Yes we do love our Asain photo booths, we do.

Anna and I having our much needed girl date :)

                                          

Anthem

A little bit of Queen B to sing it for me <3 me, myself and I

What makes smart people stupid.

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It’s amazing how many emotions you can feel at once. Things happen and somehow you have this never ending capacity to feel things.  And sometimes, relative to the situation, you just want to turn them all off.

It’s so easy to get immersed in one thing and lose grip of a part of yourself, to get attached to someone if you give it a chance. You get used to an idea and then when it doesn’t work out, you can feel it. There’s a part missing... it’s not that it was always missing and temporarily got filled it’s that that idea made space for itself within you and you got used to it. But when it’s gone, you’ve got this space that shouldn’t be there, that wasn’t naturally there. You didn’t ask for it, or plan it, it happened, and it was beautiful while it lasted.

But this isn’t unique, it’s typical. Cliche.

And you can feel every emotion under the sun and go through the motions, like sitting in a dark room watching your fingers type feelings you theoretically know you shouldn’t broadcast, but it’s just like every other story. 

The worst part is not knowing which emotion you should let take over... sadness is pretty naturally prevalent, anger is more bearable, but for some reason you know it’s not fair to be mad or bitter or distrustful because there’s still love.
But I guess you realise, at the end of it all, you’ve learned a whole lot about yourself and you can decide there and then whether you want to re-create parts of yourself...

Once upon a time..

To "celebrate" (I'm holding in my tears and suppressing my longing) my one year anniversary since my Europe trip I decided to depress myself with pictures.

Diggin'

Cannibal love.

Find more artists like White Sea at Myspace Music 

I'm all over this in so many ways.

Squandering time, as usual.

A sudden and unexpected appreciation for street art has hit me in the face. And I don't mean street "art" as in graffiti "tagging" and scribbles of bold colour and all that nonsense. I mean real art. Clever art. Like these:

Look, there's just too many amazing artworks to post, so just visit here. Seriously.

And check out some cool images of Poland here.

Jasmine.

Last night we talked. We walked and we talked about him, life, love and ourselves. But mainly we spoke about Jake and you opened up, how much you love him and need him. The things he would do for you and say to you. The texts he would send but get all shy when you asked him to say them to your face. We acknowledged that it's always easier writing your true feelings rather than saying them. The more raw your feelings, the harder it is to say them...

That's why I'm writing this post to you Jasmine. I'm pouring what's real and close to my heart onto the keyboard because it's easier saying it in my head than to your face. But if I've learnt anything this weekend and from this tragedy it's to let those dearest to you know how you feel about them. So this is it:

I believe wholeheartedly that you need Jake and that you want to be with him where he is but I need you. I need you to talk to, to cry with, I need you to egg me on when I'm being inappropriate, I need you to tease me when I do things out of character. I need you to throw my advice back at me. I need you to be the little sister that needs me. I need you to keep all my secrets, to listen to all my insecurities and not laugh at them, I need you to give me advice in the areas you know I have less experience with, matters of the heart.

I need you to give me some of your pain, to take my strength and use it to combat this heartache.

Jake hasn't left you, he's in your heart. But you're here with me, with your mother, your sister, your family and everyone else who loves you and needs you. And you're in our heart.

You are a devastatingly beautiful spirit and one of the core people in my life. I love you baby girl.

This is for Jake. RIP.

 

the pot of gold...

Apres la pluie, le beau temps.

God is good. All things falling into their rightful place. I can see the sunshine through the storm clouds.

love and peace xx

Forget me not.

Keep me breathing..

“If we look at the world with a love of life, the world will reveal its beauty to us.” ~Daisaku Ikeda

I love the smell of freshly cut grass, purging to my senses as every single one of my thoughts disappear.

I love the feel of rain drops on my skin, cold, real.

I love the way flowers, even just one, can make a landscape of a pallet of greys and browns, prettier. I love the way they're perfect even in their imperfection.

I love the way one bird answers another, whistling, trilling melodically, a sweet language of notes.

I love the way the the sun and the clouds argue. Fluffy, bulbous, imperfect marshmellows covering the sun as it fights to shine through, finally, succeeding when the wind parts the clouds, blowing them out of the way as the sun caresses my face, warming me to my bones.

