Today was not the first day of fall,
the equinox having passed some days ago
but today I stumbled while rollerskating
and skinned my left knee on the sidewalk.
Earlier I told my roommate that my right leg had scars upon scars
I showed a few and traced their dark shapes with my fingers
“but my left is pristine,” I said
and well it was.
Not many people rollerskate these days
but I like the way I can move in them
I like the way I can stand up straight and be whisked away
by gravity.
Gravity, taking you places, and sometimes,
only sometimes depositing you in a heap on the cold concrete
It takes a kind of backwards thinking.
I sat in the sun today for a while and thought backwards to when summer was ripe
and before it bloomed.
I thought about the last days of spring term
spent hunched over a microscope in a building clothed in ivy
clothed in ivy and smelling of paint and bones
those last days I spent counting teeth and organizing fish-skeletons
and walking home through the alleyways so I could see backyard secret blooms.
I lived in the city then.
I forgot to take my rollerskates there
so I walked instead, miles and miles looking for new things to like
and people to fall in love with.
I fell in love with many people in the city, and I thought about them in the
cool sunshine today.
I thought about them and the insides of their houses
and the possibility that I have accrued some scars from them
on the right or left side of my heart.
It is then that I remember that my heart has never seen much
except my blood, and it is a serious worker with tubes sticking out of it
and that it is a backwards way of thinking that my heart
has seen others and air.
Even on days like today when I wonder
if someone has placed an untied balloon in my chest, full then empty,
full again, with a crazy sound.
Today on the way to school I noticed a tree with one yellow branch on it
the leaves of which seemed to be reflecting the sun
I wondered if the rest of the tree was having trouble saying goodbye
to summer
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Intellectual Swim - September 27 2013
IN THE BEGINNING
In my first memory I am sitting
on a pile of dirt. The sun is golden. I am drawing shapes in the sediment, and watching my father scoop shovelfuls of silt and sand into a cement mixer. The image I have is probably pieced together by my memory from a catalogue of a thousand days watching my father work and feeling dirt slide out of my small hands. The story of how I decided to become an anthropologist feels similar to that. Countless small moments all pieced together into an experience that dropped me off at the Anthropology department of Fort Lewis College.
I was born during the construction of our house. I was formed as my parents molded thousands of adobe bricks by hand. Neither of them had ever built a house before, but they read
books, had conversations with people about how houses should be built, and they experimented. Their experiment produced fantastic results, and by the time I became conscious of my environment, my parents had turned dust into an adobe palace. In the early days the palace had ladders instead of stairs and sheets of plastic instead of windows, but as I developed so did the house and it began to be filled. The library was filled with books, the studio with paints and pencils, the kitchen with pans and vegetables from our garden, and the whole was filled with people.
There were always people in our house: relatives, adventurers, friends, and strangers. Some of them stayed for an afternoon, and some of them stayed for years. Around our kitchen table we
shared food with these people, stories, and ideas. My father implemented a tradition into our family, one that came from his father, that on Sundays we would have people over for dinner. In my lifetime we’ve probably served thousands of people from our kitchen, including: John Goddard, the famous adventurer, Lena, Meow-Meow, and Wang-Lung, Chinese schoolteachers living in the US, Aaron, a convict who almost stabbed my Father with a fork for reaching over his plate, and more. It was from these visitors that I learned that people are
wildly diverse. I listened to their stories, and became interested in the connections between people and the disconnections between them. I became interested in how such vastly different stories, perspectives, and behaviors could grow from one human seed. I was also instilled with an unshakable desire to have wild adventures of my own.
Another factor that heightened my awareness of human diversity was outside the home, in the community of Cedaredge, Colorado. The population of my hometown consists mostly of retired people. It is a place where people who have worked hard their whole lives and eked out a modest living go to die. It is also one of the only places in the United States that is not vulnerable to natural disasters. Neither earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, tsunamis, nor avalanches plague our small town, which has made it a homesteading destination for people who are particularly concerned with the apocalypse (sometimes known as ‘preppers’). Along with the old people and the preppers, there are considerable populations of both very conservative Christians, and hippies. Because these different social groups exist in such a small community, I had the opportunity to interact at length with all of them. In fact, it was from interacting with these different groups that I first became aware of the concept of otherness.
There were kids in our town that as a Mormon I was not allowed to play with. Their parents forbade them from consorting with Mormons (It was as silly as it sounds). I didn’t fully understand the implications of that as a seven-year-old, but later I became acutely aware of the boundaries that people in our small town created around themselves. I was allowed to play with the children of hippies, to share their alfalfa sprouts and run barefoot with them, but my interactions with the children of Christians were only on the soccer field, or while no one was
paying attention.
Similarly in High School, which I attended for one hour a day (I was homeschooled the rest of the time). I noticed that as an outsider I was not welcome into the community. I went to
school for an hour a day and watched people. I observed their clothing, and the people they ignored. As a teenager I was very upset that I couldn’t be in the High School ethnic group, but looking back I notice that I learned much in that time. I learned how people construct their social circles because I was always trying to figure out why I couldn’t get one, and I collected a great many hobbies and skills because I had a lot of free time. I learned to play the piano, hip-hop dance, horseback ride, write poetry, play soccer, cook, sew, lay tile, snowboard, play ping-pong, write music, and I voraciously consumed books.
MEETING ANTHROPOLOGY
At seventeen I started to get stressed out about the fact that I hadn’t chosen a direction for my life. I had a vast array of interests, and I knew that I wanted to travel, but I wanted to find a focus in my learning. So one day I made a list of all the things that made me happy: travel, sunshine, dirt, hard work, reading, history, language, conversation, stories (oral traditions), art, architecture, etc… By the time I finished, I knew that anthropology was the direction I needed to go in my life. Like Kent Flannery, in his article, “On the Resiliance of Anthropological Archaeology.” Anthropology, “made sense”. Like Flannery I feel that my choice to study anthropology and the passion I have developed for the discipline is a direct result of my experiences as a child, in a dirt house full of crazy people (Flannery 2006 p2).
When I finally got to College and started studying anthropology officially. I loved learning terms like, “cosmology”, and “kinship” because they helped me articulate thoughts that I had about people, and explain some of the phenomena I experienced and observed as a child and a teenager. But studying anthropology also frustrated me, and parts of it really upset me.
The trouble began in my Intro to Anthropology class, when we started learning about “race” as a social construct rather than a biological fact. I was immediately confused and frustrated by the fact that I had been led to believe my entire life that human differences were such that people are naturally divided into categories. I was upset that everyone didn’t know that. This is a problem that I have encountered many times in my study of anthropology. That anthropologists have spent hundreds of years trying to explain why humans are the way they are, why they do what they do, some of them making beautiful and potentially world changing discoveries and nobody knows about it. Often these discoveries are embedded in horrific writing that takes hours and an oxford English dictionary to decode. Anthropology is a discipline that has the potential to help people, but I think too often that potential is trapped in the halls of academia, or buried in the pages of dense, un-readable, anthropological literature. One of my visions for the future involves making anthropology more accessible to people. Mostly, this is because of the reasons I have mentioned above, but also partially because I am tired of people saying, “what’s that” or “so you dig up dinosaur bones?” when I tell them what my major is (this is anthropology’s fault).
Another qualm I have with the field of anthropology is relevance. Especially in archaeology, I am concerned with the purpose of what I am doing. This summer I read about a site called,
“sacred ridge” that is just west of Durango. This site was the location of a grotesque massacre where people had their faces pecked off, and their bones splintered into tiny pieces. I don’t know if we are better for knowing about things like that. The event occurred so far in the past that there is no justice to be served, and yes, it is bringing the truth the light, but is it always a goodthing to know the past?
THE FUTURE
My worries about the discipline of anthropology are somewhat soothed by Andrea Muehlebach’s review of sociocultural anthropology in The American Anthropologist. Muehlebach discusses the concept of ethical imagination, and the idea that anthropologists having a heightened sense of ethics and morals have the ability to make valuable contributions to the
discussions that are coursing through our society today, important discussions about how we should act. She writes, “Anthropologists are not the only ones committed to an ethical imagination. The world is also speaking to us in a heightened ethical register—in the form of corporate social responsibility, global humanitarian interventions, new forms of development, the proliferation of charismatic religions, and, perhaps most importantly, through the many political protests that anthropologists documented in 2012. (Muehlnbach 2012 pg 305)” Muehlnbach further reviews articles wherein anthropologists are involved in solving problems, and shedding light on situations that are complicated and important.
There is still a lot of anthropology that I don’t know. I am interested in further exploring the connections between language and culture, and the preservation of culture. Cultural geography is field that I find completely fascinating and very relevant to problems in our society today. I find sociocultural anthropology to be both fascinating and taxing. I am also interested in further studying the anthropology of gender. I’m confused about why most gender studies classes focus on women, and are heavily attended by women. I am a woman, so I feel I
know quite a lot about women, but men are strange.
I feel that anthropology is a lifestyle, and that the ways of thinking that I have developed as an anthropology undergraduate student will help me wherever I end up in life. I also feel that
as a lifestyle, it is one I will entertain until the end of my days.
WORKS CITED
Flannery, Kent V.
2006 “On the Resilience of Anthropological Archaeology”. Annual Review of Anthropology 35:1-15
Muehlebach,Andrea
2013 “On Precariousness and the Ethical Imagination: The Year 2012 in Sociocultural Anthropology.” American Anthropologist. American Anthropologist: The Year inReview.
In my first memory I am sitting
on a pile of dirt. The sun is golden. I am drawing shapes in the sediment, and watching my father scoop shovelfuls of silt and sand into a cement mixer. The image I have is probably pieced together by my memory from a catalogue of a thousand days watching my father work and feeling dirt slide out of my small hands. The story of how I decided to become an anthropologist feels similar to that. Countless small moments all pieced together into an experience that dropped me off at the Anthropology department of Fort Lewis College.
I was born during the construction of our house. I was formed as my parents molded thousands of adobe bricks by hand. Neither of them had ever built a house before, but they read
books, had conversations with people about how houses should be built, and they experimented. Their experiment produced fantastic results, and by the time I became conscious of my environment, my parents had turned dust into an adobe palace. In the early days the palace had ladders instead of stairs and sheets of plastic instead of windows, but as I developed so did the house and it began to be filled. The library was filled with books, the studio with paints and pencils, the kitchen with pans and vegetables from our garden, and the whole was filled with people.
There were always people in our house: relatives, adventurers, friends, and strangers. Some of them stayed for an afternoon, and some of them stayed for years. Around our kitchen table we
shared food with these people, stories, and ideas. My father implemented a tradition into our family, one that came from his father, that on Sundays we would have people over for dinner. In my lifetime we’ve probably served thousands of people from our kitchen, including: John Goddard, the famous adventurer, Lena, Meow-Meow, and Wang-Lung, Chinese schoolteachers living in the US, Aaron, a convict who almost stabbed my Father with a fork for reaching over his plate, and more. It was from these visitors that I learned that people are
wildly diverse. I listened to their stories, and became interested in the connections between people and the disconnections between them. I became interested in how such vastly different stories, perspectives, and behaviors could grow from one human seed. I was also instilled with an unshakable desire to have wild adventures of my own.
Another factor that heightened my awareness of human diversity was outside the home, in the community of Cedaredge, Colorado. The population of my hometown consists mostly of retired people. It is a place where people who have worked hard their whole lives and eked out a modest living go to die. It is also one of the only places in the United States that is not vulnerable to natural disasters. Neither earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, tsunamis, nor avalanches plague our small town, which has made it a homesteading destination for people who are particularly concerned with the apocalypse (sometimes known as ‘preppers’). Along with the old people and the preppers, there are considerable populations of both very conservative Christians, and hippies. Because these different social groups exist in such a small community, I had the opportunity to interact at length with all of them. In fact, it was from interacting with these different groups that I first became aware of the concept of otherness.
There were kids in our town that as a Mormon I was not allowed to play with. Their parents forbade them from consorting with Mormons (It was as silly as it sounds). I didn’t fully understand the implications of that as a seven-year-old, but later I became acutely aware of the boundaries that people in our small town created around themselves. I was allowed to play with the children of hippies, to share their alfalfa sprouts and run barefoot with them, but my interactions with the children of Christians were only on the soccer field, or while no one was
paying attention.
Similarly in High School, which I attended for one hour a day (I was homeschooled the rest of the time). I noticed that as an outsider I was not welcome into the community. I went to
school for an hour a day and watched people. I observed their clothing, and the people they ignored. As a teenager I was very upset that I couldn’t be in the High School ethnic group, but looking back I notice that I learned much in that time. I learned how people construct their social circles because I was always trying to figure out why I couldn’t get one, and I collected a great many hobbies and skills because I had a lot of free time. I learned to play the piano, hip-hop dance, horseback ride, write poetry, play soccer, cook, sew, lay tile, snowboard, play ping-pong, write music, and I voraciously consumed books.
MEETING ANTHROPOLOGY
At seventeen I started to get stressed out about the fact that I hadn’t chosen a direction for my life. I had a vast array of interests, and I knew that I wanted to travel, but I wanted to find a focus in my learning. So one day I made a list of all the things that made me happy: travel, sunshine, dirt, hard work, reading, history, language, conversation, stories (oral traditions), art, architecture, etc… By the time I finished, I knew that anthropology was the direction I needed to go in my life. Like Kent Flannery, in his article, “On the Resiliance of Anthropological Archaeology.” Anthropology, “made sense”. Like Flannery I feel that my choice to study anthropology and the passion I have developed for the discipline is a direct result of my experiences as a child, in a dirt house full of crazy people (Flannery 2006 p2).
When I finally got to College and started studying anthropology officially. I loved learning terms like, “cosmology”, and “kinship” because they helped me articulate thoughts that I had about people, and explain some of the phenomena I experienced and observed as a child and a teenager. But studying anthropology also frustrated me, and parts of it really upset me.
The trouble began in my Intro to Anthropology class, when we started learning about “race” as a social construct rather than a biological fact. I was immediately confused and frustrated by the fact that I had been led to believe my entire life that human differences were such that people are naturally divided into categories. I was upset that everyone didn’t know that. This is a problem that I have encountered many times in my study of anthropology. That anthropologists have spent hundreds of years trying to explain why humans are the way they are, why they do what they do, some of them making beautiful and potentially world changing discoveries and nobody knows about it. Often these discoveries are embedded in horrific writing that takes hours and an oxford English dictionary to decode. Anthropology is a discipline that has the potential to help people, but I think too often that potential is trapped in the halls of academia, or buried in the pages of dense, un-readable, anthropological literature. One of my visions for the future involves making anthropology more accessible to people. Mostly, this is because of the reasons I have mentioned above, but also partially because I am tired of people saying, “what’s that” or “so you dig up dinosaur bones?” when I tell them what my major is (this is anthropology’s fault).
Another qualm I have with the field of anthropology is relevance. Especially in archaeology, I am concerned with the purpose of what I am doing. This summer I read about a site called,
“sacred ridge” that is just west of Durango. This site was the location of a grotesque massacre where people had their faces pecked off, and their bones splintered into tiny pieces. I don’t know if we are better for knowing about things like that. The event occurred so far in the past that there is no justice to be served, and yes, it is bringing the truth the light, but is it always a goodthing to know the past?
THE FUTURE
My worries about the discipline of anthropology are somewhat soothed by Andrea Muehlebach’s review of sociocultural anthropology in The American Anthropologist. Muehlebach discusses the concept of ethical imagination, and the idea that anthropologists having a heightened sense of ethics and morals have the ability to make valuable contributions to the
discussions that are coursing through our society today, important discussions about how we should act. She writes, “Anthropologists are not the only ones committed to an ethical imagination. The world is also speaking to us in a heightened ethical register—in the form of corporate social responsibility, global humanitarian interventions, new forms of development, the proliferation of charismatic religions, and, perhaps most importantly, through the many political protests that anthropologists documented in 2012. (Muehlnbach 2012 pg 305)” Muehlnbach further reviews articles wherein anthropologists are involved in solving problems, and shedding light on situations that are complicated and important.
There is still a lot of anthropology that I don’t know. I am interested in further exploring the connections between language and culture, and the preservation of culture. Cultural geography is field that I find completely fascinating and very relevant to problems in our society today. I find sociocultural anthropology to be both fascinating and taxing. I am also interested in further studying the anthropology of gender. I’m confused about why most gender studies classes focus on women, and are heavily attended by women. I am a woman, so I feel I
know quite a lot about women, but men are strange.
I feel that anthropology is a lifestyle, and that the ways of thinking that I have developed as an anthropology undergraduate student will help me wherever I end up in life. I also feel that
as a lifestyle, it is one I will entertain until the end of my days.
WORKS CITED
Flannery, Kent V.
2006 “On the Resilience of Anthropological Archaeology”. Annual Review of Anthropology 35:1-15
Muehlebach,Andrea
2013 “On Precariousness and the Ethical Imagination: The Year 2012 in Sociocultural Anthropology.” American Anthropologist. American Anthropologist: The Year inReview.
Moving and Words of Kindness - September 5 2013
This is my life: I recently moved into a house that is beautiful, with roommates who I respect and enjoy. I got into all my classes at school just fine. I am on track to graduate next semester and my whole life plan is going great. But despite these happy facts, my first and second days back to school I was an absolute nervous wreck. It seems that every start of the semester I lose every ounce of confidence I ever collected. As my professors talk about their syllabuses (syllabus is a Greek word so to pluralize it, requires putting an es on the end FYI), and outline the requirements and expectations for the course, I forget the 103 college credits that I have earned maintaining a 3.89 GPA and become instantly doubtful that I can even spell my own name correctly. As I move to a new place I ignore all the evidence that I am able to make friends and have meaningful relationships and instead spend stupid amounts of time thinking that nobody likes me or has ever really liked me and I will die alone.
