Academics

In honor of meeting Mr. Billy Collins (the former US poet Laureate and the first poet I fell in love with who wasn't dead) last night, and especially because I have dedicated my last three weeks to studying for the GRE; I felt like it was time to post a poem a bit lighter than the heavy academic world. I wrote this poem for my last professor. My last class before I graduated was Russian Lit and along with my last paper, I slipped this under the stack of papers. I welcome comments on this one because I have been told this poem might be offensive to a professor. I prefer to believe anyone with a sense of humor would appreciate it.

English Professor

He’s herded us through
fifteen weeks of communist ideology,
and six Russian novels
totaling 1,849 pages together.

We’ve compared each protagonist’s
mental state to Freud’s
theory of the Ego
and looked for phallic symbols
among Joseph Cambell’s archetypes.

He’s suggested we read
books like Lolita
and A Woman in Amber
sometime before we die.

We’ve analyzed the proletariat,
the theory of Animism,
and the Catholic Church
by the end of class,
and stayed ten minutes extra
as he explained the role
of excrement in a novel.

By the time we reach
Voinovich’s satire,
we’ve lost our
sense of humor.

But as he lectures
on a scene between
Gladishev and a horse,
he laughs and
wipes his mouth
like he’s just finished
a plate of ribs.

All Saints Day

Several years ago, while my best friend Jess and I were driving to school (commuting an hour if you will) I came to a realization. It was the day after Halloween, commonly known as All Saints Day. The air was thick with fog and smoke and it was cold as winter slept in the grass and under the car's hood. I looked out the window and watched as neighborhood after neighborhood unfolded into thin and quiet. Pumpkins were either burned and puckered on porches, or their faces were smashed into orange shards in the road.

I realized, Halloween has always been an amazing night of pretending to be something you are not. It was about dressing up and eating the best of the best candy. It was about fear, and the power of curiosity, to seek out screams and continue feeling unsafe. And then, this one morning, I noticed how calm swept in over the valley. People were themselves again, sleeping and breathing evenly and knowing with 100% assurity, everything was as it should be. Ghosts and ghouls and terror had drained away. It was pure relief.

All Saints Day is traditionally a day to honor the dead and those who have made religious sacrifices. This is another reason I love it. The day after evil has slipped into our line of vision, we are tugged back into good and light.

As I drove to work this morning, I recognized peace still present in the tired faces of career-driven people commuting into the city. Another October of sugar and fangs and rapid pulses, over. The night went well. We survived another season of fear.

a poem by someone else

I really wanted to share some awesome lyrics from one of my favorite songs right now.
The guy is named Jeremy Enigk and he has played in several bands...Including Sunny Day Real Estate and The Fire Theft. But, in 2006 he released a solo album called World Waits. Since I am an itunes junkie, I had to partake of the goodness.

The album is very good. Many would classify him as "emo" but I prefer to hear the optimism in his lyrics. Take a look...

Been Here Before

Been here before.
Though there's something in the air this time.
Now I wanna give away what I've taken back.
Run away with you toward the night.
A thousand names.
Though this something in me cannot smile,
don't wanna spend the day retracing steps.
Run away with you toward the light.

I can't stay long in the morning.
Another world went wrong - it's ok.
Now that you're gone,
hold me in your eyes or suddenly deny
I sympathize.

Those diamond days
A thousand strands of sunlight in her eyes.
Now I wanna give away what I've taken back.
Step away with you toward the night.

Hold me in your eyes or suddenly deny
I empathize.

Hurry up and sleep,
to the night you go

Two Poems

These Two poems were written a few years ago. They are autumn scenes and needed to be shared. Especially because when I took them to my English professor, they were rejected because they were about Halloween and pumpkins and were too cliche. So, yeah. I still like them. Especially All Saints Day. this blog is where I publish what I want!!! HAHAHAHA!!!







One Hundred Shades


Dozens of pumpkins
are turned out,
their smooth faces forward.

Eyeing one hundred shades
of orange,
the boy’s mind moves
from apples, dirt
and plastic spiders.

Pulling his mother behind him
he weaves her through the crowd,
with his hand over hers,
and pulls her fingers across
a cool, rigid stem,
bent like a door handle.

She stoops
and lifts the pumpkin,
darker than the rest,
and balances it
on her hip like a round child.

With his hands,
the boy traces
the seams of the pumpkin,
piecing each segment
and stitching its shape,
naming one shade of a hundred.





All Saints Day

The pumpkin’s wide,
singed jaw
puckers under 5 a.m. frost,
its hollowed eye
fixed past the porch,
on a dog,
ticking in sleep.

The air—
smoked and spiced,
runs up the bone of the
dog’s back,
breaks apart his dream,
and passes through
the lowered gate
of the cemetery.

