Showing posts with label a penny for your thoughts. Show all posts

on living in a western world; modernity and convenience; complications

(most of what follows is draft text from a couple of separate blogpost drafts from 2018—I am cleaning out my old drafts so I'm posting these half-baked thoughts here as I think there's some worth to what I started writing on several different occasions but never officially finished.)

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I've long harbored a pet theory about the world I live in—about modern America and why so many things are the way that they are. As I've grappled with my identity as an American, I've had much to consider and to think about, as well as topics drawn into sharp relief in my experiences outside the states and outside myself.

In a nutshell, my theory is more of an observation that the 21st Century-United States has placed a premium on convenience above all else—above all else and often at a cost: costs to ourselves and our relationships, costs to our national identity, costs to the environment, and innumerable costs to our fellow humans.

The summer I spent in Italy first opened my eyes to the conveniences of modern America that I took for granted. Italy is another industrialized nation, so it, too, has many of its own engineered conveniences, but the cultural differences are notable, and I think significant.
 . . . . 

trying to understand the structures of power and society in which I have grown up and to which I have been accustomed for the last 28 years of my life (i.e., all of it). they are not necessarily better, but they are what I know and what I am familiar with and what have been institutionalized in mainstream modern America for years, decades, centuries. that's not to say they're right or that they're the best way. lately I've been grappling with those very beliefs and trying to understand how change could be possible when everything is so entrenched in those systems and structures of power.

specifically, I have been trying to educate myself more on modes and methods of thinking that are unlike, divergent, different, reductive, expansive, new, unassuming, and every other possible adjective than my own. I am no expert, even in those systems that I have been raised, but I am an observer and so I bring to this writing my own observations and musings, informed or uninformed as they may be. I recognize that my own manners of thinking and seeing and being have their own flaws and biases—I am still on the journey to recognizing more plainly what those are exactly and how to quantify them. I don't pretend to be aware of all of the things. it comes back to David Foster Wallace's analogy of "this is water." (—an excellent speech that discusses the very notions we take for granted as the norm). I write this fully acknowledging that this is simply my way of seeing some things, at this mere snapshot of a moment. I'm still trying to read and learn and listen, amongst the hustle and bustle of the rest of my everyday life. it is fully and unapologetically a process.


thoughts I need to suss out:
western powers of structure - many of these have marginalized and suppressed and exploited people who are other. many times intentionally. it is terrible. terrible doesn't feel grave enough a word.
the human pain and suffering and the ongoing damage and harm are enormous.

western structures of power - white, male, landowner. holdover of feudalism when you think about it. classism.
then voting rights in america.
the whole thing of america and colonialism and imperialism and westward expansion.
why is it still a thing? we say it's not but it totally is. i sit in dozens of meetings where the ideals of home ownership are touted above many other things. i get it  i do — the proverbial american dream. the white picket fence, the green lawn, the perfectly kept house. things within our control and a space of our own. and western systems of power support this ideal—cities and local governments make revenue from property taxes and sales taxes (which businesses often rely on property ownership and use of natural resources or other resources) to provide the services to fuel the quality of life for residents. the american dream. the 40 hours 5 days a week suburbia dream.
but where does that leave us? anyone who doesn't fit that mold - neglected, othered.

and that mold was never what this land originally was. indigenous inhabitants—these groups and peoples are not monolithic, but some nations and cultures I have learned about never prized land ownership in this way. some groups were migratory, relying on the natural ebb and flow of seasons and herds and abundance to direct their days and their villages. others entirely do not use land ownership as a model. and so those communities, now in a nation that has exploited and conquered and ostracized and marginalized their ownership—not to use a word that doesn't necessarily apply, but take it to mean their prerogative to live how they choose—now those people live in poverty without water and without the resources necessary to survive. because we have foisted upon them this 'ideal' that isn't necessarily such.

and i don't know how to undo the things of this day and age - globalism, imperialism, colonialism, the industrial revolution, modern agriculture, the industrialization and convenience that are expected, CAPITALISM. these are all parts of the problem. I don't know how you just undo those things—when global economies and markets and trade and existences are intertwined with and dependent on them. decolonization—I have been becoming better acquainted with this term and what it means and what it looks like—both its theoretical implications as well as its material implications. I still cannot fully grasp what that looks like, but I know it is a question I will continue to harbor and to try to understand, and to understand through the lens of my shifting relationship with it. I think I jump to the conclusion that that phrase and mindset connote deconstructing these systems of power that have resulted in the world we have now, or at least the world where colonization is still occurring. and again the whole point of this post is that when I jump to that conclusion I cannot see how it can be done. But seeing this for that end helps me to better understand and work through the metaphysical implications—the racism and discrimination and exploitation and appropriation and marginalization that all play into those greater systems and structures of power. those must be dismantled, too. I don't think it's a chronological timeline, and it is probably not at all linear. i think those two elements are inextricably connected and slowly we must dismantle them piece by piece in what ways we can. we can never accomplish anything to make reparations and to make our world a more equitable and just world for everyone who lives in it, until we acknowledge the bias that is at the heart of its problems and inequities, to acknowledge that the deck is stacked, the dice are loaded, and it is up to us to keep doing the work of undoing and readjusting those things.

again this essay is not an attempt for me to try to tell anyone that I know anything—rather, I am still very much a learner and observer in many of these contexts and conversations. This is simply an attempt for me to try to articulate some of the mental and ethical journey I have been silently undertaking, silently in an attempt to let those marginalized voices to speak for themselves and for me to sit back and take notes and listen (and act).

