My 30th birthday is just around the corner, and it's gotten me to thinking about happiness.

Allow me to back up a bit. In June 2015, a white supremacist terrorist entered the Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina and shot nine people dead. Five days later, my cousin died by suicide in her home, leaving behind a husband and two young kids. She had just turned 29. I was heartbroken by both events, and the way they occurred -- in such close proximity -- prompted me to feel an unfamiliar kind of sadness. I'm struggling to find the right words to describe it, but I know a lot of it had to do with this sense of unfairness. What were those people in Charleston doing to invite this tragedy? Literally nothing. They were worshiping and learning and praying in their church. There was no better, safer place for them to be. In my cousin's case, the suicide was an utter shock. She had never attempted suicide before or given any indication that it was something she thought about. She didn't have a history of depression or violence. But very shortly before her death, she'd started taking a new medication, one that rarely caused suicidal thoughts in the people who took it. As best our family can figure, the medicine made fast work of her mental state and left her unable to cope.

Both these things happened in June 2015. It's not that they sunk me into despair or anything that extreme, but they broke something inside me. The broken part became more jagged and rough through the Syrian refugee crisis, and then through the outcome of the 2016 election, and through a dozen other tragedies of large and small scales.

These past several months have also brought happy times, but it's like somehow the happiness couldn't sink in, you know? It couldn't permeate me, couldn't be a thorough, unabashed joy. Anytime I felt some measure of gladness or simple, silly pleasure, I felt weird, too, because why should I get to be happy about this or that thing when people in other places were suffering? Why did I get ease when they got abuse? How was that fair?

And of course, it wasn't fair, and the world is never fair, and I'd known that before, but I was hung up on this fact in a new way, and it complicated my happiness. To be honest, I think that's okay; I think happiness ought to be complicated every once in a while if it's going to be honest and deep. And I want any happiness I have to be just that: honest and deep.

As I'm about to turn 30, and as I spend every day with my two tiny kids, I think about what I want to model for them. I find it's a useful tool, to think about what I want for them as they get older and then apply the same expectations to myself. When it comes to happiness in our unfair world, what do I want for my son and daughter? When they learn about the suffering of another person, I want them to give a damn. I want them to mourn and comfort and volunteer and get mad at how pointless it can be to try to change the world for the better, because that's what caring looks like sometimes. I also want them to enjoy their happiness. I want them to show love and gratitude and enthusiasm with their whole hearts, not half. I don't want them to feel weird, shallow, irresponsible, or guilty for enjoying their blessings and seeking out things that delight them. And since that's what I want for my kids, it's what I want for myself, too, and to accomplish that, I need to make some changes.

The illustrator Mari Andrew was going through some personal upheaval and decided to make a new drawing daily. She said about the project, "I put happiness on my calendar every day." Reading those words really inspired me to put happiness on my own calendar. Illustrations aren't my thing, but starting on my birthday (which is tomorrow, the 23rd), I'm going to pay special attention to what makes me say yes inside. Yes, this is important. Yes, that was phrased in exactly the right way. Yes, I need to understand this better. Yes, I couldn't agree more. I'm calling it my Year of Yes.

This doesn't mean the no in life doesn't matter or that I won't talk about it. I said it before: happiness ought to be complicated, and the kind of happiness that can only exist in perfect circumstances is worthless. Furthermore, sometimes the yes and the no are wrapped up in each other. It's why we laugh through tears. It's why we have the word "bittersweet."

So on Facebook, Instagram, and this blog, I'm going to document the inner yes and examine it for deeper insights. I'll use an old-fashioned journal for the super-private stuff. And we'll see what 30 has to say for itself.

More Thoughts

I wrote two weeks ago about some thoughts I'd been swishing around in my brain. They were all about making deliberate choices, writing, and caring about personal growth.

This is a transitional time in my life. We just celebrated the new year. A new president is in office (and with him, much angst and justified fear has settled in). My second child is getting into a phase that's less draining. I also recently left a group blog where I'd been contributing regular posts for three years. All these things combine to make me feel like I'm on the precipice of something. Or of some things, multiple.

