On Bright Street

Stuff I didn't buy 3

2011-12-30T17:33:00.000-07:00

Rob and I made a quick stop at our favorite secondhand store this afternoon so Rob could hunt for some amps. No luck for him, but I must say I found some gems. I picked up a great book of crème brûlée recipes and a collection of classic Welsh short stories. But as usual, the more interesting items were the ones I didn't buy. Sometimes just having photos of them is enough, especially the writings that are left behind in old notebooks and journals. This time I got to see the inner workings of the minds of two young boys:

"... and at the end of the Day i'd Rather stay." Yeah, so would I, kid.

Yesss! Something really useful on the last page
of a notebook full of spelling lists and long division.

And here is almost an entire book club set of one of my all-time favorite reads, Haven Kimmel's hilarious first installation of her childhood memoirs. Next to those eight copies of A Girl Named Zippy is her excellent follow-up book. I was so tempted to grab them all for a mere two bucks apiece, but my inner accountant advised me to be practical. *sigh* Glad I have my own copy—might need to dust it off and dip into it to combat the January greys that I know are coming. Maybe you should pick up a copy for yourself, and we can spend an evening laughing about it together and reminiscing over some of our own family stories. We could even whip up some fake blood and enjoy a little recess from life. Howzaboutit?

It's Haven heaven at D.I.!

Oh, how lovely was the morning

2011-12-23T17:21:00.000-07:00

The First Vision, by Warren Luch 1990 (featured in Ensign, January 2005)

I so respect a man who isn't too proud to stop and ask for directions when he's lost.

Happy birthday to one of my most revered heroes—Joseph Smith. Because of his influence in my life, I have a deeper understanding of my reason for being and a clearer, more compelling purpose for continuing on. Thanks to him I have a good grasp on my origin and my destination, and a comprehension that my journey is about joy. He has helped nurture my faith in God, in truth, and in myself.

I love that he was a seeker, and a worker. I love that he asked important questions. I love that he listened for answers, and then put them to good use. I love that he never ever stop inquiring, and was never ever passive.

Recently, I did some sound editing for a collaborative art installation that Rob and I are exhibiting locally. A phrase from one of the interviews I worked on has been rolling around in my head for days and days: "serving... and loving... and making...." These are some of the foundational priorities in my life, elements of creation. Thank you, Joseph Smith, for showing me how to create, and to know my Creator.

Because of Joseph Smith, the feelings I have during the Christmas season are sweeter and more sacred. All I have to do to feel the holiday spirit is to pull back from the red-nosed swagger of commercialism and meditate on what I know of the life and mission of Jesus Christ, remember the quiet stirrings I've experienced within my own soul, and celebrate light and truth, questions and answers, and creating.

Happy birthday. Thanks for teaching me. You've been God's hands in my life, and have helped me see how and why to be that for others.

And I say it's alright

2011-12-22T22:48:00.000-07:00

Oh, oh, winter solstice!

When was I ever this glad for the sun to begin its yearly climb?

I am hungry for light.

(An ice ball we kicked along the path.)

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes!

Giving Thanks, Day 17390

2011-11-23T11:47:00.000-07:00

Well, shucks, I got off-track with my blogging earlier this month. I've kept up a steady pace with my thanks-giving, I just haven't documented my adventures here. Too bad. But kudos to all my friends who have faithfully shared their own warm November fuzzies on Facebook and elsewhere. I've wondered, Should I do penance? Should I backtrack, do make-up homework? But nah. The sweetest thing I can think to do is to continue spending some daily gratitude, wherever I find myself, till I spend my thankful pockets empty. But it doesn't work like that, does it? Gratitude pockets are magic and never come up short. The more you spend, the more you find to spend when you dig down deep.

Tomorrow's Thanksgiving. So is today, and every day. I love my life, and I'm glad it's mine, come what may.

Here's a little gift from me to start the holidays out right, a song I've loved since I was small. Enjoy it. Enjoy your feasting tomorrow and an endless spending of gratitude.

Giving Thanks, Day 10

2011-11-10T23:55:00.001-07:00

One of my soul friends lost her sister today, unexpectedly. My heart is weeping with hers.

And yet, death is no victor. That's more than a comfort. It's an endless mercy.

I'm thankful for what I know.

Giving Thanks, Day 9

2011-11-09T14:48:00.000-07:00

Parking the car in the sun, eating J Dawgs, and listening to John Cage & Lou Harrison with Rob. That's a feast.

Giving Thanks, Day 8

2011-11-08T23:40:00.000-07:00

Gratitude du jour:

the joy of movement, esp. walking fast on a crisp afternoon
messages from faraway friends
sweet irony: Last night a friendly neighbor sent over an ENORMOUS plate of gooey black magic box brownies, the kind that can turn deadly if you overindulge. After Rob and I cautiously sampled them, we decided we were in danger, so I loaded up the rest to share with a family I met with today. They were excited, and we were relieved. Hey, no emergency room trips for us! On my way home I received a text from a different neighbor friend, telling me she'd just left brownies on my porch and giving me full disclosure about her ingredients list, all healthy in the extreme. Those we finished off.
fresh flowers in the house (love gifts)

Giving Thanks, Day 7

2011-11-07T23:58:00.000-07:00

Three beautiful things:

computers
bagless vacuums
earplugs

See you tomorrow.

Giving Thanks, Day 6

2011-11-06T22:32:00.000-07:00

Most of what I'm thankful for today goes beyond my words, but here are some of the beautiful parts I know how to say in English:

•prayer
•perspective
•wool, wool, wool, and wool tweed
•terrific teaching resources
•fasting
•renewal
•people who say yes because they want to
•people who aren't hesitant to express affection
•sacrament
•a day of worship and service
•when a community becomes like a family
•sincere and purposeful self-disclosure
•sharing spiritual experiences
•the little girl who snorted super loudly behind me in church when everybody else said, "Amen"
•good hearts
•good intentions (that even occasionally produce good results)
•honesty
•the constant need for change
•forgiveness
•teaching
•learning
•listening before speaking, sometimes without speaking
•dependability
•letting go of the need to be perfect
•introducing a roomful of women to our Good Riddance tradition with a mini-bonfire
•making healthy commitments
•the thrill of discovering something true
•giving openly in a new friendship
•intuition
•inspiration
•laughter
•responsibility
•delegation
•cooperation
•big plans
•little plans
•kindnesses, anonymous and not
•respect
•patience
•compassion
•Rob's salad
•in-laws
•watching a friend dress to impress a girl and be on his best behavior during our family dinner
•thinking I had lost this draft and then finding it

Giving Thanks, Day 5

2011-11-05T23:04:00.000-06:00

I'm not a fan of Daylight Savings Time, but I admit there is one weekend of every year when I feel thankful for it, and this one's it. Hurray for turning back the clock for an extra (potential) hour of sleep. I'm so tired this week that last night in my dream I was apologizing for being too sleep-deprived to think straight. Ugh. Tomorrow I teach in Relief Society, so I'm glad for the added rest and recup time. I'm about to catch the early train, instead of waiting till the wee hours (again, again, again). Golden slumbers to all—

Giving Thanks, Day 4

2011-11-05T01:31:00.000-06:00

Here's something I'm thankful for—people with humor, smarts, integrity, and imagination. I'm especially in awe of the ones who work hard to contribute something worthwhile to the world, and who encourage other people to bravely do the same.

Example: Filmmaker Werner Herzog. Over three decades ago he promised to eat his shoe if a young green colleague, Errol Morris, would finish making his first documentary, Gates of Heaven, and have it screened in a public theater. Morris kept his end of the bargain, so Herzog showed up as a guest speaker for that first Berkeley screening and he ate one of his slow-cooked shoes on stage. Luckily for us, another filmmaker, Les Blank, captured that moment and much of Herzog's philosophy and vision in his 1980 documentary, Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe. If you've got twenty minutes to spare, here's that film for you to watch, followed by a funny two-minute clip from Gates of Heaven (which, by the way, is one of my favorite documentaries of all time—I highly recommend it).

Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe by bakiniz

But getting back to funny, intelligent, creative people of conscience, I am blessed to know and love quite a few, and this evening I got to spend time with a bunch of them, and for that I'm really really grateful. Plus, good pizza.

Giving Thanks, Day 3

2011-11-03T23:30:00.000-06:00

So, ha ha, I posted this on Facebook for Halloween:

This image may originate here. (So much for attribution.)

Early this morning, after Rob got up but before the sun and I did, I was lying in bed, minding my own sleepy business, and something with a lot of legs RAN ACROSS MY FACE. Ear to ear, straight over my cheekbones. I am a light sleeper, even when I'm dreaming, so in a nanosecond I was bolt upright and freaking out, shaking my head and slapping myself around to make sure that spider was OFFOFFOFF! Talk about an adrenaline rush. I sat there in the dark, my heart pounding. I did not, did not dream that! I pictured this spider running for his life, away from the big flailing thing he'd just mistakenly used as a highway. But no. Suddenly, I felt a tickle on the back of my shoulder and this time I stopped, dropped, and rolled like I was on fire. Good thing Rob was up already or I'd have probably knocked him out of bed by accident. I was taking no chances. A few years ago I got fanged by one of those pale green house spiders with the googly brown eyes that Rob used to tell me don't bite, and now, well, you know what they say... I'm twice shy. Exponentially shy. I can't stand spiders in the house. We are not amused.

After that, no more tickles, no more feet. I was able to catch a few more zzzzs (a testament to how much sleep I've lost lately rather than to how courageous I am). But when I woke up (after the sun) this is what I found:

Aieeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!

scattered body parts!

I am still creeped out, many hours later. Augh! It's going to be a little tough to sleep tonight.

BUT. Here's my big gratitude for the day: I won that battle. No googly-eyed spider bites for me today. And I'm sure his ancestors in spider heaven welcomed him home with many many open arms. Thankful!

Other things that didn't bite today:

giving away the rest of the Mexican chocolate brownies
getting to see an old friend, somebody I love like family, and meet her new baby, Niles (love you, Jamie, and it was so good to see you and Addie and the baby chunk and your sweet gram)
helping my in-laws' neurotic cat with her worried peevish old lady cat thoughts (no, really)
watching Neil Thornock drive away with a giant accordion loaded into his fabulous cargo bike
perfect timing: at the very moment I decided I needed to find somebody with a truck to help me move a couch to Lu's house, I looked out the window and spotted the bishop, home early, and he and his truck and one of his landscaping worker bees helped me deliver Big Pink in five minutes, round trip
new space opened up in the living room
shuffling pictures on the walls
the rest of the Harry Potters, on loan from my cuz
Gary bringing me a gift he knows I'll appreciate: a tragic handwritten poem he found while deep cleaning his basement—it was hidden behind some duct work (sad subject matter, but it's great to have a friend who'll think to give me something like this)
Rob's glee at having a P.A. system to play with
Brian's songs with a little more reverb
sweaters from the UK
digging out the Italian book of Hanon Virtuoso-Pianist exercises and beginning to break in my fingers again (ow)
vegetables
praying with perspective
looking forward to tomorrow
my pumpkin and his Jack-o-lantern:

Giving Thanks, Day 2

2011-11-02T23:51:00.000-06:00

Another list.

a new recipe for a Dutch baby (apple)
sitting in the sun by the lake and writing the opening of a new story
hot water (Mary, you are so, so right!)
moving furniture
laying plans to pass on Big Pink to a friend who has the crappiest couch in town
Simple Green + microfiber cloths
listening to an enlightening interview with Dr. John Gray
wearing Rob's sweater
not watching Kung Fu Panda
being raised by people who loved to give
Mozart's Requiem Mass in D Minor
finally locating a sweet spot in the house where we can play records on the German Telefunken without our steps causing the needle to skip across the vinyl
take-out bean and cheese pupusas + that magical pickled cabbage-jalapeño stuff
KUER's nighttime jazz
swapping love letters
more Mexican chocolate brownies
cold, clean night air
feeling well enough to attend teacher training
being taught a new way to deepen gratitude: Each day, write down three things you're thankful for... and then ask yourself, "Why/how did they happen?"

Thirty Days of Thanksgiving

2011-11-01T22:27:00.001-06:00

When I woke up this morning, it was unmistakably November. The weather was grey and wet and blowy, as if it just had to distinguish itself from October. It's funny how often this kind of big announcement seems to come on the first day of month anymore.

But despite its dismal halloo, I am committed to loving November. It's good, this advent of Thanksgiving. I think I'll join the ranks of bloggers who'll spend the month pouring out some gratitude and celebrating the cup that runs over with blessings.

Simple tonight—an attempt at a list, since I'm not feeling my best today (I'm looking at you, moon), but nevertheless a decent start. I'm thankful for:

a near-perfect breakfast smoothie
Ibuprofen (always and forever, always and forever)
Mirjam's hot water bottle
horizontalilty + cushions + gravity
the digital projector we're babysitting for the next few weeks + a white wall + decent speakers
Napoleon Dynamite for bazillionth time
baked winter squash
Mexican chocolate brownies
a kind housemate, husband, and friend (rolled into one)
lonely train whistles
remote control
answering machine
Debby showing up with a rented DVD (Thor), fried potatoes, and fresh pineapple
a clean bathroom
quiet
a working furnace
learning that friends in dire straits are being helped and supported
understanding that it's not the end of the world to lose a day to illness
one of my new blog ideas becoming a reality
sharing good things
chasing after change (a right healthy sport)
evening chapter of The Hobbit

Caves aren't everything

2011-10-11T23:02:00.000-06:00

I didn't sleep much last night, and from morning till night I've had a splitting headache which did its best to become a sick migraine in the late afternoon. I had a ton of stuff to get done today, most of it sit-down work, and most of it Relief Society business that I just couldn't feel good about putting off. I wanted to crawl into a dark quiet cave and wait for sleep to ambush me, but it just wasn't a realistic option. I chucked from the to-do list many details that didn't truly matter, but there were still so many people deals left to help with or respond to, and more came rolling in throughout the day. It was one of those days that kinda make you wonder what is going on, like maybe somebody planted a big Grand Opening sign in your lawn.

It was a good day in one very big way—people are important to me and I appreciate the opportunities to interact with them. But, yikes! It's hard to think and talk and write and troubleshoot when your head is throbbing.

I bring this up because there were some moments of sweet compensation today, tender mercies. Our breakfast smoothie was terrific today. Go ahead, laugh, but I'm grateful for it. Look, on a day like this, the last thing in the world I want to greet me is a tall glass of swamp nog. (I had a bad run for a couple days there, failed experiments. Not all green smoothies are created equal.) I was too sick midday to go out for a scheduled lunch with a girlfriend, but before the lunch hour was over, a different friend showed up hungry, treated Rob to El Salvadorean food, and brought some home for me too. Then! When I was hitting the lowest point of the day, another friend called and invited us out for supper. I absolutely could not accept, so she brought food over and ate with us. I noticed she even kept her voice down so as not to pain my head. That takes concentration for her, because she's got a big musical theater voice.

Food doesn't usually appear at my doorstep. It was such a welcome blessing that it showed up today, and from such gracious friends. Thank you.

Other tender mercy: First thing this morning one of my duties was to interview a dear woman in our church congregation and help her prepare a welfare order for her family. I was so ill that I texted her and asked if I could visit with her by phone rather than have to dress and go to her house. It hurt to move. She was very kind and came to me instead and didn't care that I stayed in my robe (hey, at least it's pretty and red). We had a good visit, and when we were through with our business she gave me a sweet gift: a relaxing head massage which really did help for almost half an hour.

Another one, which ties back into the first: Getting to work with women who are willing to give needed help, who network, who care, who make smart plans and follow through, who create good things, who aren't afraid of work or commitment, who express gratitude, who can laugh at themselves, who are willing to serve others without passing judgement, and who talk it out appropriately and are able to move forward rather than bog down in the muck when a serious offense has been given. I saw some of all of that today. Mercies. Beautiful ones.

Oh, also: We got to watch three doves walk around in our big plum tree this morning, just like it was a network of sidewalks.

And: My book on companion gardening arrived.

And: Firming up plans with great friends.

And: A concerned husband who keeps urging me to drink more water.

And: Oh, those crazy wonderful flowers in the dining room.

And: I'm too tired to keep counting them up.

Now I will go to my cave and hope for the best. But wait, I had that already today.

You say goodbye and I say download

2011-10-10T11:56:00.000-06:00

This morning I had to say goodbye to my dear Arizona-bound friend, Holly, so when I got home from our breakfast date to Einstein Bros Bagels I needed some cheering up. Lucky for me we have a rusty old turntable in the basement, and a fun stash of my dad's Martin Denny albums! I got the party started with Afro-Desia, vintage 1959. Good stuff!

What's that? You've never heard of the "father of exotica"? I weep for you! Listen, you haven't lived until you've danced to "TseTse Fly"!

I know just how to fix this situation. I'm going to share some of the day's soundtrack with you. Yes, yes, I know you haven't got a turntable. I'm not planning to loan you any vinyl. (I mean, c'mon.) But, resourceful gal that I am, I have discovered a free download of the entire album which you can access if you will click here and then simply save Afro-Desia to your computer. Included with the music is the cover art, which as any fan knows is all-important if you want the complete Martin Denny experience. I tried the download. It works.

I can't wait to hear how you love it. Ma'chumba!

