why i write

i am reading the most lovely book right now, so lovely that it shelved the honorable mr. steinbeck and his east of eden (apologies to every person who swore that was the best book ever written) and stole my heart. i think i was predisposed to love it because it came to me in the mail from a dear friend, and opening it was like laughing in the dark before bed when we were roommates.

at least i think the book is from her. there was no note. she has always given absolutely time-of-life gifts, so it must be from her. i'd trade my superhuman ability to spot deer on the side of the road for the superhuman ability to always know what book to recommend to someone. there's nothing quite like reading the right book at the right time.


anyway, as i was reading tonight, i read a chapter that dropped my jaw. the author so perfectly resurfaced the images of an earlier chapter that i thought, it's like she planted that camelia and moss and cup of tea chapters ago, knowing that soon enough i'd get here and need camelia and moss and cup of tea to really understand here.

my next thought was, of course she planted them, you silly, and what a kind author to anticipate my future and give me what i needed to see deeply before i even knew i'd need it, and present it in a way that would allow me to catch on.

then i couldn't help but think of God, and how He does this all the time--plants seemingly insignificant things in my path so that, down the road, when i'm ready for my lesson, the teacher can appear. thank you, God, for preparing me so artfully, so subtly, so far in advance, to see. and for filling my life with messages that you're way out in front.

like how this moment with the book was preparation for me to relove my favorite scripture:

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and I will also be your light in the wilderness; and I will prepare the way before you, if it so be that ye shall keep my comandments; wherefore, inasmuch as ye shall keep my commandments ye shall be led towards the promised land; and ye shall know that it is by me that ye are led.               (1 nephi 17:13)

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why do i write? it's an apprenticeship in order and creation and love, in a realm where i can't mess too much up.

God is good, and goodness is all around.

because it's friday and almost the leaves are turning and i don't have any more words

thanks chuch. (or the link to the official vid)

the sounds of summer

once upon a perfect summer night, ben and dana had extra tickets to see fleet foxes at red butte garden. there have never been more generous people, and usually their generosity makes me cooler too. i'm never cooler than when i'm with them.

total bonus of the night was the opening act with the raddest name: alela diane and the wild divine. i never expect opening acts to be much or even memorable, but this song this song, i can't get it out of my head.

fun fact: the back-up singer is alela diane's husband. watch for how he winks at her. real life cute. and the bass player (all in black with the gray hair) is alela diane's dad, which i totally guessed. it's a family band! doesn't that make it all the better?
i'm not the biggest summer girl. but this year, perhaps because i miss the hottest of the hot while freezing my buns off in my office (seriously, it is so cold in there that i can't write. my work notes look like my school notes except one for cold and one for sleeping.) i am holding on to summer with both my hands. how can it be anything but great to step outside in the early morning and not need a jacket on my bare arms? or to sit outside until the wee hours of the morning (which for me come around midnight) and only feel the slightest chill?

last night jane made fondue and we ate it outside on a yellow tablecloth and listened to french music. after, we had a fire in the grate and roasted mallows while the moon rose. it was a celebration of summer. cheers!

the kinds of things that matter

eating lunch outside, for instance, instead of in my office staring at my computer.
because how else would i have learned that everything has a rhythm--the chatter of the Indian women laid over their sandals flapping cement; the tree flutter and pause; the cylinder of curry-scented air that pushed out of the Asian restaurant next door; the bike posse that rounded the corner like a veering flock of birds; the shouts of the bare-chested man who stole my bench and his rocking forward and back.