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capitalism isn't really all that great—it is, overwhelmingly, a system built on exploitation, or if that is a hard pill for you to swallow, it is a system that utilizes exploitation as one of the means to its ends.
the industrial age - child labor and poor working conditions. these things still happen, but now they're simply outsourced. (why I avoid fast fashion and try to be a careful and cautious and conscientious consumer)
the economic basis for modern America had a long-ago reliance on the unpaid labor of enslaved people. Even something so basic as a pair of jeans, iconic American Levi's relates back to those origins of a modern industrial and capitalist America—cotton was a cash crop of the plantation-studded south.

Timothée Chalamet in Lady Bird: "I try to live by barter alone" lol but also yes.

the gospel teaches the law of consecration. lately I have been feeling very in awe of that idea and

King Benjamin in the Book of Mormon, the Nephites at that time. other societies and peoples who lived in a consecrated manner and shared among all. I loved the hofjes in Amsterdam—the poor and widowed lived in small enclaves within a block of canal row homes, and the people who lived in the row homes shared of their substance and living space to care for those in need and without resources.

the good place season 3—the season is essentially about how complicated and hard it is to be a good person!!! this show is so good.

Marie Kondo - highlights much of the metaphysical clamor of capitalism in stark contrast with her Japanese culture and traditions. We are burdened by our things.

all my qualms about home ownership
to some extent perhaps my trepidation is influenced by the time in which I live; I graduated from high school in 2008 and left for college, in the midst of the biggest financial downturn since the Great Depression. I am grateful to have been shielded from the worst effects of it, due to my parents' support as I got off to a good start in college.

home ownership - land ownership - property ownership - to me these are obvious ties to feudalism and many of the systems that have oppressed people of color (through abduction and enslavement) and women (only white male property owners could vote!!! THINK ABOUT THAT FOR A SECOND!). Where I am an 'American' whose ancestors were party to the colonization of this place where I live, I have a lot of qualms. I haven't figured out how to connect these qualms with the reality of my life and the world in which I live, and I haven't the faintest how to do so. And even if I do, is it enough. Would any of it ever be enough for the unspeakable damages and horrors and genocide wreaked on the people who have historically lived in these lands? Maybe I'll just repatriate to one of the places where my ancestors came from—the Netherlands or the British Isles or Germany or Scandinavia. But I know even those places have their own histories of prehistoric peoples who conquered or were conquered; this globe is dotted with histories, a peopled palimpsest.

Forgive me if I'm not jazzed about home ownership when the homeowners in my neighborhood have extremely vitriolic generalizations to make about me and my peers (my generation and me and my peers are not monolithic I might add). Forgive me if I'm not jazzed to have the uncertainties that accompany home ownership—right now my risks are covered under the auto insurance I am legally obligated to have. It's strange, the concept of insurance, but I have been grateful for it many times due to the world in which I live. I wonder if God knew insurance would be a thing. In a way, insurance is how we all opt into [or are required to participate in] a system that takes care of everyone.

The rideshare-crowdsourcing economy is fascinating because it also connects to the internet and shows in small part how power dynamics become more dispersed among the general populace.

I believe in change and hope and decency and goodness. It is often discouraging to me to hear about the few dozen billionaires whose wealth and dollars have shaped our tax laws, our government, and so much of the way that people do business. And it's not something out of which one can easily opt. (opt out). I use commercial airline travel to visit my family across the country. I buy books, some of which are printed with soy ink on sustainably harvested paper fibers, but others that undoubtedly weren't. I click on the ads on Instagram, feed the algorithms, and unwittingly allow my data to drive more of this system I hate. For all that, I try to acknowledge the inequities, and I try to put my money where my mouth is—literally. It takes effort and work, but I believe it is these small pieces of cumulative, collective change that can demonstrate that we know better and demand better, and that we are the ones who are ready to change how the world works (is my naïveté showing? I don't care. I know I'm not alone in feeling how I feel).

on things and minimalism and tidying

Another half-baked blogpost—I'm hesitant to do too much editing to these, as their original draft form was pretty near perfect as far as expressing what I wanted to express.

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I feel like there are a lot of extreme reactions to Marie Kondo. I had my doubts, but they dissipated within minutes of starting her Netflix series.

Marie Kondo is a darling, diminutive Japanese woman and her presence lights up the room when she enters it. I love her approach and it is very Eastern; I feel we could do well to learn a thing or two from her. She doesn't advocate just wanton abandonment of material trappings—rather, hers is a thoughtful and methodical approach that teaches that we do not have to be beholden to the things in our lives. So often, minimalism advocates utility over sentimentality, but this is not so with Ms. Kondo.