If you get into that one, you can find other Martin Denny gems to download from the same file-sharing site I linked to above. Here's a preview of Quiet Village:

Gastronomic illumination

2011-10-05T21:49:00.000-06:00

What a nice autumn rain fell today, but oh, the greyness got to me after a few hours. When I'm really hungry for light, bright strong flavors can sometimes take the edge off. Today I needed garlic, and plenty of it. Those of you who came within six feet of me after lunch can verify that I got my fill. Lemon. Vinegar. Garden tomatoes. Cumin—oh, cumin! You were my salvation! On my fight-the-gloom menu this afternoon:

Moroccan Batter Bread
Black Bean Hummus
Freshly roasted tomatoes
Shredded green cabbage and jicama, tossed with rice vinegar, honey, and olive oil
& what might be the last of the season's Charentais melon

These made the day feel not so dreary. Want to give my menu a try and see what it can do for you? Here are my two main recipes:

Moroccan Batter Bread

1/3 cup olive oil
1 small onion, chopped
3 cups whole wheat flour
2 tablespoons baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 1/2 teaspoons paprika
1/2 teaspoon cayenne
3 eggs, beaten
1 tablespoon honey
1 spilling over cup rice milk
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley

Preheat oven to 350F.
Spray a 11-inch loaf pan with cooking spray. Line bottom with parchment or waxed paper.
Warm the oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add onion and sauté till soft. Remove from heat and allow to cool a bit.
Mix eggs with honey.
In a large bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, salt, cumin, paprika, and cayenne. Make a well in the center and pour in the oil and onions, eggs and honey, milk, and parsley. Stir until just combined.
Pour batter into the pan. Bake in center of the oven for 60-70 minutes, or until a toothpick tester comes out clean.
Cool bread in pan on a wire rack 15 minutes. Remove bread from pan, peel off paper, and cool completely on rack before slicing.

*******

Black Bean Hummus

2 cups cooked black beans
2 cloves garlic, pressed
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons tahini
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon ground cumin
a shake of crushed red pepper flakes
extra-virgin olive oil
a shake of cayenne (optional)

In a food processor, combine beans, pressed garlic, lemon juice, tahini, salt, cumin, and red pepper flakes and process until desired smoothness, scraping down sides occasionally.
Serve in a bowl and garnish with a drizzle of olive oil and a shake of cayenne, if desired.

Bon appétit!

More cowbell

2011-10-04T17:43:00.000-06:00

I find this video udderly moo-ving. (I know. Ouch.) But seriously, who's wants to go with me to make music in France? We'll be outstanding in our field!

To all the girls I've loved this year

2011-10-03T17:12:00.000-06:00

Last time I posted I shared a shortlist of some things I'd like to write about—one was loving Relief Society. I've been serving in three different presidencies of this unique women's society in our ward (aka church congregation) over the past year—first as a counselor, and then as president since the first week of January. I'm already on my second set of counselors and secretaries; a big shakeup in our geographic boundaries took place in the spring and necessitated rebuilding the organization from scratch. I've loved all three groups of leaders. I'm excited that in this new configuration we're finally hitting our stride. It's a joy working with such intelligent, funny, compassionate, energetic, kind, faithful, imaginative, motivated, inspired, and no-nonsense young women. So far, I've been the sole Resident Ancient, but that doesn't bother me in the least. I've never been hung up on age differences, in either direction. These women are my sisters and friends, and it's a privilege to work together to serve the nearly 200 women (and many families) we have responsibility for.

The way we get things done looks something like this:

I bet these pioneering gals could do a pretty righteous hand jive themselves:

From the University of Utah archives—Relief Society, 1916.

Tomorrow I go out for Indian food with the first presidency I worked with last year. Last week, I had happy contacts with both the counselors who endured me as a fledgling president: one just birthed a gorgeous baby on the bathroom floor of her home (unintentionally, though she is Superwoman), far far away in my old home state, and the other called me the same day to tell me I'd "won" a home pedicure at her house. (She said it wasn't a rigged contest, but when everyone wins, isn't that rigged?) In two days I have my weekly meeting with my newest counselors and secretary, so we can do that hand jive thing that we do.

It's hard work and takes lots of coordination and even more practice. I'm in good company. I am blessed, and lucky.

The prettiest, cleanest party

2011-10-01T23:30:00.000-06:00

So much for September's NaBloPoMo. I turned in my badge earlier, after not posting on the last three days of the month. Oh, well. I did finish my detox, which was far more important to me. And I will write about that.

I also hope to write about some other wonderful bits from the past few days:

The dreaded cranberry juice blitz
The grand entrance of Alice Chlotelle
Winning a pedicure
Loving Relief Society
A shopping spree with Bec o' my heart
Intro to Jillian Michaels
Breaking my 30-day detox fast with one of Leland's eggs (not one that he laid himself, whew)
The El Salvadorean pupusa as a soul meditation
Buddha bowls—my new fixation

But for now, I am going to focus on a few special moments from today.

(1) Remember this girl? She dictated an email to her mother today, to send to me. It was such a sweet starting point for the day and the perfect intro to General Conference. The conversation in the middle was an aside, between Scout and her little interrupting brother, Finn.

I have not gave you to say something to me. I want to say, "I am the Queen of Everything." But I need to tell you something. I have the Queen recipe. It is called the Queens' Cookies.

It has: sugar, milk, cinnamon, and yummy yummy spices and cream and jello.

Finn: Eww! I don't like those kind of cookies! They taste like poo!
Scout: No, why?
Finn: Because I don't want you to be the Queen.
Scout: Well, I'm not really, Finn, I'm just writing it to Georgia.

Then, you set it in the stove with oil, and before you put it in the stove, you can cut it into cookie shapes too, and put it to cook for uhhhh, 11 minutes I think.

And then, I have another question: You can take care of the world, and I can take care of the world. I want to have a party on the next conference day, or today! And I want to invite all my cousins and aunts and uncles, and maybe Grandfather if he can come, and Ahma and Jeanne. I want to have that party, and I want it to be the prettiest, cleanest party about Jesus and us and how we can take care of the world.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoscout

That sounds like a great party. I'm in.

(2) General Conference was so very very good. To prepare myself, I wrote a long list of personal questions that concern me, ranging from simple yes/no to onion layer to pert-near-impossible-to-answer, and I was amazed at how many of them were addressed in some way, either through a talk, through music, through quiet consideration, or through discussion. I am eager for tomorrow's sessions. I wish everyone I know would listen and enjoy the inspirations to be had at this conference.

(2.5) When President Thomas S. Monson announced this just after 11:00 a.m., I screamed for joy. I'm not a screamer by nature, but the sounds came all the way up from my toes, I'm pretty sure. Three good loud primal hallelujahs, of sorts, which left me with a sore throat!

Maybe one day I'll write more about why I feel so connected to the Tabernacle, but it has a lot to do with many special meetings inside, stake conferences I attended, including one at which I gave a talk and had the most remarkable speaking experience of my life—yeah, yeah, shy me. So many happy church- and community-related events. The Tabernacle is part of my neighborhood and I pass it all the time. Our friends were the caretakers. I remember when the fire took it, I stood in the street all morning in the January chill, crying and watching it burn, unable to tear myself away until I could barely walk home, I was shaking so hard and my feet hurt so from the cold. It was a heartbreaking time. And now it's turned to something sweet. Lucky President Monson, getting to deliver such a happy message this morning. I can't wait for our second temple to be built, in my own backyard!

(3) While the guys were at their meeting this evening, I recruited the ladies and kids in the family to trek over just before dusk to see the old Tabernacle. It was fun to see the traces of other neighbors' celebrations: balloons, a sign. I'm imagining some dancing in the street, lots of picture-taking. I was too busy screaming at home to join them. We played a while beneath a big sycamore, and went home with glad hearts. Happy day!


Time to celebrate!

Vanna White, eat your heart out! Here are the lovely and talented Ahma, Daffodil, and Eden

Meditations on local politics

2011-09-27T22:50:00.006-06:00

“Subtlety may deceive you; integrity never will.” —Oliver Goldsmith

"The only thing worth stealing is a kiss from a sleeping child." —Joe Houldsworth

*******

"A real Christian is a person who can give his pet parrot to the town gossip." —Billy Graham

"Sometimes I lie awake at night, and ask, 'Where have I gone wrong?' Then a voice says to me, 'This is going to take more than one night.'" —Charles M. Schulz

*******

“The kindness I have longest remembered has been of this sort, the sort unsaid; so far behind the speaker's lips that almost it already lay in my heart. It did not have far to go to be communicated.” —Henry David Thoreau

There but for the kick of conscience go I.

And we have a winner!

2011-09-26T22:30:00.006-06:00

Remember this giveaway that was so wildly popular that FOUR(!!!!) brave souls tossed their hats into the ring, hoping to win?

Well, I have good, if belated, news.

Good news, that is, for one lucky, lucky chum who was fortuitously selected (thank you, Random.org) during his very own birthday season! That's right, Scott, you are now the proud owner of an original piece of art (unless you've changed your mind—ahem). Bless you! Bless your wall! You will be the envy of all your friends, me most of all (however, Rob won't miss it much). Congratulations! And happy birthday!

(Isn't that a great face? Dear Scott and I go way back to high school days.)

Now we just need to figure out when and where to hand this thing off.

Vive la D.I.!

Way way waaay too tired

2011-09-25T22:38:00.001-06:00

Slow grape to dawn

2011-09-24T23:59:00.194-06:00

I'm going to be up pretty late tonight, watching over a steamer filled with grapes and more grapes, those amazing Salem Himrods I mentioned earlier this week. I'd give up and go to bed but they're too close to their turning point, and I'm not interested in making vinegar this go-round.

It's keeping my brain awake to recall a dream I had this morning. Rob nudged me before dawn so we could take a walk by the lake and watch the sunrise. That was a welcome offer, even after another late night, but he interrupted my dream mid-story, and I really wished I could go back and finish the conversation before beginning the day.

I've lost the context now—naturally this scene was part of a bigger dream. What I remember is that Rob and I were sitting together, talking in a room, as if at home, and were interrupted by a startling BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! on the door. I got up to answer, opening it cautiously. A 20something brunette stood there, a girl I didn't recognize, looking very disgruntled. She had come full of bitterness to lodge a complaint against me, about something I'd written (an email, like the ones I send out to my Relief Society, I think? or maybe it was a blog post? seems like it was something about visiting teaching) which had asked her to... it was something about a hand... lend a hand? give hands-on service? help with some important work? She pushed the door open wider with her right arm, so I would have to notice that her hand was deformed, having only knuckles and no fingers. Her body language seemed to scream out, See! I can't do what you ask! I'm crippled! I'm helpless! I didn't know what to say to her, but I took her hand as if in a handshake, and then I held it in both of my own and we stood there, looking at each other. I examined her hand and discovered that fingers had begun to grow, like tender sprouts. They were still very delicate and small, but I could see that she did after all have something unmistakable to work with, and some power to do. In her next breath and to my surprise she softened and thanked me for challenging her. With implied intimacy, she made mention of The Thing that I had said, indicating that I should know exactly what that Thing was that she was referencing, the special words that had made the difference to her, and she wanted me to remember and repeat them. "You know what you said," she told me. I couldn't recall any previous connection to her, so I had no clue which of my words had flipped her switch. I could sense that it was important for me not to alienate her at a moment when she was obviously moving away from her sense of helplessness and disconnection. I tried to think of what to say that would bring us to the same page without giving her offense. At last I said to her, "But it's your story, so why don't you tell it? Tell me your story." Sadly, before she could begin, Rob was coaxing me back to consciousness so we could go for that walk.

And it was a lovely walk. Rob was such nice company and it was a gorgeous morning. But I wondered all day what that girl might have said if only I could have stayed to hear her out.

All things being equal

2011-09-23T23:54:00.007-06:00

Equinox, a moment of balance. It came and went this morning at 9:03 a.m., while I was doing my morning study and meditating on personal liberty. Apropos.

The spirit of balance lingered today. I celebrated the even divide between dark and light by driving south with family for our annual grape-picking excursion at the home of some friends. Delicious green Himrods, those Utah beauties—oh! Soon my kitchen will be filled with the aroma of steaming grapes, and then we'll have the first provident bottles of 2011 ready to line the shelves of our pantry. I love the harvest season. And it's especially nice to begin refilling the coffers on a day of celestial balance.

On the drive down to Salem, I sat in the middle row of seats in my sister-in-law's van, next to my darling nephew, 3yo Finn. He announced to me happily, out of the blue, "Ga-ga, I KNOW you're gonna have a baby!" It seemed like all the grownups in the vehicle stopped breathing for a couple seconds, but maybe that was just me. I'm pretty sure this wasn't something Finn had heard from his parents, but I could be wrong about that too. Wherever it came from, I just laughed and accepted it. Why not? Who would know better than Finn? And who am I to doubt such an intelligent fellow? He made his powerful assertion again a little later: "Ga-ga, I KNOW you're gonna have a baby!" And then went on to describe to me how much he loves babies and likes to hold them, and I decided I would be very glad for him to hold mine once I have her... or find her... or him... or them... or... however this thing's going to happen. But I have it on good authority now; I'm gonna get one. Finn says.

Last year when we went grape-picking I was the beneficiary of another magical sentence, shared with me in a whisper while little arms were wrapped around my neck, a secret from my niece, Scout. Since it was a secret I won't share it, but it was a lovely shaft of light that came in through my ear and went straight into my heart to burn there all these months. I appreciate the tiny shiny voices of these people I love so much. I treasure their gifts and don't minimize them the least bit.

After today I'll be in my last week of my month-long garden detox diet. I took a Mason jar full of green smoothie with me grape-picking: it was lunch, if you use your imagination. There was enough that I gave everybody who was brave enough to try it a taste. Finn wanted a drink of it, so I helped him tip up the heavy jar and when it came down, he was wearing a Kermit green moustache. Ha! After his second swig, his moustache had grown into a perfect half-circle of swamp nog, plus a bright green unibrow from pressing the messy jar against his face. Pretty hilarious. I grabbed my camera but before I could shoot he'd sleeved his cheeks and was focused on the next part of lunch. (That green unibrow dried in place though, I'm tickled to report.) Scout saw me trying for a Kodak moment, so she obliged by taking her own big drink of my stuff and modeling the latest in lip fashion:

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." —Leonardo da Vinci

Listening, thinking, stitching, rambling

2011-09-22T22:02:00.003-06:00

I was supposed to be at a very friendly knit night this evening but instead I'm home, sick with a fever, but my sticks and string are flying as I flop. I've got a gift to finish by Saturday. I'm set up in the shop, where my Rob is working late on an art project... a sound sculpture, to be exact. He's given me a chair to sit in near the center of the action. I'm surrounded by speakers and my ears and head are filling up with the nicest stuff. I'm excited to see (and hear) him seriously working in this new medium; I'm pleased and proud. It feels really right. He's preparing for a show and I think you should join us when it happens. Yes, you.

Late last night we went out for a walk downtown. We heard the most delightful squeaky fuss coming from high up, next to the alley behind the art store. It was sweet, funny bat music. What's a group of bats called? Surely not a flock, or a gaggle. What about a bite (megabite?), or a siphon, or a strangle of bats? Anyway, there was a crowd of them, making a tight little home together behind a sign. We stood there, peering into the dark, listening to them fret, hoping to see them fly out for their nightly hunt. Eventually, they began to emerge, one at a time, each one winging out crazily, many of them buzzing our heads. Bats! They're fabulous! They made me think of skydivers leaping from a plane, only they never fell to earth.

I think I'd like to build some bat houses with Rob. I don't want them in MY house but I'd love to have them as neighbors. I feel pretty sure their voices would end up in a sound sculpture somewhere.

Magical nevertheless

2011-09-21T15:26:00.000-06:00

I love the way things happen.

One of these days I will write another real blog post. Will that be a miracle, or the expression of what was already a statistical likelihood? I see no difference.

Little Lap Dog Lullaby and so on

2011-09-20T11:50:00.041-06:00

Listen to this new music. Way to make me more kid-hungry, NPR!

I'm pretty excited to hear the rest of Laura Viers and Tucker Martine's newest collaboration. Promises to be a sweet dip into the American songbag featuring lots of other great musicians. (Béla Fleck? I'm in for sure.)

Insufficient funds

2011-09-19T22:29:00.000-06:00

One of the best pieces of advice I ever received: Don't let your mouth write checks your butt can't cash.

Saturated Sunday

2011-09-18T23:00:00.002-06:00

Among other things it was a day of listening:

reflecting:

and preventing train wrecks:

A new season begins

2011-09-17T23:21:00.002-06:00

We went out driving in the canyons in the afternoon, hoping for some first glimpses of autumn, and we were not disappointed. The oranges and red are just beginning to pop here and there. Oh! After such a wet spring and a lush summer, I think we're going to get quite a show this year. It will be hard to focus on valley life now that I know the season's color burst is underway. Wish we could hole up in some cabin in the mountains for the next few weeks and watch it all happen up close.

I was too busy loving the scenery to think to snap pictures of it, but I did grab a shot of this osprey nest at the Jordanelle State Park near Francis. Ospreys are such beautiful birds (and like the turning leaves, not pictured here). We watched them for a long time and Rob managed to get some recordings of them, although there's noise interference from the road. What a gorgeous place we live in. I love Utah. I love how quick and easy it is to escape the city and get to some place magnificent.

Stuff I Bought + a Giveaway

2011-09-16T12:52:00.002-06:00

So to follow up on this week's thrift store tour of duty, here are the few items I did bring home. Mirjam, this is at your request.

I can never stay away from the books section. Here's a great find—some terrific patterns at a nice price.

This one was more or less a blind grab, but so far it's been a fun read.

Ethnic weaving. Resistance is futile.

So, that's it. For the hundred things I snickered at and rejected, I brought three treasures home. I definitely get my money's worth of entertainment on these occasional trips to Secondhandland.

