please pass the tuna

Tonight at dinner he said I could choose anything. That didn't exactly help me narrow it down. Feeling briefly brave, I chose sushi. The thought of a mano e mano with bright pink raw tuna toyed with me. My last fresh tuna tete-a-tete occured about a month ago. I was on a date and I...tolerated it, shall we say? "Sooo good, right?" he said with an inflection as if receiving a complimentary Japanese back massage while eating his raw tuna, which he apparently loves more than life itself, or so his behavior lead me to believe. "Yeah," I said very unconvincingly. I had one bite and ended up swallowing the thing whole with half a glass of water.

Tonight I knew the tuna wouldn't come solo. So, "Sushi," I said. I hoped this sushi experience might be like my cantaloupe experience of the early 1990's wherein, out of politeness, I ate all the cantaloupe on my plate at my elementary school friend's house every day. By the end of the school year, I could manage without incident. Sure, I downed three big bites of macaroni and cheese immediately following cantaloupe consumption, but it got the job done, and left a nice creamy Kraft cheese taste in my mouth. Raw tuna. Cantaloupe. Same thing, right?

Chopsticks in hand, and sushi before us he said, "Let's do this!" (Long pause) Not exactly a stellar response on my end. Mr. Up-for-Anything's voice lost steam upon delivery because I was off in a color contrast state of consciousness, enjoying the two-toned green avocado against the blushing pink tuna, all with a halo of bright white rice. "Let's do this," I repeated, mustering up my best here-goes-nothin' attitude. I took a deep breath and then I dunked. Soy Sauce City. I lathered that thing up right nice in that soy sauce and added more wasabi than most, just in case. Holy Mackerel. I downed those suckers fast! Probably a lot faster than is considered polite, but I did it. And without even a bite of macaroni and cheese to chase it down. I pointed with my chopsticks, gesturing for him to take the last roll. "Oh, I insist." He polished off the last of our meal, not a grain of rice left on the plate.

Post tuna pop, he motioned for me to try the ginger. "It cleanses the palette." Had I known this information sooner, I would have been all over that ginger. "And," he added, "It fends off nausea." The ginger went in faster than the sushi rolls! The moral of this sad (as in pathetic on my part) sushi story: Cantaloupe and sushi aren't exactly the same thing. But macaroni and cheese and ginger? You could stick those two together, no problem.

Walking a Tight Rope

World Famous Muriel. We made Aunt B read the story over and over again. Muriel was our favorite detective. She saves the day by returning all the stolen paper lanterns just in time for the Queen's birthday party and then gets to walk the tightrope in front of all the party guests. She's wearing her blue hat as she puts one pointy shoe in front of another. She safely makes it to the other side without a glitch; no need for the safety net below. That's just one of the reasons she's World Famous.

* * *

When I practice my violin, I like to balance on one foot. Maybe because of Muriel, or maybe because that's how cousin Matt plays sometimes, and he is almost World Famous. He travels around winning fiddling contests, which, in my book makes him very nearly World Famous. It drove my Mom nuts when I was younger, but I found the balancing act slash bowing exercises routine just the ticket to pass the tick-tock of the clock a little quicker.

In the recital the week before, things had gone perfectly; flawlessly. So well, in fact, that my teacher let me skip my lesson that week, as long as I practiced my Federation piece several times a day, and at least once in front of an audience of two or more people. I flew through my piece, every note memorized. Every crescendo. Every coda. I had the music there as my safety net, and not once during that week did I lose my balance.

* * *

My mind went blank. My body froze, except that it couldn't freeze. Not here. Not now. Not when I was on stage without my music as a safety net to break my fall. The piano went on as I bobbled back and forth with my violin bow, air brushing the strings. I tried to picture the staff in my mind, the place on the page where I had tripped up. Missed a note. Skipped a passage. Nothing. I looked out at my Mom, my stand-in safety net. The music was sitting on her lap. I desperately hoped her eyes held the answer. That the notes could somehow be written on her forehead. The pianist played to the end of the section and stopped. It was just me now. Solo. In a room full of fellow violin students, proud parents and picky judges, Queens awaiting my Big Top performance on the tightrope and I was desperately trying to find my way to the other side. That was the moment I knew I was anything but World Famous.