Does it spark joy? Okay, so maybe your vacuum cleaner does not spark joy, but it does allow you to clean and freshen your space, and for me, that certainly brings me joy (and actually, one could argue that my vacuum actually DOES spark joy—I am obsessed with my vacuum cleaner). The ability to care for my home and space and keep it organized and clean brings me joy. And so I am keeping my fold-up laundry baskets and extra bed sheets and air purifier. Many of the things i have surrounded myself with unequivocally bring me joy—the art and images on my walls, many (but certainly not all) of the books on my shelves (and thus, this, too, is a lesson), and more.

not being beholden is a distinct and important thing. in a capitalist society, it is just the opposite of what the market would have us do. And so all this tidying and taking stock, is, in fact, an act of defiance. It is seeing who we are and what we have and deciding it is enough. It is demoting things of the power they have over our lives.

every time I move and what the experience of moving reminds me about what I own.


things I am learning in the process:
It is getting easier to say "no"
it is getting easier to make do, repurpose, hold out, borrow, innovate, mend
A more conscientious consumer (paper bags in pristine condition - every store I have gone to has taken them back, many delightedly and graciously; a florist friend who so appreciated my asking if she wanted the wreath rounds; the garden center that was delighted to have some plastic pots for transplanting; creativity in my outfits and a heavier reliance on accessories; thinking about how some college student has saved a few dollars by using one of my reused shipping envelopes at the local UPS store, who always takes them back)


a few favorites:
Reading My Tea Leaves
Brown Kids (E & Roe) is one of my favorite Instagram accounts - Instagram stories about her mom's shoes. this is what I love—compassionate and caring, not trying to change what is so true about her mom. I loved this so much.
and now, Marie Kondo

on: notions of success

Another half-baked blogpost with some of my many musings—a tiny snapshot of how my brain operates or looks at any given moment (if I had to pick a visual image to represent my mind, a starry sky of constellations seems just the ticket).

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Success is something I have been musing on for a long time.

As a senior in high school, I was voted by my classmates "Most Likely to Succeed." My photo was taken with my fellow bent-for-success classmate in the school library, each of us holding a stack of books. Even as a high school senior, I was so puzzled by this choice. While I was the typical brainy, straight-A student, I was also one who opted out of the AP bio and physics classes my peers were taking in favor of more art electives. Indeed, I spent all my free periods in the art room, working on projects and paintings.


for me, it is important that my work is fulfilling and meaningful—indeed, it must be if I am to dedicate so much of my time and my life to doing it.


Jameela Al Jamil - her invective of the beauty industry which has made millions telling women they aren't ___ enough (fill in the blank with whatever it happens to be this week). I have realized so much more how much of the carefully curated world around me is carefully designed to sell me on a certain lifestyle. The very words we casually throw around—"_____ goals" and ? what other examples? belie the insidious nature of it all. As I try to navigate this minefield, all the while trying to heed the advice to invest in my 401k, IRA, HSA, mutual funds, the list is seemingly endless, and build up my savings and save for a rainy day or a car breakdown or or or AND to pay rent and for groceries and live as a 20-something in the midst of all of this. Meanwhile people want me to step up and invest in real estate so I can build my equity, meanwhile I don't know what I'm going to be doing next year, let alone in 15 when the term of the typical mortgage would mature. Y I K E S. And this is the world I'm expected to buy into. But I don't buy it. Home ownership is not, at present, an aspiration of mine. I see the unexpected expenses and headaches and maintenance and weathering that go into it, and while that will likely be my lot in life at some future date, right now, I'd much rather have my fixed expenses and dash off a text to my landlord when the water heater/refrigerator/dishwasher/faucet/garage door opener breaks.


thinking that money brings happiness is an errant notion. it is a deceiving illusion, because as soon as you reach an arbitrary threshold, the finish line moves. If in this sense the finish line is what we consider pinnacle happiness and fulfillment.

the western world is so focused on status symbols and amassing wealth and possessions. We can learn a thing or two from Marie Kondo, whose diminutive and beaming presence throws those notions right out the window, along with the detritus of our product and object-filled lives.


Most Likely to Succeed
again I still puzzle over this
what exactly did they expect me to do? break a world record, start a fortune 500 company, discover the cure for cancer??? It's such an arbitrary thing. I just received that accolade on account of my good grades and dedicated student temperament—it had little-to-nothing to do with any decided aspirations. Indeed, I entered college with little to no clue about anything. An oldest child, I did not have many to advise me on the collegiate life. I recall my dad urging me to sign up for honors classes, but I was just overwhelmed and stressed with the nature of everything else to even begin to be able to comprehend what that meant or involved.


I have a lot of reservations about capitalism. I also have some pet theories that land ownership is a construct of feudalism and ultimately is a problematic basis for a society, particularly one where 'our land' is not our own.


that quote from Le Petit Prince - lamplighter vs. other work "necessary (important?) because it is beautiful"


interesting - Jordan Ferney uses the phrase "always for love, never for money" to describe her business ventures and company philosophy
my grandpa always said "never make a decision entirely based on money" and he had a point.

I see money as a means to an end, the end being living the kind of life I want to live. In this, my sense is less of the material trappings of my life, but the kind of life I am living—do I have time to pursue the things I enjoy (reading, writing, hiking, cooking, etc. etc.), am I comfortable to a point that finances are not a major source of stress, is my job fulfilling to me, do I have time for and invest in the relationships which matter to me.

as far as the traditional sense is concerned, by all accounts I am probably failing. But by my own account of my life and where I am at, I feel like I'm doing just fine.

perhaps much of it comes down to external versus internal motivation. I feel as though I am of the type who is rarely very externally motivated. Sure, there are things that incentivize my behavior and follow-through, but in the grand scheme of things, my drive and my passion originate deep within me. They are not easily quantifiable in the ways of the world, as my priorities concern the soul and my movement through this earth and as a visitor to the world I live in. I am learning and growing and I am not quite sure where I will go or end up, but I hope that it is surrounded by people I love, ideas that move me, words that resonate, and beauty that transcends the noise and the clutter (both literal and figurative, physical and metaphysical).

piano lessons

preface: this post has been languishing in my drafts since August 2014. AUGUST 2014. It's not totally finished/polished by any means (i.e., phrases and notes as placeholders), but at this point, I just need to get it out of here. (spring cleaning)


When people ask me if I play the piano[forte], I typically answer with Elizabeth Bennet, "A little, and very poorly."

