Can We See The Christ?

"Do you remember what the angel told the shepherds? 'Unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.' And they said unto themselves, 'Let us go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass.' (Luke 2:11,15) Like the shepherds of old, we need to say in our hearts, 'Let us see this thing which is come to pass.' We need to desire in our hearts. Let us see the Holy One of Israel in the manger, in the temple, on the mount, and on the cross. Like the shepherds, let us glorify and praise God for those tidings of great joy!" (President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Ensign, December 2010)

O Tannenbaum

On a Tropical Beach Somewhere

Remember when we drove up and down while a storm washed in and we listened to Wreckless Eric endlessly on repeat? Can we do that again in oh, say, eight days?*

Until then, all the chairs are finally occupied at the round table, we've got a new container of ho cho, and unlimited stories.

*Tell TW to gas up the Beemer.

A Star! A Star!

"At this focal point of all human history, a point illuminated by a new star in the heavens revealed for just such a purpose, probably no other mortal watched—none but a poor young carpenter, a beautiful virgin mother, and silent stabled animals who had not the power to utter the sacredness they had seen. UAdd a Note Shepherds would soon arrive and later, wise men from the East...But first and forever there was just a little family, without toys or trees or tinsel."
(Elder Jeffrey R. Holland)

I've read this the past three nights. Thanks, B. Full text here.

Illustration by Christopher Wormell, "Through the Animals' Eyes: A Story of the First Christmas."

Christmas here, please.

A little London-brick
wattle-and-daub Christmas.
Any takers?

Must Be Santa

Guess who else got to see Santa yesterday?

{Elder Kitchen, Big Guy in Red, Elder Fetzer and Bishop Balkman}
Happy St. Nicholas Eve! Hope you've rounded up your shoes
(and some carrots for St. Nicolas' horse)

I'll Build a Man That's Made of Snow

This morning after a pancake breakfast and a surprise visit from Santa,* I'm helping little children make cotton balls into snowmen. We made a couple demos ahead of time so they have an idea of what they're working towards, but they're free to do whatever they want with various craft supplies on the table (felt, pipe cleaners, pompoms, markers.) I'm amazed at what they come up with: snowmen on skis, a French snowmen with a beret, snowmen on pink couches watching TV. (Seriously). One child takes a pipe cleaner and shoves it through the cotton ball, bending the ends upward. "That's great," I say. "Those are great arms." He looks up at me deviously. "They're not arms. They're horns. I'm making a devil." (I think the devil snowman and the red-eyed one holding an ak47 are friends.) Nothing says Christmas like satanic snowmen.

*Items on this year's wish list whispered by children to Santa: a roller coaster. A brachiosaraus. A cow. A filing cabinet.

About That One Time

In the deep dark depths of the basement one night he asks me how much I think I've spent on pens. Although I'm well aware he's seen the cups that runneth o'er, full of felt tips and ballpoints on my drafting table, I know this is an answer he's not prepared to hear. In the same way he's not prepared to hear what my dry cleaning bill is. (Although part of me thinks he came face to face with that figure a few weeks prior when he tried to wipe batter that went splat across my peony pink silk top in his kitchen when we were making banana muffins one night because the bananas were starting to look like they had been through a battle.) Does he mean how much I've spent on pens in my life? Because that's impossible. Over the past year? Maybe I could ballpark it.

I suddenly felt like I was at the dentist. You know, the feeling you get when he asks if you floss regularly. You're wanting to say, "Define regularly," even though you're well aware your once-a-week, twice out of necessity on nights you eat corn on the cob, and three times the morning you see the dentist, isn't going to cut it. He's already got you in that vulnerable position--reclined in the chair, feet elevated like you're suffering from deep vein thrombosis. Then the assistant sticks a bib across your chest. And there's that light above you, which is like an interrogation in and of itself, beaming into your soul. After what feels like forever you manage a "There's always room for improvement," followed by a big-toothed grin (thank goodness you flossed three times) for extra measure.

There are some questions in life you just don't want to answer.