One of those things is greater civic engagement. My capacity's a bit limited by ... you know, life circumstances, like having two little kids and a strict budget and irregular access to a car, but it's nice to have this fire inside. I went to my local Women's March earlier this week, and I'm following the progress of a handful of bills I care about, and I'm contacting my legislators. It's all a start.

Another? Writing. Finding words and getting them out of my head and onto some flat or digital surface. This cultural moment is weird, though, because prevailing voices suggest ways to be strategic in writing, ways to build your brand, etc. And I waffle on whether or not that's a good approach for me. I just know that the act of writing is really freaking helpful for me as I try to figure out what I believe and value and where I've messed up and what steps to take next. So, in the spirit of my son's bike-riding mantra, I want to focus on watching my going, documenting the big and small stuff that makes up my life right now.

I'm about to turn 30, and I'm excited for that. One more big transitional marker. Let it be the beginning of my most curious decade yet.

Watch Your Going

Some things have been simmering in my head this past week ...

First, something my friend Courtney said: "I loved blogging until it became less about sharing of ideas and more about presentation. I don't know many blogs that survived the oncoming of hyper-curated lifestyle blogging. And maybe that's just a natural evolution, but I also would argue that it's not healthy to lose so many women who were writing important narrative simply because they couldn't keep up with what they were seeing. Can we talk about that? Can we talk about what killed the personal blog? Practically every woman I knew was writing a decade ago, and now I don't know any of them keeping up with those blogs. And for some it was because life became too busy, some decided to not be public, but a whole lot of them just said they became too intimidated or tired trying to keep up with how blogging became so much about how everything looked.
Economics aside, that's a damn shame. I don't blame the bloggers that moved into that space, but I do, very much blame the patriarchal culture that moved thinking and writing women of my community off the internet."

Second, this blog post from Sarah von Bargen at Yes and Yes: "But what I see is a reminder that everything matters. I see confirmation that the tiny choices I make every day add up to something. That might sound demoralizing or overwhelming but I’m choosing to see it as wildly empowering."

Third, Michelle Obama's encouraging words from her final official address as First Lady.
 

Fourth, this essay from Rachel Held Evans, which is superb from start to finish, but here's what's relevant here: "This was a strange year to have a baby. Perhaps, for you, it was a strange year to lose your father, to be ordained, to become a citizen. But if the incarnation has anything to say about it, we don’t get to wait around for ideal circumstances to begin creating, birthing, nurturing, planting, protesting, and working together to heal the world. So my prayer for you today, and in the days, weeks, and months ahead, is this: No matter what it means to you, take the risk of birth. Don’t be afraid. Finish the book. Pursue the relationship. Begin the ministry. Push the boundaries. Join the march. Write the screenplay. Do the dishes. Plant the onions. Carry the child. Roll around on the floor with your giggling toddler as if the world was even fractionally worthy of his presence. I’m so glad I did."

Fifth is from my life. My three-year-old got a bike for Christmas, and he's been learning to ride it in our hallway. At first, he focused intently on watching his feet while he pedaled; this caused more than a few run-ins with walls and furniture. I started telling him, "Watch where you're going." He's translated this into the toddler mantra, "Watch your going." I love hearing him say this. The first time, it occurred to me that my direction and his parroting of it were actually two sides of a coin -- look ahead to what's in front of you, yes, but also, pay attention to the progress you're making. Look as you go. Watch your actual going.

All these little nuggets are related, revolving around something important for me, but I haven't found the right words for it yet. More soon. I'll let it keep simmering.

Suddenly Genealogy

I don't know what's come over me, but suddenly family history is fun? I kept thinking and thinking about buying a fifteen generation pedigree chart, for only like a dollar at Deseret Book, and it just seemed necessary. So I finally bought one last Friday and have been filling it up with this weird, nerdy gusto. I completed the front side (9 generations) in a few days, and before deciding which ancestral lines to map out on the back (there's limited space), I went ahead and color coded each person by place of birth (see above picture).

