In Which I Am Alive

Do you remember the first time you began to love your body? Was it all at once, one fine day, when you realized, "My goodness,  I am lovely"? Or did you grow, piece by piece into the knowledge, beginning perhaps with an ambivalence (or even a loathing), and then sliding into a contentment, a satisfaction, a love? Did you catch a glimpse of your eye in the mirror one day and find yourself mesmerized by its depths and patterns? Or did a friend tell you that your smile was radiant, and you let yourself believe them? Did you fall in love with the way your muscles throb when you run, or the way your hands smoothed your crying child's hair out of her face? Have you ever glanced at yourself in the shower and shivered with delight at what a completely matchless, flawed, ever-changing wonder you are? Or catalogued your list of wishes: that your armpits would sweat less, that those three perfectly stacked rolls wouldn't appear whenever you sat down, or that your h...

Things I would like to do this spring/summer, in no particular order: Tube the Provo River Climb Y Mountain Climb Mount Nebo Get a library card Visit the Springville Arts Museum Go to Llama Fest at the Krishna Temple (update: I'll be in California. Maybe next year). Visit the Living Planet Aquarium in SLC Go to a fair, where I will ride the most vomit-inducing ride I can find, eat a funnel cake, and get a henna tattoo.  Go to the Sheepdog Festival (It sounds silly, guys, but this is one of the cooler events I've been to in Utah) Rooftop Concert Series! (update: done! Thrice over!) Go to Boise for Jenni's wedding! Hooray! (update: couldn't get a ride. But a visit is in the works) Meet Gail Carson Levine (update: done! She's really short!) Go to the rope swing in Mona (update: done! And I went off the highest platform) Go to the natural waterslides in Alpine (update: done! Highly recommend) Actually make use of my Pass of all P...

I was perusing my unpublished drafts folder the other night, and realized that, by golly, there is some good stuff in there (if I do say so myself). So I figured, why not let my past self be a guest blogger once in a while? Blogging "as one speaking from the dust," as it were. I'm not sure when this one was written, but I like it. These are the things I believe in: I believe in snow and sunshine and rain and thunderstorms. I believe in conversations that last until 2 am, in letting another person see a part of your soul, in trusting that you can be vulnerable without getting hurt. I believe in love of all kinds and shapes and forms. I believe in kindness and smiles and spontaneity and service. I believe that eye contact is terrifying and important. I believe in exploring the mountains. I believe in adventure. I believe in discourse and dialogue and argumentation, and I believe in respect for other's viewpoints and being flexible enough to change your mind. I belie...

I made an observation today. My yoga DVD, which I used to ridicule for it's hokiness, is no longer hilarious to me anymore. And while I still giggle a little bit when the yogi says that a pose feels like "somebody licking ice cream off your body," and tells me to "feel the sweet honey of your hip," I really appreciate the admonition to breathe in all of the green plants in the world, or to carry yoga with me by lighting someone else's fire. So...maybe I've become less cynical? Or more hokey?  Either way, in the words of Eoin Finn, "Let love rule. Namaste."

Often when I go running, not much running actually gets done. It all started when I lived in Vienna. I discovered quickly that if I went on my run through the city, I ended up stopping every few minutes to look at a beautiful piece of molding on a facade, or a group of workers setting up a giant tent for a traveling theatre company, or sign saying that Mozart once spent the night in this or that building (between Mozart and Beethoven, I think just about every building in town has been historicized in that manner). So, I decided that if I ever wanted to get any actual running done, I would need to stick to the canal road by my apartment. No fancy buildings to look at, no distractions. Right? Wrong. Because, as it turns out, the Danube Canal is a hub for graffiti artists. Not just punks with spray paint cans, but actual artists . In fact, the canal wall is one of the only places in Vienna where graffiti is actually legal. So I got to run by stuff like this every day. Needless ...

I think one of the most important developments of early adulthood is coming to know yourself well enough to know exactly what it is you want at a given moment, no matter how simple the desire is. There is something empowering and satisfying in saying, "I am an individual, with unique desires, and what I desire at this moment is to sit on a couch surrounded by friends who I love and watching a movie that I have already seen before (so that I can fall asleep in the middle of the movie without worrying that I'll miss the end). Also, it would be nice if this movie-watching/naptime could also involve me cuddling with a cute boy who I care a lot about." There is a freedom and a power in knowing your own desires, whether big or small, because once you know what you want, you are in a position to seek it out, to make it reality. However, another important development that comes at this time of life is the understanding that you can't always get what you want. Even the mos...