We spend so much time searching for someone to share everything with, and as much as we want to open up to them completely, sometimes we hesitate, for whatever reason. Part of us wants to keep some things a secret. Maybe we're afraid we'll run out of stories. Maybe it's so one day, fifty years from now when there's a moment of silence, we can turn to the other person and say, "Did I ever tell you about the time..."

snippets

I have to write four papers within the next two weeks, which wouldn't be that big of a deal, except that I have another paper due tomorrow, and I've been sitting at the table all day and I cannot think of a single thing I could turn into a paper. Only snippets of stories. Like how yesterday at the library we were reviewing Einstien when a modern-day version (crazy white hair, wrinkled forehead, fluffy mustache, a bit round around the edges) walked right passed our study room window with several books tucked under his arm. Then today, my sister came over and showed us how my niece can sit up for minutes at a time all by herself and the last time we saw her (four days ago) she couldn't do that. And isn't that remarkable? And how I've always prided myself on the fact that my cell phone has never gone off at an inappropriate time, but last night, in a flukey freaky accident, the alarm clock on my phone started ringing during a rather official presentation to some rather important individuals, and I couldn't get it out of my coat pocket to turn it off. And isn't that embarrassing? I guess there's a first time for everything. And just now, my neighbor brought over piping hot sweet rolls, and I was the only one home, so I chose the biggest one with the most frosting, and then rearranged the others on the plate so no one will ever know.* And my Dad sent me a note in the mail today, just because. And it's so cold outside that when I got back from stretching my legs on a study break, my lungs felt like they were bleeding. And just a few minutes ago Elton John's "Step Into Christmas" came on Pandora. My brother loves that song. I miss him and the thought of Christmas without him is, well, rather sad. But it's the first day of December, and that means E will be home in exactly 14 days, which is the most exciting thing, actually.** But none of that is enough to turn into a single story, let alone five. So I'll sit and stare until something leaks out and fills the page, which I hope happens soon.

*That is, until they read this. And when they do, all I have to say is nanny nanny poo poo.
**I sort of want to make a paper chain.

{photo by E}

double bubble, baby

Recently I was going through my sister's file of photographs and I found one of the two of us with mom and dad and Aunt B at the ice cream parlor. The one that grandpa designed with the twirling double ice cream cone on the outside. The picture was taken after a dance recital. We're wearing matching blue and white striped leotards with blue skirts. We both have ice cream smeared across our faces and pink ballet shoes on our feet.

Before the time when all I would order was mint chocolate chip, I would get bubble gum ice cream, the kind that had pieces of bubble gum mixed in. My sister liked it, too. I liked to save all the bubble gum on a napkin and count it at the end. My sister would try and do the same, but usually aborted mission halfway through, preferring the double-bubble method: eating bubble gum ice cream while chewing a big wad of bubble gum. That's how she's always been--all bubble gum. She takes life in one big gulp. She dives in head-first with a cheek full of pink bubble gum. She jumps off the highest platform at the pool. Skis the double black diamonds. Rides the fastest roller coaster in the park.

Now my sister's got this beautiful baby girl. When she arrived in the world, she was a bit blue because she wasn't quite ready to breathe. I watched my sister's face, pink with exhaustion, grow concerned while the nurses tended to her new little one. We held our breath as we waited for Naomi to take her first taste of air from this side of life. Today she's all bows and dainty hands and high pitched squeals when she smiles. Her cheeks get rosy after she's eaten, one of my Dad's favorite things about her (as if he can choose.) The other night at dinner I watched my sister put a spoonful of ice cream to Baby Naomi's lips. She's not quite sure how she takes her ice cream yet. But double-bubble or one piece at a time, she's got one smart mama to show her the ropes.

we gather together

The house is quiet -- the extra beds empty, the dishes washed, the platters put away, the candles burned down -- family on the road back home.

My nose gets a fourth and fifth helping of a pear apricot torte every time I open the fridge. The lone remaining pumpkin pie is being eaten inside out. We slowly scrape away at it on the counter, one bite at a time, all sharing the same fork.

