Must Have

Don't you just love this dress?
I am thinking I simply must have it.
Someday.

The Birth House

"Our parents and teachers say it's a miracle, but its not. It's going to happen no matter what, there's no choice in the matter. To my mind, a miracle is something that could go one way or another. How a mother comes to love her child, her caring at all for this thing that's made her heavy, lopsided and slow, this thing that made her wish she were dead.... that's the miracle."


Ami McKay's story was hard to put down. (Thanks Lacey). McKay's depiction of a Nova Scotian bay and the people who made their lives there was both inspiring and shocking.

Miss Babineau the village midwife trains the heroine of the novel - Dora - to attend to the females of the bay and ensure their safety while dealing with pregnancies, deliveries, and recoveries. As she stated, "All I ever wanted was to keep them safe."

There is plenty of love, but even more dislike embodied within the pages. I found myself wishing I could warn the women of the novel about the men and the mistakes they were making. I also do not recommend it if you are sensitive towards any sexual jargon, because there was a lot of that. But to me, it represented the strength of the women from this bay, and the sacrifices they made for women's rights.

Even more, this novel celebrated birth. It celebrated the pangs of motherhood, and the sacrifices women make for their children - even before they are born. It honored the duties of a woman and motherhood, which was very refreshing. I also felt it was appropriate for Mother's day.

"When I finished my tea tonight, I turned the cup over. One, two, three times round. I sees a pretty little house, right full with babies."

Top 5

My sister Callie and I were talking today about being stranded on a desert island. I asked her what foods she would eat for the rest of her life if she could only choose five. Oddly enough... We had an identical list. It consisted of:

What's on your list?

Road Trip

So far, Jessica and I have had a wild trip.

Our first night we stayed here.
The clerk tried to rip us off.
And we put the "Privacy Please" sign on the door.
Just to be safe.

We drove allllllll day today, only to try 10 different hotels.
Finally we found one, and stayed here.
We ate popcorn and drank naked for dinner.
We are very healthy.

Tomorrow we are spending most of the day in Chicago.
Pictures to follow.

I miss all of you already!

Photo Project

I recently got asked by a photography student to help him with his project. It was fun and I think they turned out great. I highly recommend him. It was mainly a wedding shoot but I don't have those yet. These were some fun ones we did on Center in Provo

.


What do you think?

Cutecake

I really like cupcakes lately. This new bakery in Provo, The Sweet Tooth Fairy is kind of addicting. I have already taken four different friends there, and gone twice by myself. Okay, maybe more than twice.


I recommend the Strawberry Shortcake. Or the Red Velvet. Or maybe the Key Lime. But mostly I like all of them. Just a hint to readers: If I am ever mad at you, just bring me one and I may forget my anger. Just saying.

Life

A series of hello's and goodbyes.
First, the initial tug.
Heart strings tight
And hope as gold and warm as the sun.

Then talks late on the porch,
Chips of ice, and blisters of conversation.
Accidental meetings and frost days.
You have become my friend.

Lightning strikes, and flannel blankets
Keep us warm.
Your eyes light up when the light falls.
I like your freckles, and your blunt cheeks.

Then I move far away, and you as well.
And we try to write but letters are not like
Freckles and cheeks but become
Tears that accompany shadows.

And everything is dead again and light--
Is there but not in you.
And our creek is gone and mud is in its place.
Mud,instead of sparkles in your smile.

Wherever you are, you are in me.
But not you now, you who was.
Stamps and scratched out sentences.
You don't say it anymore.

But lightning and rain on summer nights
With runs in the woods and sallow arguments.
And lips where only the stars could see,
Mark who you are. Then goodbye.

Artists of the Past

Let's look back and celebrate. Not just painters or poets or musicians. Maybe all of the above. Here are my top 3 current favorites of the past. It is hard to choose, but I think I can manage. Thank you, for your generations of inspiration.




Renoir:

This is my favorite painting of Renoir's and I am looking at it in my room right now. I think Renoir looked into the future and saw my sister Jessica and I standing on a Sunday afternoon by our cherry wood piano. Jessica plays the music and I sing generally, although we take turns and usually do a bit of both. I like to imagine that there were two sisters just like us, the brunette singing and the blond playing the piano, and maybe they loved each other as much as we do. Maybe. Thank you Renoir.


Matthew Arnold:

Arnold is not given enough credit. Yet out of all of the poets I have studied this year, he may have touched me the most deeply, and inspired me maybe even more than Wordsworth or Tennyson."The Buried Life," is my favorite, because I understood exactly what he meant about humanity and society.

"But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep within us-- to know
Whence our lives come and where they go."

And his unspeakable desire; "And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know." I completely understand that frustration. Thank you Arnold.

Debussy:

I love you Claude. Your music, reaches to the depths of my emotions, to my soul really, and connects my heart with my fingers. You make me feel like all of my hard times and bad experiences are made better in the humble yet potent trills and rhythms of your work. First Arabesque is my most favorite to play, but Clair de Lune is tied with Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun of my favorite to hear. I hope to live, breathe, and eat your work for the rest of my life. Thank you for years of inspiration Claude. I kind of love you.