It’s obviously crazy and definitely exhausting.
Tuesday morning I was swimming through this stress and walking down the streets of Durango, when I started dealing with stress the same way I accidently deal with all unpleasant things, by crying. I was thus engaged (in front of Albertsons) when an old, rough looking, loitering, fellow said, “Hey, it’s alright, things will get better.” He spoke those words in a gentle and sincere manner, offering a kind smile and then continuing to drink his coffee and watch the goings on in the parking lot. I was so struck by his kindness, that I stopped crying, said an emphatic, “thank you”, and continued on my way.
That’s it, that’s the whole story. A gentle stranger showed me kindness, and it turned around my entire day.
Since that morning things have been getting steadily better. My situation is still the same (and it’s great), but my mind is changing. I realize that it will take time for me to feel right here, that my heart is a little torn by the things and people I have left behind in other places, but eventually I will fall into some kind of belonging.
Then I’ll probably move again…
100 Miles - July 30 2013
The day after my dad, cousin Karen, and I rode our bicycles 100 miles. My dad, who was the one who initiated and planned the ride asked us, “what will you write about our ride?” This is my answer to his question. I will write that…
This summer is the summer where I put my money where my mouth is.
It all started with archaeology school. I’ve dreamed and talked about being an archaeologist since I was six years old. I’ve dabbled in the dirt, taking survey classes, digging up Etruscan walls in Northern Italy, but before field school this summer I’d never done any real archaeology. Our field school involved working on a real project, the kind that archaeology firms get paid to do, and our bizarre crew of students labored under sizzling sun, and gawked at plain grey ceramic sherds and flakes of stone in true archaeologist fashion. There were certainly moments of discomfort, hours spent in the close proximity of “that guy”, gnat bites, seriously repetitive tasks, ecetera ecetera… But I never second guessed my decision to study anthropology, or pursue archaeology. In fact, I became much more excited about finishing my last year of school and doing archaeology for real.
Riding 100 miles felt exactly the same way. It was a chance for me to put my hours and hours of planning bike tours across Europe to the test. A chance for me to wear my bike jersey and lycra shorts without fearing that I’m a poser or a pretender. Yet another chance for me to prove to myself that I haven’t built my life out of plans that I can’t carry out.
We woke up early, before the sun had even risen. The air was crisp as we mounted our bikes, the coolness chilled our limbs as we coasted the first 6 miles. We picked up some friends of ours and continued to drift down the Grand Mesa. Passing through the green valleys north of Cedaredge, the dusty adobes, rows of lush Olathe cornfields. We rode with a kind of relaxed restraint, aware of the distance ahead and the way that legs have a tendency to tire at the end of a journey. Our friends left us just before Olathe, they had promises to keep and we had miles to go. It was just as they left us that I crossed a magic number, 40, the furthest I’d ever gone on a bicycle in one day, and we still had 60 miles to go. It was just after Olathe, that I started to feel pain, in butt and my back. We stopped on Montrose and stretched, eating peanut butter and honey on tortillas in front of City Market and contorting into crazy stretches on the dirty cement (58 miles). South of Montrose we pedaled steadily over ridges of dark red rocks peeking out of pinion and juniper bushes. By this time the rhythm was very natural and the miles passed by at a reasonable pace, but several miles before we reached Ridgeway our pace began to slacken and the pain became stressful. We were lucky to find a beautiful bike trail next to the highway which followed the Uncompahgre river. The river was a beautiful clear green, I wanted to ride right into it and steer my bike right into the slippery currents, but instead I just pedaled and pedaled and pedaled like it was the only thing I knew how to do. At Ridgeway (83 miles) we rested before the final leg of our journey. Our final destination, Ouray, was seven miles short of the 100 miles. Karen and I refused to stop at 93 miles (we were really just in it for the glory) so our 93rd mile was spent climbing up the winding and intense Red Mountain Pass. It was probably the most difficult way we could have possibly ended the trip. There were several points where I thought I was for sure going to die. I didn’t. We finally finished by roaring down the mountain, right into the parking lot of the Ouray Hot Springs (100.01 miles). We soaked our tired limbs in the warm water, my knees bucked out from under me on a blow-up obstacle course, and I just kept thinking, “yes… we did this.”
My purpose in starting this blog, was to convince my readers that adventure could happen to anyone. That living an adventurous life doesn’t require extraordinary circumstances, all it requires is will and the word, “yes”. Without that mindset, the greatest adventures of this summer so far, including but not limited to: the bike trip and archaeology school (not to mention NYC, and a rainy backpacking trip to Ice Lakes) wouldn’t have happened.
Maybe every summer should be the summer of putting your money where your mouth is.
This summer is the summer where I put my money where my mouth is.
It all started with archaeology school. I’ve dreamed and talked about being an archaeologist since I was six years old. I’ve dabbled in the dirt, taking survey classes, digging up Etruscan walls in Northern Italy, but before field school this summer I’d never done any real archaeology. Our field school involved working on a real project, the kind that archaeology firms get paid to do, and our bizarre crew of students labored under sizzling sun, and gawked at plain grey ceramic sherds and flakes of stone in true archaeologist fashion. There were certainly moments of discomfort, hours spent in the close proximity of “that guy”, gnat bites, seriously repetitive tasks, ecetera ecetera… But I never second guessed my decision to study anthropology, or pursue archaeology. In fact, I became much more excited about finishing my last year of school and doing archaeology for real.
Riding 100 miles felt exactly the same way. It was a chance for me to put my hours and hours of planning bike tours across Europe to the test. A chance for me to wear my bike jersey and lycra shorts without fearing that I’m a poser or a pretender. Yet another chance for me to prove to myself that I haven’t built my life out of plans that I can’t carry out.
We woke up early, before the sun had even risen. The air was crisp as we mounted our bikes, the coolness chilled our limbs as we coasted the first 6 miles. We picked up some friends of ours and continued to drift down the Grand Mesa. Passing through the green valleys north of Cedaredge, the dusty adobes, rows of lush Olathe cornfields. We rode with a kind of relaxed restraint, aware of the distance ahead and the way that legs have a tendency to tire at the end of a journey. Our friends left us just before Olathe, they had promises to keep and we had miles to go. It was just as they left us that I crossed a magic number, 40, the furthest I’d ever gone on a bicycle in one day, and we still had 60 miles to go. It was just after Olathe, that I started to feel pain, in butt and my back. We stopped on Montrose and stretched, eating peanut butter and honey on tortillas in front of City Market and contorting into crazy stretches on the dirty cement (58 miles). South of Montrose we pedaled steadily over ridges of dark red rocks peeking out of pinion and juniper bushes. By this time the rhythm was very natural and the miles passed by at a reasonable pace, but several miles before we reached Ridgeway our pace began to slacken and the pain became stressful. We were lucky to find a beautiful bike trail next to the highway which followed the Uncompahgre river. The river was a beautiful clear green, I wanted to ride right into it and steer my bike right into the slippery currents, but instead I just pedaled and pedaled and pedaled like it was the only thing I knew how to do. At Ridgeway (83 miles) we rested before the final leg of our journey. Our final destination, Ouray, was seven miles short of the 100 miles. Karen and I refused to stop at 93 miles (we were really just in it for the glory) so our 93rd mile was spent climbing up the winding and intense Red Mountain Pass. It was probably the most difficult way we could have possibly ended the trip. There were several points where I thought I was for sure going to die. I didn’t. We finally finished by roaring down the mountain, right into the parking lot of the Ouray Hot Springs (100.01 miles). We soaked our tired limbs in the warm water, my knees bucked out from under me on a blow-up obstacle course, and I just kept thinking, “yes… we did this.”
My purpose in starting this blog, was to convince my readers that adventure could happen to anyone. That living an adventurous life doesn’t require extraordinary circumstances, all it requires is will and the word, “yes”. Without that mindset, the greatest adventures of this summer so far, including but not limited to: the bike trip and archaeology school (not to mention NYC, and a rainy backpacking trip to Ice Lakes) wouldn’t have happened.
Maybe every summer should be the summer of putting your money where your mouth is.
Adventures - June 12 2013
updates:
1. I finished school in Salt Lake. I can now identify dead animals based on their skeletal remains. I also learned some interesting things about humor and what it is. One popular notion among humor theorists is that something is humorous if it is a) relatable and understandable, and 2) that it violates an established moral or social order. This idea about humor lead me to an interesting thought today… If you have sense of or a belief in morality and social order that is more heightened than most people (the norm), are more things humorous to you? Could this be an odd incentive to have high morals, and to act within cultural boundaries? Hm.
2. After I finished school I jumped on an aeroplane to New York City to visit my super awesome sister. Together we destroyed deadly molds and gutted houses that had been affected by Superstorm Sandy. Helping people feels good. We also walked around a lot and gawked at beautiful and fascinating things and did a whole lot of anthropology. Including the anthropology of living in a poorly constructed dwelling with a large number of strangers who are all extremely different, but have in common altruism and free time.
3. After New York I went to Cedaredge to spend some time with my family. It was amazingly refreshing to be in the gorgeous Colorado mountains, eating delicious foods with some of the greatest people on earth.
4. After Cedaredge I moved to Durango (sort of) for field school. My move here was supposed to be permanentish, but I had some difficulty finding a dwelling place and almost 5 days after I arrived I wanted nothing more than to make like a tree and leave. Durango has changed a lot since I lived here last. People I love have moved on, I have grown up, and I grew out of a few friends (see The Office S:9 E:13). The adjustment period sucks. I’m going to go home after field school and gather some emotional/mental courage/energy so I can handle it better.
5. My purpose in coming here this summer was to participate in archaeological field school. I spend 45 hours a week working in the dirt by a lake with a whole bunch of super crazy people. Sometimes I really like them and sometimes I wish they would all go back where they came from (Eastern Colorado). Today I removed appx 200lbs of dirt from a 1m by 1m square in arbitrary 10 cm levels. Me and my partner found 11 ceramic fragments and about 7 pieces of flake stone in roughly 15 cm of sediment. We also do other things, watch Indiana Jones if you would like to know what. He is an archaeologist too.
That’s all for now… maybe I’ll write something more philosophical later. I have lots of time to think while I’m digging in the dirt.
1. I finished school in Salt Lake. I can now identify dead animals based on their skeletal remains. I also learned some interesting things about humor and what it is. One popular notion among humor theorists is that something is humorous if it is a) relatable and understandable, and 2) that it violates an established moral or social order. This idea about humor lead me to an interesting thought today… If you have sense of or a belief in morality and social order that is more heightened than most people (the norm), are more things humorous to you? Could this be an odd incentive to have high morals, and to act within cultural boundaries? Hm.
2. After I finished school I jumped on an aeroplane to New York City to visit my super awesome sister. Together we destroyed deadly molds and gutted houses that had been affected by Superstorm Sandy. Helping people feels good. We also walked around a lot and gawked at beautiful and fascinating things and did a whole lot of anthropology. Including the anthropology of living in a poorly constructed dwelling with a large number of strangers who are all extremely different, but have in common altruism and free time.
3. After New York I went to Cedaredge to spend some time with my family. It was amazingly refreshing to be in the gorgeous Colorado mountains, eating delicious foods with some of the greatest people on earth.
4. After Cedaredge I moved to Durango (sort of) for field school. My move here was supposed to be permanentish, but I had some difficulty finding a dwelling place and almost 5 days after I arrived I wanted nothing more than to make like a tree and leave. Durango has changed a lot since I lived here last. People I love have moved on, I have grown up, and I grew out of a few friends (see The Office S:9 E:13). The adjustment period sucks. I’m going to go home after field school and gather some emotional/mental courage/energy so I can handle it better.
5. My purpose in coming here this summer was to participate in archaeological field school. I spend 45 hours a week working in the dirt by a lake with a whole bunch of super crazy people. Sometimes I really like them and sometimes I wish they would all go back where they came from (Eastern Colorado). Today I removed appx 200lbs of dirt from a 1m by 1m square in arbitrary 10 cm levels. Me and my partner found 11 ceramic fragments and about 7 pieces of flake stone in roughly 15 cm of sediment. We also do other things, watch Indiana Jones if you would like to know what. He is an archaeologist too.
That’s all for now… maybe I’ll write something more philosophical later. I have lots of time to think while I’m digging in the dirt.
A Few Words - April 7 2013
I would like to begin this post by correcting some information in the previous post. Podicipediformes and Gaviiforms have cnemial processes. Gruiformes do not possess this feature. I was confused and I’m sincerely sorry if my misunderstanding of the physiology of Cranes, Coots, and Allies caused you any mental or emotional discomfort.
I usually don’t post about serious things unless they are internal, but today I feel compelled to share some feelings I have about peace in the human world.
Yesterday two bombs exploded at the end of the Boston Marathon. The internet and the newspapers have closely followed this event. Today while I was examining the various headlines regarding the incident I noticed a common theme, terror. Every one of the headlines had the word ‘terror’ in it, “Terror, Again”, “Terror At Home”, “Terror in Boston”. The aggressiveness of the word was impossible to ignore. I read an article about the bombing in the Salt Lake Tribune and I learned information about what happened, but the most resonant part of my reading experience was the sense of fear and anger that was present in the piece, terror. President Obama’s remarks on the tragedy included that those responsible would, “feel the full weight of justice.” It all felt so very reactionary and not terribly constructive. I recognize that it is the responsibility of the media to report on tragedies and it is important for the American people to be informed about the events occurring in the world, but currently the packaging of those stories is uniformly in pursuit of reaction. Even on days when bombs don’t explode, headlines emanate malcontent. Celebrities only make the news after they’ve been arrested or gained too much weight.
To shake off the nasty feeling I got from reading the newspapers, I decided to watch some inspirational youtube videos. I typed “peace” into the search bar. The first video that came up was called, “Another Muslim for Peace”. It was a modest video with a girl sitting in front of her tripoded camera. She had a soft gentle voice and a black scarf covering her hair, big brown eyes. She spent a moment introducing herself and the video cut out. It was broken or something, and the video had only 7000 views. I watched John Lennon’s Imagine video, and tried to watch some actual footage of Gandhi. Frustrated by the slim pickings on youtube, a site with 8 years of content (and “charlie bit my finger” has been viewed over 152,000,000 times), I decided to switch to literature. I read some excerpts from Gandhi speeches and felt better.
I believe that on an human by human basis, the most abundant and natural emotions associated with the Boston Marathon tragedy are sadness and empathetic sense of loss. I believe that most people are good. Justice is important, and those responsible for the bombings in Boston should be found and held accountable for their actions, but not every American has to do that. What if the American people were united around compassion instead of terror? How would that change our national conversations? Why can’t the humanity of our citizens be reflected on the pages of our newspapers?
I risk sounding like a conspiracy theorist when I say that the media’s attention to the word ‘terror’ directly supports war and retribution, and asks for an aggressive reaction. It leaves very little space for good will toward men.
It is hard to think that change is possible in this world of ours, but like I said before, I believe that most people are already good. All we need to do is shout about the good and let it flow into our earth like the healing waters of Jordan. We must consider that peace is a possibility, a solution, an option. Gandhi say, “not to believe in the possibility of permanent peace is to disbelieve in the Godliness of human nature.” If you believe in divine nature, then peace is possible. I believe. It starts now. It starts today. It starts with me, and with you. Go!
I usually don’t post about serious things unless they are internal, but today I feel compelled to share some feelings I have about peace in the human world.
Yesterday two bombs exploded at the end of the Boston Marathon. The internet and the newspapers have closely followed this event. Today while I was examining the various headlines regarding the incident I noticed a common theme, terror. Every one of the headlines had the word ‘terror’ in it, “Terror, Again”, “Terror At Home”, “Terror in Boston”. The aggressiveness of the word was impossible to ignore. I read an article about the bombing in the Salt Lake Tribune and I learned information about what happened, but the most resonant part of my reading experience was the sense of fear and anger that was present in the piece, terror. President Obama’s remarks on the tragedy included that those responsible would, “feel the full weight of justice.” It all felt so very reactionary and not terribly constructive. I recognize that it is the responsibility of the media to report on tragedies and it is important for the American people to be informed about the events occurring in the world, but currently the packaging of those stories is uniformly in pursuit of reaction. Even on days when bombs don’t explode, headlines emanate malcontent. Celebrities only make the news after they’ve been arrested or gained too much weight.
To shake off the nasty feeling I got from reading the newspapers, I decided to watch some inspirational youtube videos. I typed “peace” into the search bar. The first video that came up was called, “Another Muslim for Peace”. It was a modest video with a girl sitting in front of her tripoded camera. She had a soft gentle voice and a black scarf covering her hair, big brown eyes. She spent a moment introducing herself and the video cut out. It was broken or something, and the video had only 7000 views. I watched John Lennon’s Imagine video, and tried to watch some actual footage of Gandhi. Frustrated by the slim pickings on youtube, a site with 8 years of content (and “charlie bit my finger” has been viewed over 152,000,000 times), I decided to switch to literature. I read some excerpts from Gandhi speeches and felt better.