Conversations evaporate above the dining table; the feeling of Thanksgiving now only an echo. Thursday afternoon and evening, when 32 of us gathered here for feasting*, I couldn't help but go around the table, adding each person to my list of blessings.

*And Turkey BINGO with prizes and guitar by Rog and philosophy lessons and baby holding and piano playing and picture taking.

Yellow Paper, Secret Notes and Magic Candles

Last night, at a triple birthday party (which ended up being double the triple) I got the only cupcake with a trick candle. I managed three wishes before someone snuffed my magic flame.

This morning we drove downtown early early. We could see all the way to Antelope Island in the Great Salt Lake. The clouds were painted shades of sherbet: rosy pinks, vibrant oranges and light violets against a sea-blue sky.

This afternoon I was sent on an early birthday scavenger hunt which lead me to Special Collections at the U of U Library. I had an hour with a rare book all to myself.* Full of hand-painted color wheels and hand-set letterpress about thoughts and theories on color, I was in heaven. I took copious notes on yellow paper provided by the library and tried not to get pencil lead on the pages. I flipped them forward, then backward and I read the introduction three times. I liked this part:

The study of color is integral to that part of art so often ignored: the art of the artists' materials.

Tonight I came home to two dozen roses the color of a sunset in a vase with eucalyptus leaves, (one of my favorite smells) and a book I know I'll refer to again and again. We read aloud the part at the beginning written by E.B. White, deemed by one worthy of doing such deeming, "the greatest essayist America ever hatched." His words made us laugh. Plus, the 10 o'clock news announced a blizzard of epic proportions blowing this way. I heart snow oh so much. (In celebration of Saturday's storm, we downed our first ho cho of the season.) All of this...

...and my birthday isn't even until tomorrow.

*Thank you to the scavenger hunt schemer. Thank you for my secret note. And the drawing of the big dipper.

hearts have colors, don't we all know?

We stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers and waited for an encore. People pulled out iPhones and cameras to capture a rare arrangement on film. I reached for my back pocket to follow suit, but returned my arm to its folded position across my chest. In this world of everything at our fingertips, there is something beautiful about impermanence. Something almost transcendental in fleeting moments. Knowing that the few hundred of us in that spot were the only people who would witness the way she decided to edit on-the-spot, lengthening some notes here and there was, in the moment, magnificent. She added an extra verse we'd never heard before and raised certain notes up an octave. I wanted it all to sink in. I'd leave the YouTube posting to those who felt it necessary. We clapped and whistled and then it was over. The crowd scattered, shoulders leaving shoulders, breaking out into the cold night.

Isaac Newton Knows How to Party

We forgot to close the door to the study room tonight, so the whole library got to hear a brief and passionate discourse on equilibrium until the man in a green shirt with green bleach blotches and tortoise rimmed bifocals came to shut it because for heaven's sake "There are people trying to write papers out here!"

Nothing, however, was said to the mother of three who held screaming twins, one under each arm ready to fire like bazookas, while the other held fast to her pant legs as she tried to make her way through the aisles to find "Dora the Explorer" on DVD. Nor the pair of tweens laughing loudly over an issue of Teen Vogue in the corner by the water fountain. Or the dude slowly going deaf because his laptop was giving an unsolicited (he thought seemingly silent) concert of the kind of music with the language my father doesn't even know exists. Or the woman outside petitioning every exiter about the latest scandal Walmart is inflicting on our innocent souls and how can we even sleep at night?!

So, pardon us if we seem to have gotten a little caught up in fictitious David and Goliath sling shot simulations and Newton's law of inertia. Heaven forbid we talk above a whisper when you're trying to write a paper out there, because we're learning about constant velocity in here thank you very much, and maybe just for once we might be 0.000001 nanomilligrams excited about it.

Oh, Beautiful for Spacious Skies

We like to think the people we love are made of steel. That they are stronger than anything that can take them from us. Strong like the tool used to carve letters into granite, “In Loving Memory.” Strong like the brass trumpet that plays slowly the twenty-four notes in Taps when a soldier is laid to rest. Strong like the heartbeat in our chest we cover with our hand during the twenty-one gun salute.