Several coughs
are heard along the plots.
The dead smother their mumblings
and stretch low,
grasp their bone toes,
and tuck themselves back
in the ground
to watch the
round Jonagolds
drop
into their yard.

a poem

I just read my brother's blog on his latest experience with dreams and I remembered a poem.

I wrote this about three years ago after I had a VERY vivid dream in the middle of the night. I remember waking up and feeling so shocked it wasn't real. The dream literally stayed with me all day, till I wrote and wrote and wrote. After much revising, this was the result.

I write lots of poetry, but out of everything I have written, this is my favorite. enjoy.

Chemistry of Autumn

October 26, 4:37 am

Folded towards the thumb-tap
between my ribs,
his kiss is warm and out
of focus as night-dreams are.

October 26, 4:37 pm

Twelve hours wound
across my shoulders,
press closer to the ground.

My mouth turns down,
two stained beech leaves
lifted apart when I speak.

Light lessens,
I am changing color.

Letting Go... what a relief.

I have always struggled with letting go of things that aren't good for me. Take for instance, sugar or candy. A co-worker I had a crush on, once asked me to give up sugar for a while with him and then whoever lost, took the other to dinner. I promptly gave it all up, and since we were allowed one day a week with sugar, I would go crazy, filling up on candy and sweets. Then, the stomach ache came. Now, I am not saying to abstain from sweets all the time, but too much of something can make you incredibly ill.

This blog is devoted to the art of letting go. I have written a bit about this in other blogs. I have addressed regret and all that good stuff... but I wish to take a closer look at the last let go. The last finger pulled from the holy grail. Do you remember Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? Ok, let's go to the movies and see a good illustration of what I call, "the last finger let-go."



The Scene....The Temple of the crescent moon is now crumbling in classic Raider of the Lost Ark fashion, and the dumb, nazi blonde falls down a crevasse. Indiana catches her by the hand and pleads with her to stop trying to reach the Holy Grail which has fallen onto a ledge. Remember what happens? Yep. She bites the dust. While reaching, the glove comes off and she falls into that great abyss below the temple. How mysterious. But, then... the best part is that another tremor comes through and Indiana falls, holding only to his father's hand. Thus, the same scene begins again. But, no one can resist the wisdom of Sean Connery... Indiana listens to his father "Indiana, let it go." Let go of the one thing we have spent the entire movie seeking. Let go of what you want now. Let go. What happens? Yep, indiana swings his arm up and the two of them ride off into the sunset with Sala. Classic.








Sometimes books come too close to home. For those of you who have not read the Twilight series, THIS MAY GIVE SOMETHING AWAY!!! But, let's just say, I relate very much to the main character in Stephenie Meyer's Book, Eclipse.
Bella learns she has to let go of something she loves dearly and the book literally predicted the next month of my life. I mean look at the cover... doesn't it look like it? The last thread, waiting to be cut.

Now, what about the classic bible story? Do you remember Lots' wife? What happened to her? She had her chance to escape the evil of Sodom and Gomorrah, but in a fit of not letting go, she turned to look over her shoulder during their moment to flee and BANG she is a pillar of salt? (note: as a kid, I always pictured her as becoming a salt shaker here....) The important part here, is to look at what is in your heart. Lot's wife... (let's call her Regina because she should have a name other than "Lot's wife") was regretting her decision to leave and her heart was still back in the city.

Recently in my life, I had let go of something. But I was still looking over my shoulder. Someone who meant a lot to me, was gone. I wanted it too. But, I couldn't stop looking over my shoulder. I was gazing back at the city, wishing I hadn't left.

The worse part about this is that I don't want it to appear I don't believe in having hope and faith. But, there is something else involved.... humility. When something you want (or especially something you KNOW you shouldn't have) doesn't come, you can't lose yourself to nothing. You have the choice... to be happy or to mourn forever.

This time of year is a perfect time to talk about letting go. It is the time when trees let go of their leaves and prepare for winter. But the trees change to bright reds, yellows and oranges first, becoming extroverts before thinning up for the snow.


Honestly, letting go is hard. Whatever it is, it is painful and most of the time, unfair. (That is why I write....) However, nothing beats that moment when you have let go of something you wanted. You are not guaranteed any less pain, but the pressure is released. You know you have been blessed by (yet again) more experience, and you are no longer bound to a static situation. It is over. And you are yourself again.