I love looking people in the eye and noticing the patterns and hues of their iris, textures of a crater, river or sparkle in their eye.

I love the flutter of butterfly wings.

I love the first kiss, the unsuredness, the quickened heartbeat, the first imprint of lips and electricity charge through the body.

I love old things, things with a history, a story behind them.

I love spring and all things yellow.

I love music and how it takes over my mind, every beat and melody and backing, working together to take care of my soul.

Perfect.

With the amount of chaos that's going on in my life right now the only thing keeping me slightly sane are moments by myself with the stars and music playing in my ears. Last night in an attempt to get my zen happening I wondered outside across the field and to the park, shoeless, earphones in.

Music, is God's second greatest gift in my opinion. Just before flowers.

I sat on the swing looking at the sky, feeling the cool metal against my skin, grass under my feet and the breeze against my face, just letting all verbal thoughts go. My mind was completely and utterly filled with sound. I didn't feel like I was listening to anything external, I felt like the music was inside me, inside my mind.

And when I listened to something acapella, through my earphones I could hear the crickets - and it was sacred.

light in dark :)

Whilst insomnia haunted me last week (and this week still), rather than lay in bed cursing the active voice in my head but fatigued body I decided to have a midnight snoop around my house. Lo and behold, what do I find but a set of top secret government (ASIO) documents and fake passports... no, not really, not at all. I found a journal my parents wrote in when we were little with a bunch of loose documents sitting adhoc in its pages. It was fascinating reading stories about the start of the family and I felt a little affectionate swell as I read about their descriptions/comments about each of us children. So tender.

Things I learned:

1. My parents were always waaaaaaaaaaay spiritual.
2. Papa took me to see Luciano Pavarotti in concert when I was 3.
3. Papa used to do a bit of local radio work.
4. Mama bear insisted on finishing baking bread after her water broke before she went to the hospital to have me.
5. My older sibs did love me once... jokes. they never did. jokes again.

oh and I found this amongst various pictures and notes us kiddies drew/wrote to our parents over the young years :)

That mother of mine is secretly getting botox or something, I swear.

Free the Birdies.

So I don't usually post spiritual things, in fact I never do, this is a first but I wanted to share a story my grandma gave to me the other day which she wanted me to hold on to. At first I was a bit, "yeah thanks G", but I read it last night and it touched me a little:

"Last summer my family had a spiritual experience that has had a lasting and profound impact on us, one we feel must be shared. It's a message of love. It's a message of regaining perspective, and restoring proper balance and renewing priorities.


In humility, I pray that I might, in relating this story, give you a gift my little son, Brian, gave our family one warm summer day last year. On July 22nd I was en route to Washington, D.C. for a business trip. It was all so very ordinary until we landed in. Denver for a plane change. As I collected my belongings from the overhead bin, an announcement was made for Mr. Lloyd Glenn to see the United customer service representative immediately. I thought nothing of this until I reached the door to leave the plane and I heard a gentleman asking every male if they were Mr. Glenn. At this point I knew something was wrong and my heart sunk.

When I got off the plane a solemn-faced young man came toward me and said, "Mr. Glenn, there has been an emergency at your home. I do not know what the emergency is, or who is involved, but I will take you to a phone so you can call the hospital.

My heart was now pounding, but the will to be calm took over. Woodenly, I followed this stranger to a distant telephone where I called the number he gave me for the Mission Hospital. My call was put through to the trauma center where I learned that my three-year-old son had been trapped underneath the automatic garage door for several minutes, and that when my wife had found him, he was dead. CPR had been performed by a neighbor, who is a doctor, and the paramedics had continued that treatment as Brian was transported to the hospital. By the time of my call, Brian was revived and they believed he would live, but they did not know how much damage had been done to his brain, nor to his heart. They explained that the door had completely closed on his little sternum right over his heart. He had been severely crushed.

After speaking with the medical staff, my wife informed me that our Bishop and hometeacher were there and were waiting for the doctors to give them the go ahead to administer to Brian. She sounded worried, but not hysterical,. and I took comfort in her calmness.

