the ocean, and I don't play in the sand. Am I really looking to belong?
Not then. Not two weeks ago. But I'm starting to. And the beast inside of me is curious.

Me, wondering where my heart is

The Release

I am not in Texas.
I am home.
I am no longer a full-time missionary.
I am Elder Richard Wesley Hall
Things have changed.
This is happening

Me shortly after being released as a missionary

Growing up as a male member of the church, the thoughts of the mission are inevitable. You don't have to go, however. You can run away from the obligation, you can struggle with the stresses and skills that come with the calling, you can even fail to keep the commandments, which are much needed to serve. But when you do go on a mission, there's one thing that you can't avoid, and that's the release.

The process of registering the 2 years of fantastic lifestyle into what most people claim to be "reality" has always intrigued me. I have plenty of friends who have served missions, they're easy to observe. You can often spot a recent return missionary. They're the ones who go on walks in the evening just to talk to people on the street. They nervously wade through clothing stores constantly checking if their friend is within sight. The release and subsequent transition is one of the greatest sociological experiments known to the modern world! No one changed, but everyone changed! Everything is happening, but nothing happened! These young adults in the crux of their lives went 180 to 180 without a buzzfeed article to explain it to them.

You'd be surprised the amount of people who have two cents on the adjustment that takes place. some say it's easy. Many say it is hard. As a young observer, I didn't understand what either of those meant. Actually, as a missionary I didn't understand what they meant. It only came when I was responding to the easiness, or the hardness, of the transition.

I've been off of the mission for about two and a half weeks now. From my experience, would I say it has been easy or hard? I'll give the cop-out truth. Yes. 

I know! I can't give you that genuine, well theorized answer that we all want! The "it depends" answer often rubs me the wrong way, but when things become personal, nuance kicks in. However, those experiences that don't line up or don't give straight answers eventually lead to finding answers. And not just an answer, but the answer!

Some of you may know that my mother kept my long line of weekly reports in a blog while I was gone. When I came home, she thought I was going to write one last post; a send-off to my mission stories. A *ahem* magnum opus. It struck me, because I wanted to start a new blog and declare a mission-statement, a call-to-arms. a *a-hem!* Manifesto. This post is a kick-off to a string of stories of what happened to a recent return missionary. They are experiences you can relate to, laugh at, and overall enjoy the perspective of a naturally self-conscious 20-year old Mormon. Eventually the blog will ease into anyone else's ramblings and takes, but the first few are part of the social experiment of "the transition."

But I don't want the mission to end! and I don't dare think of having a fresh start. I don't want a magnum opus or a manifesto, but both sort-of have to happen. I want my life to have both. Before I even left on my mission, I wrote in my guide to missionary service "The mission is not the end." It isn't, and I also knew that post-mission release was not the beginning. I want my life to begin with the end in mind. Just as much as I want a grand-finale and a grand opening, I want it to be grand. It's the vision that carries our plans, and gives us an identity.

This blog is to help you track me, and help me track myself, during the life that lays ahead of me. I hope that many people read it, and more importantly, it is worth reading. Here's to the beginning of the end, the end of the beginning. and the middle of everywhere.