He was equal parts steel and grace. Steel like the Brooklyn Bridge in the city he grew up in, which is why when I visit part of me feels like I’m going home. Steel like a naval ship or the strings on his guitar. Graceful like the swan dives he used to do at the public pool. Graceful like his rower’s stroke down the Hudson. Or the way he used to read poetry during morning devotional at family reunions.

I feel him in the majesty of purple mountains and when we sing, “Oh beautiful for spacious skies.” When I sit across the table from my uncle who visits from Boston. Time has etched the lines on his face to look just like Grandpa’s. Or in moments like last Tuesday when I put my card in the machine to vote.

Maybe I’ve been waiting for strength. Or for the mound of dirt to go down. For grass to grow over the spot like a scar where they opened up the earth and put him in. With little daylight left, I drove up the hill. It took me a few minutes to find the marker. Brushing away a few dead leaves, I felt the letters with my hand. I bent down and stuck a small American flag in the soggy autumn ground.

Chocolate Marshmallow Cookies

I made these cookies for a shower on Saturday.
Anything chocolate and marshmallow--sign me up.

Makes about 2 dozen

• 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
• 3/4 cup cocoa powder
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
• 1 cup sugar
• 1 large egg
• 1/2 cup milk
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• 12 large marshmallows, cut in half horizontally

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt; set aside.
2. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add egg, milk, and vanilla, and beat until well combined. Add reserved flour mixture; mix on low speed until combined.
3. Using a tablespoon or 1 3/4-inch ice cream scoop, drop dough onto ungreased baking sheets, about 2 inches apart. Bake until cookies begin to spread and become firm, 10 to 12 minutes.
4. Remove baking sheets from oven, and place a marshmallow, cut-side down, in the center of each cookie, pressing down slightly. Return to oven, and continue baking until marshmallows begins to melt, 2 to 2 1/2 minutes. Transfer cookies to a wire rack to cool completely before frosting.
5. Spread about 1 tablespoon of frosting over each marshmallow, starting in the center and continuing outward until marshmallow is covered.

Recipe from here.

ゆで団子

Between painted bamboo murals, we met for Japanese. We started with soup, perfect for the first snow of the year. Cupped hands, we sipped in unison taking longer slurps when just seaweed was left. Rice paper lanterns lit up our little cubicle inside the restaurant. Over the main course we spoke about travel. He said, if you really pay attention, Europe changes you. I said, I'm a bit rusty with chopsticks.

Halfway through sukiyaki and gyoza, a small Asian man shuffled down the aisle with his cane and peeked his head around the screen. We spoke briefly of architecture, of Tadao Ando. I told him I liked the rice paper lanterns and he told me the bamboo screens were original to the 40 year old restaurant he and his family come every Tuesday for lunch. He left us to finish our meal in the bamboo grove.

Compliments of the gentleman who just left, the waiter said when he brought the check. He wanted you to try his favorite sushi. Sushi for dessert, courtesy of the architect who eats in a building of his own design each Tuesday around noon. We scraped bright green wasabi off the bamboo platter as light diffused from the lanterns down onto the table. We could hear the chef in the kitchen chopping cabbage.

from the edge of the end

It was dusk. They walked along the river. The sun slipped between the columns of a building and spilled in stripes down the front steps. A group of children tumbled out and down the stairs, towards a school bus. He whispered something in her ear, something that made her laugh.

Down by the water, the trees cast long shadows along the concrete. They stepped about the tips of the treetops, across the silhouetted branches. Her hand left his arm every so often to curl her hair around her ear or to fuss with the buttons on her coat.

They walked up the steps. It was empty. Except for one man.

