begin again

This morning when I went out to get the paper, it smelled like fall. I hugged the yellow plastic bag to my chest like a hot water bottle. Filled with tiny type, it kept me warm on the short jaunt from front lawn to back door. It was the pleasant kind of cold. The put-on-your-favorite-sweatshirt cold. So I did. I came inside, put on my blue hoodie from Annie B, and ate oatmeal standing up while I read the newspaper.

Last night we needed a comforter out on the lawn. The conversation centered around the usual, but there was fresh anticipation and a feeling that this very well may be it. Only fall can bring such anticipation, such optimism. The crickets chirps are getting farther and farther apart. (Tonight there's one that's scratching his legs to his own syncopation, like he missed his entrance, or maybe he just doesn't care. He's fine being a bit off-beat.) The air outside is finally cooler than the air inside. At night I watch the roman shades breathe in and out, in and out. With each breath out, the man in the moon says hello.

There are three fresh peaches on the counter, at least there were before lunch. Their plum-colored fuzzy bellies covered with thumbprints to prove they pass the fresh test. One of them still has a couple of leaves on it. Together they look like a Cezanne still-life. Early autumn peaches always make me think of Val and Brigham City. She'd bring a box full the size of softballs from home to the Santa B. We'd make homemade peach ice cream and divy it up in the quad.

By early morning today my hoodie was off. Though fleeting, I loved the familiar feeling of the fuzzy inside and the drawstrings dangling on either side of my neck. They tempt me when I'm bored. Leaves have started to whirl up in the space between the garage and the backdoor.

The very best part: It's just the beginning.

ink + paper

It's really fun to have talented friends. Especially when they bring you surprises, just because it's a Wednesday. And not just any surprise, but ones like these that you put up and stare at everyday.

9|11

President Thomas S. Monson's thoughts on 9|11, taken from this article.

"There was, as many have noted, a remarkable surge of faith following the tragedy. People across the United States rediscovered the need for God and turned to Him for solace and understanding. Comfortable times were shattered. We felt the great unsteadiness of life and reached for the great steadiness of our Father in Heaven. And, as ever, we found it. Americans of all faiths came together in a remarkable way.

Sadly, it seems that much of that renewal of faith has waned in the years that have followed. Healing has come with time, but so has indifference. We forget how vulnerable and sorrowful we felt. Our sorrow moved us to remember the deep purposes of our lives. The darkness of our despair brought us a moment of enlightenment. But we are forgetful. When the depth of grief has passed, its lessons often pass from our minds and hearts as well.

Our Father’s commitment to us, His children, is unwavering. Indeed He softens the winters of our lives, but He also brightens our summers. Whether it is the best of times or the worst, He is with us. He has promised us that this will never change.

But we are less faithful than He is. By nature we are vain, frail, and foolish. We sometimes neglect God. Sometimes we fail to keep the commandments that He gives us to make us happy. Sometimes we fail to commune with Him in prayer. Sometimes we forget to succor the poor and the downtrodden who are also His children. And our forgetfulness is very much to our detriment.

If there is a spiritual lesson to be learned from our experience of that fateful day, it may be that we owe to God the same faithfulness that He gives to us. We should strive for steadiness, and for a commitment to God that does not ebb and flow with the years or the crises of our lives. It should not require tragedy for us to remember Him, and we should not be compelled to humility before giving Him our faith and trust. We too should be with Him in every season."

image by Fynnegan Sloyan

Lord, what fools these mortals be

We are tiny. Mortals next to majesty. Rocks reach as high as God. They are temples, made sacred by the holy waters of history: tears that left scars on the surface.

Green pushes up, strong against rock, defying desert, clinging to a craggy stone front, like a child to its mother.

Sand and sage. Red clay. Blue sky. Stillness.

Every panorama a painting.

pomme

She loved a boy once, but that was a long time ago. She loved his blueberry pancakes and the way he forgot to dot his "I's". That he'd bring her an apple and leave it on her desk in the studio. No note, just an apple, but she knew it was him.

He is gone now, but she thinks about him every so often. Like when summer turns to autumn and when the first snow falls. Or when she eats really great bruschetta.

Baby N

Until my sister tells me to do otherwise, I will shamelessly post pictures of my niece on this blog like she is my own child. She's kind of my favorite.

(All of these images are owned by the photographer and are therefore copyrighted.)

red like poppies

His hair was gray and he had a stubborn cowlick he’d given up on. The freckles on his forehead had turned to age spots and between the wrinkles around his eyes were untold stories. On his left hand, held tightly in place by his swollen arthritic knuckles was a gold ring which hadn’t come off since the day it had been placed there by the woman he loved. When he was bored or bothered, he’d rotate the ring with his thumb, the dry skin on his finger slowly flaking off with each twist. He was used to the tapping sound his ring made when he grasped the counter at a café to scoot his chair in and the way it felt soggy with shampoo in the mornings when he washed his hair. He liked the clanging noise when left hand reached for left hand.

He was born in the Year of the Dog, which meant he was fiercely loyal and a bit eccentric. His closet wasn’t full of anything fancy, just necessities, but it was obsessively neat. The items in it only budged when he took them out to wear. Tweed jackets hugged one another front to back like in a retail store. His impressive collection of bow ties hung in patterns: paisleys and small prints, plaids and regimental stripes slowly giving way to solids. He preferred Oxfords to loafers or wingtips. He liked his laces tied tight and replaced them seasonally. He polished his shoes as soon as he slipped them off so they’d be ready for the next wear. He owned one pair of athletic shoes and one pair of loafers with tassels. He only bought them to please her.

When he went out there was a bulge in his jacket pocket where his wallet nested between him and the outside world. He kept a photo of her in his breast pocket near his heart, which was slowly failing.

He missed her most in the mornings when the sun bathed his east-facing apartment, beams of yellow light illuminating the breakfast table. He’d slice a pear in half and reach it across to where she wasn’t. He missed her in the space between the change of seasons when the air smelled different and anticipation swept up onto the doorstep. He missed her when his eyesight started to fail him and he could no longer read the words on the page or separate the colors outside his window. Without her the lines of his life were beginning to blur.

He lived a solitary life now, the only thing crossing the threshold of his apartment since the day she left was a draft that crept in when he opened the door to go out. His house was a wall-to-wall cabinet of curiosities. A mini-Louvre. A pile museum, and he was the curator. He tacked up art cards from the Musee D’Orsay, clippings from the newspaper, leaves from trees that lined the streets of Paris. Next to a pebble he’d removed from one of his Oxfords was an acorn he found one day while scuffing his feet along the park outside the Orangerie. He clipped coupons, kept phone bills and tucked receipts from restaurants into a drawer. Anything to prove he was trying to move on.

He couldn’t remember what parts of her he fell in love with first. Her dark hair. The way she looked dancing to Charles Trenet. How she signed love letters Yours. Her cherry red lips. He could watch those lips form words all day. They were red like the poppies that dotted the French countryside where he spent the summer as a boy. He’d bet a game of Boules her lips were the same color as those poppies. He’d give anything to see her knee deep in those poppies, lips cherry red, hands motioning for him to come join her.

work: in-progress

I'm not very good about taking pictures for work. I'm trying to be better.
I have loved working with both the client and the architect on this project.

One of the things I love about this house is the view from the front entry. Every time I walk in, I am so pleased by the symmetry in both directions.

There are lots of interesting architectural details: columns, built-ins, box beams, little nooks and crannies and lots of custom cabinetry that has yet to be installed. We have a ways to go, but it's nice to see progress.

more here.