. . . .

The first song I learned to play on the piano as a child was "Once there was a snowman." Piano lessons were an integral part of my childhood and adolescence. With musical parents and grandparents, I grew up a musician surrounded by far better musicians, whose technical skill and musicianship were inspiring examples. My grandmother was a professional cellist in the Los Angeles Philharmonic and I grew up listening to her cello exercises and concertos muffled through the sound of my grandparents' bedroom door. My dad comes from a musical family and I followed in his and my grandpa's footsteps when I began playing the French horn the summer before fourth grade.

. . . .

My roommate Jess has a piano (a beautiful keyboard with weighted keys that feels very much like a piano but is better in the sense that it has a headphone jack for late-night practicing!).


slack off when music gets more difficult 
Rachmaninoff - muscle memory; the notes are the same but octaves apart and I no longer have the security of muscle memory 
notes are the same but octaves apart and extra notes

I remember my dad showing me the music for Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C sharp minor when I was young. It was the piece my grandma had played for her senior recital in high school. I remember noticing the severe slashes of the many sharps in the key signature and the inky notes clustered in chords filling the pages. My dad told me about how to play the piece, you had to change the position of your hands for each group of chords, alternating your right over left and left over right. Like a square knot, but with your hands. Over and over, again and again.

I decided I wanted to learn this. The thing is, my piano playing is aided as much by playing by ear as it is by reading the notes on the page. The combination of both is what allows me to learn songs. I have a hard time when the music gets more difficult and less recognizable.

Rachmaninoff has proved to be tricky. Just when my hands are familiar with their places, the alternating, the harsh chords layered, he spreads my hands octaves apart. No more can I feel secure knowing where my hands should be in relation to one another; rather I am reliant upon knowing the notes beneath my fingers and the notes on the page, all miles apart. But the familiarity of it all comes back and I am gaining confidence as the piece gains momentum and volume. The last crescendos give way to a quiet ending, a precise, altered sequence of chords, closing as quietly as it began.


sitting at the piano. two on a bench for duets. peter and the wolf.

Strawberry Swing

My friend Jesslyn has a writing club, and we have in our brief time as friends discovered a common love of many things: Anne Shirley, Nora Ephron's oeuvre, writing, and great music, to name a few. These and many more shared interests have catapulted us quickly from the tier of friends/acquaintances to that of bosom friends. I'm also the new kid on the writing club block! I probably won't post all of my weekly writing here, but as deep in my archives there are some related posts to this one, I thought sharing an inaugural writing group post would be nice. The prompt is below, and my essay below that, if you'd like to read.
December 13: Think of a song that you would consider a lifelong favorite, even if your love for it now is attributed more to a strong sense of nostalgia than to your current musical tastes. Does hearing the song unexpectedly on the car radio or in a restaurant suddenly transport you to a different time or instantly change your mood? Write a personal essay about the memories you have associated with the song, and how the lyrics might have resonated with a certain significance in your past. How has your understanding and appreciation of the song evolved?
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My musical tastes are eclectic, as most people's are, wallpapered over with layers of time and changing tastes. Some music has become the soundtrack to certain eras and epochs of my life; listening to the cello will always make me nostalgic for my childhood, when my maternal grandparents lived with my family. My grandma was a professional cellist who played in the Los Angeles Philharmonic and Honolulu Symphony for many years, and my childhood memories echo with her evening practice. My mom recalls my grandma's chamber music groups meeting often in their living room; didn't everyone's mom play chamber music on weekday mornings?

 I remember learning once that the cello, piano, and French horn are some of the most pleasing instruments to listen to because they share the same range as the human voice. It's no wonder that as humans we are musical beings speaking in sing-song tones; our hearts beat within us like metronomes, ticking out lines of biological music that crescendo and decrescendo with our comings and goings.

Many of my favorite songs remind me of specific places and people, much like scents that carry strong associations and emotional connotations. Certain songs evoke summers in high school having adventures with my sisters, and other songs whisk me back to waiting on Italian train platforms. Others yet call to mind the low lighting of a house concert with friends, and heart-to-hearts late into the night. Imbued with meaning, these songs are woven seamlessly into my experience.

 When I was about twelve years old, my cousin Jessica came to live with my family for a time. Despite our age difference of six years and standard geographical separation of 2,746 miles, Jessica and I have always had a close connection, sending letters in the mail and going on nature walks and adventures when we were together during family visits. When she lived with us, she had Coldplay's album "A Rush of Blood to the Head" on frequent rotation. Jessica occupied the same bedroom that had been my grandparents'; her music carried into my life with the same muffled tones that our grandmother's nightly cello practice had. Pre-Shazam, I never knew what this album was—months after Jessica had moved back home to California, I finally pieced things together and tracked down my own copy of the Coldplay CD at the store. Since then, Coldplay has been something else we have shared.

 Now, reader, you ask for a song—my favorite song. All this has been the thread connected to the favorite.