I believe that on an human by human basis, the most abundant and natural emotions associated with the Boston Marathon tragedy are sadness and empathetic sense of loss. I believe that most people are good. Justice is important, and those responsible for the bombings in Boston should be found and held accountable for their actions, but not every American has to do that. What if the American people were united around compassion instead of terror? How would that change our national conversations? Why can’t the humanity of our citizens be reflected on the pages of our newspapers?
I risk sounding like a conspiracy theorist when I say that the media’s attention to the word ‘terror’ directly supports war and retribution, and asks for an aggressive reaction. It leaves very little space for good will toward men.
It is hard to think that change is possible in this world of ours, but like I said before, I believe that most people are already good. All we need to do is shout about the good and let it flow into our earth like the healing waters of Jordan. We must consider that peace is a possibility, a solution, an option. Gandhi say, “not to believe in the possibility of permanent peace is to disbelieve in the Godliness of human nature.” If you believe in divine nature, then peace is possible. I believe. It starts now. It starts today. It starts with me, and with you. Go!
Zooarchaeology Test - April 5
Once upon a time there was a double-crested cormorant (Order Suliformes) named Sully. Sully enjoyed eating trout, (order salmonidae, family salmoninae) listening to wait-wait-don’t-tell-me, and painting with water colors (the only medium he could utilize in his aquatic environment). Despite his low-domed cranium, Sully was an intelligent bird who prided himself in his imperforate external nares. Sully’s favorite televised cooking show was Iron Chef, and his favorite villain was Captain James Hook. Sully, with a hooked beak and lacking hands himself, felt that Hook was misunderstood and lacked guidance on how to live a hooky-hand-free lifestyle. He hoped to one day find the dreadful pirate and help him realize that despite his handicap, James could live a happy and productive life. Day after day, Sully swam the coast in search of the Jolly Roger and Captain Hook.
One day while he was thus engaged, Sully absentmindedly collided with a Podicipediform named Penelope. Penelope’s beautiful red eyes, that were highlighted by her narrow frontal bone and well supported despite the absence of the perpendicular plate of her ethmoid, instantly captured Sully’s attention. He stared unblinkingly at her (easy to do when your eyeballs are supported by schlerotic rings), completely speechless (probably because he lacked the physiological adaptations necessary for speech). disconcerted by the strangers unabashed stare, Penelope paddled her posteriorly oriented hind-limbs away. Her motion snapped Sully back to his senses. He paddled after her. A brief conversation in Grebe, Penelope’s native tongue, redeemed poor Sully a bit. Penelope found his awkwardness rather endearing and hoped that they could become allies (this is a pun, because allies also belong to the family suliformes). Sully hoped for a little bit more, but Penelope was in a committed, though somewhat dead-end relationship with a land-bird named Grupert.
Grupert was a crane operater (Cranes belong to the family Gruiformes). He was large and tough, with long slit like holes in his maxilla, and a sharp pointed beak. Grupert was into extreme sports and he and his loony friend Gavin (Loons belong to the family Gaviidae), spent long hours at the gym securing the muscle attachments to their cnemial processes. Grupert had long been dealing with some emotional issues with his shrink, a pelicaniformes named Roger. Roger had either a long pointed beak, a long straight beak, or a flat beak with a hook on the end, Grupert could never be sure. The length of the beak was undisputed however, and Roger liked to stick it in Gruperts business at every opportunity. He was especially concerned witht the relationship between Grupert and Penelope, convinced that their differences were far to pronounced and that Grupert was a Galliform(es) ( chicken, turkey) for staying with her when he wasn’t really in love. It was a relationship of convenience for both.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Will her introduction to Sully the Suliform push Penelope further away from Grupert? Will Roger the Pelicaniform find the courage to stop being a galliform and advise his patient to do what’s best for him? Will Gavin ever find a lady even though he’s a complete Loon? What does Penelope like to do for fun? Will the 13 other bird species on the test be tangled into this nest of intrigue?
The answer to these questions and more will be answered in the next addition of Zooarchaeology Test.
One day while he was thus engaged, Sully absentmindedly collided with a Podicipediform named Penelope. Penelope’s beautiful red eyes, that were highlighted by her narrow frontal bone and well supported despite the absence of the perpendicular plate of her ethmoid, instantly captured Sully’s attention. He stared unblinkingly at her (easy to do when your eyeballs are supported by schlerotic rings), completely speechless (probably because he lacked the physiological adaptations necessary for speech). disconcerted by the strangers unabashed stare, Penelope paddled her posteriorly oriented hind-limbs away. Her motion snapped Sully back to his senses. He paddled after her. A brief conversation in Grebe, Penelope’s native tongue, redeemed poor Sully a bit. Penelope found his awkwardness rather endearing and hoped that they could become allies (this is a pun, because allies also belong to the family suliformes). Sully hoped for a little bit more, but Penelope was in a committed, though somewhat dead-end relationship with a land-bird named Grupert.
Grupert was a crane operater (Cranes belong to the family Gruiformes). He was large and tough, with long slit like holes in his maxilla, and a sharp pointed beak. Grupert was into extreme sports and he and his loony friend Gavin (Loons belong to the family Gaviidae), spent long hours at the gym securing the muscle attachments to their cnemial processes. Grupert had long been dealing with some emotional issues with his shrink, a pelicaniformes named Roger. Roger had either a long pointed beak, a long straight beak, or a flat beak with a hook on the end, Grupert could never be sure. The length of the beak was undisputed however, and Roger liked to stick it in Gruperts business at every opportunity. He was especially concerned witht the relationship between Grupert and Penelope, convinced that their differences were far to pronounced and that Grupert was a Galliform(es) ( chicken, turkey) for staying with her when he wasn’t really in love. It was a relationship of convenience for both.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Will her introduction to Sully the Suliform push Penelope further away from Grupert? Will Roger the Pelicaniform find the courage to stop being a galliform and advise his patient to do what’s best for him? Will Gavin ever find a lady even though he’s a complete Loon? What does Penelope like to do for fun? Will the 13 other bird species on the test be tangled into this nest of intrigue?
The answer to these questions and more will be answered in the next addition of Zooarchaeology Test.
Crying on the Sidewalk and "The Odd Couple" - March 22 2013
When I woke up this morning a thin layer of snow covered the ground. It was lovely, white snow against the tender green of March. I want winter to be over, but the snow this morning was undeniably beautiful. Today was one of those days where I just cry. I couldn’t point to anything that was particularly wrong or sad about my life, and I wasn’t exactly sad. I just cried over stuff and that’s ok.
I made a New Years resolution to live perfectly in the moment, and to experience every moment openly, to the fullest degree. Like most New Years resolutions this is incredibly difficult and sometimes impossible. The first few days of 2013 I aggressively tried to talk myself out of a series of powerful and important emotions. I also avoided honestly communicating my feelings and I had a slight panic attack. After that horrific failure there was nowhere to go but up. I have been getting steadily better at taking life as it comes and basking in whatever strange adventures (internal or external) come my way. Today was a victory. I very gently inhabited the tristesse that found me when I woke up. I cried. I called my best friend on the telephone. I watched sad and inspirational videos on my computer, and pouted over homework. I was kind of even enjoying myself… Then. Everything. Changed.
I was approached while walking out of my last class of the day (in which I had a horrid test). The man who came up to me was probably my age, early twenties. He smelled like cigarette smoke, but was well kept and friendly. He explained that his family gets free tickets to the plays at the pioneer theatre (right next to the anthropology building) and that two of his friends had failed to show up, and the show would start in 5 minutes. He offered me the tickets. I accepted.
My seat was in the very middle on the 5th row, a perfect spot. I sat down next to the generous stranger who gave me the ticket. The man who sat next to him, his father I presume, was very friendly. He had a swell ponytail and a magnificent beard. We talked about anthropology a bit (I love doing that). The play was called “The Odd Couple”. It was funny and loud. I laughed much laughter. By the end of the play I was quite cheerful. I walked home happy.
The sadness and emotivity of the day perfectly contrasted the silliness and spontaneity of the night. Both experiences deepened and enriched the other. It was a magnificent practice in living in the moment. There was an instant when offered the ticket that I hesitated, I was tired and grumpy, I had no idea what the play was about, but for one moment I stopped thinking and started moving. I said yes, and it made all the difference.
I made a New Years resolution to live perfectly in the moment, and to experience every moment openly, to the fullest degree. Like most New Years resolutions this is incredibly difficult and sometimes impossible. The first few days of 2013 I aggressively tried to talk myself out of a series of powerful and important emotions. I also avoided honestly communicating my feelings and I had a slight panic attack. After that horrific failure there was nowhere to go but up. I have been getting steadily better at taking life as it comes and basking in whatever strange adventures (internal or external) come my way. Today was a victory. I very gently inhabited the tristesse that found me when I woke up. I cried. I called my best friend on the telephone. I watched sad and inspirational videos on my computer, and pouted over homework. I was kind of even enjoying myself… Then. Everything. Changed.
I was approached while walking out of my last class of the day (in which I had a horrid test). The man who came up to me was probably my age, early twenties. He smelled like cigarette smoke, but was well kept and friendly. He explained that his family gets free tickets to the plays at the pioneer theatre (right next to the anthropology building) and that two of his friends had failed to show up, and the show would start in 5 minutes. He offered me the tickets. I accepted.
My seat was in the very middle on the 5th row, a perfect spot. I sat down next to the generous stranger who gave me the ticket. The man who sat next to him, his father I presume, was very friendly. He had a swell ponytail and a magnificent beard. We talked about anthropology a bit (I love doing that). The play was called “The Odd Couple”. It was funny and loud. I laughed much laughter. By the end of the play I was quite cheerful. I walked home happy.
The sadness and emotivity of the day perfectly contrasted the silliness and spontaneity of the night. Both experiences deepened and enriched the other. It was a magnificent practice in living in the moment. There was an instant when offered the ticket that I hesitated, I was tired and grumpy, I had no idea what the play was about, but for one moment I stopped thinking and started moving. I said yes, and it made all the difference.
Updates - March 21 2013
Things have been getting pretty serious on this here blog lately. I guess I only think of blogging when I’m emotional. It has been a while since I’ve written so I’ll briefly update you with some of my recent life events.
Going against my natural vegetarianesque inclinations I gutted and de-fleshed a fish in my zooarchaeology class and giggled like a fool the whole time. This was probably because the girl next to me kept saying, “I feel like sushi! does anyone else want some sushi?” I didn’t.
To fight against the winter doldrums some friends of mine attached skis to a couch and slid down a hill on it. Fact: this activity can be done in a skirt without experiencing discomfort. This was proved by the most poised and elegant scoucher I’ve ever met, *Ozmi Ikamurka. The unfortunate vehicle was dumped in my garage and demolition has commenced, but is yet unfinished. If you want a piece, let me know.
I’ve come to the point where I feel comfortable admitting that I am insecure about my comma use. If you see misuse of commas on this blog, please don’t mock my punctuational incompetence. Rather, correct me.
Last summer my trampoline broke. I’m still upset about it.
I recently finished an embroidery project that I’ve been threatening to do for years. It is a plush velvet pillow embroidered with the cautionary message, “cuddling has consequences”. This pillow is to remind me that that is indeed the case. Cuddling has positive and negative consequences, one should consider all before engaging in cuddling behaviors. Earnest Hemmingway in his book A Moveable Feast wrote after recounting a particularly unpleasant journey with F. Scott Fitzgerald, “never go on a trip with someone you do not love.” I would adapt that phrase to cuddling by saying, “never cuddle with someone you could not love”. The other side of the pillow says, “lets play badminton”. Badminton is a game that not only could, but should be played with friends, enemies, and people you like but cannot love.
I recently made quinoa for the first time and Lauren gave me a quiz that determined that I will live to be one-hundred and two years old. These two incidents are most-likely linked.
Best of luck to you!
*Name changed for protection.
Going against my natural vegetarianesque inclinations I gutted and de-fleshed a fish in my zooarchaeology class and giggled like a fool the whole time. This was probably because the girl next to me kept saying, “I feel like sushi! does anyone else want some sushi?” I didn’t.
To fight against the winter doldrums some friends of mine attached skis to a couch and slid down a hill on it. Fact: this activity can be done in a skirt without experiencing discomfort. This was proved by the most poised and elegant scoucher I’ve ever met, *Ozmi Ikamurka. The unfortunate vehicle was dumped in my garage and demolition has commenced, but is yet unfinished. If you want a piece, let me know.
I’ve come to the point where I feel comfortable admitting that I am insecure about my comma use. If you see misuse of commas on this blog, please don’t mock my punctuational incompetence. Rather, correct me.
Last summer my trampoline broke. I’m still upset about it.
I recently finished an embroidery project that I’ve been threatening to do for years. It is a plush velvet pillow embroidered with the cautionary message, “cuddling has consequences”. This pillow is to remind me that that is indeed the case. Cuddling has positive and negative consequences, one should consider all before engaging in cuddling behaviors. Earnest Hemmingway in his book A Moveable Feast wrote after recounting a particularly unpleasant journey with F. Scott Fitzgerald, “never go on a trip with someone you do not love.” I would adapt that phrase to cuddling by saying, “never cuddle with someone you could not love”. The other side of the pillow says, “lets play badminton”. Badminton is a game that not only could, but should be played with friends, enemies, and people you like but cannot love.
I recently made quinoa for the first time and Lauren gave me a quiz that determined that I will live to be one-hundred and two years old. These two incidents are most-likely linked.
Best of luck to you!
*Name changed for protection.
Ice - January 24 2013
Today when I woke, the world was covered with a sheet of thin, clear, ice. Simply walking out the door was a hazardous endeavor. The ice was brought about because rain fell upon a very frozen ground and a cold city. The temperature today was a balmy 33 degrees. Now, you might think I’m being sarcastic about the ‘balmy’ bit, but you must understand that the temperatures I (and many others) have endured this January have made 33 degrees feel balmy. I’m talking about single digits, and highs in the teens, day after day after day. So today in this gray, foggy, icy, perilous, 30 degree weather, I was quite cheery. I wore a cashmere sweater, two coats, wool socks, and rubber boots, all day. I slid to my classes and thought about how my father used to tell my brother to pick up his feet when he walked, and how my boots cost me $2 at a thrift store. I thought about my life and the universe and I probably spoke less than 100 words today. I didn’t chat with anyone. I didn’t talk on the phone. I just rested in a cocoon of silence and layers of clothing. I listened to music in ipodland and raindrops. I sang songs to myself.
The nature of the sidewalk prevented haste, and promoted a kind of smooth, slow, and pensive dance. It cannot be called a gait, with such irregularity and feet moving back and forth, side to side. I wondered if all the people walking by me could see the thoughts I generated, and the narrative I carried all day, would they pity my loneliness or follow my lead? Sometimes I feel that I am held captive by my thoughts, that their constant presence and commotion in my head is an absolute nuisance, but today I watched them come and go. I handled them gently and kindly, without pressure. I was influenced today by my favorite book, “Letters to a Young Poet” by Ranier Rilke. I ventured in solitude and gratitude and memory, let words collect and sort themselves in my head, and it was all very calming and lovely.
In closing, Rilke wrote of solitude, ” But if then you notice that it is great, rejoice because of this; for what (ask yourself) would solitude be that had no greatness; there is but one solitude, and that is great, and not easy to bear, and to almost everybody come hours when they would gladly exchange it for any sort of intercourse, however banal and cheap, for the semblance of some slight accord with the first comer, with the unworthiest…. But perhaps those are the very hours when solitude grows; for its growing is painful as the growing of boys and sad as the beginning of springtimes. But that must not mislead you. The necessary thing is after all but this: solitude, great inner solitude. Going-into-oneself and for hours meeting no one — this one must be able to attain. To be solitary, the way one was solitary as a child, when the grownups went around involved with things that seemed important and big because they themselves looked so busy and because one comprehended nothing of their doings.”
The nature of the sidewalk prevented haste, and promoted a kind of smooth, slow, and pensive dance. It cannot be called a gait, with such irregularity and feet moving back and forth, side to side. I wondered if all the people walking by me could see the thoughts I generated, and the narrative I carried all day, would they pity my loneliness or follow my lead? Sometimes I feel that I am held captive by my thoughts, that their constant presence and commotion in my head is an absolute nuisance, but today I watched them come and go. I handled them gently and kindly, without pressure. I was influenced today by my favorite book, “Letters to a Young Poet” by Ranier Rilke. I ventured in solitude and gratitude and memory, let words collect and sort themselves in my head, and it was all very calming and lovely.
In closing, Rilke wrote of solitude, ” But if then you notice that it is great, rejoice because of this; for what (ask yourself) would solitude be that had no greatness; there is but one solitude, and that is great, and not easy to bear, and to almost everybody come hours when they would gladly exchange it for any sort of intercourse, however banal and cheap, for the semblance of some slight accord with the first comer, with the unworthiest…. But perhaps those are the very hours when solitude grows; for its growing is painful as the growing of boys and sad as the beginning of springtimes. But that must not mislead you. The necessary thing is after all but this: solitude, great inner solitude. Going-into-oneself and for hours meeting no one — this one must be able to attain. To be solitary, the way one was solitary as a child, when the grownups went around involved with things that seemed important and big because they themselves looked so busy and because one comprehended nothing of their doings.”
Young Girls - October 30 2012
Just a little while ago I attended a lecture about social work. The speaker was Michael Bird, he was inspiring and truly sweet. I went to the lecture as an extra credit assignment for my First Nations of Western North America class, and I was supposed to write a paragraph in response for my professor. This is what came out.