Because I love Lists... #1

The Things that Make Me Happy

-the smell of rotting leaves
-complete silence during a snow storm
-carmel-dipped apples
-violins
-the music of The Beatles
-the Salt Lake Temple
-the smell of plants and flowers heated by the sun in May mornings
-gutting a pumpkin in october
-the smell of burnt pumpkin November 1st
-the calm on Christmas Eve
-fresh daisies in a vase
-birds of any kind
-the wide expanse of the ocean, seeming it never ends.
-the dip your stomach feels when your plane leaves the ground and ascends into the sky
-when someone I love brushed the hair out of my eyes
-losing track of myself when I read a book
-poems that are in themselves, paintings
-the smell of trees in Yellowstone
-the music of Coldplay
-haunted houses
-cemetaries
-oak, maple, aspen and willow trees
-the first sip of Vegan Hot Chocolate from the Hatch Family Chocolate Co.
-the last bite of an ice cream cone
-cellos
-intense opera scenes with all charaters singing at once
-making pies on thanksgiving day
-ghost peeps
-Scary movies
-summer night drives
-laughing through tears
-reading to out loud to children or adults
-long coats of jackets
-children singing in cathedrals
-running saturday mornings with good music
-piano music
-listening to my own heart beat
-reading old journal entries
-watching Christmas lights in December
-being kissed slow
-the color red
-writing a poem
-singing opera
-watching slapstick humor
-the smell of squash in the oven
-warm socks from the dryer
-listening to someone else's heart beat
-when one college class studies something another class studies at the same time (but from a different perspective)
-thunder and lightning
-Ray Bradbury's writing
-my dad's grin when he is talking about books
-the smell of libraries
-my mom's voice
-pretty skirts
-falling asleep in May with the window open
-marshmallows
-my brother when he knows I need to laugh
-dark chocolate
-the painting "Fishermen at Sea" by Joseph Turner
-pastels to draw with
-the pain in my stomach when I laugh too hard
-touching the face of someone I love
-basil
-long talks that give perspective
-going to the Farmer's market
-walking through Hamilton Gardens in New Zealand
-the truth I have about Jesus Christ

ok, this is not everything that has ever made me happy but, I really felt like I needed to take a moment and write down what I could. I have learned so much lately about perspective and true joy. I am naturally a happy person but in my darkest times, these are the things that I've been blessed to experience that soothe anything that aches. Happiness is real and I feel it.

A Poem

The Gloaming


Behind the hard lip of mountains,
half-black
the sky lies in bed.

The gloaming smolders,
a warm resistance watered
by fierce blue.

We are bled,
one side
into the other,
East—
dark and slow
West—
firm in day.

Below us birds murmur
at the daily argument
of letting go.

Vibration

This week I decided to re-live some of my teenage angst and attend a rock concert. The lights were stabbingly beautiful and left me dazed. The room was filled with young kids, dressed in black tee shirts smeared with the band's name and tour dates. Everyone seemed indifferent enough to the opening bands and each other for that matter; minding their business like they were fellow passengers on a bus. However, once the band entered under flayed red lights, fan voices escalated and the room literally shook. The large room moved with the band, oscillating with the thickening beat.

After going to an event like this, my mind always turns to the wonders of vibration. No matter how many times I attend a basketball game, football game, or listen to a band perform with a sound system reaching its peak and vibrating in my chest, I always lose myself in it. When it comes down to the basic chemistry of the body, we ARE vibrations. We are made up of one specific vibration, resonating along out wrists, the hollow of our neck, center of the chest, and along our legs. Our bodies move in musical time.



For any musicians out there, I have heard songs in 3/4 time or waltz time appeal most to people because this is the closest rhythm to our heart beat. I can't speak for everyone, but I do believe I am attracted to songs in 3/4 time more often than any other time signature. But regardless, take a moment and think of what we relish in as human beings....

voices, music, communication, warnings, words, and the simple rhythm of the body.

all of these exist as nothing more than simple vibrations. Yet, they mean everything to our minds. Vibrations can carry heartbreak, joy, fear and even love in the quick pulses. I have been comforted, pained and enlightened by vibrations. The simple science of it is reduced to vibrations moving in out ears, clashing with the beat of our hearts and shaking our whole physical bodies. We are creatures of vibration.



If you ever want to understand a perfect illustration of this, read the book "Sirens of Titan" by Kurt Vonnegut. In the book, two main characters come across an alien creature with thin, diamond shaped bodies. They are called harmoniums and they live for vibrations. At one point, one of the main characters lets them crawl all over him and of course they huddle along his wrists, chest, neck and the inside of his thigh, feeding off of his vibration. What a wondeful image. Creatures living for our own music. We are walking music.

I love going to concerts and being with large groups of fueled people who illustrate sound in its most primary form. To me, my most valued sense is hearing. I would be utterly lost without it. To hear someone's voice, is to feel them with me again and I am grateful I grasp moments to join others in large groups, drowning in vibrations.

A little something about me... when I have a hard time sleeping at night, I roll on my stomach and wrap my arm around my neck with my fingers on the side of my throat. I fall asleep listening to my pulse. It is after all, the only music I carry with me always.

Something Wicked...

"I know not all that may be coming, but be it what will, I'll go to it laughing."-Stubb in Moby Dick


I have been told I have a darker side. I love Autumn, Halloween, minor chords, zombies, ghost stories, cemetaries, scary movies, creepy music and anything slightly off. I don't know if it is a flaw, but for those who know me, it is quite a shock.