Oh Happy Day

happy birthday to my sister
{who has always looked
better in a baseball hat than I have}

Dear Bibberlicious,
Happy birthday. I love you more than Ken's Kash penny candy, or that lemon chicken we used to make when we played restaurant at Aunt B's. More than the turtle we found in Grandpa's garden. I love you more than you love Wheat Thins and melted cheese, your Billy Joel River of Dreams CD (back in the day) or Shop N' Go fro yo. I love you more than samples from the deli at Crystal Palace, burnt mallows at The Lot, and the pile of grass behind the garage at the red brick house we liked to sit on. More than peanut butter square day at Bonneville. More than playing Round Robin ping pong on Grandpa's table with Jessie and Carly, or bean bags at Grandma and Grandpa Haglund's. I love you more than making things out of cardboard boxes at 1936 or more than you loved digging to China with Romney and Brian. I love you more than the round table in our playroom and more than the sparkly butterfly tile bathroom. I love you more than you loved wearing khaki shorts and two t-shirts, or more than I loved GAP jeans with the patch on the back pocket and my Wendy Spencer bows. I love you more than water weenie-ing on Yuba Lake. I love you more than Mad About You re-runs. More than setting Rich in front of the fireplace or telling him he was born without...you know. I love you more than driving really fast over train tracks in the Rose Shop van. More than pastries in Paris or cello and violin with Kate and Kristin or finally reaching the end of Pachabel's Cannon, the quartet version. I love you more than Sundays with the brothers from the N.V. spent watching Unkle Pensoir bounce up the stairs on that weird toy. I love you more than ALL the salt box houses on Cape Cod.

Thank you for being my friend and confidant. Thank you for telling me it's OK I'm not good at physics and for offering to beat up dudes free of charge. Thank you for marrying D and for bringing Baby Naomi to our family. Seeing you as a mother makes me the most happy. Thank you for letting me keep that brown sweatshirt that you probably don't know I still have.

I luff you. I lurve you. I loaf you. I loughph(x)e you.
Marfie

on being thankful

I couldn't get over this yesterday--the way the shades fade
into one another like colors on a color wheel.
{Photo of 1920*}

-To N for coming to town for wedding festivities and for helping me hoist chairs into the car in skirts and heels. Please move here already.
-To EAFT for the video. Thank you a million times a million. (Plus infinity.)
-To the men we watched jousting at the park yesterday. We want you to be the subjects of a sociological study.
...And, to the man with the red arrows. You are our favorite forever.
-To PP who came ever so subtly dressed as Dracula to church last Sunday.
-To the Beehives. And all the YW.
-To Mr. L for the text messages.
-To George Washington Carver for inventing the peanut, and subsequently other things peanut-related. Like peanut butter.
-To the honey bees for making honey to go with peanut butter.
-To mom for making comfy quilts to snuggle up with.
-To Andrew for chatting with me about architecture school over tomato soup.
-To Elder Chard for kind emails from SeaTown.
-To autumn for being so jaw-droppingly gorgeous this weekend.

*Dear 1920,
I knocked on the door to ask permission, but no one came, so I started snapping.

words

I keep a book of words I don't know, words that are new to me. I write them down and try to use them in sentences like we had to do in elementary school.

I've been thinking a lot about words. Words we read. Words we write. The words we choose to speak to one another. The words, for one reason or another, we decide to keep to ourselves.

Reading words makes me want to write words. To combine words into sentences, and sentences into stories. Last week I got to listen to a famous essayist. He calls himself a story addict. He said he tells stories to crack open windows and doors inside him. Not only to let things out, but to let things in. Like laughter. Or tears.

Sometimes when those we love are far away, the written word is the only thing that connects us.

Sometimes the only way we can say things is by not saying them at all, but rather by writing them out, one word at a time.

There are times of silence when all is still and a million words swarm around in my head like a storm. I cannot find a beginning or an end to all the words words. So instead I say nothing. The moment or the feeling is too big and there are no words. Only the absence of them.

There are sacred words like the words of Christ and the words of the living prophets. Words like those that make up what we believe and know to be true can be written inside us -- not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God. Not in tables of stone, but in fleshy tables of our hearts. (2 Cor. 3:3).