He told us that his mother had him when she was 17,
She was just a young thing
But he gave her his success
Reverently
“I owe it to my mother,”
I think of her, this child
younger than I
younger than many
and think of the butterflies in her stomach
the man they grew into
this wise servant of many
who gives the words of his people to anyone that will hear
pearls of truth
spilling from the mouths of our nations castaways
smooth and sincere like river rocks and scripture
and the eyes of 17 year-old girls who hold the world in their stomachs
when my mother had me she was 35
she had seen the world and made life before
on canvas, in a garden, flesh and blood
she built the world for me in a careful way
it is a wild, cautious, creative one
when I find my successes, whatever they be
I hope they will be hers
and she will want them
I am a young thing
and I don’t quite recognize myself
each time I see a face in the mirror
I’m not sure if my heart is made of flesh or more
it might be made of apple
it might be much wiser than me
it might be collecting smooth sincerity as I skip rocks in the river
as I chase butterflies in an offhand way
and listen to wise men
who were the children of young things
He told us that his mother had him when she was 17,
She was just a young thing
But he gave her his success
Reverently
“I owe it to my mother,”
I think of her, this child
younger than I
younger than many
and think of the butterflies in her stomach
the man they grew into
this wise servant of many
who gives the words of his people to anyone that will hear
pearls of truth
spilling from the mouths of our nations castaways
smooth and sincere like river rocks and scripture
and the eyes of 17 year-old girls who hold the world in their stomachs
when my mother had me she was 35
she had seen the world and made life before
on canvas, in a garden, flesh and blood
she built the world for me in a careful way
it is a wild, cautious, creative one
when I find my successes, whatever they be
I hope they will be hers
and she will want them
I am a young thing
and I don’t quite recognize myself
each time I see a face in the mirror
I’m not sure if my heart is made of flesh or more
it might be made of apple
it might be much wiser than me
it might be collecting smooth sincerity as I skip rocks in the river
as I chase butterflies in an offhand way
and listen to wise men
who were the children of young things
Two Parts on Certainty - July 12 & October 19 2012
Part I
I’ve written before about my best friend Jessica who I met many years ago. Jessica and I have been incredibly fortunate to be best friends for about 17.5 years. We have also been unfortunate at times to live very far from one another, though this misfortune may also be portrayed as fortune as it forces us to become social and hang out with people who are not us. Each time we have lived apart we have been very faithful correspondents. I often read back through our old letters to reminisce and remember the fun of childhood and the horror of adolescence. I was recently perusing some letters from the spring months of the year two thousand and nine when I found myself laughing hysterically to myself over some of words we wrote. I shall share them with you now.
About the boys who attended my high school- “I bet when they grow up, they won’t have teeth”
About the sopranos at Delta County Choirfest – “They have bad B.O. and clap in my ears”
About Zack Fish, the boy I was absolutely smitten with -”He is tall and he has dark skin and dark hair that sticks up in all directions, and his teeth have endearing little gaps….Oh man.. I’m gonna make myself throw up.”
A quote from Jessica- “When it comes to guys I am a total, inexperienced, idiotic, chicken”
Another Jessica quote – ” I had a dream last night that I had to strangle Ashley because she turned Harry Potter against me.”
A business idea from me “We can make people pay us to take them into the wilderness then we can throw mud at them and swear that it is an important detoxifying process”
Me – “I had a talk in sacrament today. I got so nervous that I almost passed out. My skirt didn’t help ease my anxiety because my butt feels unreasonably small today, and my skirt kept feeling like it was going to fall off even though I KNOW that it fits me perfectly.”
I love looking back on the thousands of words Jessica and I have exchanged tracking the changes. It is interesting to compare which parts of us change and which parts remain steady and natural.
I have been thinking about change very much lately. I am moving to Salt Lake City in a few short weeks, and it is interesting to imagine how my life will change and how it will stay the same. I am one who both craves and fears change. In a way, I crave the fear that change brings. I like to be uncertain. I like to wonder where I will purchase my groceries, and whether or not I am on the correct street. I like change because it makes me feel brave and it makes me uncertain. Living in an unchanging state does not allow for bravery or uncertainty, and both those elements are required for personal growth. As I get older it becomes increasingly clear that change is a choice, and that even little changes can enrich life. Big changes can turn the world upside down and that allows for previously unseen perspectives. So pretty much, I am ready for this change that is happening in my life, even though it feels a little strange and fast.
I have to go now.
I have letters to write.
Part II
I haven’t written anything in a while, and I think I’ve figured out why. I am uncertian.
At the end of August I moved to Salt Lake City, Utah. That is kind of a big deal. I spent almost the first whole week panicking. I was confused about why I decided it was a good idea to leave my awesome friends and the fascinating town of Durango for a huge, new, lonely city. I have a great deal of family here in Salt Lake, and when I think rationally there are many reasons why I decided to relocate myself here, but I only listen to the rational part of myself about 39% of the time. The first week I was here in Salt Lake I listened to the rational part of me about 2.9% of the time. Rationality was grossly unrepresented for that short period, and I regret that sad truth. Being unreasonable doesn’t make life any easier. After the terror subsided I remembered some of the reasons I decided to move here and began exploring. I have now been experimenting with this great city for almost two months. I have taken myself to watch independent films at funky out-of-the-way-theaters, scoped out parks, compared cafe’s, wandered aimlessly, and struck up many compelling conversations with fellow travelers on public transportation. I have lost and found myself almost three times each day. I have mastered the pep talk that I have to give myself every time I enter a social situation, made some truly lovely friends, and lost quite a substantial amount of my certainty. I think it was the loss of certainty that propelled me into such a state of distress when I first moved here. I was not certain who my friends were, what I was supposed to do, who I was supposed to like, who I was supposed to be, or why the heck I even came here. I still don’t know all those things, but I am coming to grips with the mystery of it all. Life here is not comfortable yet. It takes a lot of work to make friends and build a life and a routine in a new place. I romanticized that process in my head before I came here. I wandered the streets of Durango and complained to myself that I saw nothing new. I imagined that I was so comfortable in my life that I was past feeling, and that thrusting myself into a new environment would awaken my senses and my sense of adventure. When I started this blog I wanted to convince my readers that adventure can happen to any person at any time. All one has to do is desire it, recognize the wonder and mystery of the world and suddenly everything will be noteworthy. For a while I forgot that adventure is stressful and that adventures always look more fun in hindsight or typed out on a page.
Now, I don’t want you running away with the idea that I am not happy here. I am quite content, but I am stretching. I am stretching my arms to reach endless books on towering shelves that I read for my classes. I am stretching my legs as I wander the streets in curiosity. I am stretching my hands into the hands of others. Really, I am stretching all of myself to many corners of this city in the hope that with this new found flexibility I will be better able to cope with uncertainty.
I’ve written before about my best friend Jessica who I met many years ago. Jessica and I have been incredibly fortunate to be best friends for about 17.5 years. We have also been unfortunate at times to live very far from one another, though this misfortune may also be portrayed as fortune as it forces us to become social and hang out with people who are not us. Each time we have lived apart we have been very faithful correspondents. I often read back through our old letters to reminisce and remember the fun of childhood and the horror of adolescence. I was recently perusing some letters from the spring months of the year two thousand and nine when I found myself laughing hysterically to myself over some of words we wrote. I shall share them with you now.
About the boys who attended my high school- “I bet when they grow up, they won’t have teeth”
About the sopranos at Delta County Choirfest – “They have bad B.O. and clap in my ears”
About Zack Fish, the boy I was absolutely smitten with -”He is tall and he has dark skin and dark hair that sticks up in all directions, and his teeth have endearing little gaps….Oh man.. I’m gonna make myself throw up.”
A quote from Jessica- “When it comes to guys I am a total, inexperienced, idiotic, chicken”
Another Jessica quote – ” I had a dream last night that I had to strangle Ashley because she turned Harry Potter against me.”
A business idea from me “We can make people pay us to take them into the wilderness then we can throw mud at them and swear that it is an important detoxifying process”
Me – “I had a talk in sacrament today. I got so nervous that I almost passed out. My skirt didn’t help ease my anxiety because my butt feels unreasonably small today, and my skirt kept feeling like it was going to fall off even though I KNOW that it fits me perfectly.”
I love looking back on the thousands of words Jessica and I have exchanged tracking the changes. It is interesting to compare which parts of us change and which parts remain steady and natural.
I have been thinking about change very much lately. I am moving to Salt Lake City in a few short weeks, and it is interesting to imagine how my life will change and how it will stay the same. I am one who both craves and fears change. In a way, I crave the fear that change brings. I like to be uncertain. I like to wonder where I will purchase my groceries, and whether or not I am on the correct street. I like change because it makes me feel brave and it makes me uncertain. Living in an unchanging state does not allow for bravery or uncertainty, and both those elements are required for personal growth. As I get older it becomes increasingly clear that change is a choice, and that even little changes can enrich life. Big changes can turn the world upside down and that allows for previously unseen perspectives. So pretty much, I am ready for this change that is happening in my life, even though it feels a little strange and fast.
I have to go now.
I have letters to write.
Part II
I haven’t written anything in a while, and I think I’ve figured out why. I am uncertian.
At the end of August I moved to Salt Lake City, Utah. That is kind of a big deal. I spent almost the first whole week panicking. I was confused about why I decided it was a good idea to leave my awesome friends and the fascinating town of Durango for a huge, new, lonely city. I have a great deal of family here in Salt Lake, and when I think rationally there are many reasons why I decided to relocate myself here, but I only listen to the rational part of myself about 39% of the time. The first week I was here in Salt Lake I listened to the rational part of me about 2.9% of the time. Rationality was grossly unrepresented for that short period, and I regret that sad truth. Being unreasonable doesn’t make life any easier. After the terror subsided I remembered some of the reasons I decided to move here and began exploring. I have now been experimenting with this great city for almost two months. I have taken myself to watch independent films at funky out-of-the-way-theaters, scoped out parks, compared cafe’s, wandered aimlessly, and struck up many compelling conversations with fellow travelers on public transportation. I have lost and found myself almost three times each day. I have mastered the pep talk that I have to give myself every time I enter a social situation, made some truly lovely friends, and lost quite a substantial amount of my certainty. I think it was the loss of certainty that propelled me into such a state of distress when I first moved here. I was not certain who my friends were, what I was supposed to do, who I was supposed to like, who I was supposed to be, or why the heck I even came here. I still don’t know all those things, but I am coming to grips with the mystery of it all. Life here is not comfortable yet. It takes a lot of work to make friends and build a life and a routine in a new place. I romanticized that process in my head before I came here. I wandered the streets of Durango and complained to myself that I saw nothing new. I imagined that I was so comfortable in my life that I was past feeling, and that thrusting myself into a new environment would awaken my senses and my sense of adventure. When I started this blog I wanted to convince my readers that adventure can happen to any person at any time. All one has to do is desire it, recognize the wonder and mystery of the world and suddenly everything will be noteworthy. For a while I forgot that adventure is stressful and that adventures always look more fun in hindsight or typed out on a page.
Now, I don’t want you running away with the idea that I am not happy here. I am quite content, but I am stretching. I am stretching my arms to reach endless books on towering shelves that I read for my classes. I am stretching my legs as I wander the streets in curiosity. I am stretching my hands into the hands of others. Really, I am stretching all of myself to many corners of this city in the hope that with this new found flexibility I will be better able to cope with uncertainty.
Pressure - April 12 2012
I have had some trouble writing lately. I think I have put to much pressure on myself, so now I’m just going to write because I love to write. I will forget about you, readers, no one likes pandering anyway. I will forget about me because I have discovered that to remember oneself is a dangerous business.
Writing a Poem (at last)
I will
attempt to amply alliterate abstract attitudes and answer artfully
the wonderings of man, woman, women, and men
I will
Say something about a woman’s thigh
because it has been agreed upon that thighs
Are most evocative limbs
Poets extol them
Knowing this, it is strange that
The magazine and on screen modelas are without
flesh
I will
Tear up pages
leaves
notes
notions
nations
and hide the pieces under a rock
I will
Color the pages with
turquoise
cinnamon
and blood
I will
write rhymes of
better times
higher climes
and clementines
Then in some sort of rage, rip, roar
I will
put the fear of God in you
and walk quietly away.
Writing a Poem (at last)
I will
attempt to amply alliterate abstract attitudes and answer artfully
the wonderings of man, woman, women, and men
I will
Say something about a woman’s thigh
because it has been agreed upon that thighs
Are most evocative limbs
Poets extol them
Knowing this, it is strange that
The magazine and on screen modelas are without
flesh
I will
Tear up pages
leaves
notes
notions
nations
and hide the pieces under a rock
I will
Color the pages with
turquoise
cinnamon
and blood
I will
write rhymes of
better times
higher climes
and clementines
Then in some sort of rage, rip, roar
I will
put the fear of God in you
and walk quietly away.
Tolstoi, Nursery, and My GPA - February 12 2012
In September, inspired by Alex the Russian Cycling Across the World, I started reading Tolstoi’s short stories. Recently I was reading his tale called “Efim and Elijah” when I wandered upon this profound passage. “I have never been sorry for anything in my life except for my sins. There is nothing worth troubling about except ones soul.” In a strangely comforting way these words have begun to wrap themselves around all aspects of my life. I’ll tell you how.
Everything came to a head when I was home for thanksgiving last semester. I spent days and days of thanksgiving break trying to talk myself out of strange and overwhelming anxieties about the life I was living. My body was tight and strained, exhausted and finished. I was completely occupied with an unnecessary and irrational fear of failing school. I had somehow talked myself into believing that all my opportunities in life were completely dependent upon not good, but perfect grades. I was completely obsessed, I would be baking pies in the kitchen and burst into hysterical tears over a little 20/25 scribbled on a piece of homework. It wasn’t cute. Eventually the break calmed me down. I had some lovely distractions and a great deal of delicious food and delightful company to distract me, but I still thought about my GPA before I went to sleep.
Also during thanksgiving break I got called to be a nursery leader in my church. I was not excited. I’ve always been pretty good with kids, but I’m not crazy about babies. I’m probably a little afraid of them. The idea of spending two hours each sunday playing patty-cake with 4-8 toddlers didn’t really make me feel better about the way my life was going. The first sunday in the nursery, I came home from church and lost it. I was furious, scared, and about 99% sure that there was some kind of mistake. As mormons we take our responsibilities at church pretty seriously, we believe they come from God and call them ‘callings’. But the first few weeks in nursery I was pretty sure that the communication lines were down between heaven and earth. The 1% of me that considered that nursery was the right place for me to be, was searching for a glimpse of silver lining, but I didn’t see it.
I finished out the semester with some divine aid and serious work. Somehow I managed to get a pretty little GPA (that frankly, surprised the heck out of me), vowed never to take 19 credits again, and tried to put some things in perspective. That takes me back to the quote I mentioned at the beginning of this tale. “There is nothing worth troubling about except ones soul.” Over the last few months I have considered those words and tried to trust them. I am beginning to realize that they’re true.
At first nursery was horrible. I left church feeling exhausted and irritated. But things have been improving. I’m learning to like it. One little girl named Eva is not super excited about nursery either, we bond over that. Every Sunday I read books to her and we eat goldfish together, those are good things. Part of my responsibility as a nursery leader is to give little lessons about Jesus and stuff. These lessons are the bare bones of our religion, the roots. I have enjoyed examining them, and imagining the kind of tree that ought to sprout from such fibers. Another good thing that has sprouted from this crazy situation, is oddly enough, an increased sense of spirituality. One might think that because I spend 2 hours at church baby-sitting instead of attending my meetings, I would not gain the spiritual fulfillment that those meetings are supposed to offer. Strangely, that is not the case. Instead I have found greater depth in my thoughts and understanding, and have come to know my soul in a new way. It is a gentle way, as if I am becoming friends with myself. School has changed too, I still work hard and stress a little, but I’m learning not to hold it constantly upon my shoulders. I am learning to stretch, try, work, chase toddlers, study, pray, feel, and release. “For there is nothing worth troubling about except ones soul.”
Everything came to a head when I was home for thanksgiving last semester. I spent days and days of thanksgiving break trying to talk myself out of strange and overwhelming anxieties about the life I was living. My body was tight and strained, exhausted and finished. I was completely occupied with an unnecessary and irrational fear of failing school. I had somehow talked myself into believing that all my opportunities in life were completely dependent upon not good, but perfect grades. I was completely obsessed, I would be baking pies in the kitchen and burst into hysterical tears over a little 20/25 scribbled on a piece of homework. It wasn’t cute. Eventually the break calmed me down. I had some lovely distractions and a great deal of delicious food and delightful company to distract me, but I still thought about my GPA before I went to sleep.
Also during thanksgiving break I got called to be a nursery leader in my church. I was not excited. I’ve always been pretty good with kids, but I’m not crazy about babies. I’m probably a little afraid of them. The idea of spending two hours each sunday playing patty-cake with 4-8 toddlers didn’t really make me feel better about the way my life was going. The first sunday in the nursery, I came home from church and lost it. I was furious, scared, and about 99% sure that there was some kind of mistake. As mormons we take our responsibilities at church pretty seriously, we believe they come from God and call them ‘callings’. But the first few weeks in nursery I was pretty sure that the communication lines were down between heaven and earth. The 1% of me that considered that nursery was the right place for me to be, was searching for a glimpse of silver lining, but I didn’t see it.