Honestly, I look like one of those girls who would like hot pink. My personality is loud and creative. I laugh all the time (sometimes attracting so much attention at a party, cops have been sent to quiet the ruckus). I am enthusisatic and am too nice, having a hard time saying no to people. But, I don't wear hot pink. I am most comfortable in sweaters, dark green or blue and even Spring pales to the color of Autumn. I am a hybrid of sorts. Recently I have tried to figure out why I am like this. I believe it is just me.



I remember when I was young, recognizing the only music I really liked at church sounded different from everything else. I remember it sounded sad even if it is wasn't. Once in elementary school, our music teacher came to class and had us listen to a song from a composer names Hector Berlioz. It was Halloween day and we listened to a song called, "Songe d'une Nuit du Sabbat." Our teacher pointed out the moment when the violins swirled and screamed and were plucked to sound like witches feet. The song was about a man who was in hell. I found it on a record a few years later and listened to it endlessly. I loved it. I loved how scary it sounded. It was different from everything else.

But, as much as I know this is me, I believe part of this came from my parents.

My mom grew up in Cleveland, has auburn hair, loves Autumn too, has a strange fascination with the Mafia and the Royal family. She reads murder mysteries, loves Motown, the Beatles, and the song, "Night on Bald Mountain." This was definately something different from the other mothers who seemed to hate Halloween.

My dad is a quiet man. He excels at math, science, and anything practical. He loves golden delicious apples in Autumn and the british comedy "Fawlty Towers." He also loves to read good fiction and is the only man I know who has read "2001: A Space Odssey." In fact he is a voracious reader and we have a lot in common...(including the fact we love to argue). But one thing my dad and I talk about endlessly is our favorite author, Ray Bradbury.

Ray Bradbury is best known for the High School required reading, "Farenheit 451." The novel was good, but I never understood why it was thought of as his best. Bradbury's writing is poetic. He is a lover of Autumn like my parents and his stories and novels are usually set in the season. Three of my favorites are "The Halloween Tree," "From the Dust Returned," and "Something Wicked This Way Comes." I grew up with both parents reading and discussing Bradbury's books at the dinner table.



Growing up with a mom obsessed with Halloween and Autumn, and a Dad obsessed with Bradbury, a regular movie at our house was not Snow White or Mary Poppins, but the movie version of "Something Wicked This Way Comes." For those of you unfamiliar with the novel, it is about a little town that gets a visit from "the Autumn People." The story is set in Green Town, Illinois and follows two young boys who are best friends. One of the boys is named Jim Nightshade. His father is a drunk and left him and his mother years ago. The other boy is named Will Halloway. His father is older and suffers from fear of age and regrets about his past. The Autumn People come to Green Town, running a strange carnival in October. People in the town start to disappear and soon, the boys get to the bottom of what the Autumn People are doing to the town. The novel is really about growing up and facing your fears and regrets. The movie version was a favorite at our house.*



This is really the first thing I remember loving as a child that seemed awfully dark (except for my obsession withTim Burton's Batman). The movie is such a lovely reminder of my childhood. Watching Johnathan Pryce as Mr. Dark in the library with Jason Robards as Charles Halloway is one of the most beautifully written scenes of dialogue of all time.

So, whether it is nature vs. nurture, I have only a few leads as to why I love the dark and minor. But,I do believe Mr. Ray Bradbury had some influence in the matter.

In July of this year, my brother and I received the opportunity to meet Mr. Bradbury at Comic-Con 2007 of all places! We listened to him speak about his career, and his love of the great authors. Then, he sweetly told the room how he was told over and over again through his career he wasn't a novelist, but a poet. I smiled from my chair, 15 rows back, and felt a connection with the man I'd read and listened to since I was little.






ps-As one can imagine, If I could and circumstances allowed, I would find someone close to me, walk through a park of falling leaves and read some Bradbury. Whoa. That sounds really cheesy. Maybe I could get away with wearing some hot pink.




*I used to watch it over and over again, except for a scene with spiders that may be the cause of my inrrational fear of spiders to this day.

The Spiritual Side

I like to think everytime I write, readers can see my spiritual side. I am what is known as a believer. A Christian. A Woman who knows God loves her. I read God's word and sometimes, I even go so far as so to trust it.

Today at church, I learned the four signs of a spiritually-minded person. These are from an article in the Liahona Magazine in 2001 by a Elder Douglas L. Callister of the quorum of the seventy of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. He gave the following four characteristics of a spiritually-minded person:

1-"observant of the beauty in the world around him."
2-"aware of grand music, literature, and sublime art."
3-"scripture reading becomes more reflective."
4-"improves prayer."

As I sat in the congregation today, I grabbed a pen and wrote furiously of how I might continue to improve my realtionship with God. This realtionship can become strained and almost non-exsistant at times. I will let myself forget who I am and what I believe, in order to default to something I know takes less work.