Monkey Monday

This little monkey came to visit last night. Happy November. Hip! Hip!

the tablecloth trick

He brought a bottle of San Pellagrino for an object lesson on frictional force. After all the object lessons were over, he told her where to get the best Philly Cheese steak in the city. But he'll see her long before she goes to Philly.

Last night after the snow stopped falling, we convened at the round table. After a few moments discussion, it was unanimous: despite the snow and cold, we were going out. A quick secret mission. Just down and back. No one would even notice we'd gone.

Then this morning, in a twist of fate and destiny, (and perhaps some unknown external force) their paths crossed. 7:55 a.m. and there he was in his rolled jeans and great shoes. (He has really great shoes.) He opened the door for her and she walked right through.

eventually all things merge into one

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

paul mcclean, a river runs through it

the weber in october

The Sunday Stompdown

Last night at midnight, we had a stomp. Minus the music. And maybe it was more of a flood rescue party. But despite the disaster, we managed to enjoy ourselves. We used every towel in existence to soak up mud and water that seeped inside the house from the trench in the front yard. Just a few photos (among many) we took for evidence. As in, we need them just in case the poor plumber (who thought it would be okay to leave a gaping hole in the ground on a weekend when it was pouring rain) ends up being guilty. Really they're just to send to the Board of Trustees. For documentation purposes. We're not pointing any fingers.

Hayley was the project manager.

Maybe I made her pose for this photo. Afterward she stood here for quite some time offering words of wisdom, as per usual, on life and love.

The plus in this very minus of a situation: there was lots of time for Miss D to ponder the future of this space. It looks mighty bright.

Hot Chocolate and the Charles River

Last night we stopped for hot chocolate. I got ice cream instead. Over hot chocolate and ice cream, we talked about Boston, the 1812 Overture and Sparkies. We drove home along Second Avenue while the windshield wipers tried to keep up with the raindrops.

When We Were Very Young

At the bank today, the teller called me "Ma'am."

Every so often I catch myself doing something I'm probably too old to do, like today at the grocery store. In a brief moment of youthfulness, I hopped on the back of my shopping cart and rode down the aisle. I had to stop when I rounded the corner and almost hit a young father and his son.

Last weekend at a wedding in Midway, when the DJ turned up K-Ci and Jo Jo, I was one step short of joining the conga line (full of teenagers). And sometimes at Young Women's, I forget I'm one of the leaders.

I guess there are worse things than singing so loud in the car you don't hear the fire engine coming. (Thank goodness for flashing lights.) And perhaps if no one sees you lick the spatula before slipping it into a sink full of suds no one will ever know.

But back to the grocery store today: As I was pulling out of the parking lot, an elderly man shuffled towards me. His gnarled knuckles held tight to the handle of his cart. In the rear view mirror I read his clenched lips: Now where's my car? He put one foot on the bottom rung of the cart and kicked up the other. As I pulled away he was happily sliding down the parking lot, hopefully in the direction of his car.

in the hollow of his hand

Yesterday we read in Isaiah. I think it will take me a lifetime to understand that book.

There are many things it will take me a lifetime to understand. Like why some people leave this earth so soon, or why others seem to take a while to get here. How healthy hearts can just stop beating. Why car breaks and marriages fail. That patience takes practice. How sometimes the best way to learn is to learn to listen. Or why the heart, with its capacity to make us feel so whole, can sometimes make us feel the opposite. And how the death of something, like a falling leaf or a falling star, can be so beautiful.

This summer I took a friend to a favorite spot to look at the stars. I promised an impressive view, but when day turned to night, clouds hovered, intent on dragging their heels across the horizon. I kept looking up in hopes they would hurry. My mood matched the meteorology until an hour or so later when the clouds cleared. We stood so tiny under the tide of the Milky Way, and tried to connect the dots. There were so many stars our eyes hurt. Comprehending something so big is like trying to cup the universe in your hands.

Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the spam and comprehendeth the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance?

And I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them.

One thing I do know, something I am slowly beginning to understand: As vast and incomprehensible as life and the universe which surrounds it can seem, the single most important thing to the shepherd of us all is the worth of an individual soul.