It was minutes before I was able to compose myself, conduct a little detective work as to where I was in my piece and get back on track. Even then, I was only able to remember a few lines. At the end, I paused at the tip of my bow as I'd been taught, took a bow, and sat down. I was humiliated. Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched the next student and the next and the next, all perform unchained melodies that rang through the acoustically-sound room, rendering the safety net surplus.

When the certificates were handed out, I was marked an entire level below almost everyone in the room. I knew it, and I knew they knew it. I had failed. Fallen face-down into the net and stayed there. I was afraid to get back up again. How could I rebound after such a fall?

* * *

The next year, my Federation score was crucial. With my previously poor performance, I had already forfeited my chance at a gold cup. But this year I was eligible. With stage fright at an all-time high, I took my place on the stage. Poised and prepared, I played the best I could. I left that night, not world-famous, but with a gold cup in hand, just famous enough to start practicing my bowing exercise balancing act once again.

There is something to be said for taking risks. For preparing. For getting up on that tightrope and taking the first step...and the second...and the third. For putting one foot in front of the other until you slowly reach the other side, not matter how long it takes. Stand tall. Breathe deep. Plant your feet firm. Keep your head level and your eyes skyward. Then, if you happen to fall, take advantage of the rebound. Enjoy the possibilities of it. Sure there will be other performers around us whose lives are an unbroken chain of perfect melodies. Those who hit every note. However, for most of us the ascending path is punctuated by times of descent and downfall. But, there is always a second chance. As the author Sam Keen (who knows a bit about falling into nets himself) states, "What I have managed to create after falling has often turned out to be better than the trick I planned. Failing gives fallible human beings the chance to start over." This is why man, woman, and society needs a safety net. Even World Famous girls name Muriel.

No Parking

Sometimes, sometimes I miss living in Provo. (It sounds better if I say I miss living at BYU, doesn't it. Yes. I believe it does). I miss living between walls as thin as tissue paper, (therefore equally as sound-proof) and in stairwells where the smell of every one's dinners would indefinitely collide (sometimes for days) creating a sort of goulash of Lean Cuisines, frozen pizza and Strawberry Poptarts. I miss the feeling of family right outside my window, the grass between apartments our collective playground. I miss the stepping stones. I miss having peanut M&M's thrown at the bay window by the boys in 311 and playing executive billiards, even if I always lost. I miss stealing LoveSacs, sitting in lawn chairs gabbing until the early hours of the morning and making quesadillas for L&L at 1 am. I miss popping screens off of windows. I miss visiting The Shed and taking Spence to Costco to buy roses for whichever girl he was currently trying to woo. (So glad he ended up with Sara!) Mostly, I miss the people; those dear souls who sat beside me on Sundays, below the Periodic Table of the Elements, while we listened to Bishop Ballard's weekly challenges. BOND.

Once, I parked my car in the slot marked 117. It was adjacent to the spot assigned to our apartment and...vacant, which was basically unheard of at that late hour. It was just for the night. I didn't think my new neighbors would mind. It was the first week of school. No mid-terms, projects or papers to pen. I'd move it in the morning when students awoke and both bodies and autos dispersed. I wish I had taken a picture of the outcome of my misdeed: huge block letters made from silver duct tape, a midnight maneuver by my new "neighbors." YOU PARK HERE, it read. A large arrow pointed from my car to the spot labeled 216 where my roommate's car still sweetly slumbered. I pulled the tape from the cinder block wall which separated our complex from the complex behind us* and walked around the corner to the dumpster. I threw that sticky stuff away. It took me about 3 days to get up enough courage to fess up to the sticky situation I had gotten myself into.

The good news: the tenants of 117 became dear friends. (I'll forgive Cody his smelly Costco pot stickers, which permeated the stairwell for days on end). I saw Brady (the duct tape artist) a year ago at a Santa B get-together. He's all grown up and responsible (meaning he always parks where he's supposed to), with a wife and two darling kids. He's an attorney now. And, if I had to, I'd call him up to represent me. Especially if, say, I needed to get out of a really bad parking ticket.