 I have for a long time considered my favorite song to be "Strawberry Swing" by Coldplay. This surprises most people—it even surprised one of my closest friends and long-standing roommates, Adrienne, when she learned this, as I don't listen to it every day or even very frequently at all, as one might assume with favorite things.

 I spent Thanksgiving break of my freshman year at BYU in southern California—with Jessica, and my aunt and uncle. The oldest of my siblings, I was in Provo alone and found life in the dorms to be less than the stars-and-butterflies experience one expects of freshman year. Years later, I only faintly remember those twinges of hurt; a handful of my now dearest friends are girls who I met at age 18 in the dorms, so the painful parts of freshman year have been replaced by dearer memories and people. But predominantly, I had a difficult time finding my place among many girls who were not as accepting and friendly as I'd expected to find in a like-minded community. For these reasons, Thanksgiving in California was like a refuge for my soul—Jessica and I went to the beach, to the library, to get Balboa bars, on walks through her neighborhood. And we went and bought the Prospekt's March EP on release day. We listened to it in the car on the way home, and most of the rest of the time I was there, up until Jessica drove me to the airport.

 I don't remember discovering Strawberry Swing until about a year after this, though I would surely have heard it when listening to the Viva la Vida album. But one day my perception of the song changed, like a slight adjustment made by the optometrist on the phoropter which makes your vision that had been growing less fuzzy by degrees suddenly and immediately crystal clear. And it has been my favorite song since that moment.

 Some of the lyrics of Strawberry Swing are repeated in the songs on the Prospekt's March EP; these lines evoked memories of my restorative time in California—"cold, cold water/bring me round/now my feet won't touch the ground"—of Thanksgiving Day spent at the beach with Jessica and the chilly Pacific waves lapping at our feet.

 "I remember/we were walking up to strawberry swing./I can't wait until the morning/wouldn't want to change a thing." A nostalgist to a fault, I picture in my mind my own well-trodden paths to special places in my life: all over my grandparents' farm, walks around the block on my childhood street, nightly passeggiate the summer I lived in Italy, and walking through my own intimate Provo neighborhood on summer evenings, to admire Christmas lights, and on early morning runs. As much as I will always love to travel, there is something unspeakably perfect about having a sense of home and of belonging wherever you live.

 "People moving all the time/inside a perfectly straight line/don't you want to curve away./And it's such a perfect day/it's such a perfect day." The bridge and the resolution are my favorite parts of this song—these words and the melodies that accompany them express to me the impermanence and imperfection of life, but their beauty despite all this.

 "Now the sky could be blue/I don't mind/without you it's a waste of time./Could be blue/could be grey/without you I'm just miles away." This song has elements of African tribal music as an undertone throughout—Chris Martin attributed this to his mum's upbringing in Zimbabwe. I love the familial connection that exists within this song, a tie that can't be broken by distance or time or by the color of the sky; happiness is generated within us rather than found in our external circumstances.

 The lyrics and music of Strawberry Swing are simple, beautiful, and resonate deeply with the ways that I experience life, and on grey days, the ways that I always hope to choose to experience it.

home.


This photo has nothing to do with anything except #bougainvilleaforever and the fact that I came across it again in my photo library (from the train station in Riomaggiore).

 . . . . 

I just spent a week and a half in Morocco (and in transit to and from Morocco). It was an incredible trip and I loved so many things about it. I posted some photos along the way; after collecting my thoughts and sorting through all the photos I'm sure there will be more coming in this space soon.

I am grateful for the opportunities I have had to travel and to experience other places and the kinds of lives people lead there. In these moments away from my life in America I have learned more about myself and been reminded, too, of why I love my life in America; I am reminded once again how blessed we are in our free country with innumerable modern conveniences, forward-thinking cultural climes, and autonomy. It is easy for me to forget these things when it is dark and cold outside and I am weary of winter and dreary days, longing for sunshine and faraway places.

For my birthday, my dear friend Emily gave me a copy of Antoine de Saint Exupéry's memoir "Wind, Sand and Stars." He was a pilot in the early days of what is now Air France, making mail deliveries to rural and remote outposts in the Sahara and northern Africa. As a proponent of all things Anne Fadiman, I brought this for my trip reading, what Anne (I can be on a first name basis with her, right?) calls, "You-are-there reading." How apropos, too, that during our trip we saw a screening of Le petit prince, authored also by Saint-Exupéry (ah! so beautiful). I keep thinking of the quote below:

"Inside the narrow skull of the miner pinned beneath the fallen timber, there lives a world. Parents, friends, a home, the hot soup of evening, songs sung on feast days, loving kindness and anger, perhaps even a social consciousness and a great universal love, inhabit that skull. By what are we to measure the value of a man? His ancestor once drew a reindeer on the wall of a cave; and two hundred thousand years later that gesture still radiates. It stirs us, prolongs itself in us. Man's gestures are an eternal spring. Though we die for it, we shall bring up that miner from his shaft. Solitary he may be; universal he surely is." -Antoine de Saint Exupéry, Wind, Sand and Stars, p. 204

Various experiences remind me how we are all connected to one another, despite countries and borders and barriers of language and culture. During my trip, I was terribly carsick on a bus in the middle of the Rif Mountains. I felt so miserable and wished I was home, but alas I still had three more hours of winding roads before I had even a riad bed to my name. The Moroccan woman sitting with her boyfriend in the row in front of me turned around, put her hand reassuringly on my knee, and said, "Relax," the only English word I heard her say throughout the bus ride, beyond our brief communication in French and her conversations with her boyfriend in Arabic. Our world has many problems and struggles, but these moments of compassion and understanding between strangers give me hope.