This bit of truth this morning was enough to remind me, intelligence is of God. Poetry, music, literature, the physical earth, the physical body, scripture and the simple act of communication, is all of God.

Many years ago, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints published 13 Articles of Faith. It is our religion in a nutshell. It answers every question and today I was reminded of number 13:

"We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul- We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things."



God dwells in living. I almost forgot how vital it is for us to recognize that. Things get hard, even horrid. But, if you will have patience, I would like to share one more quote.

C.S. Lewis wrote a book about something I am terribly interested in: devils. He wrote a very popular book of letters between a devil and his demon-student. It is a very odd thing to read. You almost feel like you are reading personal letters which are none of your business, yet they are too close to home to put down.



Yesterday, I found my favorite quote, that (even being the cold-hearted wench I am) brings me to tears. It is a devil writing to his demon student about faith. (Note: the "Enemy" in this quote is God... remember these are devils writing).

"Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys." (Lewis, 40).

need I say more?

Bibliography (because I majored in English):
-Callister, Elder Douglas L. The Liahona, 2001 Lds.org
-Smith, Joseph , The Articles of Faith, History of the Church, Vol 4. pp. 535-541
-Lewis, C. S., The Screwtape Letters pp 40.

alone

I hate math. I always have and I know EXACTLY where it stemmed from.... a boy named Dusty. I am sure he is grown and his red-speckled mullet has been trimmed to something respectable. I bet he is an accountant or in financial planning. I'm sure he is married and has maybe one or two kids. But, for a brief period in first grade, he made my life a living hell.

Back in Mrs. Pickett's class, we were given daily math assignments and knowing first graders weren't any good with homework, we were required to finish before lunch. However, this meant concentration for people like me, who loved talking more than addition and subtraction problems. It was hard for me, and a young red-haired boy who hated my enthusiam and creative mind, loved teasing. We were told sternly if we didn't finish our problems, we would stay behind in the class during lunch and work while everyone else ate. Now, I don't think it ever happened to me, but daily I lived in fear of never finishing and having to stay behind. Where would I sit when I got done? Who would I play with at recess? Where would I go? Dusty's taunting brought me to tears on more than one occasion and I hated him with all of my might. He simply knew my weakness.

As I went through school, I continued to face the same fears of being alone at lunch or recess or even on the weekends. I was in love with people and if I was bad, being sent to my room as a kid was the WORST punishment. I couldn't stand being alone.

Now, I am 25 and feeling some of the same childish fears re-surface in areas of my life. I am a young single woman, graduated from college, working a desk job. In front of me, I have too many options to count. But, I feel like I am stuck in an elaborate project from elementary school. We are being faced with a very large task, that would be much easier to accomplish with a partner. I have been watching since I was 18 as many of my friends hooked arms with a partner and started working on their elaborate project in this life. I am content to work alone for the time, but some of my fears are rushing back.


Let me back up again...

At the end of May, something occurred to me; I was the happiest I had been in a long time. I owed my happiness to two things. Number 1- I was finally feeling useful. Dreading my 25th birthday, I decided to make it as memorable as possible. I had recently made a list of 25 things to do before I reached 25 and I was goals accomplishing my goals. It was like the joy of school but without grades. I was doing new things and embracing what I had always wanted to try. My list consisted of everything from making an apple pie from scratch to going sky-diving on my 25th birthday. Happily, I worked through June and learned so much.

Now, my second reason for being happy? Number 2- I was loved. I was not only making myself useful, but I was supported. The beginning of the year had been tough as I had seen another relationship fall through. But something I didn't expect had blossomed and I had connected with another person who shared himself with me. This realtionship was never easy, but I was learning more about myself than I ever had. And, when I woke up in the morning, I literally felt loved. The experience of loving and being loved was more like an awesome light. I literally was filled with light.

So, what do these things have to do with being alone? Well, I want to focus on one of my list items and how it reminded me of what matters in this life.

The day before my birthday, I had only two items left to be checked off. One was to go sky diving, which was all set up for the next day. But the other item was still in question. I had wanted to go to Lagoon, but no one I knew could go with me and my interest in going to a teen-filled amusement park on a friday night, was dissolving quickly. At my desk during the work day, my mind raced as I thought of what I could do to pull this other item off. Suddenly it occurred to me, I would like to visit the Red Butte Gardens in Salt Lake City. I had never been there and I wanted to enjoy this last item. The guy I was dating at the time wanted to throw out his plans and come with me, but I told him, I needed to do it alone.




So, directly after work in my dressy work clothes, I drove to the Gardens, paid my fee, and walked in, alone. At first being alone was not what I wanted. The Gardens were full of couples and people taking wedding photos in fields of flowers. But, somehow, peace filled me. I walked though the medicinal herb garden, scented garden, and down to the duck pond to watch the first friday in June fold away under the mountain. Looking back on my birthday, even compared to jumping out of a plane the next day, I was most grateful to spend some time by myself.