*Speaking of big block letters, the complex directly to the south is called "The Colony." (I could write a whole post about the names of apartment complexes in Provo, but I'll save that for a later date, or for some other blogger who feels prompted to do so). The Colony's sign is painted with reflective paint so you don't run right into the sign (which you would, because it is smack-dab, dead-center, right in the middle of the entrance to the place.) Some geniuses whom I will forever love, scratched the paint off of the "Y" in Colony, so at night the sign reads, "The Colon." Ha! And people think there's nothing to do for fun in Provo!

little rascals

When Linds and I would go to the grocery store, we'd say (from childhood days spent watching Sesame Street) "A loaf of bread, a container of milk, a stick of butter." (Or however it goes.) Em taught me to open a carton of eggs and run my fingers along both rows to check for cracks. Mom showed me how to situate the eggs in a bag, nesting them safely away from things such as containers of milk. Maren taught me to like organic milk. Dad taught me how to put the clutch all the way in while simultaneously hitting the breaks. And, in third grade, under the tutelage of Mrs. Banks, I read the book "Rascal." (That was the same class that N. showed the entire class how to lock Mrs. Banks in the closet, but that's worthy of a blog post all its own, and entirely unrelated.)

The other night, I was headed home from the grocery store quite late. I had been careful to place my carton of eggs on the other side of the back seat, far from my half-gallon of organic milk. (It is also essential to the plot to mention that among the grocery items in the back seat were a small pot, nestled inside a larger pot, both of which were situated within a glass pyrex pan.) I pressed my foot to the clutch and reversed out of the parking spot.

Just as I turned down the main street, I spotted three sets of eyes which glowed in the beams of my headlights. Gray and black stripes streaked across the dark of the night, three midnight bandits up to no good. I put the clutch in at the same exact time my foot hit the breaks, but it was too late. No, this story doesn't end with a taxodermist, although Al could teach me all I need to know about that. Right as I slammed on the breaks, barely missing those little Rascals by the skin on their noses, I said aloud, "Eggs!" And then, the crash: a loaf of bread, a container of milk, a stick of butter, a carton of eggs and one large crash. It was like New Year's Eve in September -- pots clanging pans, eggs hitting pots. I didn't dare look. My Driver's Ed teacher taught me to keep my eyes on the road. I continued home.

When I drove into the driveway, I feared the worst. I lifted one pot lid at a time, revealing what I thought would be one yolky, possibly glassy mess. Not exactly the midnight casserole I had in mind. However, as I pulled the plastic bag with the eggs inside from the rubble, I opened the carton and ran my fingers across each row of eggs. Not a single crack. Apparently 12 very wise mother hens had taught their eggs the importance of helmets. We all walked away without a single scratch. Now, if only those racoons would teach their children to look both ways before crossing the street...

Observation 1

She would ask me to write what I saw. To show her; not tell her. The colors in the sky. The way sunlight hit the crab apple tree. "Observations," she'd call them. The sky is blue, I thought. Blue with white clouds. I'd sit and wonder how on earth I was supposed to pontificate upon that for fifteen minutes; how many different ways I could say blue and white. Then I'd stare out the window pretending to create a composition in my mind to later transfer to the page. My mind would drift to which pair of soccer shorts were clean enough to wear (blue? white?) to practice that afternoon or what K and I were going to do that weekend. Or I'd look at the way my A's slanted on the page and how my T's and H's were almost the same height. I'd sluggishly scrawl a few lines of this or that before we moved on to grammar, then art. The next day I'd be back at the kitchen table with four more "Observations" to write, alone, without her to guide me, to prod me along. Sitting idly by, I let the world happen all around me as I stared at the way I had written Observation across the top of the paper, pious at the placement of the dot dead-center above my "I" or the roundness of my "O."

Little did I know that those afternoons spent gazing out at the light as it sifted through the leaves in the backyard would shape the way I felt about the world. The way I felt about recording events in my life. That her instructions to exactly and absorbedly (with dreamy attention) stare out the window for fifteen minutes at a time would change the way I processed every flicker of golden light around me. That years later I'd read what others have written about light and shadow and know exactly what they were seeing because I've used similar words to describe similar things.