I had a grand time, and am jumping right back into real life and responsibilities. My jet lag is catching up to me and I can't stop yawning. What a lovely thing to be able to fall asleep, happily and quite content to be in my own bed in this life that I love.

prier pour Paris



"America is my country, and Paris is my home town." –Gertrude Stein

Bad things can and do happen anywhere—but in a city like Paris, the city of light, where each moment feels a little more magical (the Eiffel Tour sparkles after all), it seems unthinkable and even more heartbreaking. Paris holds a special place in my heart and I've been feeling a little heartbroken since I first heard live updates yesterday afternoon and continue to follow coverage of the events. On NPR last night, I heard that this series of attacks is the worst attack on Paris since the Second World War. Here's to showing more compassion when our world seems a little fragile, and standing in solidarité with our beloved Paris. xo.


photos from two different trips to Paris

fall in the mountains


I've learned a secret living in Utah—you can jumpstart fall by going to the mountains. Utah falls had always felt short-lived to me until I finally made this key discovery a year or two ago. When you begin the season early at a higher elevation, you can stretch things out a few weeks longer, and that is a lovely thing. Just as spring and summer's rich greens have faded to deep ochres and browns, suddenly the mountains are ablaze in swathes of rich fall hues—I live for those oranges and reds. Every fall, I feel a little like Frederick the mouse, taking in all the beauties of autumn to tide me over until the beginning buds of spring. Winter has its own loveliness, but it is easily lost in the dark and shortened days.


To date, I have not explored the canyons close to Salt Lake City, having many closer ones to attract my time and attention. I've had several hikes in Big and Little Cottonwood Canyons, respectively, on my list for quite a while, and Melissa and I hiked to Lake Blanche (in Big Cottonwood Canyon) last weekend. It's about 7.5 miles roundtrip, which meant more time in the mountains (hooray!) and very sore legs/bodies the next day (M texted me the following morning, "My legs are broken," and the consensus was: the mountains: 1, Liz and Melissa: 0).

We also saw some moose grazing on a hillside opposite the trail! Do you see them? (try the lower right quadrant if you need a hint)


On Labor Day, my dear friend Katie and I took to the mountains again—this time Hobble Creek Canyon. We took a winding, and at times very narrow road far up into the mountains in an attempt to locate a trail from an old book of local hikes I found at a used bookstore. The directions were a little unclear (most likely outdated), because we never found "the white bridge" that served as landmark for the trailhead, but we eventually picked a spot to park and followed a narrow winding trail up through the aspens. We wound our way carefully through, making mental notes of landmarks, and pausing to spot the springy movements of deer through the shadowy trees.

I am often asked about my future plans, to move to the east coast/move away from Utah/etc., but the answer I keep coming back with is "not yet." I am beyond grateful for the little life I've carved out in this valley; for wonderful friends who have taught me so much, who understand me, who help me to thrive; and for the many nearby mountains that have served as a backdrop and sometimes an escape during an important and formative (and still on-going) part of my life. I am nostalgic, perhaps to a fault, and I know someday I will long for my present reality. My life is not perfect—it comes with its challenges and anxieties, as all lives do—but I would be foolish and remiss to overlook just how good it is. When I go to the mountains, this rings true again and I feel so much gratitude for my life on this earth.


On our way home from the canyon, Katie and I stopped to pick up some Green River melons. Our bishop always raves about these melons and having spotted their trailer en route, it seemed a perfect accompaniment to the in-between-seasons pace of the day—a last hurrah of the long sunny days of summer. Late that afternoon we mustered a group of friends to get ice cream (I got black licorice and lemon custard—yum—but I had a twinge of buyer's remorse when I heard/tasted some of the other flavors!) at the Red Barn in Santaquin—despite its crazy angles I love this photo with its rays of bright sunshine, green grass, and friends. La vita è bella, truly.

the pure peace of giving one's gold away


Goldenrod

On roadsides,
     in fall fields,
          in rumpy bunches,
               saffron and orange and pale gold,

in little towers,
     soft as mash,
          sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,
               full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerlets

and orange butterflies.
     I don't suppose
          much notice comes of it, except for honey,
               and how it heartens the heart with its

blank blaze.
     I don't suppose anything loves it except, perhaps
          the rocky voids
               filled by its dumb dazzle.

For myself,
     I was just passing by, when the wind flared
          and the blossoms rustled,
               and the glittering pandemonium

leaned on me.
     I was just minding my own business
          when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
               citron and butter-colored,

and was happy, and why not?
     Are not the difficult labors of our lives
          full of dark hours?
               And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,

that is better than these light-filled bodies?
     All day
          on their airy backbones
               they toss in the wind,

they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend,
     they rise in a stiff sweetness,
          in the pure peace of giving
               one's gold away.

–Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems Volume One, p. 17-18



I love Mary Oliver and these are some of my very favorite poems: Goldenrod, Going to Walden, and Poppies.

As Jess and I climbed the narrow trail leading up a mountain across a valley from the splendor of these pictured mountains, I exclaimed again and again with delight at the perfect day, the mountains, the aspen trees, the sunshine, the cool wind periodically breezing by, each new wildflower that grew along our path. On the way down, I plucked a few for a bouquet (which ended up in my hair). Sage, Indian paintbrush, goldenrod, others yet unknown.