To give you a chance to enjoy recycled treasures also, I am hosting a giveaway. Do you recall the fabulous collage I blogged about in my first Stuff I Didn't Buy post? Well, the next time I visited D.I. it was still there! I figured it was meant to be, so I didn't pass it up that time. And now I want to share the love. Feast your eyes again on this beauty and tell me you wouldn't love to see it hanging on your lonesome wall.

So here's how it works. You've got until next Saturday, September 24th, at midnight, Mountain time, to enter the giveaway. Leave a comment below and you'll be part of the random drawing. If you would like to be entered additional times, you can subscribe to my blog, make a noise about this post elsewhere, or do something else outlandish to squawk about this giveaway. When you do something extra, leave another comment and let me know, and you'll be entered again for this exquisite piece of fine art.

Good luck!

P.S. I will mail anywhere on Planet Earth.

P.P.S. You will never be able to fully appreciate how fabulous this collage is until you see it in person and play Where's Waldo, hunting for robots, cowboys, ninjas, Cheryl Crowe and Lance Armstrong!

Formative Music, I Kid You Not

2011-09-15T22:32:00.001-06:00

Stuff I Didn't Buy 2

2011-09-14T21:31:00.332-06:00

Remember this post? Here goes round two. I'm thinking that Stuff I Didn't buy needs to become a regular feature here on Bright Street. There are just too many awful gems waiting in thrift stores not to share the kitschy love.

Scarlett O'Hara plate, pretty as a picture (fit to be hung). A lady with shopping cart envy saw me with this and lamented that she hadn't spotted it first, what a treasure, etc., so after I finished taking this photo, I handed Scarlett to her with my blessing, and the lady behaved as if she'd just met the real Santa Claus. I'm a Christian martyr, that's what I am, a real Christian martyr.

No. Just no.

Wormy apple latch hook rug!

Impossibly overgrown acrylic doily. I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at Round One.

Oo! Ooo! What's inside?

Surprise! A deformed and neglected nightmare dolly! Quick, write a screenplay!

Half-truth: If this notebook had been free it would have come home with me, because look at the deep thoughts inside (click on pages for higher res photos you can actually read)—

Sauce, indeed. This is my kind of find. I probably just crossed a line, broke some intellectual property law, by posting this. Sorry, Kenzie Barrow. Thanks for sending your notebook to D.I. I wish you a happy, saucy marriage... someday.

Hand-carved ray. Maybe it could be used as a salad spoon?

So typical! Would you believe, this deer jumped out in front of a lady's cart, she swerved and missed it, but then I nearly ran it over while turning a corner? Why are deer always doing that, throwing themselves into us and causing accidents? Do deer have some vendetta against us?

I have this thing for buying jump ropes. It's really hard not to when I find them, especially when they have the great turny wooden handles. But I didn't buy this one. Good for me.

I was tempted, for a split-second, to buy this and send it to my cousin, Ryan, who loves bow ties and the occasional outlandish accessory. But he's not actually a clown, so I didn't.

Check out that Unique Dice Roller. Passports, check. Travel Yahtzee, check. Let's drive to Mexico!

Butterflies are not free.

The poor little dead things.

'Nuther gift for a loved one, to add to her collection of odd round objects. But on second thought, no.

Do you ever wonder how somebody like Van Gogh would feel, finding one of his inspired creations serving as a mouse rug?

Okay, so I picked up this cookbook in a weak moment. My resolve to continue my month-long fruit and veg detox began to melt like the cheese on this glorious cover. Oh, me. For just a minute I hated everything that wasn't sharp cheddar. I'm over it now.

If I do make Stuff I Didn't Buy a regular blog feature, I think I should showcase a popular subset: Unsuccessful Baby Blankets. I often see them while I'm out thrifting. This one was done in acrylic oranges. Granny squares are cute by default, right? This one almost promises colic.

Crocheted in an even stiffer acrylic, this blankey had a more generally acceptable colorway, but it was practically Barbie-sized. I guess somebody was at the end of her yarn stash. Or that was some skinny baby.

Somebody must have loved this one once because it's got holes. Does that prove anything? How's my logic? Could it have been loved by mice? This handiwork made me mad because it sports a shrunken wool center, and the rest is baby acrylic. That's just wrong.

This was actually a really appealing find. What a cute green vent! If only I had a place for it in my house. Maybe I should move.

This is the sort of stuff some kids will lick if they think no grownups are watching.

Turkey candle.

Bleh! Ceramic angel heads! Bags and bags of them! (But one good thing, the heads made a great sound when rubbed together. Next time instead of taking photos of my rejects, I should make audio recordings.)

I always find it hard to say no to little plastic guys doing their murderous little jobs. Why? I said no to a bagful of fresh green soldiers too this time, not just cowboys and Indians.

This isn't kitschy, it's just a cheap jewelry box. I picked it up because it's a smaller version of the one my mom had when I was a child, and it smelled exactly the way hers did. It made me very nostalgic, and I almost bought it.

I unearthed this old clock part and it made the most amazing doi-oi-oing sound when struck. It really killed me not to have a decent recorder on me when I found this.

More pretty sounds I missed capturing. Phoo.

Six of these fairy girls! In all colors! Fairy friends! Why didn't I take photos of all of them? Fairies are real! Look closely, and you'll see.

Eraserhead baby. Extra chins at no extra charge. Scary!

Close-up.

Now, this looks like a genuine treasure. What could it be?

A dream come true! It's an old short wave radio!

It even picks up the Vatican!

If only I had $40 to burn, I'd buy that Golden Throat certified!

Thanks for taking this thrift store tour with me. I hope you enjoyed yourself, and go on a treasure hunt of your own. Take me with you!

Big with Mercy

2011-09-13T21:56:00.004-06:00

Spent some time offering service and meditating in the temple today and came home with a headful of quiet ideas, enough to keep me busy working and adjusting and reflecting for a while. Part of me wants to list out what I can here, but the other part says to wait a while, keep processing.

A song has run through my head since the temple time. The particular shape of a beautiful chandelier, of all things, is what turned on the music in my head. Funny how that can work.

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

Fabulous Fresh Ginger-Carrot Soup

2011-09-12T22:22:00.001-06:00

Juice some carrots. Juice so many carrots that you get 3 cups of juice.
Now juice a healthy knob of ginger.
Peel a nice ripe avocado.
Combine the juices and avocado together with:
2 tablespoons of agave nectar
a shake or two of red pepper flakes
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
a drizzle of flax oil and another of olive oil
Blend till smooth.
(You can also throw in 1/2 cup fresh coconut. I've not tried that yet, so can't vouch for it.)

Thanks to the Reboot site for this idea. My favorite—simple, fresh, delicious.
(Rob also gives it a thumbs-up, but my mum-in-law isn't fond of it. If you've got lots of carrots, then you've got nothing to lose by trying it yourself.)
Bon appetit, doc!

Ibuprofen

2011-09-11T20:06:00.002-06:00

I'm still faithfully juicing and detoxing, but this weekend I had to make peace with the fact that sometimes it's just not a good idea to try to handle pain alone. Thank heaven for German water bottles, heating pads, and this:

*sigh*

But by tomorrow I'll be back to the bare nuthins of this here gardener's cleanse. I can be flexible when I need to. By the way, my fresh ginger-carrot soup is to die for.

Some Profundity

2011-09-10T23:18:00.000-06:00

DO is a DOUBT that's stopped resting on its BUT.

So there's the day's inspiration, inelegant as it is. I'm thankful for it and needed it.

I gathered up a few of my favorite DOUBTs today and after kicking their BUTs out from under them, turned them into a healthy little to-DO list, and made some happy baby steps away from wrong-headed thinking. This seems a good sort of habit to cultivate, the kind that leads to better sleep at night.

That's it. Just wanted to share my new mantra with you. Sweet dreams.

That's Entertainment!

2011-09-09T23:00:00.008-06:00

This evening we went to BYU for a terrific lecture and screening of Chapter One of the old serial, The Mysterious Doctor Satan, followed by a true cinema classic, Billy Wilder's Sunset Boulevard. What a great time. Rob and I discussed afterward cancelling our Netflix account, at least for the next few months, and taking advantage of the plentiful and diverse offerings at the university, all for free. American classics, new documentaries, all sorts of foreign films—there's more than enough going on to keep us busy. If we need a Harry Potter fix before the end of Winter semester, maybe we can hit up one of my lovely cousins. Oh, and did I mention that my cousin manages a Cinemark in the next valley up? If we get desperate to see something new, all we have to do is drive to his theater on a day he's working, and voila, it only costs us gas money.

I like the idea of going out for films and seeing them with an audience. We almost never do that now unless we catch one at the dollar theater. Going out for a show was still the only option when I was a young child—unless you got lucky and a movie you actually wanted to see was being aired on teevee. I remember with great fondness Saturday matinees in the summertime, the Northwoods Rocking Chair Theater, getting a black eye once when I was peeking between the doors waiting for the last showing to end and a guy coming out swung the door hard into my face, tossing Red Hots at people, welding my teeth together with Jolly Ranchers from the concessions stand, getting to go in for free because my dad did the newspaper ads for all the theaters in town. I like treating a movie like a special event. It's like James D'Arc said in his lecture this evening: A film is a cultural campfire where we come together to tell our stories. I believe that. I love that.

And I love BYU's wonderful cinematic venues. The only thing they're missing (according to Rob) is: popcorn. Check out their scheduled screenings if you're near enough to come and enjoy them.

Motion Picture Archives Film Series / Current and Upcoming Films

Documentary Film Series

International Cinema

11:11

2011-09-08T16:37:00.009-06:00

Do you ever get hung up on a number, a time number? I mean, do you ever notice that you're noticing that particular time with an odd regularity?

For a long stretch a while back it seemed every time I checked the clock (and I'm not a clock-watcher), it was exactly on the hour. Uncanny.

And now it's happening again. Suddenly I seem to check my iPhone for the time or notice a clock at exactly 11:11 almost every day, a.m. or p.m. A couple days this week it's happened morning and night. It's not my goal.

Strange amusements. Huh. I attach no deep meaning to 11:11, but I do find it interesting that it seems to be following me around. I wonder how much longer this stretch will last. It's been happening pretty steadily since the end of August, I know.

Anybody else got a Magic Moment like this?

Keeping Words in Perspective

2011-09-07T16:14:00.001-06:00

I'm hard at work, revising my guts out, trying to put together a clean, compact post which I was invited to contribute to a friend's blog. It's one thing to muck around here, but I don't want to leave a mess if I can help it over at her place. Ugh, editing is hard. Let's go to the mall.

Here are some diverting quotes I found on the subject of edits and revisions. They're keeping me going, and from taking myself too seriously. Slash and burn! Oh, that's my motto now!

Writing is 1 percent inspiration, and 99 percent elimination.
—Louise Brooks

Short stories are designed to deliver their impact in as few pages as possible. A tremendous amount is left out, and a good short story writer learns to include only the most essential information.
—Orson Scott Card

I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil.
—Truman Capote

It is perfectly okay to write garbage – as long as you edit brilliantly.
—C. J. Cherryh

Half of being smart is knowing what you're dumb at.
—David Gerrold

The most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do.
—Thomas Jefferson

The moment of recognizing your own lack of talent is a flash of genius.
—Stanislaw Jerzy Lec

I have made this letter longer, because I have not had the time to make it shorter.
—Blaise Pascal

Everything that is written merely to please the author is worthless.
—Blaise Pascal

One extends one's limits only by exceeding them.
—M. Scott Peck

It is better to write a bad first draft than to write no first draft at all.
—Will Shetterly

The wastepaper basket is the writer's best friend.
—Isaac Bashevis Singer

You never learn how to write a novel. You just learn how to write the novel that you're writing.
—Gene Wolfe

It is my contention that a really great novel is made with a knife and not a pen. A novelist must have the intestinal fortitude to cut out even the most brilliant passage so long as it doesn't advance the story.
—Frank Yerby

A young musician plays scales in his room and only bores his family. A beginning writer, on the other hand, sometimes has the misfortune of getting into print.
—Marguerite Yourcenar

Inside every fat book is a thin book trying to get out.
—Unknown

Sunflowers

2011-09-06T23:50:00.005-06:00

I'll admit it. Sometimes Doctor Who speaks to my soul. Yeah, it's predictable and silly. Yeah, it's full of monsters. So am I. Occasionally.

After a night of fighting some monsters of my own, I plugged myself into Netflix Instant Watch while I worked in the kitchen and watched the episode about Vincent Van Gogh from Season 5.

Van Gogh was the first artist to show up on my radar when I was a child. My mother was enamored of him, particularly his sunflowers. This image was one of the daily influences on the development of my brain.

Van Gogh was also my first famous example of mental illness. Again, thanks to my mother, I knew his story. It fascinated me and excited my sympathy as all such stories of unrest and struggle always, always have. (As a child I read with intense interest books like The Three Faces of Eve to supplement my typical kids' book fare. Is that weird?)

So I sort of loved watching that episode and seeing Vincent Van Gogh fight an alien monster that no one else could see. Of course he did. He always did. That part was no invention by the BBC.

What I liked best was this thought, which came at the end of the show, when the Doctor and Amy Pond take Vincent forward in time long enough to show him his own work, hung in a beautiful gallery, being seen and appreciated by an admiring public. It's cheesy, but so lovely. The Doctor engages the curator while Vincent is within earshot:

The Doctor: Between you and me, in a hundred words, where do you think Van Gogh rates in the history of art?

Curator: Well... um... big question, but, to me Van Gogh is the finest painter of them all. Certainly the most popular, great painter of all time. The most beloved, his command of colour most magnificent. He transformed the pain of his tormented life into ecstatic beauty. Pain is easy to portray, but to use your passion and pain to portray the ecstasy and joy and magnificence of our world, no one had ever done it before. Perhaps no one ever will again. To my mind, that strange, wild man who roamed the fields of Provence was not only the world's greatest artist, but also one of the greatest men who ever lived.

That nails the fineness and heroism of the man. And of any person who fights to bend such an internal struggle to the greater will of beauty and truth. In the world there are more such artists and creators, though most of them carry no paintbrush. But like Van Gogh, they often go without recognition in their time. These are the people I admire. People who publish peace, on any scale. People who act and won't settle for being acted upon, and keep turning their heads to face the sun.

We Meet Again (and Again)

2011-09-05T23:13:00.000-06:00

Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You. (Dr. Seuss)

Who you are today?

Tell me.

Tell me more.

S-t-r-e-t-c-h-!

2011-09-04T22:41:00.001-06:00

This is not a great photo, but I had to really crank the iPhone to get all of this baby in the Hipstamatic frame.

Our friends bought a limo for their family car, fer cryin' out loud! How fabulous is that? This is what happens when you have triplets before your Irish twins turn three. You need a real family wagon. With cupholders. And a privacy screen. And leather seats. And decanters! And a TV/VCR! And just enough curb space to park the thing!

It is a thing of laughable beauty. I hope our friends keep it and don't chicken out on this crazy wonderful eBay deal. Beats the pants off a minivan. They are a very special family and I think anything that helps them keep and share their great sense of humor as they navigate the winding roads of parenting five children three and under is a keeper.

I'm looking forward to my first ride in... what's its name, anyway? A 'mobile like that has simply got to have a classy name. Any suggestions? I'll pass 'em on.

I Love Onions

2011-09-03T22:09:00.000-06:00

A little too much time spent in grocery stores today for my liking, but at least I came home with some of these beauties—

Sweet September

2011-09-02T22:33:00.003-06:00

The season's changing. Welcome, September! Last night I needed to sleep with more cover. This evening down by the lake at sunset, as we watched flocks of ibises and swallows swoop in to settle down among the reeds, the air was autumnal. It's the time of year when I want to do something, learn something, move something, eat something.

I feel so ripe for the good changes which are already underway. The moon grinned wide and yellow at me tonight. Harvest begins in earnest. I can tell—this is going to be a fruitful month!

Eat and Sleep

2011-09-01T23:10:00.002-06:00

New month, new challenges. I've signed up for a month of detoxing as well as a September-long blog-run. I made one of the best and simplest soups today and so far am feeling very enthused about my fruit and veg regimen. I'm off to a good start with that so now it's time to answer the NaNoBloMo daily prompt...

"What magical creature would you love to meet?"

The magical creatures I would most dearly love to meet are the two beautiful hummingbirds I dreamed of some years ago, the ones I am always thinking of, the ones that keep me looking to the future with hope. If you don't know what I'm talking about I'll tell you. I'll be guest posting for a friend soon and these birds are part of a bigger story that wants to be told.

For now, goodnight.

Miracles Are

2011-08-27T23:10:00.007-06:00

Exhibit A.
You flew in the sky from there to here, to see your family, but you came to see me too, and I got to wrap my arms around you, and you are still you are still you are still my dear darling girl, my friend, my you-know-who. That's the sweetest blessing and benediction to a week that began with my getting dumped (thankfully not by Rob). That was the worst. You are the best. I love that we are still heart and soul friends and I hope I hope I hope that will always be our joy. I believe I believe I believe it will be.

Exhibit B.
You, amazing person who also flew in the sky from there to here, are exactly the person I expected. I don't brag like lots of people do that I am a good judge of character, because really, who can suss out that sort of information without a great deal of work and actual revelation? Such a declaration always embarrasses me. What I do claim is that it doesn't take long to love people, and every once in a while that feeling seems to predate the friendship itself. So when did I start knowing you, anyway? Logic says it must have been the first time I studied you in photos. But even then I felt a sense of recognition, so it must have been earlier still. Huh. Well, nice to meet you and finally get to say I like you out loud and to your face.

Exhibit C.
Thunder and rain. Comfort sounds.