Now, the summer has swept in, full heat, and brought me to my knees. My favorite season has begun to curl the leaves of the trees and change the color of my skin. The year is folding away like my first Friday in June and I am facing different decisions. Many of which I will be asked to make alone. Where do I want to go from here? What is most important to me right now? The girl who was scared of eating her lunch alone is now trying to live her life. It is time to fill myself with that same light I felt in May. Few things in this life are constant. Change is what we came here to feel. But, I firmly believe people come into your life to teach love. People naturaly fill each other, but we choose to accept or reject what we offer each other. The day I went to the Gardens, I was not alone. God filled me with the light I felt from others when I was with them. It is love that fills and teaches no matter who you are with. And no matter how scary things get, "Perfect love caseth out all fear."

My Cousin Pip

"Can we be the type of friends who live across the road from each other after we've grown up?"



Ten Years ago, I sat behind my best friend in Enlgish. I knew her from gym class. She had long brown hair, was loud, and laughed at all the same things I did. But most of all, she was always happy about something. I wanted in on it. We started to talk at the beginning of the year and I knew we were going to be perfect friends.

Ten years later, sitting in her backyard, I watched lights flit and fade over the Salt Lake. I looked at Jess. We were now 25 and we had been through hell and back... together. We survived High School, College, 5 months together in a foreign country, boyfriends, rejection, family pain and joy of all kinds. But looking at her, I realized, ten years was nothing. We had our whole lives ahead. We were 25 and our decsions were only half made.

Let me tell you about the two of us. Jess and I light up in the Fall. She feels like Frodo Baggins leaving on an adventure and I need to have those colors all around me. Her family loves illegal fireworks on the 4th and my family is obsessed with Halloween. We read "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoniex" out loud to each other every night for the first month we lived in New Zealand. We do all the voices. Jess loves hiking and I need her to encourage me to get past my fear of being outdoorsy. I love poetry and Jess has read it all.. or as much as I let her. She writes stories and I help her get past her fear of letting people read her work. We are both obsessed with movies and music. Her singing voice is broad and warm like the sun, while mine is clear like water. We sing together all the time. Jess has performed in plays for almost 12 years and I think I have seen all but two that she has been in. When Jess is sad, we go to the pet store to hold puppies. When I am sad, we go to the cemetary or the bird refuge to walk and talk. My biggest desire is to own a huge parrot and be poet lauret of the United States. Her biggest desire is to own lots of dogs on a huge farm and be in movies.... good movies.

It makes you wonder how friendship lasts doesn't it? We all meet people by the oddest circumstances. We connect and support each other and some leave as quickly as they come... others stay like songs we can't let go of. We play them over and over again, always eager to hear their words, and discover why we need them around.

In my experience, a kindred spirit (forgive the term coined from Anne of Green Gables) is one who can be as different from you as water to oil, but when that person looks at you, they know you. Not necessarily because of time spent together, but a connection exsists. Somewhere, one knows what the other needs and they feed their connection, surviving on forgiveness and charity and love.

We are flawed beings. We change and lose ourselves in ridiculous turn offs. Jess and I share everything. Pain, anger, and frustration included. When one of us is hurt, the other one steps up. When I lost my first love to another, I came back to her house to enjoy my first mourner's dinner. When Jess was adjusting to life after being gone for a year serving an LDS mission, I brought her Superman Returns and we laughed and swooned together. I see this all the time in my life. When one person falls roughly and loses thier balance, the other comes to cover what they can't.



I guess, what really hit me the other night was how lucky I was. To know her and have her when things have been tough. I only have a handful of people I trust as much as family and she heads that tiny group. One day, she and I will be past this point of life. Past the stage my friend Fiona lovingly refers to as stuck "in the meantime" of life. We may have extra degrees, poems, stories, and movies as a part of our 20's and 30's. We may have families and careers. We may be letting life wash over us, numb and heavy. But I know she will always know me. AndI will know her. And maybe when we are grown-ups, we will be living on the same street, across the road from each other.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Several years ago, I remember watching an ad on TV showing an energetic parent dancing down the aisles of Office Depot to the Christmas tune, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year." Two sulking kids, around 10 years old or so, followed in their father's wake, heads low and faces drawn into deep frowns. I used to feel this way. It usually happened around the end of July. The beginning of August was the unofficial month to mark every office and school supply 20-30% off. Suddenly, swimsuits, shorts, and beach bags were sent to the back clearence racks and sweaters, jeans, and turtle necks were in the forefront of every display. Buying new school clothes was an amazing deception. One could buy an entire wardrobe of woolen, long-sleeved items in the midst of an air-conditioned store, believeing they could be worn the next day while the highs were still in the 90's.

But, to be honest to myself, I was one of those kids that dreaded the beginning of school. Not because I was opposed to new clothes, shoes or pencils... but I hated change. I hated going to a new classroom with different kids and decorated walls and I felt homesick. The beginning of Junior High was the most appalling change I ever endured in my education. Short, chubby, and terrified, I was shoved up and down the hallway, knowing how powerless I really had become upon turning 12.