I finished out the semester with some divine aid and serious work. Somehow I managed to get a pretty little GPA (that frankly, surprised the heck out of me), vowed never to take 19 credits again, and tried to put some things in perspective. That takes me back to the quote I mentioned at the beginning of this tale. “There is nothing worth troubling about except ones soul.” Over the last few months I have considered those words and tried to trust them. I am beginning to realize that they’re true.
At first nursery was horrible. I left church feeling exhausted and irritated. But things have been improving. I’m learning to like it. One little girl named Eva is not super excited about nursery either, we bond over that. Every Sunday I read books to her and we eat goldfish together, those are good things. Part of my responsibility as a nursery leader is to give little lessons about Jesus and stuff. These lessons are the bare bones of our religion, the roots. I have enjoyed examining them, and imagining the kind of tree that ought to sprout from such fibers. Another good thing that has sprouted from this crazy situation, is oddly enough, an increased sense of spirituality. One might think that because I spend 2 hours at church baby-sitting instead of attending my meetings, I would not gain the spiritual fulfillment that those meetings are supposed to offer. Strangely, that is not the case. Instead I have found greater depth in my thoughts and understanding, and have come to know my soul in a new way. It is a gentle way, as if I am becoming friends with myself. School has changed too, I still work hard and stress a little, but I’m learning not to hold it constantly upon my shoulders. I am learning to stretch, try, work, chase toddlers, study, pray, feel, and release. “For there is nothing worth troubling about except ones soul.”
Life Goes On - January 29 2012
We held our breath and slowly tiptoed away from the tower. Even soft exhales caused the rickety structure to sway. Nervous energy pulsed through our bodies, filling the room like electric light. Yuma, with delicate and steady fingers, gently pushed another block off the tower and after a careful moment set it atop the weary construct. For half a moment we relaxed. Approaching a level of Jenga mastery to which few have ever dared to aspire, we admiringly and enviously witnessed success after success despite seemingly impossible odds. At the same time, we trembled and winced because we knew that eventually the exquisite stack would have to fall. It did, and we survived.
barely.
How serious life is…
barely.
How serious life is…
Premium Friends Part I: Jamari, Daphne, Winnie & Abellina - January 14 2012
Let me tell you a story about friends.
I have several best friends, all of them are astounding young women in nearly every way. Consider the possibility that I have changed their names for your and their protection.
Jamari
I met Jamari almost 17 years ago. I remember the day well despite it’s distance in the past. Our parents had both deposited us in the nursery at our church, we had two hours. She was a completely silent and rather tiny, we played baby dolls together and shared a little red wagon. Since that day we’ve been magnificent friends. Many if not most of my life’s adventures have been with her, from protecting our forts from ferocious invaders, to tea parties, to encounters with sinister bovines, to searching for lost scientists in barren deserts. Some of our adventures together have been imagined, others actual, all of them real. Several times we’ve experienced the dreadful adventure of living far away from each other. Every time, we write, and call, use telepathy, and somehow end up changing and growing at the same rate. Tonight she sent me a text message that said, “You’re amazing!” There was no preamble, no reason, it was completely spontaneous. Don’t you love her already?
Daphne
I had a picnic with Daphne every Monday and Friday of last semester. Our ritual was to meet at one o’clock in front of our city’s courthouse, walk two blocks to the park, and share a meal. In inclement weather, my living room floor was our park. After eating, we conversed, lay in the sun, and cracked a variety of inside jokes: pirate jokes, kid history jokes, jokes about Landon, and jokes about our past. She knows how to laugh, and how to see possibility in every face and crevice of the world. In a couple days she’s going to Mongolia for 18 months. I will miss her absolutely. In writing this impossibly short paragraph about Daphne, I’ve had to alter my tense from present, “our ritual is…” to past “our ritual was…” Tonight she sat on my couch with me, we poured our souls into each others hands, and drank ginger ale. As she walked out my door and said, “see you Sunday” I fell into a moment of melancholy, maybe I shed a tear, because I know soon she’ll say ,”see you june of 2013.” Every moment spent with Daphne is a picnic.
Winnie
Winnie and I share blood, yes, she’s my sister. Nobody gets my jokes like Winnie does. It’s kind of silly to write about her, she’s absolutely impossible to describe. I tried once, long ago. I wrote a rhyming poem about her feet. Today it can be found in volume 5 of my life story, which resides a purple bin in our scary garage.
Abellina
Abellina is a champion and that’s a proven fact, but that’s not why we’re friends. The first week I knew her, she helped me move all my possessions. She didn’t know much about me, hardly anything really, but she did it anyway. At the most confusing, ridiculous, overwhelming, and terrifying time of my life she just helped me because she could. Nowadays she washes her laundry at my house. I love it. Together, we make happy surprises for people, have deep conversations in her car, and cook delicious foods.
Dictionary Definition! Champion: 1. One that is clearly superior or has the attributes of a winner: a champion at teaching. 2. An ardent defender or supporter of a cause or another person: a champion of the homeless. 3. One who fights; a warrior.
This may have to turn into a series.
It’s wild the way people become friends. The way we come to know, then build and carry each other. The other day someone asked me to write down 10 alive people I’m grateful for. I laughed, how could I possibly begin to narrow it down? To some degree I even have to be grateful for the people I don’t like because I always learn such startling lessons from them. Then, having gained so much from knowing them, it’s almost impossible to really dislike them. People are so marvelously interesting and confusing. Sometimes I wish I could take a class called, “the anthropology of friendship,” but when I think about it, I already am.
I have several best friends, all of them are astounding young women in nearly every way. Consider the possibility that I have changed their names for your and their protection.
Jamari
I met Jamari almost 17 years ago. I remember the day well despite it’s distance in the past. Our parents had both deposited us in the nursery at our church, we had two hours. She was a completely silent and rather tiny, we played baby dolls together and shared a little red wagon. Since that day we’ve been magnificent friends. Many if not most of my life’s adventures have been with her, from protecting our forts from ferocious invaders, to tea parties, to encounters with sinister bovines, to searching for lost scientists in barren deserts. Some of our adventures together have been imagined, others actual, all of them real. Several times we’ve experienced the dreadful adventure of living far away from each other. Every time, we write, and call, use telepathy, and somehow end up changing and growing at the same rate. Tonight she sent me a text message that said, “You’re amazing!” There was no preamble, no reason, it was completely spontaneous. Don’t you love her already?
Daphne
I had a picnic with Daphne every Monday and Friday of last semester. Our ritual was to meet at one o’clock in front of our city’s courthouse, walk two blocks to the park, and share a meal. In inclement weather, my living room floor was our park. After eating, we conversed, lay in the sun, and cracked a variety of inside jokes: pirate jokes, kid history jokes, jokes about Landon, and jokes about our past. She knows how to laugh, and how to see possibility in every face and crevice of the world. In a couple days she’s going to Mongolia for 18 months. I will miss her absolutely. In writing this impossibly short paragraph about Daphne, I’ve had to alter my tense from present, “our ritual is…” to past “our ritual was…” Tonight she sat on my couch with me, we poured our souls into each others hands, and drank ginger ale. As she walked out my door and said, “see you Sunday” I fell into a moment of melancholy, maybe I shed a tear, because I know soon she’ll say ,”see you june of 2013.” Every moment spent with Daphne is a picnic.
Winnie
Winnie and I share blood, yes, she’s my sister. Nobody gets my jokes like Winnie does. It’s kind of silly to write about her, she’s absolutely impossible to describe. I tried once, long ago. I wrote a rhyming poem about her feet. Today it can be found in volume 5 of my life story, which resides a purple bin in our scary garage.
Abellina
Abellina is a champion and that’s a proven fact, but that’s not why we’re friends. The first week I knew her, she helped me move all my possessions. She didn’t know much about me, hardly anything really, but she did it anyway. At the most confusing, ridiculous, overwhelming, and terrifying time of my life she just helped me because she could. Nowadays she washes her laundry at my house. I love it. Together, we make happy surprises for people, have deep conversations in her car, and cook delicious foods.
Dictionary Definition! Champion: 1. One that is clearly superior or has the attributes of a winner: a champion at teaching. 2. An ardent defender or supporter of a cause or another person: a champion of the homeless. 3. One who fights; a warrior.
This may have to turn into a series.
It’s wild the way people become friends. The way we come to know, then build and carry each other. The other day someone asked me to write down 10 alive people I’m grateful for. I laughed, how could I possibly begin to narrow it down? To some degree I even have to be grateful for the people I don’t like because I always learn such startling lessons from them. Then, having gained so much from knowing them, it’s almost impossible to really dislike them. People are so marvelously interesting and confusing. Sometimes I wish I could take a class called, “the anthropology of friendship,” but when I think about it, I already am.
The T-Shirt in My Dresser Drawer - November 14 2011
The t-shirt in my dresser drawer is not folded or rolled, it is wrinkled. Ideally the relic would be folded nicely, clean and ready for use, but it isn’t and that’s OK too. I’ve had this t-shirt for years, 5 and 1/2 years to be exact. It was given to me at BYU (brigham young university) youth soccer camp , July 2006. White with blue lettering, all it says is BRIGHAM YOUNG SOCCER. Over the years this shirt has meant different things to me.
Messages in Cotton:
14 – I went to soccer camp at BYU. Have you ever been to soccer camp? I have. It was amazing. Please ask me about it. I have a story for you. I had friends there.
15- Don’t worry. I’ve played soccer before. I am like you.
16- Do you know who Brigham Young is? I am just now learning why I am proud to wear his name across my chest.
17- I don’t have time.
18- I could have gone to BYU. It’s not for me, or maybe I missed the application deadline. I got this shirt before high school and I didn’t have to use tricks to make it look old. I’ll wear this shirt out of loyalty to my roots.
now…
I applied to BYU this summer. I’ve been ready for a change, a new adventure, a new set of eyes. For months I diligently checked my mailbox, petitioned to God, and whined about its delayed arrival. I was a woman in limbo, not here, not there, absolutely frustrated by the ambiguity of my future. Then, on a warm October night I got a ” we regret to inform you,” and that made me still. I won’t lie to you and tell you that I didn’t care. Rejection never feels good. My eyes leaked for a while and I spent a healthy 24 hours with a black cloud over my head. After the mourning period was over I felt fine. I feel fine. I’m glad that I don’t have to wonder anymore and I’ve spent some time cataloguing the things I love about this Durango. There are many beautiful things to love. I can say without hesitation that I am happy to be busily inhabiting this corner of the world.
Today while I was scrounging around my closet looking for nothing in particular, I found my old t-shirt. It has holes all over it. The fabric is soft and delicate, completely worn out. I thought about tearing it into pieces and using them to dust and scrub, but I couldn’t.
19- I didn’t get in. I don’t fully understand why, but I’m trying not to think it’s because of defect. I’m not angry, I’m electrified. I’m trying to divine the future using the process of elimination. I am finding unexpected meaning in my life. I am wild and brave enough to stuff this shirt in my dresser drawer, because in many ways it is indecent to wear out.
Messages in Cotton:
14 – I went to soccer camp at BYU. Have you ever been to soccer camp? I have. It was amazing. Please ask me about it. I have a story for you. I had friends there.
15- Don’t worry. I’ve played soccer before. I am like you.
16- Do you know who Brigham Young is? I am just now learning why I am proud to wear his name across my chest.
17- I don’t have time.
18- I could have gone to BYU. It’s not for me, or maybe I missed the application deadline. I got this shirt before high school and I didn’t have to use tricks to make it look old. I’ll wear this shirt out of loyalty to my roots.
now…
I applied to BYU this summer. I’ve been ready for a change, a new adventure, a new set of eyes. For months I diligently checked my mailbox, petitioned to God, and whined about its delayed arrival. I was a woman in limbo, not here, not there, absolutely frustrated by the ambiguity of my future. Then, on a warm October night I got a ” we regret to inform you,” and that made me still. I won’t lie to you and tell you that I didn’t care. Rejection never feels good. My eyes leaked for a while and I spent a healthy 24 hours with a black cloud over my head. After the mourning period was over I felt fine. I feel fine. I’m glad that I don’t have to wonder anymore and I’ve spent some time cataloguing the things I love about this Durango. There are many beautiful things to love. I can say without hesitation that I am happy to be busily inhabiting this corner of the world.
Today while I was scrounging around my closet looking for nothing in particular, I found my old t-shirt. It has holes all over it. The fabric is soft and delicate, completely worn out. I thought about tearing it into pieces and using them to dust and scrub, but I couldn’t.
19- I didn’t get in. I don’t fully understand why, but I’m trying not to think it’s because of defect. I’m not angry, I’m electrified. I’m trying to divine the future using the process of elimination. I am finding unexpected meaning in my life. I am wild and brave enough to stuff this shirt in my dresser drawer, because in many ways it is indecent to wear out.
Alex the Russian Cycling Across the World - August 21 2011
“He has beautiful eyes,” she said
“They are light blue with dark blue around the edge. We picked him up outside of Salida”
The biker is not weary,
Though he could be so
His legs push down the miles
Hundreds more than some have ever traveled
He isn’t quite so far from home that he has begun the journey back
But he is a stranger in a strange land
Weaving his way across the lines we made, the borders we revere
Kansas, Colorado, Utah next
Climbing his way across the peaks and
Losing himself in the winding valleys
He is a friend to the rocks, and in love with the pavement
When he came to us in our smalltownlonely oasis,
He talked of Tolstoi, physics, God
All the thoughts that keep him company as he goes
In broken English he fixed some doubts we carried
About man and men
Then pedaled on away from us
He has beautiful eyes that marvel
At the sights along our curving highways
The mountains that bring him to his knees
And the euphoria of journeying
“They are light blue with dark blue around the edge. We picked him up outside of Salida”
The biker is not weary,
Though he could be so
His legs push down the miles
Hundreds more than some have ever traveled
He isn’t quite so far from home that he has begun the journey back
But he is a stranger in a strange land
Weaving his way across the lines we made, the borders we revere
Kansas, Colorado, Utah next
Climbing his way across the peaks and
Losing himself in the winding valleys
He is a friend to the rocks, and in love with the pavement
When he came to us in our smalltownlonely oasis,
He talked of Tolstoi, physics, God
All the thoughts that keep him company as he goes
In broken English he fixed some doubts we carried
About man and men
Then pedaled on away from us
He has beautiful eyes that marvel
At the sights along our curving highways
The mountains that bring him to his knees
And the euphoria of journeying
My Antler Lives in Dordogne- May 24 2011
The fourteenth of May is a lovely day. I’ve had 19 fourteenths of may in my life, and though I cannot exactly remember them all, I am going to assume that they were all spectacularly lovely.
One May 14th some years ago, I was sitting on the floor of an old house in Sarlat, France, watching French television and documenting my adventures of the day. I wrote about the fauna and masonry, the coq-aux vin and crepes, and gushed about the simple beauty of the town. My one complaint was that the antler in my backpack was giving me bruises.
There were several very good reasons for me to take a 5 point antler across the world with me. Unfortunately those reasons were quite forgotten or rendered invalid 6 days into our trip and I was becoming quite frustrated with my antler. Each time I packed or un-packed, the venture was entirely centered upon fitting in the antler. Each time we moved I would, after multiple attempts, successfully fit the all my clothing and the antler into my small backpack, and though I rejoiced in this small victory I never achieved comfort. That is why, while backpacking through the lovely country that is France, I was continuously and relentlessly stabbed in the back with a pointed object. It did not take long for me to realize that ridding myself of the artifact would be a most advantageous endeavor. I consulted my traveling companions and we decided on several courses of action.
1. Leave the antler on the sidewalk. This option was quickly discarded because it was disgustingly un-romantic, could allow the antler to fall into unworthy hands, and would provide no closure or (more importantly) intriguing story.
2. Sell the antler to a Parisian cowboy boutique for an exorbitant price. This option was rejected first, because it would require me to carry the antler an extra 7 days until we returned from our tour of the country to Paris, and second, because it was undeniably materialistic.
3. Give the antler to somebody I liked. This option was undoubtedly the the most appealing to me and my companions. So we set out to find someone we liked.
The very first day we arrived in the Dordogne region of France we stayed at a small house that a lovely old lady rented to visitors. As we came inside the petit and beautifully developed yard surrounding her house we noticed a young man picking cherries from a small tree. We waved to him and smiled before disappearing into the doorway. Our visit to their small town of Sarlat was one of the most contented and inspiring events of my life so far. We went to the market and bought stinky cheese, walked through the winding cobblestone streets, and marveled that such beauty could be contained in so small a town. We didn’t want to leave, but when the time came that it was prevailed upon us to do so, I was once again faced with the challenge of packing my backpack. How the boy came up, I do not perfectly recall. Our only encounter was the hesitant wave in the garden that happened several days earlier, but somehow it seemed completely clear that it was to him that the gift (or burden) should be bestowed. My mom, who served as our translator for business affairs, asked our hostess if her grandson (the cherry picker) would like an antler from the United States of America. All of our party waited in earnest as she called him on the telephone to ask. We could hear him animatedly tell his grandmother that he would be thrilled to be the recipient of the antler and so the matter was settled. I gave the antler to our amused hostess and who assured me that she would give it to her grandson as soon as possible. For the rest of my trip I packed my backpack with ease and satisfaction. I’m sure the antler could not have been presented to a more worthy candidate. I do wonder where it is now. Don’t you?
One May 14th some years ago, I was sitting on the floor of an old house in Sarlat, France, watching French television and documenting my adventures of the day. I wrote about the fauna and masonry, the coq-aux vin and crepes, and gushed about the simple beauty of the town. My one complaint was that the antler in my backpack was giving me bruises.