Two nights ago, I opened up my journal for the first time in over two months. The desire to write had vanished back in June with 80 degree afternoons and nights when the cooler could be left off. I've been wary to fill its lines. Worried my words wouldn't be sufficient. Unsure of my ability to correctly capture what has been going through my mind. The same has been true with blogging. I'm never sure who reads what I've written. I have learned this is much more for me than anyone else, but suddenly I became afraid of what everyone around me thought. This feeling of inability to record recent happenings created a critic -- one inside my head and perhaps one outside of it -- one who was always measuring, comparing. Throwing anxious doubts my way. I lost sight of my true self, the one who was trying to free what I really thought from what I thought I ought to think. All creativity had been killed. Drafts sat in my post box, all unfinished. Unpublished. I left all unsaid. Unrecorded. Idle.

It wasn't until today -- this afternoon -- when I pulled a book from the shelf, that the desire came back; that I cornered the critic and stared him in the face. Thanks to wise words from m. and Ueland's book, I've been able to harvest my thoughts and kick the critic out of the corner for good. Well, at least for now.

Tonight as I gazed out at the warm evening light that bathed marble columns in Memory Grove, I let go. I left the conversation. My thoughts drowned out the music and the voices. I was present. Now, a few hours later, I sit by the soft glow of the computer screen, fingers to keyboard, ideas flooding in. Suddenly I'm back at the kitchen table. She's there. My notebook is open in front of me; empty pages full of possibility and vistas of "Observations" ready to be recorded. My words won't be perfect. Some readers might not understand exactly what I'm feeling, but at least I'm writing. Ueland is right: (At times of) creative idleness...you are being slowly filled with warm imagination, with wonderful living thoughts...For what we write today slipped into our souls some other day when we were alone and doing nothing.

For anyone else suffering from blogger's block or for any of you who have contemplated starting a blog but haven't (I can think of a few of you in particular), follow m's encouragement: open up and let it out. you won't regret it. speak from the gut and be brave. and if you're nervous, then follow this advice:

"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face... You must do the thing you think you cannot do."
- Eleanor Roosevelt

Happy writing!

lessons learned

A few things I learned this week:
1. Life ain't no beach.
I wish I had a dollar for every time I almost started to unpack. Then I could pay someone to do it for me. I keep looking at my suitcase full of my swimsuit and my flip flops and shorts hoping to hold onto the fact that a week ago I was in 85 degree weather, the sea breeze blowing through my hair. Instead, I kicked the heater on this morning while I got ready.

2. The phrase "The last resort," doesn't mean twice a day.
This morning I woke up at 5 a.m. with chest pains. No, it wasn't a heart attack. And no, I am not dying. It's just heartburn. To the Nth degree. So, scratch the "just." I popped a Prilosec (Thank you Grandma H. and Costco) and went back to bed. I woke up with only the slightest bit of relief and poured myself a bowl of grape nuts. Two hours later, I burst into the back door, gripping the counters as my heels scuffed the tile floor. I made my way over to the cupboard door and swung it open. Ahh. Arm and Hammer. Dr. Steve (neighbor and wise physician) showed me a trick; a last resort trick. I combined 1 cup water with 1 tsp. baking soda and placed it in the microwave for 40 seconds. Happy Hour drink downed, I grabbed a plastic baggie out of the drawer and put a handful of Rice Works Salsa Fresca brown rice crisps in a bag for the road. WHAT ON EARTH WAS I THINKING?! Salsa Fresca?! Those chips were Murder with a capital "M" on my esophagus! Two hours after the Salsa Fresca chip episode, I repeated Dr. Steve's strategy. With a bag of Salsa Fresca chips on the top of the fridge for all to share, I'm now fettered to eat bran flakes (or something equally as bland) for the rest of the week.
I guess that's all.
3. I need to get out more.

blue ribbons

In fifth grade, I finally figured it out. After three years of trying to do everything just like my best friend, I got a wake up call. I wish I could take the credit myself, but this wasn't an empirical epiphany arrived at all my own. Credit goes to Aunt E, who, every year waited in the wings, hands up suggesting a hip-hip-hooray, even though I didn't get a blue ribbon. K always won a blue Reflections ribbon, perfectly perched birds the result of hours worth of careful charcoal strokes and pencil scrapings. The year before the birds, it was something equally as magnificent and equally as unattainable by my not-so-artistic hands.