Then I added highlighter lines to each person who emigrated.

Then I added green stickers to each fellow who was a practicing polygamist (Mormon ancestral cred -- I haz it).

And now I'm adding purple stickers to the people who converted to Mormonism, along with the year of baptism.

I unfold the big sheet every so often to take a look at my progress; there's something immensely satisfying about this project. And dangit if I don't feel more connected to these people than I ever have before.

Quilts

My extended family has a big 4th of July celebration every summer, spanning 2-3 days. Last year's party included a little family history showcase, and that's where I saw my great-grandma's quilts for the first time. They got me right in my heart, big time. She had crazy quilts made from scraps and more refined ones in united color themes. I didn't know these quilts existed, didn't know this had been such an endeavor for her -- didn't know her at all, actually, since she died a handful of years before I was born. This is her as a teenager:

great-grandma Carma

Seeing her quilts sparked a little thing in me, a desire to learn how to do what she did, what so many women in my family have done (and also my dad, who is an enthusiastic hobbyist and did patchwork quilts for a few years when I was a kid).

I cornered one of my great-aunts a few days later and made her teach me Carma's signature embroidery stitch -- the crow's foot stitch; she used it to finish all of her quilts, between each swatch of fabric. And over the following months, I started saving fabrics I thought I'd want to use on a quilt of my own (clothes I didn't wear anymore, mostly) and pinning to a Pinterest board full of quilting techniques, patterns, and tricks.

And now, more than a year later, some stuff is coming together.

cutting up an old shirt

my starter materials, all from shirts I culled from my wardrobe -- I used these to make half-triangle squares by combining two squares, sewing down the middle on the diagonal, and cutting them apart

figuring out a disorganized pattern -- I'm partial to disorganized things

more fabrics from a flannel shirt, a floral apron, and a 70s dress

Hair History

I dyed my hair for the first time during Sr year of high school. I claimed it was for a part in a play, but really, the role didn't call for any particular physical appearance -- I just wanted different hair. The box of dye I chose was supposed to take me from blonde to medium brown, but the red undertones in my hair did their own thing, leaving me with a color that a future boyfriend compared to Kirsten Dunst's Mary Jane in "Spiderman."

After that first plunge, I messed with my hair on a regular basis. I went back to blonde, then to a bright red, then to a darker auburn shade, then to a true dark brown, like this ...

... before taking the biggest risk so far with a buzz cut.

My poor hair had been through enough. I laid it to rest on the floor of Rudy's Barber Shop and started fresh.

Since then, my natural blonde has been the order of the day, in varying lengths.

The Meditative Practice of Painting Your Nails

1.

Pre-teen me was crazy about nail polish. I remember buying these mini-bottles from Wal-Mart, in the brightest colors possible, and painting each fingernail and toenail a different color, sitting on my bed in the basement, bathed in light coming through the window well. I would wait impatiently for the polish to dry, then use a toothpick to dab clunky five-petal flowers on top. It was not cute, grown-up me is certain, but pre-teen me loved it -- loved the process, loved the result.

2.

Professional pedicures have never been my thing. I'm just not one for pampering in general, I suppose. But last weekend, on an epic retreat with girlfriends, we made the impulsive decision to head to a nail place in town and get a little dose of pretty. The ladies at Tip & Toe Nails looked a wee bit shocked when the seven of us walked in -- four pedicures and three manicures, please. I was in the pedicure crowd. Having selected my color of choice (Tasmanian Devil Made Me Do It by OPI -- gotta love these names), I sat back and let the master work. She scrubbed, lotioned, clipped, massaged, and lacquered up my toes. Reclined there in my chair, I thought back to pre-teen Sara, how much uncomplicated joy she got out of painting her nails. What happened to that, I wondered? I still keep my toenails painted most of the time, but always in the most utilitarian sort of way -- I don't savor it the way I used to. My fingernails, well ... the most love they get is the occasional dig-out-the-accumulated-dirt-from-underneath routine. That habit, that practice, of selecting a polish, trying it out, layering it, playing with it -- that's gone from my adult life. And it's fine to grow out of something you used to like, if you genuinely lose interest. Nothing at all wrong with that. But something about the Tasmanian Devil, dried and smiling up at me from my toes, told me that this could still be one of life's simple pleasures for me, something I needed to revisit.

