Words from my front yard.

It’s a dang good thing I’m at BYU. I’m not sure I could work it at another college.
Example: Tonight I’m goin on a hot double date. Blind fold mini golf. Whats up—I can handle that mess.

Otherwise, me at a bar:

“No, you cannot buy me a drink—but could you perhaps afford a fatty cheeseburger?”

“Could you scoot over? My journal’s sitting there. What do you think this type of lighting is called? I'm tryin to fit it into this paragraph…”

Then, they kick me out for being barefoot and not krunky cool.

In summary, go cougars. Errybody snuggle.

The earth in circles.

*copied from a brown page*...
"It is eleven forty-one on May thirteenth, 2009. I am at my kitchen table in the Conexsh. Brooklyn's clothes are rattling in the dryer next to me. They churn in soft circles-- so do I. Purple ink. No one is awake. I want them to be. But if they were, I'd still be here seeking solitude for words. These are the first words of journal # __. What do I want? Today I talked to Claire. (Credit: She talked to me.) Here she is on this very first page.
CLAiRe. CLAiRE. CLaiRe.
I remember staring at the first page of my last journal. It was blank. In my hands I held paste, and a stack of what I'd been typing that month. The first cut square was an unsent letter to Claire. She'd made it into another book. I felt defeated, unanswered, by both of them. So I skipped the first page, flipped the second, and stuck it down there. A claire square. Page three. Here I am now-- beginning this book. Though the beginning of that last journal still holds an empty two-page spread. Why? Because somehow, if she didn't make those first few pages, it meant she had less of a hold on me. (Lie.) She did. She does. Let it be known. I have mad love for Claire Sorenson. There is no such thing as the back of my mind. I feel it all. "

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sometimes I feel like I am singing in a foreign language-- stumbling, butchering simple phrases-- striving for communication that's been put up for sale.

Sometimes he is a black coat that won't come off. The sun becomes tinted against my will. Stifled. I've always been more of a kaleidoscope.
And so even without him, I can still see the moon.

Sometimes I fear that I will never find enough words, but I'd never let on.

Sometimes that boy would call to me, but I couldn't find the bridge to him. We remained on opposite sides: it hurt him. I cried. When did I cross over?

Sometimes I start a new journal at 11:41 PM. Go for two hours. Today laughing was crying. Neither was expected or explained. But I am always telling myself I AM READY for more. Dyin for a thunderstorm.

Sometimes I blog for 10,000 posts and talk of nothing but myself. I would talk about you, but you'd freak out.

Today I sat in my front yard, a phone number in my hand.
"Provo Temple Prayer Role"
It was the golden time, my favorite time of day.
Sun. going. down.
She sounded like an angel on the other line.
I balanced myself on the curb and asked her if I could add a name.
"Do you need first middle and last?" I say.

I spell each one out.

Meticulous.

God doesn't need the spelling...
What was I thinking?
I am thankful that God doesn't need the spelling.

This is not an apology.

I am the strangest girl I know.
It’s okay if you can’t understand.
(It is?)

This year was underlined with an unexpected design.
I know God has been preparing me all my life for the things I have learned since the last time the summer came.

God.

I rewrote the book on who my ideal man is.
And rewrote
And rewrote
I found him.
But not all in one man.
He was spread out between those who came into my focus.
They came and left
at indefinable paces.

No one wants to ache for someone-- only to find out that
he was my teacher.
it was my lesson.
Not forever. Not the answer. Not what I proclaimed.

The odd part is—I had no idea I was learning so much about relationships. Only recently have I realized that that was this year’s reoccurring theme.

When I try to explain, the general reply is
“I don’t get it.”
“I’m not sure you’ll ever find it.”
“You’re just really… different.”

I am.

Some days it makes me free.
Some days it makes me alone.
All days: I believe.

* * *
There is one more thing I want to say about all this. What do I know about all this anyway? Almost nothing. But this is my blog, so you’ll probably get over it. Here it comes.

At some point you cross the line. Then, he is part of you.
“I am down for the count with this boy,” you say.

In the movies, sometimes in real life, this is the part where he says “I’ll never leave you.” People say that to each other to eliminate the risk. The risk is what we fear. The risk is why we back away. The risk is what we cannot actually, ever, eliminate. If you knew he would never leave you—of course you’d stay. Of course you’d let him be a part of you. You would not be scared, you would not become cold and hard and hesitant. But it would not be love, because there would be no sacrifice.

“I’ll never leave you.”
This is not beautiful.

Here’s what is:
“Someday I might not know where you live, or what you look like. Someday you may be gone. I’m staying anyway. Today I see who you are. I feel you. I am willing to turn myself inside out, to let you all the way in. When the selfish survivor in me wants to eradicate my need for you, to be cold and hard and safe, I will fight it to keep you. You are worth the change. I am sacrificing my complacency with being alone, to fight for something better with you. For the chance that you’ll never leave.”

What do I know about all this anyway?
Almost nothing.

For reals.

"Lyndsi Shae Brown is
no longer in a relationship
with Wayne Zeldon Christensen."



Woah, did ya'll check your mini feeds? OMG. No way?! So way. I heard its her fault too. It's like, totally all her fault. Seriously.


The
has hit the
Please everyone, judge accordingly.

deafening.

My words:
I cannot find them anywhere.

It doesn't mean I've found silence.