College was probably the easiest and most welcomed change. It was like High School except, one could choose to go to class or not and no parent was required to give written consent. The first day I sluffed Beginning Badmitton to study for my history test, I could barely sit still. I felt like I had broken some unforgivable rule. When I dropped the class out of convience, no one argued with me. I was paying for school and I owned my decisions.



Going to college became so comfortable, I took my time. In fact, not only did I not want to leave, but the music department seemed to do whatever they could to prevent me from graduating. I am happy to say I am a college graduate, English major, music minor and all. But, I can't say I feel too fulfilled. Why is that when I walk into a Target or Smith's Market Place and see walls of school supplies on sale, a lump catches in my throat and I suddenly feel so sad? Many would say I am a masochist. I would have to disagree. I loved school. I loved my major. It was like one big book club. We all read the same books and shared everything with each other. The only formal part was putting it all in writing, which was something I rather liked since I needed the practice. However, no matter what I say here, nothing captures how I felt except something my professor said to my class.

By the end of my education, I was left with one class to take the fall of 2005. One literature class... Russian literature to be exact. It turned out to be one of my favorites. One day, my professor reminded those of us who were graduating that semester to get our proper papers in on time. Then he sighed and said "those of you who are graduating will have a hard time. You will have an identity crisis and begin to doubt who you really are." He smiled afterwards as we laughed at him. Something on his lips told me he was telling the truth. I swallowed hard. I couldn't think about that. I had spent so much time trying to organize myself and I was already graduating about 2 years after I should of. I needed to focus forward. But, I can't begin to tell you how true his words were. It all comes back to fear of change.

I had spent most of my life being a student. I never took a break. I knew if I stopped school I wouldn't go back. So, I kept going. It wasn't hard when I majored in what I loved most. Reading, writing, and singing everyday was far from a punishment. I kept going and then, one day it ended. I kept my part time job after my lofty plans of grad school fell through. Then I tried to take another job with full time benefits and it was horrible. I wasn't happy. So, I took a different full time job that was easy and relaxed and that is where I have been eversince. Floating. Comfy in my cubicle, looking all around me, but never straight ahead. I didn't want to see.

Now the sweaters are emerging again and I am feeling a need to buy pencils and paper. It is time for the rest of the world to return to school. I am feeling like it is time to make a change. Time to take a journey. September was also the time Bilbo and Frodo left on their journey. in Tolkien's "The Fellowhip of the Ring." Frodo doesn't want to leave. He knows he needs to leave the Shire, but he is scared. I want to go back to school, grad school. I don't want to return to school because I am homesick. It is that I figured out what will make me happy and now, it is up to me to make that change.

I am scared. I hate rejection and I hate not knowing anything for sure. I really hate change... feeling like that chubby 7th grader again, being pushed around the halls by people who know what they are doing. I know all too well the power fear has to paralize and leave us with the worst punishment of all... regret.

Ray Bradbury wrote a book called "Something Wicked This Way Comes." It is all about the Autumn People who are drawn to those who live in misery. They feed off of the regret and pain of others. The end of the book is all about lifting yourself from the chains of pain and regret. Courage comes from action. "The witness only comes after the trial of your faith."

So, now at work, in my comfy cubicle... I quiz myself with words from the GRE like "abscond" and "alacrity." I revise poems and read novels and write stuff like this to remind myself no one ever got anywhere who stayed in their living room, watching out the window.

a poem in the meantime

This is me. I am trying to post this as my profile picture and I hate computer language!!!!! But, oh well. Here is a poem to enjoy in the meantime.

Girl at the Sea Line

“It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me, I would shine.”- Billy Collins


Her blood reels,
while each pore’s
tiny mouth
swallows salt.

Waves press towards the shore,
loosening her balance.
She falls onto her knees
and slices her calf against a rock.

The blood—
dark and cherry,
curls through her reflection.

Her white hand,
palm down
dips deep
under the surface,
and draws back
spilling with light.

Fiction

Last night, after I had been branded with the Dark Mark and bought myself an honest to goodness wand and waited for over two hours to be sorted by the local sorting hat, I found myself standing in one more line. This line was long and thick with people in pj's spanning the complete width and length of the Walmart in Layton Utah. It was probably around 1:30am when I drove home with my very own copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.


Now, be assured... this blog has nothing to do with the Harry Potter book or its story (especially since I am a slow reader and KNOW someone will spoil the ending of the 7th book for me sooner or later). What I wanted to address, was the passion we have for fictional characters. What is it that makes us stay till 3 am in a one stop shopping center waiting for somone to hand over our own copy of the last installment of a story? Why can't we wait till the next morning? Why did I wait on my feet and end up paying a woman for one of her extra books, rather than wait six hours and pick up a book for myself the next morning? Why do I NEEED to get home and see what Harry is going through?