Exhibit D.
After my third hamburger in less than 24 hours, I am completely ready and can hardly wait for The Great Garden Produce Purge of September. I wish I was starting my juice fast tomorrow, I am that tired of food, but I still have some prep to do. I am so ready to wash my brain and my whole system with veg and fruit. A full month of harvest season relief and bliss! It was that final devastating hamburger, the one at the ward picnic this evening, that pushed me over the edge. I don't care if I eat meat again till autumn. Or maybe ever. Ack!

It Followed Me Home

2011-08-25T23:59:00.000-06:00

Some people find lucky pennies. I found a lucky squash, when I was passing the high school on my ride over to the track this morning.

It made me laugh. It followed me home. Okay, that's stretching the truth. Technically it didn't follow me—it rode in my bike basket.

I'll cook it tomorrow so I can get two days' mileage out of this particular miracle. Maybe I'll find an onion in the morning while I'm out riding. A feral cucurbit and a feral allium fried in butter and sea salt—what could be tastier?

The Wonders of Wednesday

2011-08-24T23:57:00.000-06:00

#1.

Rob and I have made frequent short trips to our favorite thrift store recently, on the hunt for audio components for making sound art. Today we shot across town to be there just after the doors opened for business. Rob got caught up inspecting equipment so I wandered into the book section. The store was crowded that time of morning—teeming with deal hunters (deal hogs?) with visions of eBay sales dancing in their heads, and maroon-vested employees, busily stocking shelves. I was standing there, scanning titles, hoping that one that would really grab me, when a maroon-vested book sorter with no apparent sense of personal space came up too close to me on the right, stretched his arm across my line of vision, and waggled a photo at a man who was nearby at my left.

"Heyyy, where d'ya think THIS one goes, Tom?" Maroon Vest chortled at his section manager, pleased with himself for making a good joke. Some book this is, huh? Har har!

Manager Man didn't answer him. Maroon Vest flapped the photo practically in my face, so I had little choice but to look. And, lo and behol', there was the smiling face of a friend with her husband and children. The picture was date-stamped 2003.

"I know them!"

Manager Man turned to look at me.

"I know those people. I'll take it."

Maroon Vest and Manager Man stared at me, blankly.

"You know them?"

"Yes!"

Maroon Vest then attempted to be in charge: "Umm ... so willya take it to them?"

I don't remember exactly what I muttered in response, but he reluctantly handed me the picture, like it might be a dangerous thing to allow to fall into the wrong hands, which mine probably were.

Not.

But I am keeping it.

Of all the places to be standing in that big store this morning! I'm glad Catherine and her family didn't have to go home with some stranger and serve as his bookmark, or worse, end up in the garbage. Glad I intercepted them.

So I got a book of flash fiction and this miracle, for just a buck and a half. Bargain!

Hi, Catherine!

#2.

I got to spend part of the afternoon with some of my favorite women of all time, enjoying haute cuisine at a popular local eatery: J-Dawg's. I had the enormous privilege and pleasure of working with these ladies in a Relief Society presidency and I fell in love with them in a great big hurry. Because of a geographic boundary change earlier this year that affected our church congregation, we had to kiss our little band of leaders goodbye with a promise to remain friends, a promise I intend on keeping forever.

The four of us decided to get together one last time before Heather moves to North Carolina with her family. J-Dawg's is Heather's special place and she complains that nobody will ever go there with her. I don't know why not. Best Polish dogs anywhere!

It was so so hot outside in the fancy parking lot with the beach umbrellas. It was fun. And I'm still in love with these girls. After Heather, Merideth moves next, and then Holly. *sigh* I'm counting on the phenomenon of the Great Provo People Magnet to draw them back someday.

Here's a quote from Ezra Taft Benson that I want to dedicate to these great women. I've watched them prove it repeatedly:

"Men and women who turn their lives over to God will find out that he can make a lot more out of their lives than they can. He will deepen their joys, expand their vision, quicken their minds, strengthen their muscles, lift their spirits, multiply their blessings, increase their opportunities, comfort their souls, raise up friends, and pour out peace. Whoever will lose his life to God will find he has eternal life."

We got to know each other through serving others together, and that made for some beautiful bonds. I'll always be grateful to God for raising up these friends for me. I love you, ladies. You've been miracles in my life.

P.S. Thanks for introducing me to J-Dawg's. Deelish!

Rex, Heather, Holly, Long Tall Sally, Merideth, and me

Chicken-warm

2011-08-23T23:05:00.003-06:00

Rob was up before me this morning and greeted me early with this pretty gift, passed on by our friend Leland. "This one's still chicken-warm," Rob gushed, smiling. He put the freshest of the eggs into my hand, and it warmed me as much as it did him. It got me off to a thoughtful start, and I tucked the experience away as a little miracle, in case I didn't find another I could count for the day. Oh, me, of little faith!

It was an anxious day, agitated and unsettled. I hiccuped through the first two hours of being awake, without a break. Then those hiccups submerged and headed for my nervous system. Jumping blood, my stomach in a knot.

As soon as the next miracle started, I knew I was onto a big one, and wouldn't have to wait for the vantage point of a quiet midnight to reveal it to me: music. Music saved my day. I typically listen to music while I work and go about my life, but today it wielded an impressive transformative power. When I felt tightness taking hold of me and that weird nausea of anxiety rising, I sat down at the old upright and starting working out a Mozart sonatina, and even lacking in grace as my playing was, it calmed the sick waves. It felt fantastic to play, never mind the mistakes.

Work eventually called to me, so I turned up the little transistor that sits on the fridge—I turned it up loud—to broadcast classical through the entire house. Gorgeous music! Nothing I knew, but so big and fine and life-affirming.

Sometimes I'd drop what I was doing and go back to the piano and play some more. I'm out of practice by many years, but I'm sounding better than I was two days ago and two weeks ago. How is that we get nearer and nearer to music just by continuing to try? What a rush to touch the stuff, shape the notes and chords and progressions, and build ideas with sounds and silences!

The transistor reliably kept me company while I made lunch, and that's when I got to hear an old favorite: Gershwin's American in Paris. So incredible. It just wasn't possible to listen to it and feel anything but joy for those several minutes it lasted.

Anxiety was waiting for me at every turn today, but I took a lot of big swigs of musical elixir to quiet the symptoms. It was an interesting sort of war I fought, and those songs honestly felt like some legion of guardian angels doing my battles for me. I don't remember the last time I felt so strongly connected to the high power of music.

Just listen to this, would you? What a terrific performance!

At the end of this day that was my musical lifeline, I remembered I had my other little just-in-case miracle still in reserve, so I scrambled Leland's brown and blue egg harvest for supper. Even better than eating them was the perfect thin sounds their delicate shells made when I cracked them against the side of the bowl. More music. I could have cracked those eggs all night!

I'm Looking for a Miracle a Day

2011-08-23T00:15:00.003-06:00

“When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.” --Alexander Graham Bell

My miracle today came after a treasured door was closed and locked in my face: a new door of opportunity was flung wide open, and two beautiful people stepped into my world, bearing gifts of kindness and friendship. One of the pair reminded me to look for a miracle each day and keep a record as they collect.

Good people. Good miracle. I will be satisfied and I'm not going to let myself stare sad holes into the old door. I'm moving with the moments.

Thanks, friends.

Stuff I Didn't Buy

2011-08-19T20:34:00.002-06:00

As my great-granny used to drawl, "I didn't shet my eyes fer sleep all night!" Today I am absolutely hammered, and so far have been good for much of nothing. About the time I should have been thinking about making lunch, the idea to pay a visit to D.I. seemed like a stroke of genius, so off I went, praying I wouldn't crash the car in my fuzz-brained state. Oh, the siren song of thrift shopping!

I did have the presence of mind to say no to all but two of the items that ended up in my cart. Want to see the rejects that tried unsuccessfully to follow me home? Analyze if you must.

Fabulous shades, heavyweight, the real vintage deal. Wouldn't stay up on my nose. Must have originally belonged to a true melon head.

Bipolar toothbrush-holding(?) lidded ceramic thingie: violent electrical storm assaulting a lonely homestead on one side... peaceful moonlight fishing scene on the other. What I want to know is, who hooked the trout?

A pattern for making felt baked goods. (Instead of this I bought a Portuguese cake pan that makes a giant bundt flower. It's my standard policy to always go for the most edible option.)

Another pattern. Anybody else remember Walt West, the man who for so many years ran the best used bookstore in Provo? He was, I'm guessing, Mensa smart, and he always wore the cutest old guy blue coveralls. I just know that every time we stopped in to browse Walt's shop Rob secretly wished for his very own manly jumpsuit. What do you think—maybe in something jazzy, like sharkskin? Shoulda bought this one.

Maternity. Size D. Eggshell. Scary packaging. "PANTYHOSE." Five excellent reasons to go without stockings "while I wait."

Goose dervishes.

Oh, wow! A really beautifully made granny blanket. Practically perfect in every way except I didn't want to spend $20.

A mysterious little safety film tin that I couldn't bear not to open. Inside was Pandora's Candle, talk about troubling! It was the same color as, and I'm not kidding, the EXACT same scent as Silly Putty. Nasty. Not something you really want to burn.

An inflatable "Get Well Soon!" pooch. You and all your friends can sign your names and sympathies all over him and then give him to somebody you know who needs some cheering up. Hint: Plastic wiener dogs go great with helium.

Collectible Christmas tree ornaments, because nothing captures the beautiful spirit of the the season quite like a dirty vodka martini. Really?

Giant sprouting jar. A little too much live food to feel comfortable handling all at once. What if all those sprouts started cooperating and turned on me?

And the pièce de résistance, this—

Go ahead, click the image two times for a closer view. Can you find Cheryl Crow and Lance Armstrong? Dinosaurs? Robots? Cowboys with smoking guns? What else? This is I Spy at its best, or at least, its cheapest. Talk to me. Sure it's cryptic... but is it art?

Why I'm Here, Today, Blogging

2011-08-01T17:03:00.022-06:00

Heather. Heather, you're the reason. Because it's your birthday, and because you are moving to my old home state long before I'm ready for you to go (which would be: never) and because you said something by way of sad goodbyes like: "We can still be friends!" and "I love you!" and "I'll read your blog!" Yep, that did it. You'll read my blog? That means I need to post something for you to read, right? Write?

Since I'm not a stellar communicator when it comes to telephones and letters and such, keeping in contact with people I love was probably the main reason I started this blog anyhow. That, and exhibitionism (the inhibited kind). We won't talk about which of the two reasons exerted the stronger pull on my psyche.

I'm determined not to go all navel-gazey over this question of why I've been blog-ditching, or why I've considered so often pulling the plug for good. I'll just start blogging again. Write more, pre-edit less. Easy, right? Write? Keep in touch. Keep. Touch.

Okay, so today I got to hang out with Heather. For two hours! Who gets to do that, waltz in on somebody's birthday and steal their time? It was pretty presumptuous of me to just barge into her big day and ask for a chunk of visiting. I love it when I'm presumptuous. I love it more when there's no objection. Thanks for reinforcing my bad manners, Heather. And thanks for the bagel date. I had fun even though there was that sad thing happening in my heart every time I looked at you and thought about how you'll soon turn into a Tar Heel, many miles from here. *sniff*

So I guess I'm lucky I was here to crash Heather's birthday today. I had a bad mushroom experience last night. No, not that kind of mushroom. It wasn't a magic mushroom. It was a soccer ball-sized brain, I tell you, a western giant puffball. Leland and Charla hunted it down over the weekend in the wilds of the Alpine Loop and brought it to us as a Love Gift of Pure Intentions. I've never seen anything like it. Rob has been saying for years that he used to find and eat puffballs back east when he was a kid. So he was our veteran. And Leland and Charla did their homework, to make sure it wasn't a dangerous kind of fungus. It was 100% edible, this fungus, their reference books and expert sources agreed. Apparently, their sources didn't mention that western giant puffballs need to be 100% white inside when you eat them, not ivory, not pearl, not eggshell, not beige, not even the teensiest bit antiqued, in order to avoid stomach upset. (Thank you for the belated clarification, Wikipedia.) You can, of course, see where this is going?

Anyway, it was fun to have the fungus hunters come over yesterday, watch Rob and Leland slice up this amazing soccer brain into sticks, egg it, bread it, fry it with green onions and garlic, and then eat the finished product in good company. Leland said, "I don't taste anything. I don't like it." (But know this about our friends the fungus hunters: they never want to eat the mushrooms. They hunt for sport.) Rob said, "It tastes like it's a little past its prime." The menfolk put their noses up at our puffball. Charla was more open, and had a few pieces: "It's not my favorite, but it's alright." I said, "Sure it has a taste! It tastes like mushroom!" It wasn't bad. I generally approve of mushrooms and harbor kind of a weird affection for them, so of course I wanted to like this one. I practically proselyted for the fungus. Give it a chance, I wanted to say. Come on, people, it's Found Food, wild and wonderful. I think I mentally rolled my eyes—just a tad, and with all the love in my heart—at the pickiness of the fellows. Add to my enthusiasm the fact that I was pretty hungry. Sunday afternoon post-church is generally a busy time at my house, and not the most well-fed stretch of hours in our week. Remember that: empty stomach + slightly antiqued western giant puffball interior. A forest growth that came with no cooking or eating instructions. Fungus gusto.

When we all went over later to join Rob's folks for dinner at Tribal Headquarters, my stomach was aching. Pretty soon Charla was saying she needed to go home and lie down. My mum-in-law asked repeatedly, "Are you poisoned? Do we need to take you to the E.R.?" No, no, just to the Home for Careless Fungus Eaters.

It took me till this morning, about the time that Heather and I went out for bagels, to feel normalish. I hope Charla's doing better; last I heard she was still with us.

I would eat another puffball, yes, I would. But the next time that soccer brain's gonna have to be pristine inside. White as angel food cake, and a perfect texture to match.

Okay, that's it. One profound post. Still want to read my blog, Heather?

I have to say that when I opened up Blogger to write this post, there were close to a dozen wonderful comments waiting for me to moderate and publish. I never received any notification about them, so they've been piled up for weeks, waiting around to jump out at me and yell, "Surprise!" But how did that happen? My blog settings don't require comment moderation, at least not at my command. Huh. I guess that proves my blog and I need to get reacquainted.

And Heather, you and I must always stay acquainted. Happy birthday!

(And thanks, friends, for the kind comments you left for me on earlier posts. Wish I'd seen them when you left them so I could've responded right away.)

Surely Shall Show

2011-07-08T23:06:00.004-06:00

3 (of many) beautiful things today:

•Meeting the sweet, darling three-year-old version of a little girl who is dear to me. I used to babysit her when she was just a tiny wide-eyed grub, and each time she was with me at my house I'd sing her songs and whisper into her ears, "You and I will always be friends." (It was also great to see this little girl's mama again and meet her new baby.)

•Building a small rug loom with Rob.

•Coming up with a fresh, money-conservative solution for at least part of our bookshelf shortage, and in the process of bringing all my old music books and sheet music upstairs and making them accessible, releasing some vital energy in myself that wants to fix the felts inside the piano and get practicing. I rediscovered my love of Mozart sonatinas today!

P.S. Try this five times, fast:

Surely Soren's shirtless sunburned shoulders shall show some soreness soon.

Skin and Bones

2011-05-05T19:28:00.000-06:00

Strange. I've been working outside, spring cleaning our clutter-challenged back patio. Wearing my big leather gloves. Hauling, sweeping, scrubbing, hefting, burning off an afternoon funk. That worked pretty well; I'm feeling better. The strange part happened when I came in just now for a drink of water and to write myself a note about things to pick up from Home Depot (hose reel, gas can). I slipped out of my work gloves and in the kitchen sink lathered up with dishsoap. My hands felt shockingly tiny, the merest most delicate bones. So insubstantial, fragile. I don't recall having that sort of feeling before. I felt as if I were washing a child's hands. Even now, as I sit here, typing, I stop and rub my hands and they seem so very small. They look fine. It's only how they feel. I'm trying to take it in. I'm sure I'm about to wax philosophical. But these hands have other work this evening besides blogging, so I guess I'll keep these ruminations to myself.

So May I Introduce to You the Act I've Known for All These Years

2011-03-21T22:28:00.002-06:00

Sgt. Robert's lovely free verse poems.

I'm very proud of my dearest friend. I couldn't be prouder of him if he was reading tonight on that prestigious stage in NYC, and enjoying the trip that almost was. His sensitivity and talent shine and I applaud him as adoringly as any slick city audience could, and more. I just hope he isn't quietly disappointed somewhere down deep inside by this crowd of only one, and that one not too smartly dressed for the occasion.

Congratulations, Rob, on making a beautiful contribution to what I hope was a perfect evening for our friends, the Lunatics.

My Old Dawg

2011-03-13T19:16:00.007-06:00

I really, really hate to say this. My little dog of 17+ years is dying. I can feel it. I can see it. I've been watching him age in a hurry over the past few months, but last week he began a more rapid descent. His cataract eyes seem all of a sudden to be quite blind. His ears still show sporadic signs of reception, but his hearing seems to have turned almost entirely inward. He trembles, he frets. His perception is off in all ways. Izzy is not in touch with the world anymore; he's in some alternate reality. He climbs steps that aren't there. He sometimes sits and stares up expectantly at people(?) I don't see. It's hard to walk him, to guide him, to interact with him, to watch him. He's needed to wear The Cone of Shame recently, not because he's in trouble, but because he mindlessly works different parts of his body, especially his feet—lick, lick, licking absently until he wears away the hair and irritates his own skin.