Arches

I'm sure you've heard:
It's all about shades of grey these days.
Loving these two interiors, especially the arches.

Dreaming of cozy spaces,
listening to Brooke Fraser (thanks, Liv)

and studying Mr. Newton's Laws.

If I had some free time, I'd be perusing all of these today.

{images}

Sometimes

Sometimes I can't handle the cuteness...

So we have a pre-dinner photo shoot wherein I take
about 30 photos of this little one.

singing in the

There's something to be said for someone who will sing to you on the other end of the phone. (It's a bonus if they get you to sing back.)

Update

Still no furniture (the bar stools in the kitchenette are from upstairs), but here's the finished build-out of the basement I've been working on.
Here are photos when we were "in the thick of it," a while back.

The bookshelves in the hall have already been put to good use.We took a break for the summer (and because I
decided to go back to school)
but we'll be back in full swing in a few weeks. More photos here.

go straight passed the lake

In a small town, behind the butcher's counter in a grocery store, a boy puts on a white apron. He cuts two big pieces of prime rib, nice and thick.

Down in the valley, the smell of barbecued steak wafts through an open door. On the table are fresh tomatoes. And cookies for dessert.

and come home in the evenin'

Just when she thought she knew everything about him, he'd sing Carrie Underwood word for word on the way to breakfast. Or he'd cue Angel From Montgomery when she walked through the door. Or, up in the mountains, amid aspen trees and a running river, he'd grill her a cheeseburger. He knew the perfect ratio of ketchup to mustard. And to hold the onions.

Once they got in trouble for laughing during the symphony. They couldn't help it; they could rarely stifle their laughter in inappropriate situations.

Just give me one thing
That I can hold onto
To believe in this living
Is just a hard way to go

for my mother

All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.
|Abraham Lincoln|

happy birthday, mom

Saturday morning, it was snowing in the Uintas

I promised I would post these...

...and I'm a girl who keeps her promises.

Once upon a time...

This little lady got herself married.
(Once upon a time we were roommates in a yellow brick house.)

The wedding was lovely. There were flowers. And singing. And cake.
And a tandem bike ride away from Temple Square.
Congratulations, Andersons!

Observations from a Physics Class

The Vanilla Wafer boy, the one who skateboards from the bus stop to class in gray shoes with no laces, brought Skittles this week. Green are his favorite.

As a lead-in to a lecture on momentum, our professor asked who likes golf. I wanted to raise my hand. The guy from Texas, the one who got 100 percent on the test, is a golfer.

My professor had eight pens in his shirt-front pocket: five green Pilot G2's and three Bic fine point. I counted them when he came up the aisle to make fun of a dude wearing a USC sweatshirt. The pens sit in front of his calculator, the one he got for seven dollars at Kmart. The one he takes everywhere, including church -- in case he needs to know the acceleration of an object, like a church program paper airplane in free-fall towards the the widow with the purple hair. Or the roll away Cheerio set free by a two year-old running down the aisle, much to the chagrin of his mother, who next week, will hopefully pack Rice Chex. They can't roll.

I spent the majority of class reading poetry and watching the green to red Skittles ratio remain relatively equal, one red for every green. (I like the red best). The remainder were eaten by the handful before we parted for our next class.

Confession

One of my professors makes fun of blonds (even dudes) and people from Texas. It's hilarious and everyone knows he's kidding.

I don't do dumb things very often. However yesterday I did something really dumb. Embarrassingly dumb. In front of a new group of friends. Within seconds, hundreds of people knew. Truly, hundreds. It could be because it's been a while since I've done something extremely stupid. Or because of the late hour.

After all was said and done though, I laughed harder than I've laughed in, oh, let's say a year. I'm pretty sure I pulled a muscle. Kathryn called it the sleepover kind of laughing. All the embarrassment was swallowed up in laughter (and the ensuing encores of laughter, which lasted until 1:30 am.)

book nook eulogy

They moved my favorite section in the bookstore. It's not completely the end of the world, only sort of. The art section used to flow into the architecture section and from there formed a rivulet into books on interior design. It was this seamless coming together of all things beautiful, an endless ocean of inspiration.