I guess we care about these characters. We care about what they choose for themselves. We care about what they teach us and we want to know about their lives. In fact, most people have felt this for more than books. Did you ever wonder what would happen to Frodo and that blasted ring? Or, what would Mary Jane say when Peter Parker told her his BIG secret? In fact, we follow this fascination all the way through TV. We worry about Jack Bauer and we scream at the TV when John Locke screws up AGAIN and prevents people from escaping that ridiculous island!!!


My only answer to this is that bottom line: Fictional characters feel real. That is what makes good writing. But these stories are not just vain attempts for us to live the lives we lack, they are bits and pieces of each of us. Something tells me that J.K. Rowling has a lot of love for her Harry Potter and has probably put a lot of herself in him and Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley etc. The first rule to writing is" write what you know." And we are attracted to what we know. I love Harry Potter because his reactions to even the smallest adolescent moments have reminded me of my own life. It is those moments when I put the book down on my lap and laugh out loud because I can say, "Whoa, that sounds familiar!!" I suddenly don't feel so alone. We are really on our own when it comes to this life. Things get hard, but writers are a special breed. They are the wide-eyed ones. They notice and absorb what we all feel and jot it down somwhere rather than disregard it. They are the people with tiny books and notes stuffed in pockets filled with tiny phrases birthing ideas. The writers spin it all out using half imagination and half experience and hope someone can relate.

So, what is it that makes reading and charaters in movies and tv so attractive? Well, I believe a big part of it is that we know in our hearts it isn't real. In life, we have to deal with reality. With broken conversations and explanations. We are flawed... but the ficitonal character can have a perfect conversation with a significant other, because the writer has crafted and molded it for months. Oh, the joy!! What would it be like to tell someone how you feel and not drive home later that night, cringing to yourself when you remember what you have said?!

All in all, the fictional character is each of us, but without strings attached. We trust the writer. Even when everything goes insane, we KNOW the writer will bring us back to the doorway we started from. We might not even get closure, but we will be taken to our destination and we will arrive in one piece.

So, this blog is really a salute to ficiton. I salute the writers who create worlds and characters that resemble each of us, yet still have the power to remind us, it is fiction. It isn't real. No one died in the making of this movie or the writing of this book. But, what power! That still, we dress and talk and laugh like the characters we love so much. That when someone dies in a book or a movie, we cry real tears and experience the same emotions we would if that person was truly gone. How lovely to flip back to page one or reset the DVD... and start all over again.

The Bird Refuge

Being a writer, it only seemed natural to blog. I keep a regular journal but never for the public to read. This will be a new experience, but if it gets me to consistently write without fail, so be it. I could only think of one name for this blog. It had to be named after the place I have found my most humble peace. So, for this first entry, let me introduce you to my refuge.

I must have been no more than fifteen the first time I set eyes on the refuge. My friend and I drove as west as possible, leaving our huddled city at the base of the mountains. Seated in an old blue ponitac with a digital speedometer large enough for the elderly, I watched the landscape dissolve into nothing but flat lake and flat farms. We slowed to 30 mph as the road thinned out to dirt. It made me think of our family trips to Yellowstone and the unfinished roads that led us to our little white trailer overlooking Henry’s lake.

We drove under large power towers humming low over our heads. The road twisted past long stretches of cattails and beautiful birds dipping and soaring over the patches of marshes. Strong on the air was the smell of brine shrimp, horses, and salt.. We passed a few park signs describing the common breeds of birds found at the refuge. But, I loved the large white sign claiming this land to be a “Waterfowl Rest Area.” At the end of the road, a small hill slid above and into view. I didn’t know then the hill was known as Goose Egg Island and was an overlook point for bird watchers and others who needed perspective.

Ten years later, I held my breath and listened to what I first heard at the refuge… simple peace. Stillness. The freeway was a million miles away, lining the valley with busy people. My home was swallowed up in the static that surrounded life as a single working woman.
It was here I’d spent hours with my best friend and her dad photographing this landscape in the dead of winter, watching eagles cluster in the tops of crawling trees. It was here I stood in rain, taking notes for my first creative writing class in High School. It was here I watched the sun fall low and overturn itself in the dead lake, the shore lined in salted carp. It was here I fell in love first and lost my first love.
This tiny place, lined with wide-faced trees, birds changing quick pace mid-air and animals crawling through the marshes, gave itself to peace. To a higher power above the deadlines of rushed life. No man-made sound existed, but my own breath moving the space I filled. I could turn 360 degrees completely and see the valley from every angle, its colors melted. It was mine. This refuge is my slow poem read over and over. I could feel life. It was alive as I was alive.
Everyone needs a place to fall and feel alive. I decided to name this spot on the internet after my refuge. I will post what I write and hopefully, someone may find some peace and perspective here as I have in my bird refuge.