Women of God

"Women of God can never be like women of the world. The world has enough women who are tough; we need women who are tender. There are enough women who are coarse; we need women who are kind. There are enough women who are rude; we need women who are refined. We have enough women of fame and fortune; we need more women of faith. We have enough greed; we need more goodness. We have enough vanity; we need more virtue. We have enough popularity; we need more purity."
-Margaret D. Nadauld

Lonely Person Theory

Some people walk around and on the inside they are ice but on the outside they pretend that they are fine and that everything is peach punch.
And they walk around with smiles on and they wave at their friends and they elevate their voices to high pitches when they see an acquaintance and they make their bodies hug. They put on a show because on the outside they are supposed to be fine. But I wonder sometimes what kind of ice they carry with them.
Maybe person X just got fired and they have to skip lunch.
Maybe person X just found out their Mom has cancer, or their Papa.
Maybe person X is just unhappy because they are experiencing unrequited love or maybe person Z who they love recently broke up with them for reasons they don't understand and they are afraid of being alone.
Or maybe person X just failed an exam or found out their puppy Luigi died or that Obama is the new president or that it is snowing for the 814th day.
But maybe it is just me thinking that person X is sad and carries ice inside of them. Maybe everything really is peach punch.
But me? I am ice woman today. Made of ice.

My Life be Like....

A long time ago, never mind how long, I had this strange, romantic idea. I thought that if I could sit for a moment, and plan out my future in my mind, it would come true. I would sit for hours awake in bed and tell myself that I would have these adventures, and I would be the most beautiful girl at the party always, and that I would be ambitious, and talented enough to do everything I needed when I needed to, regardless of age or space or time. I would be flirtatiously short, blond, busty, and rich, (none of which I happen to be) and I would have several beau's all of whom would be delighted with gratitude to be with me. Needless to say... I was a precocious child. And I am delighted to not be that girl. Sometimes our experiences, our tragedies, our pain and tears make us not only better people morally, but usually more fun, more understanding and empathetic, and more aware of what we do have. Deborah Keenan put it this way, "this path, this road that is one perfect straight line even if it goes around the world through heat and fog and rain and snow and its my life I keep thinking. Its my life." This heat and fog and rain and snow become who we are. A big mess of emotions that can never really find their way home until it is all over. Strangely enough however, I do believe in destiny, or fate if you will. But I believe we make it ourselves. And I will send this belief into the void, and ask you, whoever you are, to read. And maybe communicate. But mostly stop living life without that intact emotion, despite the fire and fog and rain. And love yourself in a way that you think you have come to deserve. Then deserve it.

Favorite Sheep

The streets of black are your own
Meadows of jade and envy.
Greed and crowds are empty flocks
The wolves embodied in kin and friend.

One sheep is bleating amidst the fold,
Its message loud and pure.
Its knees are bruised from atoning
Its crippled heart, implored.

The raging fold engulfs it
Wool tainted by the blood
It searches for the crook and pen
A pasture for the vessel and the arms

Of the Shepherd strong who hearkens
And with his hand he guides
To every sheep that's lost
Amidst the steel and glass and wire.

The woolen blood now washed free
Wrung through the bread and sun.
The Good Shepherd always hears the bleating,
Always loves the one.

Thirteen Moons

I just finished Thirteen Moons a novel by Charles Frazier, about William Cooper Howell the "White Chief." His life, was intriguing and so was the book but I was so frustrated by the ending. He and the love of his life Claire, the cautious yet passionate charge of Featherstone were the aspects of the story I liked best. He loved the way her kisses changed- sometimes she tasted like cinnamon, or pine - always trying out new plants and things to taste like. He loved that she smelled like ink always, and confessed to Will that sometimes she felt like an apostrophe - "A faint little mark to stand in for something more complete. a place keeper, a convention." He dreamed of her every night - the girl with the silver bracelets. Their sealing together at 17:

Be sleepless.
Sleepless and thinking of me.
Wanting me.
Only me.
Change right now.
Change.
Now I own your thoughts.
I own your breath.
I own your heart.

He confessed; I believe the words entered me and changed me and still work in me. Those words eat me and sustain me.

Years later after three days of passion, she has to leave- because of the indian removal laws. She tells him to get on the cart, to come with her. Then - this. This moment each of us may have at some point - our "Lancelot moment." "Hesitate to get in the cart, and you are lost. Maybe every life has one moment where everything could have been different if you had just climbed on the cart." But Will did not.

Claire says, "I would have burnt all of this down at a word from you." And drives away.

Will - "I thought then that if she would look up and say one more word, I would turn my back on the life and the place I had made, on the people who had taken me in... and I would follow her anywhere... I was a young man, but I believed my best life was over."

Years later, after her marriage ended, they meet with a twist of fate at the same summer lodging.He thought she looked just as beautiful at fifty then she did at sixteen. He asks her later, "How come I'm still in love with you?" He asks her to marry him. She replies, "I have to go away tomorrow." And as she leaves, Will tells her,"This will break us both."

AND THAT IS IT.

I wanted to throw the book across the room but there were still forty pages left and I had some slight hope that she would come back but no. It just ended. I was mad at Frazier and I was mad at myself for getting so attached to the fictional characters but mostly I was upset that an author can have that sway on people, and that they can let things end unhappily when you read to inevitably, come to a happy ending. After reading it I felt like Will too.

- This will break us both -

Confession

I am sort of obsessed with something lately: babies. I went to a ward party with my parents in Connecticut and the whole time I was holding someone's baby. I held Clara, Paolo, Mischa, etc. Except the whole time I was wishing I had my own baby. I don't really want a husband, I just want a baby. I don't really want a toddler and definitely don't want a teenager, but I do want a baby. It doesn't help that with all the NYC shopping we went into baby Gap, Anthropologie, and some other tres chic baby boutiques. I don't mean to sound strange, but I do want a baby. Just not all of the unnecessary pieces that accompany one.