3.

On Monday, still fresh from the weekend and the pedicure appointment, I cleaned out my nail polish collection. Mind you, the collection wasn't too vast to begin with, but there were some colors that didn't suit me very well. Into the garbage they went. Later that day, I replenished my supply with a few new choices -- a coral-y red, a dark green, and a navy. (They have kooky nail polish names of their own, of course, but those descriptions will do for now.) And on Tuesday, as my son napped in his crib, I busted out the dark green for some at-home manicuring. I started with clean nails, then did a clear base coat, two coats of the green, and a top coat to minimize chipping. (Side note: it has already chipped so much! I need lessons on this stuff!)

And while it felt a little odd, like I was severely out of practice, there's definitely something about thoughtfully, patiently painting my nails that calms me. I've never felt that way about doing my hair or shaving or putting on makeup, but the nail polish somehow is its own thing. It soothes me. And the finished product brightens my mood. The need for precision and smooth motion engages my brain in something measurable yet meaningless, like the repetition of a mantra that eventually just becomes connected sounds instead of actual words. It's meditation, really. Pre-teen me probably understood that, on some level.

Perfect Picture

My kid and I have this daily tradition of going out to the side yard to push the tree swing and look for potato bugs (or "ats" as he calls them, because all bugs are ants right now). He's usually not wearing pants when we do this; I usually haven't changed out of pajamas yet. Our street is pretty quiet, but we get a smattering of cars driving by, and I always wonder what they think if they notice us. Some people are the kind to think it's totally normal, I'm sure, and others probably wouldn't be caught dead outside in pajamas with a half-naked baby -- how inappropriate! I'm in the it's-totally-normal camp, though. Not just normal -- really nice, really safe and cozy.

I took this picture of baby boy during a playtime earlier this week. Somehow I just knew right away, as soon as I looked at it, that this was a perfect likeness not just of this exact second in time, but of this season of my life. Unpolished, unfinished, dusty, and true. A pleasant, cloudy day on unmowed grass with a toddler in a diaper.

My Name

My parents decided on my first name before they were married, way before I was ever born. Actually, it might have been before they even decided to get married. My mom told me once that she and my dad were talking about names for future children and both said that they loved the name Sara. And from then on, it was decided.

Sara(h) is a name I share with my maternal grandmother and her maternal grandmother as well, making an every-other-generation chain of Sara(h)s. Both my grandmother and my great-great grandmother spelled their name with an 'H' at the end, but my parents opted for the shorter spelling because they thought it looked more modern. The with-an-H vs. without-an-H debates are pretty epic among the Sara(h) population. I'm definitely partial to the H-less spelling, and as I was growing up, the name's Hebrew meaning -- princess -- meant a lot to me.

So when I was born, my name was Sara Staheli, my last name coming from my dad. Staheli is a Swiss name that probably originated with the word for steel (stahl) back in the olden-olden days.

When I was 8 months old (or thereabouts), my parents legally changed my name by adding Katherine as a middle name. Katherine is my paternal grandmother's name, and according to my mom, the change came about kind of as an "Oh duh!" moment, like they should've just had that as my middle name all along.

So I lived my life as Sara Katherine Staheli for many, many years, and when I was 21, I got married and added a fourth name -- Hanks. The decision to change my last name was something I went back-and-forth on for a while, and I had a lot of really intense feelings about it. I made my decision final about a year after getting married and became Sara Katherine Staheli Hanks. While four names is a little long compared to the names of most people I know, I think the sounds flow nicely together, and I actually enjoy having four names instead of just two or three. It's nice to have little tokens from my grandmothers, my ancestry, and my marriage to carry around with me all the time, and at the same time, the combination of those elements is totally unique. There's no one else out there named Sara Katherine Staheli Hanks. Pretty sure.