There were several very good reasons for me to take a 5 point antler across the world with me. Unfortunately those reasons were quite forgotten or rendered invalid 6 days into our trip and I was becoming quite frustrated with my antler. Each time I packed or un-packed, the venture was entirely centered upon fitting in the antler. Each time we moved I would, after multiple attempts, successfully fit the all my clothing and the antler into my small backpack, and though I rejoiced in this small victory I never achieved comfort. That is why, while backpacking through the lovely country that is France, I was continuously and relentlessly stabbed in the back with a pointed object. It did not take long for me to realize that ridding myself of the artifact would be a most advantageous endeavor. I consulted my traveling companions and we decided on several courses of action.
1. Leave the antler on the sidewalk. This option was quickly discarded because it was disgustingly un-romantic, could allow the antler to fall into unworthy hands, and would provide no closure or (more importantly) intriguing story.
2. Sell the antler to a Parisian cowboy boutique for an exorbitant price. This option was rejected first, because it would require me to carry the antler an extra 7 days until we returned from our tour of the country to Paris, and second, because it was undeniably materialistic.
3. Give the antler to somebody I liked. This option was undoubtedly the the most appealing to me and my companions. So we set out to find someone we liked.
The very first day we arrived in the Dordogne region of France we stayed at a small house that a lovely old lady rented to visitors. As we came inside the petit and beautifully developed yard surrounding her house we noticed a young man picking cherries from a small tree. We waved to him and smiled before disappearing into the doorway. Our visit to their small town of Sarlat was one of the most contented and inspiring events of my life so far. We went to the market and bought stinky cheese, walked through the winding cobblestone streets, and marveled that such beauty could be contained in so small a town. We didn’t want to leave, but when the time came that it was prevailed upon us to do so, I was once again faced with the challenge of packing my backpack. How the boy came up, I do not perfectly recall. Our only encounter was the hesitant wave in the garden that happened several days earlier, but somehow it seemed completely clear that it was to him that the gift (or burden) should be bestowed. My mom, who served as our translator for business affairs, asked our hostess if her grandson (the cherry picker) would like an antler from the United States of America. All of our party waited in earnest as she called him on the telephone to ask. We could hear him animatedly tell his grandmother that he would be thrilled to be the recipient of the antler and so the matter was settled. I gave the antler to our amused hostess and who assured me that she would give it to her grandson as soon as possible. For the rest of my trip I packed my backpack with ease and satisfaction. I’m sure the antler could not have been presented to a more worthy candidate. I do wonder where it is now. Don’t you?
The Best Dance Ever - November 15 2011
It was the best dance that ever happened to Farmington, New Mexico.
The decorations were beyond description, those in attendance will recreate them in dreams.
The balloons were filled with exactly the right amount of perfect air, and the streamers hung above even the tallest of heads.
Everyone wore stylish jeans and had bright eyes that were illuminated and magnified by dim and warm light.
Askers were accepted, and wallflowers waltzed to familiar and underplayed songs whose sound filled the room with heavenly acoustics.
Even numbers of girls and boys floated across the floor in deliberate pathways. Never colliding accidentally.
Space seemed to adjust as the crowd waxed and waned and waxed in rhythm with the music and each other.
When it’s talked about later on, in any setting, eyes will flicker, and knowing smiles stretch across remembering faces.
Hands will tingle where palm touched palm.
Unfortunately, it was over at 9:30, and we got there at 10:00.
The decorations were beyond description, those in attendance will recreate them in dreams.
The balloons were filled with exactly the right amount of perfect air, and the streamers hung above even the tallest of heads.
Everyone wore stylish jeans and had bright eyes that were illuminated and magnified by dim and warm light.
Askers were accepted, and wallflowers waltzed to familiar and underplayed songs whose sound filled the room with heavenly acoustics.
Even numbers of girls and boys floated across the floor in deliberate pathways. Never colliding accidentally.
Space seemed to adjust as the crowd waxed and waned and waxed in rhythm with the music and each other.
When it’s talked about later on, in any setting, eyes will flicker, and knowing smiles stretch across remembering faces.
Hands will tingle where palm touched palm.
Unfortunately, it was over at 9:30, and we got there at 10:00.
Entertainment - April 16 2011
Sometimes when encountered with a free afternoon and a friend, the best thing to do is to buy used Science Fiction novels and give them to ancient nuclear physicists.
Maybe I should back up. Several months ago, a small group of friends and I went to the nursing home in our town to visit lonely people (on valentines day). As we were walking the halls making forced and loud (they’re deaf) conversation, a very bent old man walked toward me. He said, “come along, come on, I want you to meet my family”, so I grabbed my friend Landon and we followed the old man to his room to meet his family. He led us down the hall to a small and neat room with a little kitchen and bathroom attached. The walls were painted a clinical white, but completely covered with framed and poorly printed photographs. The man, who introduced himself as Bill Brown, proceeded to explain each photograph. “This is my son, Walt, this is my wife, Kitty, we’re separated…” We spend the next hour and a half listening to Bill, who took a particular interest in Landon, he kept saying “we’re really just the same.” He showed us his computer where he’s documenting his life story. He showed us the CD he made in Los Alamos in 1965. He showed us his printer, and complained about nursing home life, which he found extremely dull. “These people, they’re all vegetables, and there aren’t any books here at all, only bibles… and I’m a scientist dammit! You can only read the bible so many times.” After our time was up, Bill reluctantly let us go and we decided to come back soon with some Science Fiction books for Bill (his favorite).
That is how, 2 months later, I found myself browsing the bookshelves of the thrift store with my other friend Dani, searching for science fiction novels for Bill Brown. When we delivered the books to him, he was stunned and thrilled. He couldn’t believe it. He got Dani and I to give him our email addresses and I think that excited him even more. We spent a good hour talking to him. This time he told us all about the nuclear reactor he built at Berkley in the fifties or sixties. I expect an abundance of emails from him in the future.
Nursing homes are depressing, but it’s easy to make someone’s day with a short visit and some books about Mars. Then maybe, just maybe, someone will visit you when you’re seven hundred years old and completely off your rocker. That’s what I’m hoping anyway.
Maybe I should back up. Several months ago, a small group of friends and I went to the nursing home in our town to visit lonely people (on valentines day). As we were walking the halls making forced and loud (they’re deaf) conversation, a very bent old man walked toward me. He said, “come along, come on, I want you to meet my family”, so I grabbed my friend Landon and we followed the old man to his room to meet his family. He led us down the hall to a small and neat room with a little kitchen and bathroom attached. The walls were painted a clinical white, but completely covered with framed and poorly printed photographs. The man, who introduced himself as Bill Brown, proceeded to explain each photograph. “This is my son, Walt, this is my wife, Kitty, we’re separated…” We spend the next hour and a half listening to Bill, who took a particular interest in Landon, he kept saying “we’re really just the same.” He showed us his computer where he’s documenting his life story. He showed us the CD he made in Los Alamos in 1965. He showed us his printer, and complained about nursing home life, which he found extremely dull. “These people, they’re all vegetables, and there aren’t any books here at all, only bibles… and I’m a scientist dammit! You can only read the bible so many times.” After our time was up, Bill reluctantly let us go and we decided to come back soon with some Science Fiction books for Bill (his favorite).
That is how, 2 months later, I found myself browsing the bookshelves of the thrift store with my other friend Dani, searching for science fiction novels for Bill Brown. When we delivered the books to him, he was stunned and thrilled. He couldn’t believe it. He got Dani and I to give him our email addresses and I think that excited him even more. We spent a good hour talking to him. This time he told us all about the nuclear reactor he built at Berkley in the fifties or sixties. I expect an abundance of emails from him in the future.
Nursing homes are depressing, but it’s easy to make someone’s day with a short visit and some books about Mars. Then maybe, just maybe, someone will visit you when you’re seven hundred years old and completely off your rocker. That’s what I’m hoping anyway.
The Cows are Organized! - March 15 2011
Cows are not stupid, they have secret knowledge and skills.
In the morning we (me and my best friend ever) wondered how we would spend our day. Every possibility of entertainment flashed before us and crashed into the “Welcome to Cedaredge, population 3000″ sign on the side of the highway, falling to its death from the impact. So instead of seeing a movie, going swimming, bowling, or shopping, we walked out the door. We walked behind my friend Jessica’s house into the acres of property her family owned, down steps we’ve played on our whole lives and scurried through the brush. Our destination was another friends house 4 miles away as the crow flies, and that’s how we intended to go. Without wings we soon found our chosen route to be quite difficult, so we proceeded on foot. We walked through backyards, sneaked around quiet houses, slithered under barbed wire fences, waded across creeks and climbed into orchards.
This land crossing activity was not new to us. Living in a small town forces a person to either exist creatively or perish by the slothful hand of boredom. So it was with skill that we avoided sight, our ears were trained to hear the rustle of animals in the bushes, voices through screen doors and cars along the driveways. The only time we were seen, it was a dog that gave us away. Luckily the dog was contained on a porch and the owner who investigated his racket waved congenially at us. Slightly shaken, we soldiered on, determined to become more like the trees and rocks, still and natural. Eventually we came to a large field with probably 30 scattered and lazy cows. They barely noticed as we walked about them talking loudly and speculating on how far we’d come. Our destination was nearly in sight by this time, all we needed to do was climb a very large hill and we’d practically be there. Our success made us giddy and that’s when things made a turn for the worse. I’d like to blame the events that follow on my friend Jessica, she’s indisputably responsible for the unexpected and frightening events that follow, but I also find myself at fault. Mocking cows is appealing in some strange way “You stupid cows! You’re so dumb! MOOOOOOO, MOOOO!! Do I scare you stupid cows?”, we shouted to them, mooo-ing threateningly.
Then, everything. went. dark.
No not really. The “stupid cows” ran away. Amused at their stupidity we continued on through the field. The cows all ran to a corral at one end of the field. We watched them for a second before we realized, they weren’t running away, they were organizing. They ran out of the corral in a line and trotted toward us, curving into a half circle and facing us with disgruntled and deliberate stares. It was a terrifying experience, almost as if they were trained to ward off trespassers, as they prepared for attack, we fled. We sprinted away across the field and hopped (I ungracefully) over the fence. I tore my pants on the barbs and we ran away into the hills. As we caught our breath we photographed the line and marveled at what we had just seen. The rest of our journey was pretty uneventful, we climbed to the top of a mesa/hill. Soon we arrived at our destination and surprised our friend who was only slightly alarmed to find us on her doorstep scratched, frazzled, sunburned, and happily exhausted.
Not long after this adventure, Jessica and I were forbidden to go on trespassing adventures. I guess our parents were afraid of us getting shot at or stumbling upon a secret field of weed. But we learned a lot of lessons from the adventures we did have: walk out the door, try to avoid angry dogs, creeks are not scary, keep your butt down when you shimmy under a fence, look for adventures (they’re everywhere), your legs can go farther than you think they can, in cedar forests wear light brown for camouflage, water is the elixir of life, and DON’T MOCK COWS.
The End
What follows is a true photograph of the incident.
In the morning we (me and my best friend ever) wondered how we would spend our day. Every possibility of entertainment flashed before us and crashed into the “Welcome to Cedaredge, population 3000″ sign on the side of the highway, falling to its death from the impact. So instead of seeing a movie, going swimming, bowling, or shopping, we walked out the door. We walked behind my friend Jessica’s house into the acres of property her family owned, down steps we’ve played on our whole lives and scurried through the brush. Our destination was another friends house 4 miles away as the crow flies, and that’s how we intended to go. Without wings we soon found our chosen route to be quite difficult, so we proceeded on foot. We walked through backyards, sneaked around quiet houses, slithered under barbed wire fences, waded across creeks and climbed into orchards.
This land crossing activity was not new to us. Living in a small town forces a person to either exist creatively or perish by the slothful hand of boredom. So it was with skill that we avoided sight, our ears were trained to hear the rustle of animals in the bushes, voices through screen doors and cars along the driveways. The only time we were seen, it was a dog that gave us away. Luckily the dog was contained on a porch and the owner who investigated his racket waved congenially at us. Slightly shaken, we soldiered on, determined to become more like the trees and rocks, still and natural. Eventually we came to a large field with probably 30 scattered and lazy cows. They barely noticed as we walked about them talking loudly and speculating on how far we’d come. Our destination was nearly in sight by this time, all we needed to do was climb a very large hill and we’d practically be there. Our success made us giddy and that’s when things made a turn for the worse. I’d like to blame the events that follow on my friend Jessica, she’s indisputably responsible for the unexpected and frightening events that follow, but I also find myself at fault. Mocking cows is appealing in some strange way “You stupid cows! You’re so dumb! MOOOOOOO, MOOOO!! Do I scare you stupid cows?”, we shouted to them, mooo-ing threateningly.
Then, everything. went. dark.
No not really. The “stupid cows” ran away. Amused at their stupidity we continued on through the field. The cows all ran to a corral at one end of the field. We watched them for a second before we realized, they weren’t running away, they were organizing. They ran out of the corral in a line and trotted toward us, curving into a half circle and facing us with disgruntled and deliberate stares. It was a terrifying experience, almost as if they were trained to ward off trespassers, as they prepared for attack, we fled. We sprinted away across the field and hopped (I ungracefully) over the fence. I tore my pants on the barbs and we ran away into the hills. As we caught our breath we photographed the line and marveled at what we had just seen. The rest of our journey was pretty uneventful, we climbed to the top of a mesa/hill. Soon we arrived at our destination and surprised our friend who was only slightly alarmed to find us on her doorstep scratched, frazzled, sunburned, and happily exhausted.
Not long after this adventure, Jessica and I were forbidden to go on trespassing adventures. I guess our parents were afraid of us getting shot at or stumbling upon a secret field of weed. But we learned a lot of lessons from the adventures we did have: walk out the door, try to avoid angry dogs, creeks are not scary, keep your butt down when you shimmy under a fence, look for adventures (they’re everywhere), your legs can go farther than you think they can, in cedar forests wear light brown for camouflage, water is the elixir of life, and DON’T MOCK COWS.
The End
What follows is a true photograph of the incident.
Where in the World are You - March 10 2011
One summer (long ago) my grandparents came to visit and they brought me and my siblings blue yo-yo’s. It was the first time I’d ever played with a yo-yo and I was entranced by it. The challenge of yo-yo-ing excited me. I remember standing for long periods of time trying to perfect the motion with my clumsy fingers. My older brother was especially talented at yo-yo-ing. He could yo “around the world” or “walk the dog.” I watched enviously as he mastered trick after trick. My brother didn’t stick with the simple yo-yo’s, he saved his money and bought fancy ones that could do special things, the mechanics were quite beyond me at the time. My older brother was and continues to be very impressive in almost every way.
The metaphor is this; people are like yo-yo’s. We go up and down all over the place, even around the world, but usually we come back to one spot, a gentle, clumsy, or coordinated hand. We fail, and function, fall, rise up, and we cannot resist the pull of gravity.
I moved all my earthly belongings from one town to another this week. I packed my clothes and knick knacks, photographs, colored pencils, post cards, electronics, plates, shoes, and blankets into a van, then unpacked them somewhere else. I didn’t move to a new place, I moved home, back into the hand. I’ve noticed a lot of motion in the people surrounding me. Many are moving to different places, new or old, seeking previously unseen perspectives. I want to say goodbye to them in every language I’ve learned so far, wish them good wind and fortune, and finish with a kiss on each cheek. I’m glad that we found a common space in the world, that our strings crossed for a short time. I will continue to rise, fall, tangle, walk the dog, hold still, and wind my way around the world.
The metaphor is this; people are like yo-yo’s. We go up and down all over the place, even around the world, but usually we come back to one spot, a gentle, clumsy, or coordinated hand. We fail, and function, fall, rise up, and we cannot resist the pull of gravity.
I moved all my earthly belongings from one town to another this week. I packed my clothes and knick knacks, photographs, colored pencils, post cards, electronics, plates, shoes, and blankets into a van, then unpacked them somewhere else. I didn’t move to a new place, I moved home, back into the hand. I’ve noticed a lot of motion in the people surrounding me. Many are moving to different places, new or old, seeking previously unseen perspectives. I want to say goodbye to them in every language I’ve learned so far, wish them good wind and fortune, and finish with a kiss on each cheek. I’m glad that we found a common space in the world, that our strings crossed for a short time. I will continue to rise, fall, tangle, walk the dog, hold still, and wind my way around the world.
The World Accordion Gus - February 15 2011
It was cold when I woke up, probably fifty degrees inside and I was out of milk. The morning was long and I accomplished very little before school. When I waste my mornings I spend the rest of the day wondering if I’m neglecting to live my life to its fullest. Thoughts like those usually excite my wanderlust and result in lengthy and nearly illegible pros and cons lists. Like this one.
Buy a Greyhound ticket to San Diego: A Series of Contemplations
Pros
Sun, fruit, beach, adventure, tan, story, inspiration, warmth, bare feet, vitamin D, vitality.
Cons
Homelessness, fail school, 40 hours of Greyhound, no money to get home.