Stephansdom Cathedral, 25 June 2011 Gothic cathedrals don't make me feel small. Or rather, they do, but they make me feel as if being small isn't a bad thing at all. I follow the lines of the arches and vaults and my soul expands to fill the entire space, joining with hundreds of other expanded souls, reaching, spilling upward to Heaven, to Our Lord. I do not feel small because I do not feel any size at all. I feel my being melt and merge into a Holiness full of souls, where each soul is unique and precious, and all are filled with the light and love of Christ.

I scribbled this down while awestruck in the Rembrandt room of the Kunsthistorisches museum in Vienna I think art, in its best form, is a way we share ourselves with each other. A way of saying, "This is how I  see the world, please let me show you." All truly honest painting, writing, musical composition, tries to do that. And I think that sharing of souls, of perspectives, is so important. "Here is what I think is moving, touching, beautiful, sacred, frightening. Please share it with me." And the sharing is never perfect. Everyone interprets each artistic conversation according to his or her own experience. But I think the communication is often more clear, more perfect than with verbal language. And I think it's wonderful that I can sit in front of these paintings, and maybe feel for a moment how Rembrandt felt about his son, or understand how he envisioned the Apostle Paul, or what the lines on his mother's face meant to him.

I'm currently sitting in the main gallery of the Harris Fine Arts Center, doing my homework. There's a beautiful student art exhibit going on right now, entitled, "Transformed by Light". Right now, there's a man (one of my professors actually), exploring the exhibit with his kids (who look like they range in age from 3 to about 7). Typically, the terms "art exhibit" and "kid-friendly" don't seem to mesh well. Kids don't have the attention span, sophistication, patience, depth, etc. etc. to understand art, right? But he's walking with them from painting to painting, saying things like, "Whoa, check out the line on this guy's arm, isn't that cool?" and "Why do you think the artist decided to paint him like that?" And then one kid sprints across the gallery to another painting, saying, "Dad, Dad, this one's really cool!" These little guys understand art. It speaks to them. They may not know a...

I used to map my runs, to keep track of mileage and speed. Lately though, I've run lazily, without a watch, without keeping track of my distance. Just exploring, running where it looks interesting, and coming back home where I'm done. Tonight was a beautiful evening for a run. The spring sun sifted through the glowing leaves, couples walked hand in hand, children laughed, gnats bit me. I saw windows with cartoon characters glued in them,                             And windows with butterflies painted on. I saw an old man smoking, a wrinkly hippy riding his bike, and children playing with broken toy cars outside a crumbling apartment complex. I saw a man and a woman playing frisbee. The catch? She was pushing a stroller, running with it to catch the frisbee while the tiny girl inside laughed and laughed. I smelled barbeque, grass, and my own sweat. I saw a boy playing his banjo on the front porch, but lacked th...

Today, it rained. I put my hood up at first. And I looked around and saw all the people with umbrellas, and wondered if I even own an umbrella. I don't do umbrellas. I don't like carrying them around, and I don't like feeling cut off from the weather, like I'm putting a barrier between myself and my favorite natural phenomenon ever. I almost pitied those using umbrellas because they were missing out on the rain. And then I realized what a hypocrite I was being, hunching over with my hood up. So I threw back my hood and tipped up my face to receive heaven's gift of life, letting the sky kiss me soft all over my face and head. And my hair was ruined, and my makeup washed off and I was cold. But I'd take sky kisses over comfort and perfect hair any day.

Hey look, my blog's all different now! It needed a change. Yes, I know it looks like a frumpy sweater but...its a cute frumpy sweater, yeah? Today for Memorial Day, I went with my parents, siblings and grandparents to the Pleasant Grove Cemetery to visit the graves of some relatives. There was remembrance hanging heavy in the air today, some sorrow, some grief, and somehow...it felt peaceful, restful and quiet. I sat by the grave of my great-great grandparents and listened to my grandfather tell stories about his polygamist grandfather living in the Mormon colonies in Mexico. I felt a connection to these people I'd never met, that somehow they are inextricably a part of my life in every way. I felt, not like an individual, but like a single thread in an enormous tapestry of my family. We also went to visit Brandon's grave. My cousin Brandon died when he was 6 years old, 6 years ago this Saturday. I was 13 years old when he died. I remember feeling such intense e...