After a few years worth of tears, Aunt E suggested I put down the colored pencils and try writing instead. She edited and encouraged the night before entries were to be submitted. The first year I wrote a poem about time. It was called Time. It's safe to say I didn't get that blue ribbon for originality, but I did get it and the victory was sweet. I skipped home, ribbon in hand, as it twirled around and around in the spring air. As soon as I reached my room, I slipped it over the arm of one of my gold violin Federation cups, next to soccer trophies, mostly won while I cheered my team on from the sidelines, next to my coach with his legendary white ponytail and long beard.

The next year, I added another blue ribbon, and the next, another. I had found my niche. My collection was nowhere near as large as K's, but there was a lesson in those blue lanyards: We're not all meant to enter the same race. And we're not all meant to win. At least not always. Blue doesn't seem quite as glorious until it's placed next to second-place red. Gold wouldn't gleam as brightly without silver to shine down upon. And truthfully, those ribbons don't really matter. Truthfully, years down the road, they'll just end up gathering dust in a box on the highest shelf of some closet, miles away from where they used to perch.

No one has ever asked me if I've won a Reflections ribbon. The winning and oh-so-originally titled poem, Time isn't attached to my resume, nor do I plan to have Dan McConkie recite it at my funeral. In fact, I haven't a clue where to find a copy. What a victory to know that we all find our niche; that we all get our moment in the sun, even if an Aunt E is the only one hip-hooraying us in the wings. Most of us grow up to be average people with average lives. The ribbons come down, the trophies are put away, and winners are soon forgotten. What matters most is what we're working on in the present; in the today. And what time has taught us along the way.

then, there were six

It's ten minutes to eleven and all is quiet. There's a sleeping Kasi in the room next to me and a tired Maren below. Even now, I'm not used to a quiet house at such an hour. I need an Emily to run circles around defining-the-relationship conversations and other such love scenarios; a Katie across the room to reassure my color theory project turned out just fine and that my bed is beckoning; a Jen on the couch in the kitchen, wrapped up in a blanket reading Shackleton's Endurance, shivering with every sentence; a Becca, back on the brown carpet, headset in her ears, on the phone with a boy in Hawaii, her side of the conversation filtering out into the hallway where there's a Moof doing sit-ups below old Mormon Ads and favorite movie lines.

Three months ago, Greg and I sat in a car parked outside of F.Smith Hall, talking the wintry night away as the heater blew out heavy heat. Florescent light filtered between the blinds in the kitchen of apartment 161 below, the same kitchen where we ate taco salad and lemon poppy seed muffins on Sundays. Greg's brother occupies those same cinder block walls, making his own memories of boy-girl apartment vs. apartment Ward Wars and campus crushes. I'm sure the telephone held hostage still hangs on the wall. It probably hasn't been dangled like Rapunzel's braids right above the girlish grasp of six desperate co-eds, forced to serenade it to its rescue, "Row Row Row Your Boat" its salvation song. I bet the fire extinguisher hasn't been removed and taken to the Law Library during reading days to interview any and all stricken with the Frenzy of Finals. Hopefully the holes left from our Ceiling of Love have been patched after my white gesso failed to do a permanent job.

It's strange how time marches on without the slightest sense of self; without asking if we want it to stop so we can take a good long look at what was; what never will be again. How the music of Life keeps playing, the lyrics changing before we catch the tune. And, strange how we tell ourselves that change is good; that it will bring about The New. That the uncharted course of our own Shackleton's Adventure, our own Endurance Mission, may bring the chill of change but, no matter the storm, no matter the noise, the still will come. Even if it's just in the form of a quiet moment at the close of some insignificant day, to record a few thoughts about the past.