In this particular case the cons won out, so I remained stuck in the cold and frustratingly uneventful Colorado morning. I went to school and took so many notes that my hands hurt. I realized I’d forgotten to eat lunch before I left, so the muffled cries of my hungry belly added their voice to the somewhat stale lectures I heard on “American expansionism” and puritanical literary hypocrites on soapboxes. When I returned home from my classes I sat in my kitchen, finally satiating by ravenous hunger with yogurt, when my sister called me on the telephone. I answered “hello”, “Hannah, come quickly! I’ve found an accordion at the antique market come now”. I grabbed the jacket closest to me, threw on my flip flops and dashed out the door. I ran the entire way to the antique market, it’s only eight blocks. When I got there, I saw it, a shining, glorious, two octave accordion. I picked it up, played a little and knew that it was the one. I walked home with Gus (it’s a Gus Zoppi accordion) on my shoulders and explored his keys until late into the night.
I’m not sure when I got the idea to become an accordionist. But I can identify several influential incidents/people. First, my grandfather plays the accordion, he’s very good. As a young child I remember watching him play at our springtime family reunions in Idaho. I loved the dramatic swells and vigorous polkas. He played (and still plays) with incredible feeling. I recognize him as my first influence. When i was fifteen I went to France with my best friend and our mothers. One day we were walking down through the metro in Paris when we discovered some musicians, some of whom were accordionists. I took a photograph of them with a camera that was stolen a few days later in a chapel, and marveled at their sound. It was a folky, minor, sonorous sound and I loved it. I saw a few other accordionists when we were in France, they were all playing on the street or in the metro for a dime or two. I wanted to watch them and listen, but Paris is so full, I didn’t have the time. Those troubadours are my second influence. Third, my favorite Italian movie is called “Pane e Tulepi” or “Bread and Tulips”. In this movie the heroine plays the accordion. I remember the first time I saw her play. It seemed like a truly sensational experience. I could go on reciting each and every contact I’ve ever had with the glorious instrument, because I do consider every contact with accordions to be an influence on my eventual obsession, but I shan’t recount them now. The event that pushed me from interest to accordion-lust occurred in the very most unromantic place imaginable, algebra class. We were talking about transformations, expanding and compressing, when it hit me like a hammer. I need an accordion. That was about nine months ago, from that moment on I searched and searched and prayed and watched for the accordion of my life. Until I found Gus. We’re so happy together.
Gus and I had our first public performance tonight, and we’ve only been together one week. I love the feeling of the keys. I love the way my arm aches after a few hours of practice. I love playing with emotion and I love playing things that are far too difficult for me. I love every part of having an accordion. Dreams really do come true.
That’s how a dreary February day turned into the best one ever.
Love,
Buy a Greyhound ticket to San Diego: A Series of Contemplations
Pros
Sun, fruit, beach, adventure, tan, story, inspiration, warmth, bare feet, vitamin D, vitality.
Cons
Homelessness, fail school, 40 hours of Greyhound, no money to get home.
In this particular case the cons won out, so I remained stuck in the cold and frustratingly uneventful Colorado morning. I went to school and took so many notes that my hands hurt. I realized I’d forgotten to eat lunch before I left, so the muffled cries of my hungry belly added their voice to the somewhat stale lectures I heard on “American expansionism” and puritanical literary hypocrites on soapboxes. When I returned home from my classes I sat in my kitchen, finally satiating by ravenous hunger with yogurt, when my sister called me on the telephone. I answered “hello”, “Hannah, come quickly! I’ve found an accordion at the antique market come now”. I grabbed the jacket closest to me, threw on my flip flops and dashed out the door. I ran the entire way to the antique market, it’s only eight blocks. When I got there, I saw it, a shining, glorious, two octave accordion. I picked it up, played a little and knew that it was the one. I walked home with Gus (it’s a Gus Zoppi accordion) on my shoulders and explored his keys until late into the night.
I’m not sure when I got the idea to become an accordionist. But I can identify several influential incidents/people. First, my grandfather plays the accordion, he’s very good. As a young child I remember watching him play at our springtime family reunions in Idaho. I loved the dramatic swells and vigorous polkas. He played (and still plays) with incredible feeling. I recognize him as my first influence. When i was fifteen I went to France with my best friend and our mothers. One day we were walking down through the metro in Paris when we discovered some musicians, some of whom were accordionists. I took a photograph of them with a camera that was stolen a few days later in a chapel, and marveled at their sound. It was a folky, minor, sonorous sound and I loved it. I saw a few other accordionists when we were in France, they were all playing on the street or in the metro for a dime or two. I wanted to watch them and listen, but Paris is so full, I didn’t have the time. Those troubadours are my second influence. Third, my favorite Italian movie is called “Pane e Tulepi” or “Bread and Tulips”. In this movie the heroine plays the accordion. I remember the first time I saw her play. It seemed like a truly sensational experience. I could go on reciting each and every contact I’ve ever had with the glorious instrument, because I do consider every contact with accordions to be an influence on my eventual obsession, but I shan’t recount them now. The event that pushed me from interest to accordion-lust occurred in the very most unromantic place imaginable, algebra class. We were talking about transformations, expanding and compressing, when it hit me like a hammer. I need an accordion. That was about nine months ago, from that moment on I searched and searched and prayed and watched for the accordion of my life. Until I found Gus. We’re so happy together.
Gus and I had our first public performance tonight, and we’ve only been together one week. I love the feeling of the keys. I love the way my arm aches after a few hours of practice. I love playing with emotion and I love playing things that are far too difficult for me. I love every part of having an accordion. Dreams really do come true.
That’s how a dreary February day turned into the best one ever.
Love,
Winter is a Terrible Adventure - February 7 2011
Last winter my family went to Mexico right in the middle of winter. All six of us hopped into a van and fled the wicked grasp of February. For four days we lazed about like sea slugs on abandoned beaches, got stung by xenophobic jellies, gathered seashells for measuring cups, and ate the fruits of the sea. At one point I pondered the amount of little creatures inhabiting my stomach and wondered whether the uneasiness (disease) I was feeling was social disorder or simply overpopulation (but that’s beside the point). We all speak Spanish dismally, but it was good fortune that the only motel that would take us in the night we arrived at our destination was run by a Mexican who married a Frenchwoman, and harbored a passion for Italy and thus, Italian. My mother speaks fluent French and was happy to exercise her gifted tongue. I was recently returned from my trip to Italy and the effects of my immersion were still not totally worn off, I still yelled “BASTA” in my Italian voice whenever I was allowed the good fortune to get annoyed. BASTA BASTA BASTA! The gentleman who ran the motel also spoke quite adequate English, so we got along very fashionably.
We stayed in a small place called Baia de Kino, which we found delightfully deserted and foreign enough. The landscape consisted mostly of sand, palms, and desolately empty beach houses. My family enjoyed each other very much during our stay at Kino Bay. We walked and played, attempted snorkeling with antique equipment, created shell designs in the sand, sun tanned (worshipped), and as I mentioned before, ate large amounts of seafood. To supplement the seafood we ate fresh tortillas, gorgeous fruits, plump vegetables and odd little candies from the convenience store. But alas, all good (wonderful) things must come to an end, and before we knew it we were crammed again, though this time much tanner, happier, and less Vitamin D deficient, into our ruby red caravan. We drove to my grandmothers house in northern Arizona, it was a horribly long drive, followed by another ten hour trip the next day. Overall, the trip was wonderful, like walking out your door on February 20th into a gorgeous 75 degree morsel of perfection.
I am writing this now almost a year later, forgive me if you sense some longing. Colorado winters are lengthy and cold. The air is dry, the nights bitter, the days short. But this too is an adventure. Going places is fun and exciting and valuable. Movement and change can be almost irresistible, but sometimes staying where you are and fighting through everyday challenges can be the biggest adventure of all. Staying up studying, navigating icy sidewalks, giving directions, getting lost, letting go, giving up, giving advice, staying warm, writing, reading, crying, speaking, and drying out. These adventures are real, terrible, and challenging. But when summer comes again in her glory, her short sleeved, hair down, barefoot glory. The survivors of cold and gray will revel with joy unbridled.
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We stayed in a small place called Baia de Kino, which we found delightfully deserted and foreign enough. The landscape consisted mostly of sand, palms, and desolately empty beach houses. My family enjoyed each other very much during our stay at Kino Bay. We walked and played, attempted snorkeling with antique equipment, created shell designs in the sand, sun tanned (worshipped), and as I mentioned before, ate large amounts of seafood. To supplement the seafood we ate fresh tortillas, gorgeous fruits, plump vegetables and odd little candies from the convenience store. But alas, all good (wonderful) things must come to an end, and before we knew it we were crammed again, though this time much tanner, happier, and less Vitamin D deficient, into our ruby red caravan. We drove to my grandmothers house in northern Arizona, it was a horribly long drive, followed by another ten hour trip the next day. Overall, the trip was wonderful, like walking out your door on February 20th into a gorgeous 75 degree morsel of perfection.
I am writing this now almost a year later, forgive me if you sense some longing. Colorado winters are lengthy and cold. The air is dry, the nights bitter, the days short. But this too is an adventure. Going places is fun and exciting and valuable. Movement and change can be almost irresistible, but sometimes staying where you are and fighting through everyday challenges can be the biggest adventure of all. Staying up studying, navigating icy sidewalks, giving directions, getting lost, letting go, giving up, giving advice, staying warm, writing, reading, crying, speaking, and drying out. These adventures are real, terrible, and challenging. But when summer comes again in her glory, her short sleeved, hair down, barefoot glory. The survivors of cold and gray will revel with joy unbridled.
Truck Stop - January 18 2011
Not having a car in Colorado, United States of America, means that often the act of getting from point B to point C is itself an adventure. Traveling adventures range from mountain biking barefoot across town in a dress (high heels don’t work well with pedals), to sliding down hills of slush and muck, to sprinting through the streets to make an appointment (and arrive with windblown tresses and rosy cheeks). Yet another adventure afforded to the automobile-less is the journey homeward. I’m going to school about 3 1/2 hours from home. When Christmas holidays came around I had no idea how I would make the journey. I was fortunate to stumble upon a friend who lives a mere 5 hours from my hometown, so I asked her for help. This was the plan. At one point in her trip she was going to pass through a point that was a mere 2 hours from my house. My parents were willing to go that far, so she would drop me off at that point and I’d meet up with my parents for the rest of the trip. The transfer point was a truck stop, the only one in miles and miles. My friend was hesitant to leave me there but I talked her into it. While I was waiting for my parents to show up I wrote this poem.
There is plastic ivy above me in a hanging basket, a symbol of life in the desert truck stop.
Vinyl leaves flutter and vibrate with every effort of a sputtering vent, the persistent harmonies of
heating and cooling have forgotten to stop.
Buzzing florescence, all the machines, and shuffling cashier man in his uniform, he wonders how long I will sit in this lonely desert truck stop.
As he wonders, I ask where he is going. This is a place to leave, it would be better to wait in the empty land outside. This is a place to stop and go again.
It is early morning and I have waited minutes whole and long. Time moves so slowly it stops.
He is watching my pen roll across the red table while I count the sponged ceiling squares and rabbit brush out the window. Trucks and people stop and go again.
Bells on the door audition for every customer while 22 varieties (I counted) of chips, wait to see which brother will get the axe today. I think they know where chips go when they die.
Gray sky, wickedly calm, clouds move away still. Slowly slowly they go, adagio they go.
My pack is light, my way is easy. I stop to smile goodbye to the gentle man behind the counter as I go.
There is plastic ivy above me in a hanging basket, a symbol of life in the desert truck stop.
Vinyl leaves flutter and vibrate with every effort of a sputtering vent, the persistent harmonies of
heating and cooling have forgotten to stop.
Buzzing florescence, all the machines, and shuffling cashier man in his uniform, he wonders how long I will sit in this lonely desert truck stop.
As he wonders, I ask where he is going. This is a place to leave, it would be better to wait in the empty land outside. This is a place to stop and go again.
It is early morning and I have waited minutes whole and long. Time moves so slowly it stops.
He is watching my pen roll across the red table while I count the sponged ceiling squares and rabbit brush out the window. Trucks and people stop and go again.
Bells on the door audition for every customer while 22 varieties (I counted) of chips, wait to see which brother will get the axe today. I think they know where chips go when they die.
Gray sky, wickedly calm, clouds move away still. Slowly slowly they go, adagio they go.
My pack is light, my way is easy. I stop to smile goodbye to the gentle man behind the counter as I go.
Chinexicaniving - December 5th 2010
The things that made thanksgiving awesome this year are about as diverse as the people who sat around our table(s).
There is magic in my mothers kitchen, or maybe it’s in her hands, likely it’s in both. My parents built their kitchen from handmade (by their own hands) adobe bricks, 30 pounds a piece. There are scavenged river rocks in diamond patterns stuck into the cement floor. I watched my Dad polish the granite that makes part of our counter, and assemble the wooden cabinets in his shop downstairs. Vegetables from the garden, bottles of homemade jam, and bread from our wood fired brick oven are always present, or so it seems. Off the kitchen is a room facing the south with an entire wall of windows, they heat the bricks that make the walls of our kitchen. It’s always warm. I can’t imagine a better place to have grown up.
mole (mo lay) is Turkey’s soul mate. We always have Mexican foods in our thanksgiving. This year the Mexicanity was represented by mole, turkey, and cumin and lime sweet potatoes.
We were honored to have 3 amazing guests from China at our table this thanksgiving. They came to us with my dads parents to experience a legitimate American Thanksgiving. We had friends and neighbors, cousins, grandparents.. it was really perfect.
China Mexico
Thanksgiving
Chinexicaniving.
There is magic in my mothers kitchen, or maybe it’s in her hands, likely it’s in both. My parents built their kitchen from handmade (by their own hands) adobe bricks, 30 pounds a piece. There are scavenged river rocks in diamond patterns stuck into the cement floor. I watched my Dad polish the granite that makes part of our counter, and assemble the wooden cabinets in his shop downstairs. Vegetables from the garden, bottles of homemade jam, and bread from our wood fired brick oven are always present, or so it seems. Off the kitchen is a room facing the south with an entire wall of windows, they heat the bricks that make the walls of our kitchen. It’s always warm. I can’t imagine a better place to have grown up.
mole (mo lay) is Turkey’s soul mate. We always have Mexican foods in our thanksgiving. This year the Mexicanity was represented by mole, turkey, and cumin and lime sweet potatoes.
We were honored to have 3 amazing guests from China at our table this thanksgiving. They came to us with my dads parents to experience a legitimate American Thanksgiving. We had friends and neighbors, cousins, grandparents.. it was really perfect.
China Mexico
Thanksgiving
Chinexicaniving.
A Reason to Live 11/072010
It tastes like a reason to live.
One of millions.
There are things that mark changing seasons, not a solstice or eqinox, a routine. When apples grow, thousands of them hanging out in the orchards that are an unlikely kind of paradise. We pick them up off the ground, flick away the grubs, and crunch. MMMmmm.
A long standing fall tradition in my family is the pressing of apples, for juice.
There is something truly marvelous about the process.
Step 1. Find free apples. This is generally pretty easy to do in a fruit growing town, especially if you are willing to pick them up off the ground.
Step 2. Put apples in shredder.
Step 3. Squeeze apples.
Step 4. Drink it up.
That’s all I can say.
Words fail at my lips
Sticky with cider.
One of millions.
There are things that mark changing seasons, not a solstice or eqinox, a routine. When apples grow, thousands of them hanging out in the orchards that are an unlikely kind of paradise. We pick them up off the ground, flick away the grubs, and crunch. MMMmmm.
A long standing fall tradition in my family is the pressing of apples, for juice.
There is something truly marvelous about the process.
Step 1. Find free apples. This is generally pretty easy to do in a fruit growing town, especially if you are willing to pick them up off the ground.
Step 2. Put apples in shredder.
Step 3. Squeeze apples.
Step 4. Drink it up.
That’s all I can say.
Words fail at my lips
Sticky with cider.
Going Going Gone - August 2010
Leaving is complicated. Whether for a minute or a month. This is the equation
1 sister trying to catch the bus out of town + 1 dead battery + a 1976 ford Econoline - gasoline =
a phone call.
Maybe I should back up.. We thought the car would take her, and of course she was in a rush. Hurrying out the door with her backpack half packed and her hands full of every nearly forgotten thing. There is never a good time for the battery of a car to call it quits, but doesn’t it always seem to be at the worst possible moment that it rolls over and dies? Jumper cables wouldn’t work, not even with four of us coaxing and coaching “come on baby! You can do it!”. So on to plan B. We tossed my sister W’s stuff into the back of her bright orange Ford Econoline “Van Halen-Vandeliza-Orangina” that was deemed barely driveable only 1 day before. It was chaotic, and as W and my Mom rolled away. K (my beautiful cousin) and I waved goodbye.
5 minutes later…
We get a call. It’s my mom, Van Halen didn’t even make it 2 miles before she puttered out. So K and I run outside and hop inside the cab of our 1977 Ford Ranger. Honestly, it takes us a while to get out of the driveway (steep driveway). Then, when we finally get going and I make the daring shift into 3rd gear WHAM!!!! suddenly the hood of the truck pops up and we have to start all over again. By the time we finally arrive on scene W has hitched a ride to the bus station with some friendly neighbors.
15 minutes later…
For some reason or another we are bouncing along the back-roads towards home. Going yes, 35 MPH in the Big Daddy truck. It is hot and the windows are down. Somehow it’s the most poetic moment of my summer. I could drive 500 miles in your cab with the windows tilted toward my face, the old smell all over me, and both hands on the wheel.
1 sister trying to catch the bus out of town + 1 dead battery + a 1976 ford Econoline - gasoline =
a phone call.