At the beginning I thought to curb my enthusiasm, refrain from further exclamations of repetitive delight. But this was impossible, and really, to what end? What has consciousness come to anyway, so far, / that is better than these light-filled bodies?

Going to the mountains is so good for my soul. The beauty and stillness of those rocky places lets everything else melt away. My feet keep pace on a narrow path, swishing through densely grown grasses and wildflowers and the occasional thistle. My mind empties itself out, replacing worries and noise with the craggy heights and rocky bulk of the mountains, daylight filtering through the aspens, the audible fluttering as their leaves quiver in the wind, the same wind that cools your face and blows wisps of my hair. It is all right there for me (and you) to notice and the mountains ask for nothing in return, "bright coppers at the roots of trees."

listening: The Sound of Music soundtrack (what else, really?)

what you see is what you get

(a photo from a twilight walk around my neighborhood)

Sight is an incredible thing. Our eyes reflect and refract light which illuminates objects and shapes and colors and tones which are interpreted by firing synapses in our brain, our minds filtering out superfluous detail and sorting and categorizing what is left, what is deemed relevant by time or place or circumstance. When our eyes don't work well enough on their own, we can duplicate the processes that take place internally with a piece of plastic or glass. No matter which way you look at it, the sense of sight is remarkable.


The verb "to see" goes beyond simply sight; it transcends the physical world that is the object of sight into the emotional and mental faculties which allow us to form perceptions—our perceptions of the physical, yes, but of the intangible too.


This comment from Mallory (re: neature re: Annie Dillard) reminded me of this fascinating passage in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, where Dillard explores the perceptions of individuals whose vision was restored from blindness—"For the newly sighted, vision is pure sensation unencumbered by meaning" (p. 28). It is remarkable how our visual experience of the world is informed and in fact dependent upon our physical experiences of the world. We come to understand depth perception as a result of moving through planes and spaces, visual texture as a result of touching and feeling physical objects, countless other parallels. It is remarkable, and yet something I take completely for granted.

 . . . . 

'Perplexity came to [Meg] from the beast. "What is this dark? What is this light? We do not understand. Your father and the boy, Calvin, have asked this, too. They say that it is night now on our planet, and that they cannot see. They have told us that our atmosphere is what they call opaque, so that the stars are not visible, and then they were surprised that we know stars, that we know their music and the movements of their dance far better than beings like you who spend hours studying them through what you call telescopes. We do not understand what this means, to see."
'"Well, it's what things look like," Meg said helplessly.
'"We do not know what things look like, as you say," the beast said. "We know what things are like. It must be a very limiting thing, this seeing."' -Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time, p. 199-200

 . . . . 

"But—and this is the point—who gets excited by a mere penny? . . . If you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get." -Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, p. 17


Some food for thought.

to give thee experience

I had thoughts in my head and now that I am at a keyboard, they are becoming more inarticulate by the minute.

Suffice it to say that I have an unspeakable gratitude for life—my life, this life. I love the Italian verb "to live"—vivere. It is so expressive.

One of my favorite quotes from one of my very favorite books has always said so much of what I feel.


 . . . . 


*from D&C 122:7 "...know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good."

 **also: if you have not already, might I recommend that you watch the First Presidency's Christmas Devotional? The music was incredible and the talks so wonderful. I am so grateful for this Christmas season and the way that everything in it directs us to our Savior Jesus Christ. (also Lauren and I loved that the oboists and French hornists were seated in tandem in the Orchestra at Temple Square—that could be us! #teamvines)

Waterton

Once upon a time we went to Canada. I never posted these but I wanted to so I here invoke the "better late than never" adage (see also: Glacier National Park).

Oh Canada (yes, the anthem!). We saw bears, hiked to waterfalls, practiced our français, had our passports stamped, ate poutine, licked cones of Tiger (I heart black licorice—a trait and taste inherited from my mother and her father) and Smarties (the Canadian kind, not the sad chalky American name-sharer) ice cream, and all-around had a lovely time. The Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton is something else—such a stunning spot. The highlight, however, was our rainy hike through the red rock canyon—deep deep shades of red compared to Utah's (also beautiful) red orange rocks. We found fossils, slid down natural slides, and mustered all of our former balance-beam-walking dexterity for tackling fallen logs.

 . . . . 

Writing this now I'm thinking back on that week in the wilderness—it was really the best. It was so peaceful to be in nature at length, with no distractions or obligations. I saw so many beautiful things and places and reveled in it. One night walking back to our campsite after dark, I could see the mountains silhouetted against the night sky and I felt such awe at my small place in this grand universe. The cool wild air filled my lungs and my heart beat inside me and I felt at home in this world.

welcome to earth

"These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. ... But now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for he hath prepared for them a city." –Hebrews 11: 13, 16

 . . . . 

I have had so many thoughts and feelings in my mind and heart the last number of weeks but I just can't seem to put them into words. I love the verses above in Hebrews 11 (also this whole chapter) and this phrase "they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth" has resonated with me for as long as I can remember. Recently my own sense of being a stranger and pilgrim on this earth has been felt anew and so poignantly; everything seems to underscore this. I think this is why I can't quite put it into words—it is a moving target of emotion and thought, and sometimes words are not adequate.

listening:
Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing (oh I love this, and the French horns & orchestra)
General Conference

//

Just breaking the silence momentarily to say that this world is pretty spectacular.