Up a story, I'd build a top-heavy skyscraper, removing books one level at a time. I was uninterrupted, minus the ambitious do-it-yourself-er who would wander over into interior design only to find that the measure twice cut once sort of books were on a different set of shelves.

Now I have to trudge through periodicals and the buy-one-get-one-free table only to arrive next to the Cafe where a girl in workout gear sips espresso and reads Shape. Then there's the dude in a fly fisherman's vest checking out the travel guide to Montana. In the section about making a house a home, I feel rather homeless.

The bright side: Sometimes I'm not so fond of escalators...

i'm always in this twilight

I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you.

|florence and the machine|

Vanilla Wafers and the Future

Tuesday night I thought I might die. Like literally fall over and d-i-e. And while that may sound a little dramatic, in my realm of things slash my then state of constant panic, it sounded better than trying to survive the 24-hours that followed.

And then I saw my high school math teacher and she said It's all about the process, which gave me hope.

And then at Institute we talked about hope and I met a boy, who over coconut caramel chocolate chip brownies, told me he's not so great at math either. Then I came home and read a story about a woman named Hope who survived the internment camps and thought, It could be a lot worse.

And tonight this dude in the front row shared his Vanilla Wafers. And someone in my writing class said my story sounded like a painting. And when we were getting in the car after class we were whistled at. Twice.

And then we ate fresh peaches.
And there were pumpkins at the market today.

So while things seemed bleak, there's hope in new friends who hate functions and dudes who bust out Vanilla Wafers and pass them your direction as the lecture's about to go Snoozeville. And kind people who compliment your writing. There's hope in a box full of peaches and a crate full of pumpkins.

And tomorrow is October and October is my favorite.

to the hip hip hop, a you don't stop

{I'm not going to admit how many times I've watched this, but if a certain someone up in Seattle hasn't done the same, I will be disappointed. And no, I'm not talking about my missionary brother. If he has watched this, it's trouble with a capital "T." And we all know what that means.}

A few years ago, in the wee hours of the morn while dancing in the kitchen, I found out my sister knows all the lyrics to Rapper's Delight. If it had been appropriate, I would have made her sing it at her wedding. I would have danced. Voluntarily. This is a little shout out to her, and to Mr. MKG, who does the sweetest Tootsie Roll this side of the Mississippi. Especially upon request slash force, late at night in the beams of your headlights.

**You can FF to the part where they start rapping (about 1:10).

Song 2

Today I got off on University Parkway, which I never do, but I was craving an "O Red Mango," (that's what my sister calls it) which is located on the eternal stretch of asphalt that is University Parkway in Orem. As I drove past UVU, fond memories came flooding back and the British beats of Blur popped into my head. Suddenly I was riding shot-gun on the way to pick up a little brother from math class, prepped for a full days worth of stories, and an afternoon of gourmet snacks followed by a bit of color theory.

I passed half a dozen car dealerships along that millennial stretch of highway yesterday. Unfortunately none of them advertised a DeLorean (B Money discussed at length his plans to build a gold one at lunch the other day, so if I was really desperate to drive down Memory Lane I could have asked him.) Going back in time wasn't an option. Instead, I cued the soundtrack to the Blockbuster hit, "Levi's Jump" on my ipod, curbed my Red Mango craving and headed to the physics lab.* Gone are the blessed days of youth. (Sigh).

*Boy, could that place use a healthy dose of Unkle P.

Starry Night Over the Seine

Last week I took a client to pick up a few oil paintings. While we waited for her artwork (wrapped in brown paper) she told me about the first time she saw Gustav Klimt's Der Kuss in Austria. It was at the top of a long winding staircase, all symbols and shades of bronze and she was completely overcome. It made me think of Paris and the Musée D'Orsay and how I went back three times. After the last time, we walked along the Seine, lined with bateaux mouches twinkling like stars in a river of dark blue. It reminded me of Van Gogh's Starry Night Over the Rhone. I knew then that I'd never see the sky the same.