Maybe I should back up.. We thought the car would take her, and of course she was in a rush. Hurrying out the door with her backpack half packed and her hands full of every nearly forgotten thing. There is never a good time for the battery of a car to call it quits, but doesn’t it always seem to be at the worst possible moment that it rolls over and dies? Jumper cables wouldn’t work, not even with four of us coaxing and coaching “come on baby! You can do it!”. So on to plan B. We tossed my sister W’s stuff into the back of her bright orange Ford Econoline “Van Halen-Vandeliza-Orangina” that was deemed barely driveable only 1 day before. It was chaotic, and as W and my Mom rolled away. K (my beautiful cousin) and I waved goodbye.
5 minutes later…
We get a call. It’s my mom, Van Halen didn’t even make it 2 miles before she puttered out. So K and I run outside and hop inside the cab of our 1977 Ford Ranger. Honestly, it takes us a while to get out of the driveway (steep driveway). Then, when we finally get going and I make the daring shift into 3rd gear WHAM!!!! suddenly the hood of the truck pops up and we have to start all over again. By the time we finally arrive on scene W has hitched a ride to the bus station with some friendly neighbors.
15 minutes later…
For some reason or another we are bouncing along the back-roads towards home. Going yes, 35 MPH in the Big Daddy truck. It is hot and the windows are down. Somehow it’s the most poetic moment of my summer. I could drive 500 miles in your cab with the windows tilted toward my face, the old smell all over me, and both hands on the wheel.
Into the Gray
It spilled there
a crimson flower on cement
one drop of who-ever you are exposed
warm wet not yet drying in the sun
how could you be so careless?
leaving your precous life nectar for a stranger to find
will you thank God that you have enough to carry you away?
your deal with the sidewalk
sealed in blood and ink
seeps into the gray
Dangerous, Diverting, Delicous
We go mushroom hunting...
We walk lazily through miles of mountain scanning the ground for Boletus and Chanterelles. Some years there are only a few precious morsels. Glints of golden chaterelles in the most secret places. Today there were hundreds of these tiny gems scattered across the forest floor. We went to our old favorite spot, which has recently become a favorite for some other hardcore shroomers and found nothing. But then we drove to a new spot on a windy dirt road where they grew in glorious abundance. I photographed a few of my favorites. After we pick them….. we EAT!
We walk lazily through miles of mountain scanning the ground for Boletus and Chanterelles. Some years there are only a few precious morsels. Glints of golden chaterelles in the most secret places. Today there were hundreds of these tiny gems scattered across the forest floor. We went to our old favorite spot, which has recently become a favorite for some other hardcore shroomers and found nothing. But then we drove to a new spot on a windy dirt road where they grew in glorious abundance. I photographed a few of my favorites. After we pick them….. we EAT!
Alamosa
I’ve lived in Colorado my whole life.
I’ve boiled in the Ouray hot springs,
Romped around Devils Kitchen at the Colorado Monument,
Climbed to the two highest points on the Grand Mesa,
Canoed the Colorado River,
Mountain biked the perilous, stupendous, terrifying, wonderful, brutal, Kokopelli’s trail,
Hiked through the red rocked Dominguez Canyon,
Shredded the steep slopes of Telluride,
and driven through the rolling barren deserts toward Utah.
Only very recently (2 days ago), did I realize that all those things are alarmingly close to me. I can drive 3 hours in any direction and arrive at any and many of them. The reason for this realization was a trip to Alamosa CO. A place with completely unfamiliar landscape, culture, and atmosphere. I’ve seen topographical maps of the eastern side of Colorado, and apparently it’s flat, but not until last weekend did I finally understand the seriousness of that flatness. I suppose you’re curious about why I descended from the mountains in the first place. This weekend I went to my first Young Single Adult (ages 18-30) conference for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I’ve been a member of that church since I was eight, but only recently have I become a “Young Single Adult”.
The events followed a familiar pattern.
Eat, meet (socializing youth and young adults in the church is a very popular phenomenon), listen (to speakers), dance ( Mormons can dance), sleep, serve, eat, play, eat, listen, share (spiritual experiences and testimonies). I’ve been to a few youth (ages 14-17) conferences before, and most frequently they follow this pattern with minor differences. I always leave them happy that I went. For some reason however, I was very hesitant to go to this YSA Conference, but a friend dropped me a line asking if I’d be willing to take the 4 hour drive with her and I spontaneously agreed. The drive was quite nice. We went over some of those Colorado mountains that I love so much and ventured forward into unknown territory, another thing I like. My favorite parts of the drive from Saguatch (supposedly pronounced Sawatch, though more probably referring to a relative of our dear Sasquatch) to Alamosa were:
Abundant signs in recognition of Korean War veterans,
12 Mile Road which is straight as a pin and has a large sign at each mile indicating the 11, 10, 9, 8. 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1 miles remaining,
And The Colorado Potato Administrative Committee building.
I enjoyed the conference. We worked with Habitat for Humanity digging a foundation, planting trees, and oiling cupboards built by convicts at a very progressive prison. I loved listening to the great men and women who spoke to us. I am always inspired to be a better person when I listen to the leaders of the church. I wept at the testimony meeting, overwhelmed by the beautiful insides of all the people there. We drove back in the night.
I kind of liked Alamosa. It’s a small town with a lot of unusual local businesses, and unlikely tourist attractions. I hope to go back someday to more fully experience what Alamosa has to offer me. Next time I would like to visit the alligator farm, which I hear is a somewhat amazing collection of alligators that have been rescued from unsuitable owners. A guy at the conference claimed he had a horse skeleton in his fathers shop that belonged to a horse that was abducted by aliens. I would like to see that too.
Another adventure to come!
http://www.alamosa.org/ColoradoGators.aspx
I’ve boiled in the Ouray hot springs,
Romped around Devils Kitchen at the Colorado Monument,
Climbed to the two highest points on the Grand Mesa,
Canoed the Colorado River,
Mountain biked the perilous, stupendous, terrifying, wonderful, brutal, Kokopelli’s trail,
Hiked through the red rocked Dominguez Canyon,
Shredded the steep slopes of Telluride,
and driven through the rolling barren deserts toward Utah.
Only very recently (2 days ago), did I realize that all those things are alarmingly close to me. I can drive 3 hours in any direction and arrive at any and many of them. The reason for this realization was a trip to Alamosa CO. A place with completely unfamiliar landscape, culture, and atmosphere. I’ve seen topographical maps of the eastern side of Colorado, and apparently it’s flat, but not until last weekend did I finally understand the seriousness of that flatness. I suppose you’re curious about why I descended from the mountains in the first place. This weekend I went to my first Young Single Adult (ages 18-30) conference for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I’ve been a member of that church since I was eight, but only recently have I become a “Young Single Adult”.
The events followed a familiar pattern.
Eat, meet (socializing youth and young adults in the church is a very popular phenomenon), listen (to speakers), dance ( Mormons can dance), sleep, serve, eat, play, eat, listen, share (spiritual experiences and testimonies). I’ve been to a few youth (ages 14-17) conferences before, and most frequently they follow this pattern with minor differences. I always leave them happy that I went. For some reason however, I was very hesitant to go to this YSA Conference, but a friend dropped me a line asking if I’d be willing to take the 4 hour drive with her and I spontaneously agreed. The drive was quite nice. We went over some of those Colorado mountains that I love so much and ventured forward into unknown territory, another thing I like. My favorite parts of the drive from Saguatch (supposedly pronounced Sawatch, though more probably referring to a relative of our dear Sasquatch) to Alamosa were:
Abundant signs in recognition of Korean War veterans,
12 Mile Road which is straight as a pin and has a large sign at each mile indicating the 11, 10, 9, 8. 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1 miles remaining,
And The Colorado Potato Administrative Committee building.
I enjoyed the conference. We worked with Habitat for Humanity digging a foundation, planting trees, and oiling cupboards built by convicts at a very progressive prison. I loved listening to the great men and women who spoke to us. I am always inspired to be a better person when I listen to the leaders of the church. I wept at the testimony meeting, overwhelmed by the beautiful insides of all the people there. We drove back in the night.
I kind of liked Alamosa. It’s a small town with a lot of unusual local businesses, and unlikely tourist attractions. I hope to go back someday to more fully experience what Alamosa has to offer me. Next time I would like to visit the alligator farm, which I hear is a somewhat amazing collection of alligators that have been rescued from unsuitable owners. A guy at the conference claimed he had a horse skeleton in his fathers shop that belonged to a horse that was abducted by aliens. I would like to see that too.
Another adventure to come!
http://www.alamosa.org/ColoradoGators.aspx
July's Grand Finale
I have a story to tell you. The characters in this story are: My dad, my little brother, and my cousin, Karen.
Karen and I woke up late Saturday morning knowing that option 1 was already out of the question. We’d slept past early, which meant that our yearly trek to the top of Leon peak would be postponed until after the motorcycle rally. We walked along main street waiting for the clean and sober bikers to cruise by on their Harley Davidsons, flashing their chrome, and sporting full body leather. Before we could see them, we heard the putt putt putt pop of the engines, and when they finally zoomed in they greeted our waves with waves in return and tossed tootsie rolls, calculators, and adhesive body jewels toward us. Before we knew it they were gone. Not to be seen again until next year. How many were there? Hundreds.
The drive home alerted us of the ominous weather situation at the top of the mesa. A gigantic thunderhead loomed over the highest part of the highest peak. Our hike it seemed was to be doomed, or put off even longer. When we arrived at home. We called the hike, it was far to dangerous to be at the top of a bare mountain during a storm. After an hour or so, and a diversion of community pie and ice cream. The clouds had cleared a little and an adventure was seeming much more possible. So we threw our worries to the same wind that had blown the storm away and embarked.
PART II
Leon Lake was glassy blue green and cold to touch. Grey clouds hovered unthreateningly. The forest was thick, the undergrowth lovely, the path steep. As we hiked, the occasional mushroom caught our attention until we had collected two lovely sacks full of chanterels and porcini. The higher we climbed, the thicker the clouds became. Until, as we neared the summit the sky was dark grey and teeming. Every moment it became darker. Thunder cackled threateningly around us. The moment we reached the fire lookout, at the highest point of the mountain rain started to fall in heavy drops splattering our clothes and soaking our hair. My dad struggled with the radio transmitter that was the reason for our climb. After 5 minutes the radio was securely hanging above us from heavy wooden logs placed decades ago atop this barren peak. Lightning flashed and we hastened down the vast and slippery boulder fields that make up the mountain. Painted with lichen, bubbling, and even red, it seemed that some of the rocks had only just cooled from the explosion that formed them millions of years ago. We kept slightly off the ridge to avoid being struck by lightning. The crashing thunder was deafening and scary. As we descended down into the saddle we found a small crevice in the rock where we could be safe from the lightning and possibly wait for the storm to pass so we could safely traverse the rest of the mountain. The minutes passed, even the crevice became wet and we decided to move on despite the storm. Every step required attention. The slick rocks rocked back and forth, but carefully we climbed down and found the small path that would lead us to dryness and warmth. When we reached the lake at which we had begun 30 minutes before nightfall. We cleaned our muddy hands and feet in the dark water of the lake and warmed our clammy hands in the depths. Though it had been cold before, the frozen lake called to us like a warm bath. When we reached the car, the lovely warm car, we turned the heat on high and wound our way down washboard roads toward home.
THE END
Karen and I woke up late Saturday morning knowing that option 1 was already out of the question. We’d slept past early, which meant that our yearly trek to the top of Leon peak would be postponed until after the motorcycle rally. We walked along main street waiting for the clean and sober bikers to cruise by on their Harley Davidsons, flashing their chrome, and sporting full body leather. Before we could see them, we heard the putt putt putt pop of the engines, and when they finally zoomed in they greeted our waves with waves in return and tossed tootsie rolls, calculators, and adhesive body jewels toward us. Before we knew it they were gone. Not to be seen again until next year. How many were there? Hundreds.
The drive home alerted us of the ominous weather situation at the top of the mesa. A gigantic thunderhead loomed over the highest part of the highest peak. Our hike it seemed was to be doomed, or put off even longer. When we arrived at home. We called the hike, it was far to dangerous to be at the top of a bare mountain during a storm. After an hour or so, and a diversion of community pie and ice cream. The clouds had cleared a little and an adventure was seeming much more possible. So we threw our worries to the same wind that had blown the storm away and embarked.
PART II
Leon Lake was glassy blue green and cold to touch. Grey clouds hovered unthreateningly. The forest was thick, the undergrowth lovely, the path steep. As we hiked, the occasional mushroom caught our attention until we had collected two lovely sacks full of chanterels and porcini. The higher we climbed, the thicker the clouds became. Until, as we neared the summit the sky was dark grey and teeming. Every moment it became darker. Thunder cackled threateningly around us. The moment we reached the fire lookout, at the highest point of the mountain rain started to fall in heavy drops splattering our clothes and soaking our hair. My dad struggled with the radio transmitter that was the reason for our climb. After 5 minutes the radio was securely hanging above us from heavy wooden logs placed decades ago atop this barren peak. Lightning flashed and we hastened down the vast and slippery boulder fields that make up the mountain. Painted with lichen, bubbling, and even red, it seemed that some of the rocks had only just cooled from the explosion that formed them millions of years ago. We kept slightly off the ridge to avoid being struck by lightning. The crashing thunder was deafening and scary. As we descended down into the saddle we found a small crevice in the rock where we could be safe from the lightning and possibly wait for the storm to pass so we could safely traverse the rest of the mountain. The minutes passed, even the crevice became wet and we decided to move on despite the storm. Every step required attention. The slick rocks rocked back and forth, but carefully we climbed down and found the small path that would lead us to dryness and warmth. When we reached the lake at which we had begun 30 minutes before nightfall. We cleaned our muddy hands and feet in the dark water of the lake and warmed our clammy hands in the depths. Though it had been cold before, the frozen lake called to us like a warm bath. When we reached the car, the lovely warm car, we turned the heat on high and wound our way down washboard roads toward home.
THE END
New Beginnings
I’ll admit my “travel blog” of Italy was an epic fail. There were just so many things that were 10,000 times more fun than writing a blog. I did keep a journal (even that was not easy), and will share an excerpt with you.
Hands
At this moment I am in the Borghese gardens (in Rome) sitting against a tree, eating bread, and hiding from flirtatious old men calling “ciao bella” *muah muah. The glorious Sistene Chapel graced my eyes today. I saw God’s finger give life to Adam, and bestow upon him the ability to create. I saw God’s hands in Michaelangelo’s paintings and in his brush. I’ve felt God’s hands guide my steps, feed me Italian words, and stop my own hands from shaking. His reality needs no more evidence. In this place, the land of 100000 tourists, ancient climbing staircases, and flocks of people crowding to see, it’s easy to recognize the man’s search for beauty, and perfection. Abundantly manifested in smooth marble and swirling colors.
The vatican museum…WOW! Quoting Ariel (the mermaid), ” how many wonders can one cavern hold?”. Etruscan candelabras, Greek vases, Roman statues in abundance. by the end my legs were filled with iron. I could not walk a minute more. So I found a gelateria, and got Nutella and Cherry flavored gelato. I took the train back to the hostel and took a nap, bought a 1 euro H&M shirt from a Madagascarian guy who tried to rip me off ( I caught him, and he smiled and started asking me questions..” so beautiful, where are you from? what is your name?” ). Then went to find a nice place to write, I did find a nice one in the garden until crazy guys kept flirting with me, and I was forced to abandon my lovely tree in the Borghese Gardens and flee to the crowded Piazza del Popolo.
Later that night I found these quotes in the Hostel guest book
” Happy the man
happy he alone
who can call to day his own
He secure within can say
“Tomorrow do thy worst for I have lived today”
and…
” It’s not about what you can see, or the destinations you’re trying to get to, it’s about the people you encounter, and the things you experience along the way.”
Hands
At this moment I am in the Borghese gardens (in Rome) sitting against a tree, eating bread, and hiding from flirtatious old men calling “ciao bella” *muah muah. The glorious Sistene Chapel graced my eyes today. I saw God’s finger give life to Adam, and bestow upon him the ability to create. I saw God’s hands in Michaelangelo’s paintings and in his brush. I’ve felt God’s hands guide my steps, feed me Italian words, and stop my own hands from shaking. His reality needs no more evidence. In this place, the land of 100000 tourists, ancient climbing staircases, and flocks of people crowding to see, it’s easy to recognize the man’s search for beauty, and perfection. Abundantly manifested in smooth marble and swirling colors.
The vatican museum…WOW! Quoting Ariel (the mermaid), ” how many wonders can one cavern hold?”. Etruscan candelabras, Greek vases, Roman statues in abundance. by the end my legs were filled with iron. I could not walk a minute more. So I found a gelateria, and got Nutella and Cherry flavored gelato. I took the train back to the hostel and took a nap, bought a 1 euro H&M shirt from a Madagascarian guy who tried to rip me off ( I caught him, and he smiled and started asking me questions..” so beautiful, where are you from? what is your name?” ). Then went to find a nice place to write, I did find a nice one in the garden until crazy guys kept flirting with me, and I was forced to abandon my lovely tree in the Borghese Gardens and flee to the crowded Piazza del Popolo.
Later that night I found these quotes in the Hostel guest book
” Happy the man
happy he alone
who can call to day his own
He secure within can say
“Tomorrow do thy worst for I have lived today”
and…
” It’s not about what you can see, or the destinations you’re trying to get to, it’s about the people you encounter, and the things you experience along the way.”
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