He's been a great friend, and sometimes an almost equally great menace, but mostly a friend. He's a creature of fun and mischief and intelligence. There've been times when I fully expected him to open up his mouth and speak English. Before he started falling apart, he could dance like a biped, shoot rubber bands, snowplow, do tricks for packing peanuts, skateboard with Rob, eat cat truffles by the dozens (if given the chance, which happened rarely and only by accident), count, offend female dogs and small children without ever losing his innocent friendly smile, function as a doorbell, beg for lit matches, run from citrus peel, and charm old ladies. I miss his maniacal daily rip-snort through the house. I miss taking him for canyon walks. I miss the crazy beautiful vibrant creature he once was, knowing that he is not long for this world, and that he is not going to recover from this current sickness—at least, he's not going to go back to the dog he once was.

I've been praying this week that the weather would be sunny and warm and dry so he can spend most of his time outside in the backyard without The Cone of Shame and occupy himself with grass and smells and fenced-in wandering. We've had a nice stretch of weather. If I could have my wish, Izzy would quietly slip away while curled up and taking a lovely sunbath. He stays so shivery lately and he's so frail. Most of the time he seems kind of oblivious to us, but yesterday I sat with him a while out on the lawn and stroked and massaged him and spoke gentle appreciative words into his deaf little ears. He did seem to appreciate it. Ugh. I don't want him to suffer. He's been so wonderful.

I've been remembering how sweet he was when Gram was here with us, dying. For days he lay with her on her bed, still as can be, which was totally unlike him then. He got up only for drinks and food and walks, and then he was right back again, snuggled in close to her. On the day Gram died, and the gentlemen from Berg Mortuary came for her, we sent Izzy to the back of the house so he wouldn't get underfoot. Later that evening when we were sitting around, so solemn and sad, he came and sat before us, staring us down. We asked him, "Izzy, where's Gram?" (He loved being asked "Where's [so-and-so]?" and then leading us to the person, grinning with pleasure, and waiting for his praise.) He answered without his usual energy by quietly going to the front door and looking out toward the street. We asked him several times on other days and always got the same answer. He never wanted to go back into Gram's bedroom afterward; acted as if it didn't exist. He's a smart little guy. I felt he knew. He knows death like I do.

I remember how he'd do the same thing with me when I was going through miscarriage. I'd lay on the couch and he'd lay on the floor wedged against the sofa or cuddled up with me, if I'd let him. I think of these things, these kind moments when he was a comforting instead of a wild presence, and I wish for him to be comforted now. I don't know what to do for him. But I will keep praying for sun, till he goes. Sorry to all of you who are ready for spring rains. Those can happen at night, while he's indoors, okay? That's the only concession I'll make.

I'm thinking of my poor pooch every day, naturally, but earlier this afternoon I found a little poem I wrote a few years ago after he'd run away from home and come back. While we were on a vacation he'd escaped from some family members' house when they weren't watching him (he's a slippery fish). We came home to no dog, and to all-around panic. I printed about half a million flyers and we wallpapered Provo with them. A few days later, a kind lady across town called and said she had our dog—she hadn't seen my flyer, but she'd phoned about his tags and gotten our home number. She told us one day he'd simply pushed her front door open and come sauntering in. She said he communicated very clearly to her that he needed help and that she was supposed to get it all sorted out, the end. She did, and were we ever grateful.

So here's a shaggy poem to celebrate a lovable friend who will certainly go to dog heaven one of these days soon.

5 May 2006
A dog with a nice disposition
who greets you in the morning
with love and a ready wag
is not unlike a flat stomach.
Maybe neither will last all your life.
They’re easy to take for granted
until you think you might have lost them.
If they come back to you,
you smile again at sunup
and give them an appreciative pat.

The Loaf of Love is Large and Wordy

2011-03-07T13:59:00.009-07:00

Saturday we went to a wedding celebration. Happiness! Found out that our friend married her friend the day before the party, on March Forth. What an auspicious day. I say they are destined for connubial bliss.

Beautiful Andi hosted the party. Happiness! Pompons and popping flashes. Old friends, good food. Profundities baked into Andi's artful and ever-communicative bread, like so:

It originally said, "MARSHA MARSHA MARSHA" in honor of the bride. March forth, Marsha. Marcha, marcha, marcha! May your joys be plenty and your kisses long.

And now for the advice of the evening:

Funny, but even after reading the directions on this loaf of bread, one of the party guests felt compelled to ask a stranger's permission (mine, because I was the one standing there) to cut into the words. He never actually spoke to me, just looked at me helplessly with a worried question on his brow. I told him, "Oh, just go ahead!"

I wonder if he felt guilty eating the word "ENJOY"?

Forget the meaning and enjoy. Observe how it's done properly, this letting go and taking pleasure in a wonderful moment:

She's just blindly tossed a pretty green bouquet, launched it, laughing, not looking. And see what happens next?

More delight! Leaping and laughing. Where's the bouquet? You never saw it, did you? So either I'm not a great photographer, or it just doesn't matter—your choice. (Trust me, it was green.)

Look, aren't the newlyweds wonderful? Marsha and Clint. Full of meaning that they don't have to remember every conscious moment. Full of joy because they let themselves forget for a little while and simply enjoy.

At least that's my take on things.

Check out this cake. After Marsha and Clint nodded to tradition and fed each other a piece (nicely, not stuffingly) for the crowd, they walked away to continue enjoying themselves. And The Cake became a help-yourself affair. I was amused at how long it took people to give themselves permission to furtively walk up and hack off a hunk. Guilt, guilt. But as we saw earlier in this post, even a label might not have been enough to help them with that.

Glad I wasn't shy because that almond frosting rocked the house. (Forget the calories and enjoy.)

About a Plant

2011-03-06T23:52:00.005-07:00

Here we are, almost two years ago, just after learning I was pregnant again. Happy, thankful people.

A short time later we traveled to SoCal to spend some time with my dear uncle, who was in the process of wrapping up his mortal sojourn.

One day Rob and I went to the beach with my cousin. We went out onto the big pier and watched people fish and throw mackerel to the seals. (It isn't called Seal Beach for nothing.)

Later we poked around in a few shops downtown. My cousin bought a gigantic fake diamond for his wife, a piece of cut glass large enough to fill up my hand.

There was nothing for sale that enticed me (except when we stopped in an Italian deli which nearly overpowered my will with its wall of olives) until we came upon a beautiful little open air garden shop. So many gorgeous growing things. I think Rob and my cousin Brett grew an inch of beard standing around, waiting for me to look at every last flower and succulent in the place. Twice. When I left, I had in tow a panda plant,

a few rescued pearls from a string of beads plant,

and a plant which is the one I want to tell you about. It's known as a mother plant.

This is the one I loved the best. Is it any wonder that I wanted to buy a mother plant to celebrate our big (but still secret at that point) joy? This plant is the succulent equivalent of a possom, carrying its "babies" till they're mature enough to drop to the ground and make it on their own. See the spiky edges of each leaf? Comfy lodging for a baby on each of those points. This kind of plant is so pretty to see when it's fruitfully full of its tiny riders.

So, when our stay in Seal Beach reached an end, I carefully packed up my mother plant and the others and brought them all safely home to Utah.

I expected to share some real maternal solidarity with the mother plant in the months ahead, but it wasn't meant to be. In the early summer I miscarried the baby I'd been so sure about. It was devastating. And the mother plant suffered. I never out and out tried to kill the plant, but I neglected it like I'd never neglected any other in my life. It remained in its tiny starter pot, with only the merest plug of soil to protect and sustain it. It dried out. Its babies died and it dropped most of its leaves. It stretched desperately toward light, toward any kind of nurturing, and grew spindly. It became deformed, almost two feet of thin green crisis. I might have watered it a few times (or Rob might have) in the beginning, a nickel's worth of a drink, only enough to be insulting. Then the soil really dried out, hard. The mother plant fell over and got pushed behind a junk pile. I never really forgot it; I began to ignore it. The sight of it depressed me but I couldn't persuade myself to throw it away... or take care of it either.

This non-story goes on and on. Months, many months passed. During those months Rob and I began working through the long process of preparing for an adoption through an agency, LDS Family Services. You'd think, wouldn't you, that I'd have made my peace with the mother plant then? Nope. Despite my own renewed pursuit of motherhood (possomhood?), the mother plant suffered on.

Now Rob and I are facing a deadline that's less than two months away; we must complete our preparations so that once and for all we can qualify to become viable candidates for adoption. Do you know what people mean when they say they've been on an emotional roller coaster ride? I do. I'd like to say I've done nothing but push on diligently toward our goal for ten months, but I admit I stalled out here and there, scared and unsure, about irrational stuff. Or maybe rational stuff, depending upon how you look at it, but still irrelevant if you factor in faith. Yeah, what about miracles?

For instance, here's one: that crazy mother plant lives on. It's not a zombie, not undead; it's alive! It's been devastated, but it hangs on. It doesn't even seem to hate me. If my life was a Hitchcock film, or maybe a Kubrick, the mother plant would have strangled me in the night long ago, wrapped its horrible glow-in-the-dark tough skinniness around my neck and choked. But this show's got a finer director, so rather than whomping me with Mother Nature's curse, this little mother plant has shown me that survival is what we're made for.

So March Forth, my very own holiday, came. A lot of good things happened that day, which I mentioned in my last post. The event that seemed the most celebratory and symbolic was finally caring for my mama possum plant. It felt like time, time to march forth in mothering and peacemaking. I found in our storage shed a pretty pot, never before used, and a new bag of potting mix. I put a magical rock from the day's hike in the bottom to cover the drainage hole. I kissed and clipped that mother plant. I cut her down again, and again, with my sharpest knife and steadiest hand, till there seemed to be almost nothing left of her. Then I carefully planted and watered her, and decorated her new home with more magical rocks and remnants of a beautiful old wall in Salt Lake, and set her on my favorite old plate to catch the extra water.

This is a lot of talk about a plant, isn't it?

The mother plant was curled and bent when I planted it two days ago. Today it's standing straight (already!) and that's an encouraging sight. I'm doting: Need a mist, love? Here you go! Such a forgiving thing, this plant. How did it go on so long in the face of my grudge and manage to survive on air? How?

I have a habit of looking for symbols everywhere. Maybe I'm projecting too much onto this plant. Whatever happens with my own mothering, I'm through with killing-by-degrees this eager green life. I'm hoping it will soon feel well enough to possum up and make a few happy vigorous babies. If anybody wants a succulent start, I can certainly vouch for the strength of the stock.

How I Celebrated March Forth

2011-03-05T02:16:00.007-07:00

I went with Rob to visit another planet.

We brought home souvenirs. (I carried so many in my pockets that my pants wanted to fall down.)

Spied a tree growing rosary beads, but decided not to harvest any for my prayers (wrong religion).

Listened to jazz (and you can too, right here), loved it. Loved my friends.

The pièce de résistance was rehabilitating this (nearly two feet long prior to surgery):

and giving it a fresh chance at living. This is significant.

I'll tell you why in the next post. (Must sleep now. Tired out from all this Marching Forth.)

Reaffirming My Position

2011-01-06T13:31:00.003-07:00

I tell you it will happen.

I don't claim to know how or when, but they are coming. I'm not crazy. Wait and see. Migraines pass and the blur of tired vision clears. Hope and hot water bottles prevail.

Buns in the Oven

2011-01-05T22:12:00.002-07:00

Stayed awake half the night thinking about these:

This is my eleven-day-old cousin. Well, eleven yesterday.

She's the procreatee of two wonderful people:

Can you tell which is my blood relation?

Because I was up so far into the night (morning), thinking about my own long and winding path to parenthood, I woke up with a sick, underslept headache. It turned migrainous later in the day. I was good for much of nothing from that point on. No cooking. No thinking. No talking. Nothing but down comforter and hot water bottle (thanks again, Mirjam) and drugs and shades drawn.

I emerged from my underground cave hours later, and was met by these beauties cooling on the kitchen table:

The Baker Man had been hard at work. He had also filled my giant red Knit Night pot with chicken soup, but I didn't get a picture of that. Nice late supper. Nice Rob.

Talk about comfort food. I'm going back to bed now to dream of lovin' from the oven.

So I Married a Magpie

2011-01-04T23:04:00.010-07:00

Look at the shiny thing Rob found in the road by IFA and brought home for me. I'm pretty sure it had been run over once... or twice. Yeah, that is a little grease on it. I got that on my hands, in my hurry to open my first-ever package of baseball cards.

They were printed 12 years ago! Who buys baseball cards and doesn't open them for 12 years? Am I missing something important about baseball card culture? Are these guys even still playing?

Can you spot any modern-day Babes in this lineup? What do I know? Nothing. Somebody help me out here. About the closest I get to baseball is watching soccer when I eat at Mama Pupusa's across the street.

Oh well, I'm more interested in bird-watching than big league, and I do find it fascinating to study the stuff my pet collects. I really like that magpie. Here's a fun song for him that I hope won't ruffle his feathers—

Brown Paper Packages

2011-01-03T23:34:00.002-07:00

This morning a mysterious box appeared on our porch from some of our favorite people on earth. I laughed when I discovered it. I brought it inside and set it on the dining room table. I waited all day to open it. All night too, nearly. Wasn't that nice of me not to rip right into it when mine wasn't the only name on the package? Wasn't I the epitome of self-control? I had to pretend it wasn't there, had to ignore it. Wasn't easy. I mean, these are best beloveds we're talking about. And a history of interesting packages from said beloveds.

Hey, it's a coffee machine! (Wait, we don't drink coffee!) Hang on...

It's a box of John's incredible pickles! Party time! (Could you hear me wishing for some of your okra spears? I've been craving them since October. Seriously.)

And a bee-YOO-tee-full Christmas photo of the kiddos and one heckuva lucky red cat, but I'm not sure if I should post it. What do you say, pickle pals? Mugs or no mugs?

Now we are waiting for one very special occasion to crack open these bottles. We are waiting for, say, tomorrow. That's special enough, or will be once the beets and okra start flying.

Thanks, friends! We love you and are working on a plan which will allow us to take a tuck in the western U.S. so we can be close enough to see you once or twice in a while, at least.

I've been hearing this song in my head since we opened the box:

Green pickles, red pickles
Send 'em to Utah with a stamp
The stamp of love (the pickle stuff)
People people
Paper paper
Paper paper
People people
People people
Pickle pickle
Pickle pickle
Paper paper
Put the pickles in the package
Send the package to the people
Let the people eat all of the pickled beets
And okra baby
Yeah

Love Gifts

2011-01-02T23:02:00.003-07:00

I received two Love Gifts today, one from a dear friend, and the other from my lovely mum-in-law.

One gift I understand:

The other I do not:

Look closely at the details.

See how this one is intended to help me sleep? Notice the ingenious ribbing; I can pour boiling water straight from the kettle into this bottle (and I did, just now), crawl into bed with it and snuggle up, and it won't scald my skin. Brilliant.

But this one! I swear this one wants to play havoc with my dreams. YOU try staring for a moment into that one creepy blue eye and then tell me this Mammy doll wouldn't just looove to mess you up good on your way to Slumberland! I'm a little afraid of Mammy. Her attitude toward me doesn't change even after I reason with her that I'm not racist and that I do want her to have a great life, follow her dreams, and go by her real name. She's not buying it. She won't see my point. I guess having only one eye kills your perspective...

I think I'll have to resort to the safety technique I employed in a similar emergency when I was a kid. I hid the scary hard plastic killer doll (who GAVE me that thing anyway?) in the bottom of my closet, smothering her beneath all the extra blankets and shoes I could find... and then I lay awake, thinking about her, hoping she couldn't dig her way out and get me.

Good thing I have this new hot water bottle to help me feel secure.

Remind me to tell you sometime about the crazy bloodthirsty antique doll (child-size) I watched walk down a hallway one night at a childhood sleepover. Aiee!

Sliding (part 1)

2011-01-01T11:04:00.006-07:00

Photography tip: If you want to capture a feeling of motion in a picture, it generally doesn't work to shoot straight into the oncoming action, like so:

and so:

or you wind up getting static shots that give no sense of speed. Shoot from the side or it will make little difference whether your subject moves rapidly (Rob) or slowly (Geo); what you'll end up with is a static image. As in this case, you could miss out on accurately demonstrating the whee of an overdue sliding lesson, sought by an eager, awkward novice and delivered with playful panache by a long-time pro, at Utah Lake on a bitingly cold New Year's Day. (But this doesn't mean it wasn't fun.)

More on this and other January subjects tomorrow. Happy 2011, everyone.

Are We Having Phone Yet?

2010-12-29T20:12:00.011-07:00

Ladies and gents, my nemesis:

For those too young to recognize what you're looking at, may I present the great-grandma of that vibrating cell you carry in your back pocket—otherwise known as the telephone. Voilà!

This one bears a resemblance to the last phone I had a good relationship with, many years ago. Notice the rotary dial? It's not as speedy to use as buttons, but makes for a more interactive calling experience, and requires extra seconds of patience. Slow Phone. It's organic. It also used to make for interesting dream symbolism; my mom used to have visions in the night about rotary phones—always they were out of order. A dial that wouldn't stop spinning was a problem that frequently vexed her in Slumberland. I used to interpret those dreams for her when I was little. She asked me.

I actually have many good phone stories—look, here's one now!—however, it's been 23 years since the telephone and I had a serious falling out, dating from a deep provocation which inspired me to despise the ol' horn—but that's not the story I want to tell today.

Generally, I don't hold grudges, but somehow this aversion of mine to all things telephone never passed, but instead grew, slowly, steadily (admittedly, with much care and feeding), till here I am, two decades and some change later, so practiced in my disdain that I can go for days and often weeks without picking up the receiver and saying so much as, "Hullo?" Some of you already know this.