The return flight seemed to last forever, but finally I arrived at the hospital six hours after the garage door had come down. When I walked into the intensive care unit, nothing could have prepared me to see my little son laying so still on a great big bed with tubes and monitors everywhere. He was on a respirator. I glanced at my wife who stood and tried to give me a reassuring smile. It all seemed like a terrible dream. I was filled in on all the details and given the guarded prognosis. Brian was going to live, and the preliminary tests indicated that his heart was okay - two miracles, in and of themselves. But, only time would tell if his brain received any damage.

Throughout these seemingly endless hours, my wife was calm. She told me that the Bishop had given a blessing so powerful and so reassuring that she felt that Brian would eventually be all right. I hung on to her words and faith like a lifeline.


All that night and all the next day Brian remained unconscious. It seemed like forever since I had left for my business trip the day before. Finally, at two o'clock that afternoon, our son regained consciousness and sat up uttering the most beautiful words I have ever heard spoken. He said, "Daddy, hold me," as he reached for me with his little tiny arms.


By the next day he was pronounced as having no neurological or physical deficits, and the story of his miraculous survival spread throughout the hospital. You cannot imagine our gratitude and joy. As we took Brian home we felt the unique reverence for life and love of our Heavenly Father that comes to those who brush death so closely. In the days that followed there was a special spirit about our home. Our two older children were much closer to their little brother. My wife and I were closer to each other, and all of us were very close as a whole family. Life took on a less stressful pace. Perspective seemed to be much more focused, and balance much easier to gain and maintain. We felt deeply blessed. Our gratitude was truly profound.

Almost a month later to the day of the accident, Brian awoke from his afternoon nap and said, "Sit down, Mommy. I have something to tell you." At that time in his life, Brian usually spoke in small phrases, so to say such a large sentence surprised my wife. She sat down with him on the bed and he began this sacred and remarkable story.


"Do you remember when I got stuck under the garage door? Well, it was so heavy and it hurt really bad. I called to you, but you couldn't hear me. I started to cry, but then it hurt too bad. And then the 'birdies' came."

"The 'birdies'?" my wife asked puzzled. "Yes," he replied. "The 'birdies' made a whooshing sound and flew into the garage. They took care of me." "They did?" she asked. "Yes," he said. "One of the birdies came and got you. She came to tell you I got stuck under the door."


A sweet and reverent feeling filled the room. The spirit was so strong and yet lighter than air. My wife realized that a three-year-old has no concept of death and spirits, so he was referring to the beings who came to help him from beyond the veil as "birdies" because they were up in the air like birds that fly.

"What did the 'birdies' look like?" she asked. Brian answered, "They were so beautiful,


They were dressed in white, all white. Some of them had on green and white, but some of them had on just white." My wife thought this was intriguing because Brian had no clue what the color green was.

"Did they say anything?" "Yes," he answered. "They told me the baby would be all right." "The baby?" my wife asked, confused. And Brian answered, "Yes, the baby laying on the garage floor." He went on, "You came out and opened the garage door and ran to the baby. You told the baby to stay and not leave." My wife nearly collapsed upon hearing this, for she had indeed gone and knelt beside Brian's body, and seeing his crushed chest and unrecognizable features, and knowing he was already dead, she looked up around her and whispered, "Don't leave us, Brian; please stay if you can.

As she listened to Brian telling her the words she had spoken, she realized that his spirit had left his body and was looking down from above on this little lifeless form. "Then what happened?" she asked.


"We went on a trip," he said, "far, far away." He grew agitated trying to say things he didn't seem to have words for. My wife tried to calm and comfort him, and let him know it would be okay. He struggled with wanting to tell something that obviously was very important to him, but finding the words was so difficult. Finally, his eyes alighted on the picture of the Oakland temple that hangs in the room and he ran to it. "I went there!" he shouted. "There, Mommy," he pointed to the temple. "And I went to other ones like this. There are lots of them. They are everywhere, and I went to some of them with the 'birdies'. We flew so fast up in the air."


To which my wife said, "That's one of the temples." "YES! YES!" he shouted. "I went to the temples." "They're so pretty, Mommy," he added. "And there are lots and lots of 'birdies' in the temple. Lots of them are in cages and they want to get out, but they can't by themselves. They need us to let them out of the cages. Mommy, I have to go to the temple and let them out. They are so sad and they need me to let them out. Money, you have to go there now and let them out. And Daddy too. And everyone. We have to let them out of their cages."


