Thursday, November 28, 2013

about faith

This is my friend Faith.  I will tell you why I love her. Remember that story I told you about the woman who had two still-born babies, and after the second, her visiting teacher walked into her hospital room, climbed into the bed with her and just touched her face? Faith is this kind of woman. The kind who know how to mourn with those who mourn. For all sorts of reasons.

One day when I was tired from printing all day, and devastated because my heart was pretty broken, she massaged my feet. She didn't even say anything about it. Just turned from manicuring her nails, or telling me a story, and rubbed my feet. I remember thinking, this is the kindest thing.

Also, in the dead and horrible inversions of last winter, she made sure I had pretty nails.

I think a lot about what it is to be Christian when I am around her.

Happy Birthday Faith!
Thank you for your love that never gives up.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

of an absence

Early this year—in February, maybe January—my writing group had a conversation about writing out of loss. All of us decided we were writers of loss. For me, this was easy to identify. Piece of cake. I can write out of loss all day long. Give me some real grief, and I'll just make something out of it.

This is all to apologize for not writing here. For not just not writing, but for letting my blog domain name expire. Shoot. It's okay. The blog domain name doesn't matter.

What does matter is that in February I was introduced to a guy named Brian. My friend said he was an architect and that he liked smart girls. The first time I saw his face, I thought: That is a good, very kind man.

I did not fall in love instantly, or even over the next couple of weeks and months. But, getting to know him provided a slow and then daily accrual of goodness and lightness and joy. And, so I did not write about it. Forgive me.
Because now we're getting married!

My cousin says she can tell he is "helpful and nourishing". Perhaps there was a time when this compliment would have been boring. But oh dear people, this is what it looks like in real life:
The other day I stopped by his house after a long day of printing at the studio. It was 9:30pm. I was starving—as usual. As soon as I walked in the door, he said, Can I get you something to eat? Oatmeal squares with bananas?  We talked about our day while he organized a bowl of cereal + fruit for me. His day was good. My day was good. I showed him a capital, italic "J" from the print I was working on in the studio. I told him how much I loved the fancy "J" and how I was sad there was only one in the paragraph. I told him I wished there was a way to get another "J" in there.  
Without skipping a beat he suggested, Jubilee.

Post Edit: Brian would like me to tell everyone that all he had to offer me was oatmeal squares. Also, "Jubilee" was not his first suggestion. It was allegedly, according to him, preceded by 3 or 4 other words and phrases—but, "Jubilee" is all I remember from that conversation :)

And: Thank you to my lovely friend Kristin for allowing Brian and I to tromp around in the gravel/dirt and Russian olive trees of Saratoga Springs while she took some photographs. More of her work here.

Saturday, June 22, 2013

Hey Girl (an actual conversation):

"Your hair looks good."


"Yeah, I like that you let your hair just do it's thing."

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

in love with a 10' x 20' piece of dirt

Today, I organized my garden. This meant I borrowed a shovel from my older sister and wrangled the dirt into something with rows. Three rows for potatoes (purple!, yukon gold, & red). A row for carrots. One for onions. And another for golden beets. Three tomato plants: Haley's comet, Mr. Stripey, and the elusive & very mysterious Green Zebra. Then two rows for beans and peas. A space for the lemon cucumber. Also, one squash.

Everything is an experiment. There are hazards. Antelope. Extreme windiness. Possible rabbits. I really hope nothing dies or disappears. I feel like plants, especially small ones, have a tendency towards disappearing.

Later, I cried in front of my roommate for no reason. I was just really tired. Again, I hope nothing dies.

a small announcement: I've been documenting a few lovely things here

Friday, May 10, 2013


I'm working with my window blinds open. I can't resist because it's so awesome outside.

In other news, the lilacs are blooming in Salt Lake City which is one reason for the clouds of happiness around my brain today. Other reasons: working on wrapping thank you notes in brown paper envelopes & there's been rain storms every day this week.

Strangely, the messiness of my work station is also making me happy.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

the desert

Suddenly, all I want to do is hike in Moab or another place with strange-shaped rocks.  Then, I want to go somewhere and cry because there is so much to do in the next four weeks. Four weeks people. That is not very much time for all the things that need to be written, completed, and visited.

More on this later, but my time in the desert is over. In January, I thought I'd die before April came. I'm serious. It felt years away. And now it's a few days.
I made it.

Monday, March 25, 2013

easter + perplexed

I recently found a talk by Elder Maxwell that is changing my life. I was 14 when he gave it. Which doesn't mean anything except I'm real grateful for the technology that allows me to listen to old conference talks pretty much wherever I want, whenever I want. The first half of the talk will kick your butt. The second half will make you weep from love and the promise of hope. Oh that promise

Do we understand—really comprehend—that Jesus knows and understands when we are stressed and perplexed? The complete consecration which effected the Atonement ensured Jesus' perfect empathy; He felt our very pains and afflictions before we did and knows how to succor us." —Neal A. Maxwell "Swallowed Up in the Will of the Father"
I really love that word perplexed. We talk a lot about making it through hard challenges, painful challenges, but not very often about the hurt of confusion. But, the atonement offers perfect empathy even for that rubik's cube of a wound. Especially when we have to wait one hundred years for understanding.