It's not productive behavior, I agree. It's anti-social. I know, I know. You nut, are you phobic? you might ask. And I'd answer, Well... maybe. Okay, yes. Moderately. I have been known to run from ringing phones. But only on occasion.

So it was brought to my attention early in December (and several times since, oof) that our home message machine was full and rudely turning callers away. I yam ashamed to consider how long it's been since I last listened to voice mail.

Today I finally did something that probably none of you will think is brave, because it isn't, really. In fact, I guess it's even a smidge chicken-hearted. I emptied our machine, without listening to the old messages... messages numbering in the triple digits, I might add, completely neglected, collected for months. I did not attempt to muster the courage to play them and take notes and vow to respond. I knew it was a do or die project—erase the lot, crash and burn, declare bankruptcy—but also in the process reboot, forgive and forget, wipe the slate clean.

That's right. I lobotomized my phone.

Here's the one redeeming part: I didn't do it to ignore anyone. I did it to make room for change. I'm ready to bury the hatchet with... what? It's more than just the telephone. I'm not sure I want to delve too deeply into the psychology at present; I'd much prefer to post some YouTube vids and scatter some photos around, thus:

I love people! I mean, honestly love them! See why? That's why it's time to quit singing this (admittedly very catchy) reclusive tune.

Yeah, this is more like it. See the friendly pink Hungarian lady? This is exactly what I should be doing. It's what I vow to do! Ring-a-ding-ding, world! And another vow: I will answer the dang-blamed phone. I will. I haven't missed a call yet since the message blitz. (Okay, there's only been one, but my intention is fixed.)

Here's the plan: my rehabilitation starts immediately—I'm not waiting for the new year to roll around. I'm inviting you to be part of my reformation effort, and it'll be a comfortable rather than a hair-shirtless repentance, if you don't mind. A daily call. Like this:

Looks simple enough, doesn't it? I call, you answer. I mean, if you'd like to. If you're not singing the Cake song and screening your calls. I guess you're still helping if you don't answer your phone, aren't you? You're still my intended destination, and dialing your number is still a journey for me.

You do realize this is a Sign of the Times.

So, dear ones, if you want to help me get this leaf turned over, email me your phone number. Yes, even if you believe I have it. Chances are I can't find it, because hey, I've almost never used it. (Ouch. This hurts.) I'll start filling up my calendar with one call a day (gotta start at a moderate pace). If you want a specific day, say the word. If you want repeat days, say those words too. Ha. I will beat this confounded bugaboo. Oh, and if you are Rob and want me to call you, go ahead and sign up, because I can always go next door and borrow the neighbors' phone. Contact me at:

pogofig at gmail dot com

That'll do.

Doesn't this look fun?—

Bring Me the Head of Frosty!

2010-12-21T23:36:00.017-07:00

On my way back to bed just now I looked out the kitchen window and realized that the freshly-made snowcouple in my next-door neighbors' front yard are now missing their heads as of sundown. Is this some kind of Solstice prank? Is it a mischief to satisfy the twisted cravings of some resentful Utahn who missed the full moon/lunar eclipse last night, thanks to cloud cover? When I get up in the morning and look at the rest of the snowfolk on my block, will they have also lost their noggins? What gives, thieves?

These aren't the first heads to disappear from our 'hood this week. Two Sundays ago, I was leaving the house very late for church, and happened to witness the surprise delivery of a beast of a Christmas ornament to my other next-door neighbors (also my friends). Picture a delivery truck and a scramble of everyday-looking people, mostly grumping at each other (a couple of them shirking their duty and singing silly carols at the others from across the street) while they unloaded something large which at first resembled a blowup lawn decoration in the shape of a snowman. As the layers of plastic wrap(!) began to be peeled away, I saw that it was a giant tree with a stupidly happy and top-hatted Frosty head in place of a star, and long arms sleeved in festive Christmas plaid with which to hug itself and possibly grab children. Tell you what, it was really hard to tear myself away and drive to church with that kind of show going on.

Later that evening, I knocked on my neighbors' door, eager to inspect the holiday damage. Mom, Dad, and kids were all sitting in their now-crowded living room in chairs lined up in a row, staring slack-jawed at the Frosty tree (whose neck looked a little uncomfortable, what with his being so tall and trying not to scrape his top hat on the not-quite-high-enough ceiling) and the landslide of other large and unexpected gifts that had also been grumpily delivered: entertainment center, enormous flatscreen TV, blue-ray, and a giant inflatable for the front yard—three snowmen in a snow globe.

Frosty struck me as full of silly goodwill and Christmas cheer, a soul whose spirit could never be dampened nor defeated. He seemed not to care (or even notice) that he was out of place in their quiet, understated home. "OH, BY GOSH, BY GOLLY, FOLKS, HOPE YA HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!" What made the situation even more comical was Frosty's improbable mass, which seemed all the more exaggerated by the diminutive size of his new housemates; we're talking about tiny people who live next to me. People frighteningly dwarfed by an enthusiastic tree-man.

When I visited a couple days later, there was something distressing happening to Frosty. The young daughter of the family was up on a chair, and appeared to be giving Frosty some kind of chiropractic adjustment. I heard a clear Crack! as she grabbed his (fake) carrot nose for better leverage. Crack! again, and Frosty got a hitch in his sniffy-up.

Next time I stopped in, Frosty was gone. Oh, the glittering tree that once was his body was still there, and its silvery ornaments gleamed with pride, having been stripped of goofiness, as Frosty's keepers had wrenched the head free, and removed the appendages, which once had been so eager to embrace the season. I was told: "J. came by today and wanted the head for a costume. But she wouldn't take the arms." The tree did look pretty after having received such intimate alterations—who would have ever noticed those fancy baubles with such a friendly bumpkin forever introducing himself and stealing the show? I never did. I can't exactly say I blame my friends for deconstructing Frosty's personality, but oh, by gosh, by golly, I do kinda miss him. I cannot see a tree when I look at their renovated (fake) tannenbaum; for me, it will remain a headless snowman.

And now this, this rash of lost heads. I don't suspect J. Nope, somebody must have watched Frosty's beheading through my neighbors' front window; this is a copycat crime. Or maybe this is someone's idea of a protest against the mistreatment of snowmen in captivity. I guess it could be the local snowpeople's own demonstration of solidarity: We will all lay down our heads until Frosty again wears his own (fake) smile.

Bundesarchiv, Bild 102-12806 / CC-BY-SA [CC-BY-SA-3.0-de

(www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/de/deed.en)], via Wikimedia Commons

Hi, Neighbors

2010-12-20T22:48:00.002-07:00

Long-time beloveds and more recent inductees into adoration who crossed our threshold today:

brother Brian (who likes toast with oomph)
Annie Lennox (via CD—thanks, Brian)
all three Homo sapiens inhabitants of Tribal Headquarters (Dad in a cloud of sick-day vision, the women fluttering anxiously behind)
skinny Dave (whom I intend to feed)
Melody's offspring, Luke (who seems like a lovable guy in his own right, but automatically warrants a place on this list because he's got his mama's blood and steadily merits her approval)
President Amanda (with her megawatt smile)
Leland and Charla (even though they came while we were having dinner at Mama Pupusas'—phoo)
Santa, née Bruce (out of uniform and wearing a safari hat and no whiskers, but ho-ho-ho-ing merrily as ever)
the shake rattle and roll Tanner boys (come a-bearing season's drum beatings)

A great day for visitors!

Flower shower

2010-12-19T23:43:00.000-07:00

Today is June Roses Day. My third. Your third too, though you might only be learning about it now. Don't despair if you didn't celebrate it today; as creator of the holiday I give you leave to make up for lost time in the coming days. Extend it, if you like. June Roses Day, like Christmas, really could be kept all year long to great advantage. Do your homework; click the link above and begin to explore your options. Then plant, tend, pick, or press your beautiful roses. Remember, remember them.

I had intended to spend some time today reminiscing about the Provo Tabernacle, which was completely gutted this week by a terrible fire, a whirlwind of a fire. That's still on this week's schedule, but my day was taken up entirely by meetings and appointments, and by time spent with one very sick husband (mine, in case you're wondering). That's alright. I had some good moments today—most importantly, I had a deeply and sweetly surreal experience which let me know that I am lovingly remembered by someone who means the world and more to me. This isn't the time to elaborate on the particulars of that, but I know I will share here some of my processing about it when the hour's not so late and the talking feels right. I just wanted to send out a quiet thank you to the powers that be for showering me with some beautiful roses which I will remember and cherish all my life.

Here's an abbreviated grateful list for the day:

a snooze button
oatmeal
a clean house (or part of one)
being okay with slept-on hair
epiphany: music works like water
our ward choir's beautiful rendition of "O, Holy Night"
watching a family begin a tradition of worshipping together
knowing when to miss class to listen to a friend
the sweetness of this
a stranger's warm smile
being busy all day with people busy caring for people
high-grading the bishop's candy stash
being thanked
being trusted
Gingerbread Moose Munch
other people's barbecue
the fun of being pestered by an impish long-time friend (I'm talking to you, Ray.)
sharing faith
sharing Christmas
sacred songs of the season
talk time
fresh carrot-orange juice
Henry Van Dyke
Rob's Christmas song (so so very)

To give unto them beauty for ashes

2010-11-16T00:13:00.001-07:00

I'm out to banish an old demon. I am calling for a new holiday, and invite you to celebrate it with me. The third Tuesday of November is to be known henceforth as Love Your Life Day. Feel free to interpret that however you wish, but I do hope you will find something to do that brings you real joy, something that makes you glad you're a resident of this planet, something that invigorates your spirit and helps you want to go on, and on, and on. I hope you spend the whole day in beautiful thoughts and choices that allow you to feel real and strong and clean and vibrant. Take good care of yourself. Nurture your soul. Eat something wonderful. Laugh for a good reason, and also for no good reason. Spend some time under the sky. Dance. Move. This is starting to sound like some cheesy motivational quote already, and I haven't even warmed up. Never mind—you can figure it out on your own without my suggestions. Just love your live. And if you feel like sharing later, tell me how you celebrated.

Happy Love Your Life Day.

This post has nothing to do with cancer

2010-11-10T15:48:00.002-07:00

This post has to do with people and their stories, which I have just spent two days recording. It has everything to do with listening. And telling. And being here, now. So we can carry each other.

Thank you, Becca. Thank you, Grandpa Joe. Thank you, Mickelle. Thank you for sharing your voices and letting me simply sit and adore you. Our sessions were over much too soon!

Vacation as love letter, part 1 (for my #1)

2010-11-09T22:09:00.005-07:00

The most fulfilling journeys begin with clear intent. That intent can take any of a number of forms—a question, a curiosity, a wish, a dream, a goal—but its purpose is to set things in motion, and to suggest a meaningful direction. It's okay if your intent evolves as you travel on; in fact, it's almost bound to happen, but you've got to get the wheels rolling on the road before you can steer the car.

Rob and I left town for a vacation October 21st and came home three nights ago. Our intent was to get away for some rest and relaxation, enjoy each other's company, and revisit some beautiful places that were very good for our souls a few years ago. We succeeded, I would say, in each of those goals except for the rest one. We cried wolf for a few weeks in September and October before we managed to tear ourselves away from work and life, but once we finally began to nail down plans and actually packed up our toothbrushes, things fell into their proper places quickly, and our intent sweetened and deepened and expanded, continuing through the whole of our trip. I felt changed before we even climbed into the car, and I feel changed now.

I have love letters inside to write to each day of our time off, to every person and place we adored along the way, but the letter my soul sends first and last and every step in between is the longest and lovingest of all, the one for my good travel mate. Oh, what a lot we learned in just two and a half weeks! I know we came home richer than we left, even if we spent our little travel fund dry. I'm certain we came home better equipped to love and work and be. I absolutely came home more hopeful, determined, and married. And more full of clear intent.

Here's a kiss for you, Rob, and another, and a fond pronouncement that honey, you ARE a trip. A very, very good trip.

Here's a hink pink for you: WET PET.

Rainy day drinks

2010-11-08T21:11:00.004-07:00

I have two good recipes to share with you, used them both today. Hopefully you'll only have a need for the first, but just in case....

You're welcome.

Geo's Portable Good Earth Tea
1 0.5-liter thermos (I recommend this dreamy stainless steel Alfi, but you'll want to save up for it)
1 bag of Good Earth Original Caffeine-Free Tea
water
rice milk

Put on a kettle and boil some water. Leaving the string out, stuff a single tea bag into your thermos, pour in boiling water to within an inch or two of full. Close your thermos up and let the tea bag steep for 5-10 minutes. Open the thermos, remove the tea bag, and fill the rest of the space with rice milk. Now close up your thermos full of niceness and take it with you on an adventure, or enjoy it at home with elevensies.

Migraine Cure
2 Mexican Cokes
4 ibuprofen
1 assisted trip to bed
0 sounds
0 light
1 really big bowl, just in case
1 hot water bottle, or to taste
2 quilts made by somebody who loves you
1 careful back rub
1 blessing
1 hankie, clean and soft
1 telephone handset, set to Ringer Off

Mix together gently and immobilize for several hours till pain stops.

Tomorrow: a study of The Vacation as Love Letter. Stay tuned (and please stay well).

Parts that don't photograph

2010-11-07T21:50:00.009-07:00

So we went on a vacation, and it was great. If you're someone who knows how I reacted to coastal Oregon my first time there you may have wondered if I would make good on my old dream of moving there, but I came home. I kept a journal every day as we traveled—mostly I wrote late at night, so it's going to be tough to go back and decipher that chicken-scratched fatigue-speak, but I expect some of my notes will find their way here. Tonight I'll mention a couple moments, not the stuff of scrapbooks, but for me very memorable. They took place on the first and third of three progressively sick days, which happened to coincide with a planned hike and many hours of driving from There to Home Again.

Moment #1: After climbing to the top of Multnomah Falls, I stood staring into the waters as they rushed over the rocks and down, down, down. It was there that an unusual impression came to me: the elements are my friends. Something seemed to say, Whatever comes your way in the future—if there are lonely times—you can always find support and friendship here. It seemed like a love declaration, an expression of family solidarity. From the earth. Huh.

Moment #2: On the long road between Nampa, Idaho and home, I was in lots of pain and was sadly no help at all with the driving. I flopped, a twisting turning passenger, trying to sit up and be company to Rob, trying to talk, trying to read, but quickly I had to go horizontal again, so I lowered my seat till it was nearly flat. As I lay back and breathed into the hurt, I sensed someone sitting behind me, female, very gently stroking my hair, the way you might do when you want to help someone relax or feel better, or when you're just being quiet and close. Another unexpected friend? Huh.

Okay. I'll take them where I find them when they're true.

Most of the other parts I'll share about our time in the Pacific Northwest are concrete experiences, stuff I actually took photos of (or at least could have if I'd been quick enough), the great fun we had, the wonderful visits we enjoyed with people we cherish, the lovely views we applauded, the interesting meals we ate, the beached jellyfish we poked at. So don't worry that I'm going all funny on you. Just a little funny. No more than usual.

Good Chaps, Good Gaffes

2010-10-19T12:56:00.007-06:00

Here's a question: Do angels read blogs?

I woke up from a dream this morning in which Rob told me off-handedly that Leslie (Norris, a favorite friend and poet, deceased now) had recommended a piece from my blog—was it a review?—to a couple of men, somebody named Dan and a fellow whose name escapes me now.

"REALLY?! What did he say? What was it he read?" I cried.

Though I begged to know more, Rob wouldn't answer. He was busy with his own projects, his day.

Still, I was thrilled and shocked. Leslie reads my blog? And he found something he considered worth sharing?

So now I'm wondering about angels and if they read over our shoulders. I'm thinking yes, of course. Seems it would only make their ministering jobs easier and more interesting.

If that is the case, dear Leslie, and you should happen to one day scan my blog, I hope you will find this message: We miss you and Kitty so.

As for the rest of you reading over my shoulder, I hope you explored the above links, particularly the ones that will take you to audiopest, Rob's blog. Lots of fun sound files and good words there to enjoy. You're welcome.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Here's a statement: I love KBYU-FM. I love its music, programs, news, music hosts, and announcers. You might remember a few days ago I blogged about a young woman who tripped over her tongue while reading the morning headlines and telling Classical 89 listeners about the world's largest living organism. She said something so tragicomically inappropriate that it changed the course of my entire day, which had been dragging to that point. Thank you, thank you, belly laughter.

I was so inspired by that great ab workout that I sent a message to the station, offering my hilarity, gratitude, and condolences. I got a a very pleasant form letter back which struck me funny as well given its tone:

Dear Georgia, Thank you for taking the time to write. We always appreciate hearing from those interested in our station and its programs. Thank you for writing to Classical 89. We appreciate hearing from supporters and are happy to hear how much you enjoy our programs. Those of us who work at this station truly appreciate the kind words of encouragement from you and other viewers. It affirms that our efforts are having an affect -- that our programs are being enjoyed and making a difference. This is a big part of our mission, and we're glad to hear we are reaching you. Thank you again for writing. We hope you continue to enjoy and support Classical.

You certainly are reaching me, but it doesn't sound like I really reached you. Did any human being read my email? Oh, well. Ha.

Ah, but then yesterday I got a message from Program Director Eric Glissmeyer:

Dear Georgia: I also heard the newscast that morning. It was kind of horrific, and kind of funny at the same time. Glad you got a kick out of it!

What a good sport. His note tickled me, but then this morning I got another message, this time from News Director Wes Sims:

Georgia, Thanks for your encouraging comments about our student newscaster’s gaffe on the air. I’ve had my own embarrassing moments in broadcasting, so I was understandably sympathetic. (My personal best was a statement that a gunman was charged with assault with a deadly woman.) We’re glad you listen to Classical 89 … hopefully not just for our mistakes.