My wife was stunned. Into her mind the sweet spirit enveloped her more soundly, but with an urgency she had never before known. She thought of the spirit world, the spirit prison to those who have not had saving ordinances done, and she knew that such spirits were relying on us to do these ordinances for them. She thought of how Brian had said some of the 'birdies' were wearing green and white, and the significance of that swept her with longing and understanding.


Brian went on to tell her that the 'birdies' told him that he had to come back and tell everyone about the temples and the 'birdies' in their cages. He said they brought him back to the house and that a big fire truck, a little fire truck, and an ambulance were there. A man was bringing the baby out on a white bed and he tried to tell the man that the baby would be okay, but the man couldn't hear him. He said the 'birdies' told him he had to go with the ambulance, but they would be near him. He said it was so pretty there and so peaceful, and he didn't want to come back.


And then the bright light came. He said the light was so bright and so warm, and he loved the bright light very much. Someone was in the bright light and put their arms around him and told him, "I love you, but you have to go back. You have to play baseball, tell everyone about the temples, and slay the alligators." Then the person in the bright light kissed him and waved bye-bye. Brian got in the ambulance with two of the 'birdies'. The ambulance doors closed after the people got in, and he said, "Then I saw my beautiful, beautiful 'birdies' waving bye-bye. Then whoosh, the big sound came and they went into the clouds."


The story went on for over an hour. He taught us that the "birdies" are always with us, but we don't see them because we look with our eyes, and we don't hear them because we listen with our ears. But, they are there, and you can only see them in here (he put his hand over his heart). They whisper the things to help us do what's right because they love us so much. Brian continued, stating, "I have a plan, Mommy. You have a plan. Daddy has a plan. Everyone has a plan. We all must live our plan and keep our promises. And the 'birdies' help us do that 'cause they love us so, so much."

In the weeks that followed, he often came to us and told all, or part it again and again. Always the story remained the same. The details were never changed or out of order. A few time he added further bits of information that clarified the message he had already delivered. It never ceased to amaze us how he could tell such detail and speak beyond his ability when he spoke of his "birdies."


Everywhere he went, he told total strangers that they had to go to the temple. Surprisingly, no one ever looked at him strangely when he did this. Rather, they always got a softened look on their face and smiled.


Needless to say, we have not been the same ever since that day, and I pray that we never will be. My wife and I have gone to the temple repeatedly since then, and always Brian is waiting to hear how many "birdies" we set free each time we go.


Brothers and Sisters, of all the messages Brian could have brought back, he brought this one -- We must go to the temple and free the "birdies." I testify that the things I have shared with you today are true. They are of sacred worth. They are of eternal consequence to us all and to the spirits who await the work only we can do for them.


May we all go to the temple and free the "birdies" - for this truly is the Lord's work and His glory, to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man. I leave you with this message in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

-Lloyd Glenn

It's an Epidemic.

Just breathe.

In the past 3 weeks, I've said four goodbyes. Two funerals and two mission goodbyes. In the last year I've said an additional seven. Don't get me wrong, I know it's only goodbye for now but they still suck. I will very much and already do miss every single one of them. I know they're all in a better place doing great things and I'll see them again but it still makes me sad.

What's even worse is the goodbye's haven't finished. Another mission call has come, he's leaving me in late January and my best friend is waiting patiently by the mail box for his.

And please, no more funerals.

Just breathe.

In love.

I've come to the realization that I am, in fact, in love. And no, it's not what you think. I'm in love with music... I find myself looking forward to train rides just so I can plug in my earphones for that half hour morning and evening music love making session, driving the long route home so I can have more time with my car stereo, becoming socially inept with my family because I'd rather sit in my room listening to my ipod than ramble to them. I take my ipod with me everywhere just in case there's a chance I can listen to it. It's got to the point where I'm losing sleep over it, no seriously, I try not to fall asleep until after I listen to that song, no wait, this one... stay.. awake.. one more....

I'm not even sure my stream of consciousness involves words anymore, just tunes and melodies.. and if there are words, they're not mine.

All signs of an addiction... is there a music addict anonymous group? But baby, if love is wrong then I don't want to be right.