I cannot live without books. // separation anxiety

Back when I visited M in DC, we went to the Library of Congress (a fitting outing for two book-loving, library-affiliated girls such as ourselves) and while there, saw an exhibit of Thomas Jefferson's library—it was amazing. I am reminded of his famous quotation as I rearrange my own library in a new living space: "I cannot live without books" (the next line he writes is also wonderful: "but fewer will suffice where amusement, and not use, is the only future object.").

A recent venture to Ikea saw me home with a new dresser but no bookcase, as the desired sort was out of stock. I allowed that the bookcase had been a want, not a need (my mother has wisely taught me to know the difference); our new house is outfitted with two spacious, tall bookcases in the living room. Adrienne and I unpacked our books onto these more remote shelves and decided this will work. But even now, a few days later, and I wish my books were in my bedroom. Is this ridiculous? I think T.J. would say, 'Not so.'

I remain undecided on whether or not to buy a bookshelf for my bedroom, in limbo between wants and needs, and wants that border on needs. I cannot live without books. (but realistically I can probably live with them in the other room. I keep including qualifiers; A.K.A. I am torn.)

 . . . . 

I read some really beautiful words about books tonight (and specifically about books that I love) (this is all thanks to Mackenzie, who liked one of these posts which was how I discovered said words) and I am reminded of the staying power of books. I am reminded of my books across the country in New Jersey (a small, select stack of which my family is bringing to me in a week and a half!). I am reminded of specific words and from which books I first learned them (a baby swan is a cygnet, as I told my second grade teacher shortly after reading "The Trumpet of the Swan"). I am reminded of the heft of the card catalog drawers in my elementary school library, the well-oiled tracks and glossy tags marking each one. I am reminded of the particular smell and feel of all of the libraries that I have frequented and intimately known. I am reminded of the many lessons books have taught me, both insignificant and great, and the worlds opened to me in their pages. And I am reminded that these lessons and words and ideas, these stories and places and people remain with me, whether the books are with me or not.

around these parts


Earlier this evening I rode my bike down the street to read my book on a park bench in the out of doors; after a week in the wilderness and a day back at work, I wanted to be outside again. A few fat raindrops spattered down intermittently on my head and lap, but I remained hopeful and forged ahead with the Misses Honeychurch and Bartlett as they were situated in their new rooms with views.

No such luck, however (with the rain, not the rooms; they get their Arno views), and the drops fell more and more quickly with some accompanying booms of thunder. I marked my place, stowed my book in my bag and pedaled off for home. The rain came first and I was quickly soaked. The rain streamed down my face and turned my hair stringy and wet, as rain is wont to do. Someone walking on the sidewalk yelled in irony, "Stay dry!"

Once I parked my bike under the awning and deposited my water-logged shoes and bag inside, I stepped back out. Since I was already soaked to the skin, I figured I may as well enjoy the rest of the thunderstorm outside, just because.

Because I have not done so in far too long.
Because thunderstorms are a hallmark of summer.
Because tonight's felt especially apropos.
And because I love rain and the feeling of being alive while outside in the rain.
 . . . . 

Last night, or this morning, rather—12:43 in the AM to be precise—we got home from Glacier and stumbled bleary-eyed in our front door with our camping gear. The house was dark and I had the sensation of arriving at home after a vacation. This was in fact what I was doing, but I have not had that feeling for longer than I can remember and it was quite unexpected to experience it coming home to the bath house.

I thought of this a few times throughout the day as I stepped back into my normal routine and caught up on emails and errands and everyday life. It wasn't until my post-rainy day shower that the pieces started to make sense in my head and now I am happily situated in cozy clean clothes and sprawled on my bedroom floor making more sense of things through words on a (web)page.
 . . . . 

If you have never heard of the quarter life crisis, well neither had I until I arrived at this particular milestone of young adulthood (specifically my college graduation) and found comfort in its being a somewhat well-founded concept. The QLC is real, and I have found myself grappling with it over the last little while and I've hinted at that here and there.

I love what my mom frequently says, quoting a family friend: "Life doesn't get any easier, it's just a different kind of hard." This is my current type of hard and as such it's okay that it's inexplicable and undulating—it's the nature of this beast. I'm grateful for the friends by my side whose words and experiences and comforting presence make things a little less scary since we're in this together.
 . . . . 

Part of the reason for my wonderment at the aforementioned returning-from-vacation déjà vu is the fact that in approximately one week I will pick up and move to a new house with a new address and a new fun name that is yet to be coined. How could I be so attached to a place that is only temporarily home?

I realized that the feeling I experienced when I walked in the door was less related to this particular space but more related to this particular place in my life. One of my favorite quotes from Pushing Daisies captures the sentiment perfectly: "And so the piemaker had come to understand home did not mean four walls and a door you never walk out of; home was a feeling of where you belong."

I am where I belong, despite the shifting of homes and addresses and roommates and quotidian surroundings—I am in a good place and doing my best at building the life that I hope to live.

This is a little disjointed and it's getting late so I am sending this out into the void and going to bed. Goodnight dear void (and how well that quote fits this context).

from my little corner of the world/internet,
E




listening: "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room" - John Mayer & "When You Come Back Down" - Nickel Creek
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