Tell me—how could I not love this station? I recommend you give it a listen too. Best classical music anywhere, and great people tending it.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

By the way, I made a new audio discovery yesterday. I found out one of my pet A/V sites has an internet radio station. I listened for a while as I did some plodding work and was "excessively diverted." An entertaining mix of sound captures—music, voices, odd gleaned stuff—all very random tracks. Some of it you'll love, I'm guessing. Some of it may get too weird for your taste. Let me know how you fare.

Nighttime questions

2010-10-17T22:54:00.004-06:00

POP QUIZ:

How far would you walk if it meant you could get away from yourself?
If you found a Hostess Ding Dong lying in the grass (still safely in its plastic) would you take it home to share with someone, find a place where you could sit and enjoy it by yourself, or leave it on the ground for the next person (or hungry dog or bird), never looking back? What if it was raining?
If, up ahead of you on the sidewalk, there was a homeless man animatedly fuming and gesticulating to some unseen person while he made up his sleeping bag bed with great care on a city bench, would you approach and pause to wish him a good evening, or would you quickly jaywalk to the other side of the street, waving a stupid hello from the center line, taking no chances?

Hitting the high notes

2010-10-17T00:38:00.002-06:00

These are moments from this weekend that I would not trade, not even (collectively) for a more timely exodus to Oregon (though I'm dying to get out of here):

Eating bean and cheese pupusas with lots of that delicious cabbage-jalapeño slaw and mysterious sauce on the side, at the El Salvadorean restaurant right around the corner from our house
Hiking up to the magical field above Big Springs, in the moonlight, shiver-me skirt-draft notwithstanding
Catching over eight garbage bags' worth of possessions and releasing them to either be purchased again by some lucky thrift shoppers or picked up with Monday's garbage
Putting on safety goggles and becoming a sawdusty superhero, Auntie with a Chainsaw, during today's extended family wood splitting party at my in-laws' house
Watching loved ones work together harmoniously, the bigs and littles, and seeing Mum smile at us and her new woodpile
Introducing The Tribe to La Michoacana Mexican Creamery, particularly the littlest girls who chose their cones by color and not flavor—Two scoops, please: make them Pink and Really Pink.
After more than a week spent fussing around with my mop of a so-so beauty school spiral perm, finally figuring out how to cope with it so my hair can be nicely subdued without adding crunch or yielding to frizz (Thank you, Bumble & bumble.)
Attending the delightful dress rehearsal of Mozart's Die Zauberflote (The Magic Flute) and seeing people we love onstage, offstage, and in the audience—wonderful! (You really should see this opera if you can.)

A rather long ramble about listening

2010-10-15T01:00:00.001-06:00

Yesterday I was given the opportunity to speak briefly to a group of women about the beauty of storytelling as family history. Oral tradition. Asking, remembering, speaking, hearing, sharing—all aspects of listening. In preparation for the assignment I dug out some old family recordings—one I made of my grandmother singing, back when I was just 8 and trying out my first cassette recorder; another I made of her answering my awkward interview questions, 32 years later; and a cassette my mother recorded for me a few years after I'd left home—a Southern story, to honor Christmas—the only piece of her voice I have left. The first two I mentioned made me laugh out loud and got me singing and sniffling. My mama's tape wiped me out less than a sentence into the thing. It's incredible how powerful just the sound of someone's voice can be. I couldn't listen to Mama's tape yesterday and still be able to concentrate on getting ready for my little class. So, I stuck with Gram's singing and drawling, and the tracks I played for the women to introduce my topic seemed to charm them all.

Yesterday I also blogged that I'd like to hear your adoption stories; I'd like to even begin recording them next month, if possible. (By the way, did you know that November is National Adoption Month? Neither did I till today. Synchronicity. Must mean I'm on the right track with this idea.) I am thrilled that a few people have responded, writing bits of their own and others' stories. I hope that some will feel brave and interested enough to share their voices as well.

Today Rob and I spent three straight hours with a friend, recording him at the outset of what is already proving a strange and romantic international quest for... well, I'm sworn to secrecy for the time being, but I'm hoping some day to persuade him to let me write the screenplay once he's survived and recovered from his journey, has (hopefully) come off conqueror, and feels ready to share his secret and sell the movie rights.

This evening Rob and I visited our favorite local library and came home as usual with unreadably large armloads of books. (I was trying, on my way out to the car, to imagine how many thousands of pounds of books I've checked out and carried off in my lifetime. I hope when I die I'll get the answer to that question. One of the books Rob happened to spot was a book on music that is really a book about listening. It spoke to me before I even cracked the cover: I love you. You love me. Buy me for your li-bra-ry. Then I read the intro and first essay. Yes, indeed. I already know who's getting this book for Christmas. What I love about it is that right away it started in talking to me about something I've been fuzzling over a while: Why do some people seem so unable or unwilling to listen? And no, I won't exempt myself from the question; sometimes I am guilty of being the non-listener. If it wasn't late and I wasn't writing from my bed with my mama's quilt thrown over me and my laptop, I'd be mining and including some quotes from the book right now.

I am excited to help my sister-in-law and two friends record some oral history in a few weeks. The more listening and facilitating I do, the more I want to do. Rob has started calling us recordists. I've suggested sound hunters, and that applies sometimes, but it seems that we are merely becoming listeners. Nobody's paying us to do this yet(?), and really, I almost feel I should be paying others for the privilege of hearing their stories. Maybe listening itself is at least partial payment.

Other interesting listening moments today:

While recording our friend, capturing as well the sound of a (our) whining dog, and of Rob's parents talking in our backyard
Hearing another person's hidden fear
Horses in fields on either side of the road, running excitedly to parallel clearings, waiting and listening to yet other horses approaching, clop-clop-clopping far off down the pavement, with riders astride
Allowing ourselves to be engaged by an old man on the Jordan River Parkway Trail and hearing his reminiscences about photographing sunsets, canoeing, traveling, and his big plans to develop museums and science centers around Utah Lake as well as historical monuments along the Provo River Trail
Walking on one of the last quiet country roads in our town, stopping right in the middle and listening to the wind, the bugs and other animals, and the falling night
Paying attention to body signals
Paying attention to brain alarms
Receiving comfort
Noticing body language, hearing the unspoken, understanding subtext
Weighing options and saying yes to simplicity
Catspeak
Appreciating the hush of my old knitting needles made of some material that doesn't click when it meets itself
Unpacking the car late at night, being surprised by two small boys razor scootering down the middle of our street, one of them calling me by name

Silent triad, speak!

2010-10-13T14:47:00.007-06:00

This is really something. Please visit the link. Please listen. Please read. Tell me what you think. I can't get enough. Nowhere near enough.

I've been thinking for a while about recording adoption stories, starting my own collection. My Rob has been thinking about it too. We attend the monthly adoption workshops required by both state law and the agency we're working with, and in those we frequently get to hear adoptive families speak about their experiences. Last week we attended the October class and the entire time was devoted to a birth mother panel. Three brave, generous, beautiful women came and spoke about their journeys as they chose to place their babies for adoption. I don't know how to quantify how much love I felt for those women. No pity, no judgment, just deep admiration and awe. It was a sacred night, I felt. I was overwhelmed by love.

I think that November is going to be my month to make a start on this pet recording project. I'm already going to be conducting and/or facilitating three different interviews next month (non-adoption-related), so the ol' mic and recorder will already be fired up and ready to roll. If you think you would enjoy talking out your adoption story, please let me know, and maybe we can figure out when to chat in the coming months. I don't know that our discussion will ever end up on Transom.org or anywhere else important, but even if just you and I are the audience that's enough to make it worthwhile. If you can't or don't want to talk face-to-face, I can always record you over the phone or probably Skype (just give me minute to figure it out). Whatever part you've played in the "silent triad"—birth parent, adoptee, or adoptive parent—or as a different kind of participant, I am all ears.

If you want to email me and discuss this more, my address is pogofig at gmail dot com.

I'd love to.

Life can be so utterly likable sometimes

2010-10-12T22:49:00.005-06:00

Beauties of the day—

Soon after I crawled out of bed feeling unwell, I turned on the radio just in time to hear the single most nightmarishly wonderful glitch ever uttered by a young female announcer. The fact that she misread breaking news about the world's largest living organism on KBYU-FM, of all stations, only added to my hilarity. I laughed myself simultaneously sick and well and felt much better for the ab work. Poor girl. She managed to mostly keep her composure long enough to finish her report, but I could tell she was about to choke. I imagine when she was finally off the air she probably burst out laughing and then threw up.
Today was Day 1 for me of my 21-Day Meditation Challenge from the Chopra Center. It was a good 12 minutes. Care to join me? (Thanks for telling me about this challenge, Robin.)
I enjoyed a brief but fun Facebook exchange with one of my favorite people on this planet. (Do you know who you are? I do, at least.)
I wrote a four-page stream-of-consciousness letter in one sitting. With my bright orange Aurora fountain pen.
Lovely, funny, generous Charla came to visit on Leland's Flying Pigeon and brought us a great big bag of freshly-harvested salad greens.
It was finally chilly enough tonight to wear my best old sweater when I went out for a walk with Rob (which deserves a bullet point all its own, really).
We picked perfectly crisp sweet apples from a neglected neighborhood tree and brought home enough for apple crisp tomorrow (if we can stop eating them tonight).
Rob ordered The Book of Imaginary Beings and it arrived today. I can't wait to read it!
Oh, and I nearly forgot—I discovered this beautiful quote:"If you hear a voice within you saying, You are not a painter, then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced." —Vincent Van Gogh

I think I'll blog now

2010-10-11T22:44:00.002-06:00

Rolling around in my head tonight: I'm not who I was but I'm exactly the same person I've always been.

To misquote performance artist Laurie Anderson, "Paradox is exactly like where you are right now, only much much better."

Hey, wasn't that some kind of magic on the calendar yesterday? 10-10-10. Whoever dreamed such a date? It would have been the perfect time, I guess, to make a fresh start on something—in my case maybe a neglected blog (ahem). But last night after getting the urge to hang around again here On Bright Street, I decided to wait for today to come and break the spell—today, the 11th, a day old donut, the morning after, when the count went all awkward again with that extra 1. However you choose to write the date—a la American 10-11-10 or European 11-10-10—there was no parade to welcome it. Nobody I know of gleefully Facebooked about it or ever stared at a wall clock for a full 60 seconds, celebrating the special minute that added the maximum amount of perfect numbers to an already flawless lineup. Nah, this day's just been one homely Monday with not a single mystical power to recommend it.

It's been exactly two months since I last wrote here. That's pure coincidence, nothing intentional, I assure you. I'm simply ready to break the long silence and abandon my latest round of notions about pulling the plug on this blog. Might as well leave it be. It's not bothering anyone that I know of.

I'm back for more and I'm glad it's a plain ol' awkward day.

Hi.

A Thesaurus Is a Girl's Best Friend

2010-08-11T14:31:00.000-06:00

An experiment. In as few words as possible, encapsulate your biggest fear or torment. If you, like I do, find yourself fighting terrible battles with personal demons, try carefully turning your mind during some quieter moment to the taunts they consistently shout into your ears as they seek to wear you down. They are liars, but listen to them long enough to comprehend what they wish you to believe about yourself. Don't dwell here any longer than you need to identify their theme; the point is not to let them persuade you they're right. You're probably already half in agreement with them anyway.

Do you have some words in mind? Are they of a family? Can you consolidate them further? I came up with my own last night, one toxic theme to rule them all. When I feel my weariest and smallest, the lingering word on my lips seems to always be WASTE. It's the horror of my life. If I was standing at those proverbial pearly gates and was been given the opportunity to admit myself via the honor system, this would be the one curse of a word I might stupidly say to banish myself from heaven, if I allowed myself to listen to the rotten peanut gallery, who would surely be hiding behind some nearby (non-burning) bush, prompting me, as if I couldn't think or speak for myself—and hoping I'd forget that I could.

Bullies. Cowards.

Here's what you do. Take that black magic word of yours to the best thesaurus you can find. Explore all your word's possible shades of meaning. Live with them, feel them, let yourself comprehend which ones "fit" your fears. Acknowledge how this word affects you, how it directs your beliefs. Keep in mind that there are underlying needs at stake here that want attending to. Your demons have amplified their accusations of you so you'll look where they want you to look: at the stagnant bleakness of self-condemnation rather than the bright opportunity for healing and growth.

Taking notes helps.

Now look for the antonyms for your word. There should be a few listed along with the synonyms. Dig deeper; one by one, take the synonyms that resonated with your darkness, look them up, and hunt until you discover their beautiful hopeful opposites. These are to be your medicines. Don't leave any out. This new list of words will uplift you as you concentrate on them. Feel them. Imagine them. See yourself living fluently with them. Make healthy plans. Take more notes. Pray for help in establishing this new vocabulary in your mind and heart.

Stop paying attention to the jerks in the bushes, the life-mucking voices in your head. Invest in some earplugs. Choose not to engage and let the war go on without you. Read your thesaurus. Listen for better words. Listen to a better spirit.

~~WASTE~~ conserve, flourish, thrive, manage, make good use of, save, keep, preserve, protect, save, safeguard, look after, sustain, prolong, perpetuate, store, reserve, husband, flourish, grow, thrive, prosper, do well, burgeon, increase, multiply, proliferate, spring up, shoot up, bloom, blossom, bear fruit, burst forth, run riot, be in good health, be vigorous, be in its heyday; progress, make progress, advance, make headway, develop, improve, evolve, make strides, move forward (in leaps and bounds), expand, be in the pink, go places, go great guns, get somewhere, mushroom, succeed, boom, wanted, moderation, restraint, necessary, essential, restore, worthwhile, usable, profitable, cultivated, fertile, vibrant, habitable, in good repair, livable, settled, tame, calm, tidy, civilized, disciplined, considered, sensible, practical, hospitable, temperate, look after, nurture, provident, valuable, fullness.

How to Dine Alone

2010-08-10T20:11:00.006-06:00

Menu:

Black Bean Soup (freeze-dried from the health food store is okay if you don't have time to make it from scratch)

Geo's Cast Iron Polenta Bread (see recipe below)
Rough Cut Salad (fresh red and green tomatoes, radish, cilantro, green onion, red cabbage, and/or anything else you have growing or just lurking in the fridge—toss with lime juice and salt)
Cheddar (sharp)
Dessert (freestyle, optional)

Solo Steps:

Prepare food carefully as if you're expecting someone important (because you are). Don't cut corners.

Clean off your table.
Set out your nicest dishes, a full spread. No plastic, paper, or styrofoam. No eating from pots or Rubbermaid.
If you have fabric napkins, fold one for yourself.
Knife, fork, spoon.
Fill your glass and have a pitcher of the beverage of your choice (water is good) nearby.
Put on some music you enjoy. Pandora.com is always a good choice. I can recommend the Emiliana Torrini station as highly digestible.
Light some candles.
Give thanks and ask God for a blessing on your food, and on yourself.
See yourself as an interesting friend. Talk with yourself. Keep the conversation cheerful and positive. Appreciate yourself for making such a nice meal.
Drink lots of water.
Keep the cheese knife busy. This is not the time for food guilt.
Pay attention and enjoy the experience.
Do the dishes later.

For Further Study of the Art of Being Alone:
Here's a video that good Suzanne shared with me this week. Hope you'll feel as validated and inspired by it as I do—

Geo's Cast Iron Polenta Bread
3 tablespoons butter
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup cornmeal (coarse polenta grind)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
2 tablespoons sugar
2 eggs
2 cups buttermilk

Set your oven at 375. Put butter into a cast iron pan and set the pan on the oven's middle rack; allow it to heat along with the oven while you mix the batter.

In a medium bowl, combine all the dry ingredients. In a small bowl, beat the eggs and mix them with the buttermilk. Now whisk the wet into the dry.

When the oven reaches 375, take the pan from the oven and pour in the batter. Hustle the pan back into the oven and bake for 30 minutes.

Cut into 8 or more wedges and enjoy.

How to Spend a Successful Day Celebrating Best-Beloveds' Birthdays

2010-07-17T00:06:00.015-06:00

wake up early
strike out together for adventure, forget the camera (oops)
hike up Rock Canyon
laugh at each other while drinking from a violently spastic water fountain and nearly drowning
practice being in the moment
pet a stranger's Golden Doodle puppy, make two new friends: one human (Tamara), one canine (Finnegan)
make a memorial stop at Provo Bakery for my dad's favorite treat (raisin-filled cookies), sing him "Happy Birthday" in the car under a shade tree, make a wish he might make, and blow out a flickering "finger candle" for him
shop at Good Earth for eggs from happy Nephi chickens
buy 49.25 lbs. of red-banded organic bananas, cause an audible stir among the checkers and customers (we've got a big freezer, okay?)
come home, make banana pancakes with cardamom (YUM—I finally found my pancake-making niche)
flop, nap, shower
talk briefly about perfume-making with Becca but be no help at all
think about our niece, E., who turns 12 today at camp
write a birthday love note to Rob
wait for Rob to take a time-out for a friendly visitor
surprise Rob with a subscription to the TLS
compare notes about the cost of this gift
dig anxiously through the garbage and find the unbelievably discounted offer on TLS that Rob secretly hoarded for ages and finally threw out last week
cancel the online gift subscription immediately, fill out a happily modest check, and mail it postage pre-paid at the P.O. (how wonderful that snail mail still rules over some parts of our existence)
marvel at how two years' worth of reading can magically turn into six with the right math skills and the right subscription offer
watch this repeatedly:

work on more adoption papers
eat at Fusion and lick our plates
shop for backpacks
reject Emergency Essentials' offerings
dawdle in REI
feel grateful and gooey while the nice sales guy who helps us fit packs tells us the story of his hero dad's Army Air Corps ring (it looks so at home there on that proud son's hand)
decide on the red 40 for Rob, and the chartreuse 30 for me
visit Tribal Headquarters, collect birthday gifts and family hugs and a father's blessing from Rob's very sick but very wonderful dad (whose own birthday was yesterday—three great men in a row!)
eat exquisite salads made by Gary (hand-pressed raspberry dressing, really?)
come home with my chakras realigned and stuck all over with medical tape and magnets, thanks to my loving, acupressuring sister-in-law, Jeanne
write
sleep

The Great Invisible Divide

2010-07-15T22:13:00.007-06:00

Here's a lovely song I heard for the first time today. Very poignant to become acquainted with it on a day when I feel very keenly the force of habit of my own loner-ness (working on it, working on it), but also on the day when I learn my sweet cousin died, almost unbelievably on the anniversary of her own birth. My prayers and concern are with my grieving extendeds across the country, but my heart has drifted across the border into the Land Beyond, where my parents are, my grands and greats, and nearly everyone close to me except some cousins, a couple aunts, an uncle—many of these very distant. I've spent the afternoon and evening imagining the reunion and celebration that is surely underway There, a joyful uproar of family welcome, every last soul of them clamoring to greet and shout and kiss and talk to the beloved newcomer. I'm not in a hurry to get There myself, but sometimes I get homesick enough to think hard about visiting. Haven't found any round-trip tickets though, and a one-way fare is far too costly for me, so I think I'll just keep tending my own home fire and send a smoke signal Heavenward to let the folks know I'm dreaming of them.

Dear Cousin, I hope you're bursting with joy and laughter, now that you've been surprised with such long-missed company. If there are collards in heaven (and it wasn't Nellie Quinn who cooked them), then I know your birthday is complete.

(I don't know who these cute people are, but the Mirah song is an inspiration.)

Pardon my heavy musings

2010-07-01T13:30:00.001-06:00

Believing is seeing. You've heard the phrase the other way 'round all your life, as have I, but this is the order that makes real sense. It suggests the need for action and personal responsibility. It frames belief as a choice, rather than a passive payoff. It is seeing that is the ultimate consequence of believing; belief is the steady trek of faith toward the desired destination: seeing and knowing.

A dear friend visited me yesterday. She has Stuff to deal with. She asked me what came across as a very broad question. I asked her to try to hone in on what it is she really wants to know; I think good questions are tremendously important. I'm not sure you can be genuinely prepared to receive a soul-satisfying answer if you don't give careful attention to honestly facing and articulating your true questions. It's too easy to be afraid or lazy when looking for enlightenment or comfort. Far too easy to passively wish to be automatically, wordlessly, magically understood and handed an easy revelation.

(This is not an indictment of my friend, but the stream of thought that has been trickling through my head lately, and our conversation yesterday made me want to roll up my pants legs and stick my feet in the bone-chill water for a little refreshment.)

One of the more specific questions she came up with had to do with why I believe in God. That's a good question. It invites me to do some pondering and I'm actually looking forward to taking a lengthier private inventory of my experiences. I fumbled around to put together an initial response—I'm no great conversationalist—but my friend was patient with me (as she typically is).

Last night the thought came to me and I woke up with it this morning too: I believe in God because I choose to. That might sound somewhat lame or ignorant to you. Does it? What I mean is that, independent of all the evidences and persuasions and moments of peace and enlightenment and pure understanding that have come to me over the years, apart from those quiet personal sacraments that whisper to me there is a God, the main reason I believe is that I will myself to believe. I don't take away the importance of faith-encouraging influences; I only acknowledge that the choice to believe has always been and always will be mine and mine alone to make. It's not possible that belief could ever have been forced upon me; it's ultimately independent of both the uplifting and the destructive influences of others (family, friends, enemies) and all they've invested (or blasted) in my spiritual education. I don't wish to be a separate entity; I'm no island, and I'm happily part of the whole. The influences are there. The connections are there, for good or ill; I acknowledge them. I'm not fully me without you. Still, I'm autonomous. It's a paradox. I'm an agent. Will is mine to wield. And I can't blame you or anyone or anything for getting in the way of my exercising that will. No matter what's come in from outside, and likewise, no matter what my choices have been to this moment, my power to choose belief and life right now remains untainted, untouchable. It's mine. And there's no lasting reason for me to live feeling oppressed or resentful at having been trodden upon, even spiritually, if that's been my lot. I am perfectly free at every point to choose. And I choose to believe.

It's so easy to wish to go back and re-do life, start from scratch on choices, even erase the detested influence of people we imagine have done us developmental harm. But it's not necessary. Also, not possible. It can turn into a bottomless distraction that succeeds in keeping us from living in the present. That's tragic. I've busied myself with such pointless pursuits, maybe spent years of my life on them, but I've stopped counting. I don't mean to make light of pain and disappointment, but I see now I could have given myself permission to be free a long time ago if I'd understood how, and soothed my soul with good questions and other choices: reading more books, exploring more canyons, spending more time laughing with and loving people, licking an ice cream cone rather than my wounds. I didn't know then. But I do now. And I choose to believe and be happy.

Here's a different scenario. A couple weeks ago I found myself in a deep funk. I was so far down in the hole I couldn't see any light, and for the life of me I couldn't connect the depression to an event, or a dumb thought process, or hormones, or anything at all. I can usually find a loose thread if I really search for one (not that I always want to search when I'm down in the hole). It didn't make sense. I was thinking fine. But some weird black desperation came over me, so heavy and thick I couldn't move from the couch all evening. I just sat. I tried to get myself up—Come on! Get up! Shake it off!—but I literally felt unable to move my body. Rob was working late in the shop. All I had to do to call for his company was walk across the room, pick up the phone, and speak into the intercom. Too much. And I felt awful thinking of crying at him over nothing. I didn't want to suggest to him in any way that I was asking him to fix me. After a couple hours of this paralysis and many confused tears and prayers choking in my throat, I opened up my laptop (which luckily was so near to me I barely had to reach for it) and looked up a neglected blog I used to visit daily, one I adored for its unsinkable good cheer and hopeful outlook, and I read a few posts by way of catch-up. This one caught my attention in particular. It's so sweet and so simple, nothing I hadn't considered before on my own, yet it had a profound effect on my mind as I read it. It was as if I discovered a key in my hand that unlocked the door shut before me, and now I was free to walk into a different room, or any room at all. I felt a strong impression that I believe came from God: "Rob can't make you happy. No one can make you happy. Not even I [God] can make you happy, nor would I want to. The power to be happy is yours alone. It belongs to you. No one, not even I, can ever take it away." And I understood absolutely. There was no sense of correction or discipline in those words that filled up my head, only joyful acknowledgement, a sense of elated sharing. It was if God was saying to me: "In the end, it's all up to you. Isn't that FABULOUS?!" I got it. I agreed with it. I loved it. I was overjoyed. I wanted to shout! I felt an enormous surge of energy—power in the very finest sense; it was astonishing and it didn't leave me the rest of the evening. Just one brilliant little idea put me on my feet and back into my right mind. I could think, I could move, I could laugh. What a thought—even God can't make me happy. Of course He has the power to bless and help and heal and more; His is no insignificant power. But He, the greatest we know, even our anchor and salvation, cannot rule my will and desires never to trespass against my agency. And that is as exciting to perfect Him as it is to in-process me. I haven't adequate words to describe the entire experience, but I believe I was in communion with the Divine Nature. Mine and yours and His is the power to love and serve and give all we have and are, but not one of us is or can be responsible for another's happiness.

I knew it before. But now I know it in a way that makes me feel electric.

Can you see how it ties in with the first part of this post? I hope so. I am typed out.

I'm having other Big Thoughts (big to me anyway) about healers and healees and motes and beams and how all they relate to this recent landslide of thinks, but I've spent way too long already writing here, and it's time to make lunch.

Here's a reward for you if you made it to the end of this near-endless navel-gaze:

Talk to strangers

2010-06-18T14:00:00.007-06:00

Forget what your mother taught you, just this once. Talking to strangers is an excellent way to make new friends and, if you're photographer Justin Hackworth, capture some beautiful portraits while you're at it. Observe:

(Yeah, that's me and my mum-in-law, bottom left. She's got killer electric blue eyes, that woman!)

Mum and I were fortunate enough this year to be among the mothers and daughters selected to participate in Justin's annual 30 Strangers Project. I like to think we made a little history; we were the first pair of in-laws Justin shot for this excellent fundraiser benefitting the Center for Women and Children in Crisis. We were both so honored.

And we will be honored again if you will join us for the opening reception of the gallery exhibit: "30 Strangers III: Portraits of Mothers and Daughters." Come and get to know some new faces. Visit with neighbors and friends. Meet Justin and, if you like, schedule your own mother-daughter portrait session for a $75 contribution to the Center for Women and Children in Crisis. Most importantly, support those in our community who are the victims of domestic violence; let them know that they are not strangers.

I hope to see you at the party!

Opening Reception
Friday, July 2, 2010

from 6:00 till 9:00 p.m.
26 West Center Street, Provo Utah

Additional gallery hours
July 3 & 5 12pm - 8pm
July 6-9 2pm - 5pm

Here are some more details about the exhibit. And here's the press release.

Playing on the Carpet in the Basement in Pokey with My Niece While Wearing Patchouli Oil

2010-05-30T22:24:00.007-06:00

I am lying on the floor, enjoying a quick moment of down-time while my 4-year-old niece, who's been my near-constant companion since we arrived on Saturday, romps next to me. She pounces on me and snuggles against me for a hug.

Niece: You smell like your house.

Geo: Like my house?

Niece: Yes.

Geo: Is that good or bad?

Niece: That's good!

Geo: I'm glad to hear it.

Niece: You smell like cinn-..., cinna-... [she stops]

Geo: Do I smell spicy?

Niece: No. You smell like...

Geo: ?

Niece: ... cement!

Starling

2010-05-29T00:34:00.003-06:00

Found out earlier that a young woman I'm acquainted with, a family friend, is dying. Three weeks she's been given. Weeks! That's practically like budgeting out the rest of her life in hours. It's only been a few months since this beautiful girl was singing over the supper table to entertain us and our extended family. She was already well down the road to a professional singing career when she fell ill. And now she's nearly ready to leave home on a startlingly different kind of journey.

And seemingly to drive that hurtful point home, the sweet starling baby my tender-hearted mum-in-law has been lovingly tending and urging toward adulthood (so kindly that the homely little thing was practically calling her Mama after a couple weeks), was killed by Coco and/or Cowrie, the big dogs in residence. What a sad thing. I know plenty of people dislike starlings, but it's impossible not to be charmed by a friendly baby, however ratty looking, who sits contentedly on your finger and talks and chirps and asks comically for food.

So, it's been a thoughtful day.

We had a no-lunch lunch date with some wonderful people, friends I'm glad to claim. But afterward, when the chumming hour was over, more thoughts. They just wouldn't turn off.

Existential angst.
My age.
Other people's problems and griefs.
Mortality.
All the books I won't get around to reading even if I live another thousand years.
Library fines.
Stuff I dare not mention.
My dog's dental problems.

You know, right? Because you tumble down the stairs into your own dark spidery basement of thoughts sometimes too. I wasn't in the black abyss I sometimes visit, but I was definitely below ground in a musty place where the light doesn't adequately reach.

Even when Rob and I went out for Korean food this evening, I had a hard time shaking some of more troubling thoughts (i.e., far beyond the book and dog worries). And a strange fatigue got hold of me. I could barely keep my eyes open or stay upright. Felt like everything was shutting down. Even my speech was coming out in slo-mo. Some date I was!

But we drove out toward the lake in search of sandhill cranes and ended up walking along a tucked away path we haven't explored together since last October. What a beautiful evening—the light was golden, and the clouds and sun rays made an incredible show. The wind whipped my hair twentythirtyforty directions, but blew away the usual bug clouds and also churned up the lake till it seemed you could almost surf on it. Pelicans were everywhere. Elegant terns, with their hilariously incongruous buzzy voices, snapped through the air and mixed with countless swallows, all catching their dinner to the left and to the right—zip! swoop! A great blue heron rose up from the reeds just ahead of us. A muskrat. The species of bird I spotted in our neighborhood last week—black wings, yellow neck and breast and back, rosy red head. Wildflowers, yellow and purple, of which I pinched an armload for the dining room table. A houseboat anchored in a small swampy inlet area of the lake. Birds singing all around, beautiful songs. Shifting light. An airplane high above us, seeming to head straight for the sun. A good walk and then a slow ride around the lake, to spare Mudhoney some alignment problems from hitting too many holes too fast.

It was during the first part of our time at the lake when I caught a whiff of something fresh and flowering then got my body moving, one foot after another, and my thoughts corrected themselves; I'm wasting time on these worries, I said inside me. What if I had three weeks to live? What if today was my last day? What would I want to be doing? and thinking? It didn't take me long to boil it all down to gratitude—that's where I would want my thoughts to be centered, and what I would wish to use as a template for my "last" choices.

How would you wish to spend your day, if today was your last? I know it's almost cliché now, that question, but it doesn't bother me. It's still a good thing to consider.

I spent the rest of the evening trying to be present and notice everything beautiful. When we drove by a bank full of bunchy white weeds and they were thrashing in the wind as if they were in a mosh pit, we stopped and smiled at their wild party. It really looked to me like the earth was dancing. And why not? What could be better than feeling the wind in your flowers?

What if I really had only three weeks to live? What if today really was my last day?

I spent the evening focused on gratitude and loving and concentrating on righthererightnow, and everything about my day changed, in an instant. And energy returned. But maybe that just was the kimchee talking.

Head to Toe

2010-05-27T23:11:00.007-06:00

My last dream before waking this morning a real disturber. I was myself, but my family configuration was different—I was young and unmarried and living with a father and a sister. My mother was either dead or just gone. Some of the details elude me now, but I have a strong remembrance of discovering that I was not wanted. My father, who was never seen in my dream, wished me to leave his house immediately; he didn't love me, didn't want me in his space. His excuse was that I had an anger problem, though I didn't feel angry in my dream, just very sad and terribly confused. I asked my older sister if she wanted me to go away as well, but she wouldn't answer. She told me if I got help on my own and resolved my (so-called) problem, I could come and stay with her a while in California, but that was the extent of her response. I didn't know where to go or what to do; I only knew that my family was rejecting me. I began to wonder aloud to my sister if I could apply for a foster family, but then suddenly realized I was 37. Confusion, shame, grief, fear, loneliness, despair.

Was I ever glad to wake up. My morning prayer consisted of a long list of thank-yous having to do with being wanted. I realized in a fresh way that I am wanted—by my husband, some family, some friends, even a few acquaintances. And by God. And so on like that. What a relief. Who needs to be wildly popular? Not me. I just need my own place in the universe, that fluid spot where I belong.

The next thought that came to my mind had to do with wanting to protect others from that feeling, to sniff it out, to chase it away, to heal it. That's huge—the pursuit of a lifetime. Makes me feel fierce, the desire to defend against such ugly things as rejection and abandonment.

*sigh*

I'll keep sitting on this dream a while and see if it hatches.

(Like the broody analogy? Everything looks like a nest anymore. What's a hen to do?)

I want to tell you what Rob and I did yesterday, a creative project with friends, but it's another story I need to let gestate for a bit. I won't forget though; that's a promise.

What I can say is that two nights ago I stayed up late and hung pictures. (Family, are you gasping from the shock?) This will mean very little to you if you've not been in my house since I painted it white from floor to ceiling. That's right—white! Rob and I have been passing through some kind of phase—the emptier the better, in a way. Lots and lots of clean negative space. I have my hypotheses, but won't get into them now. Our house has been in this whitened, echoey state for some time now. But I dug around in the basement and pulled up some dusty adornments and measured and nailed and arranged. It's like Christmas. I was determined that the first items out of mothballs, so to speak, would be two large portraits of some ancestors of Rob's, either great-greats or great-great-greats; he doesn't recall. It's been years since we've seen these portraits out in Rob's grandmother's house, and for a long time the idea of them felt heavy and intimidating. I mean, even just space-wise, these family members ask a lot of us. But something finally opened in my head and I felt perfectly ready to find them honorific spots somewhere on the walls. Rob pried the nails out of the crate they were stored in and out first came the grandmama. We both had forgotten that she was painted with a baby on her lap, a round little child holding a beautiful Johnny jump-up in its hand. We had both remembered these ancestors as being older and more solemn, but looking at them now it's obvious that they were lovely, youthful people. They are not heavy presences in the least, but really delightful to have around. They watch over us as we eat together in the dining room. such welcome guests, and their absolute arrival feels like such a good omen.

Today, I babysat two of my young cousins, 6 and 2. Have you ever made life-sized paper dolls using little girls as templates? You should get yourself a roll of kraft paper and some markers and crayons and try it. It's the mostest fun, and who doesn't love having a flat, gaudy version of herself nearby to drape on the couch or tape to the wall?

Ready for more out-of-characterness? I made up a crochet pattern. For baby booties. One or two of you might remember the last attempt I made at baby booties eons ago when I hosted a knit group. They turned out really warm and... well, memorable. Frankenstein meets Ziggy Stardust, or something like that. Technicolor. I never had the guts to give them to anyone. I like to make babies happy, not give them issues requiring therapy later in life. My booties were great for some laughs. But today's? Cotton and silk, sweet, just right. Nothing remotely nightmare-inducing, just tiny toasty toes. (By the way, they're not for anyone at my house. Just in case you were wondering.)

That's about it for the progress report. Goodnight.