yurtin

last weekend, the jacksons let me and chuch tag along to the east fork yurt in christmas meadows. it was pretty typical. chuch and i left two hours later than planned, had a pleasant "argument" on the drive up about reliability that morphed into a discussion about dating and psychology that morphed into a lot of the new coldplay album, started skiing in the cold and dark, and on the first hill, i fell. chuch, of course, did not. i made him pretty nervous though, moaning like the grape lady. anyway, jim skied out to meet us in case we got lost or were eaten by bears or something, and chuch and i tried to make a case for why we should be treated like responsible and competent adults. we all agreed it wasn't a great case. once to the yurt, we ate pounds of junk and strutted around in long johns. all in all, a great trip. marie and jim, you still got it.

trip to the john

she's warning me, i think.

strutting

i couldn't get over how good these kids were on the skis!

hand warmers outside the gloves, obviously

even good skiers need the occasional breather

j bird

for some reason, we were on a "let's take a lot of pictures right in a row (isn't there a name for that?)" kick. i'm sparing you from the series. chuch is my fave.

this is the j bird's chariot and sherpa. that thing has skis!

a little awesomeness

holla.

today i drove home from work thinking a bazillion miles a minutes while the traffic stopped and goed for miles.

i came home and immediately forgot everything i was thinking about, except for this video i wanted to share with you. (the irony is not lost on me, nor was it intentional.)

i can't embed the video, but watch it here.

how i look to the things i do year after year to tell me who i am

thanksgiving bowling with joanie

two enthusiastic bowlers

johnny and joanie

rom, hunting for christmas trees

before

after

the messiah sing-in

and for something entirely different, dave with rom/t-rex arms

of late of note

it's november and the whole world is happening, and that's where i've been.

this won't surprise anyone, but i've been thinking about death. perhaps you'll recall this post, where i remember saying more than i actually did about how the way we think about death is inseparable from the way we think about life. so i'm not calling myself morbid anymore, rather, a student of both sides of the same grand thing.

at my aunt's funeral last week, her family released white doves at the graveside to symbolize the parts of them that are moving on with her spirit. to stand with my pillars in celebration of a glorious life, to watch those fragile solitary birds circle into a flock in the snapcold sky, to feel the flap of desire to go where they're going but know that i'm ground-bound--

sometimes i'm stopped stilled by the texture of experience, how beautiful and complicated and simple and all it is.

alivest

it's been an emotional day, a peak day. some days just are, and i'm glad.

during my valley days, i harvest from the humdrum unknowingly, and on peak days, a flash of perspective shows the pattern binding all that i've gathered: thoughts, friends, sadnesses, smiles, memories. there is coherence in everything if i have the right eyes.

i'm so delighted to be alive and i'm ready to be my alivest. do you ever feel that way? for me, i always need some contrast, some kick into fullness, to realize that i wasn't full before. today, it was revisiting losses, the ghosts who believe my heart will always be home, and telling them that they can stick around, but they won't diminish me anymore.

i'm in the company of a crowd of memories that mean loneliness can't last too long. i'm on the edge of my seat to see what i'll make of tomorrow and i think it's gonna be good. and i'm at peace with the now in between.  

my words aren't coming, so i'll defer to mr. whitman to say it how i feel: 

O Me! O Life!

O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer. That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

--Walt Whitman

yes, about love

sometimes i feel like sharing my guts on the world wide web, which i find troublesome. is it because i'm lonely? crave attention? need feedback? is it because the www is a venue where i can trick myself that i'm being vulnerable, sharing with faceless people from the solitude of my bedroom?

mostly, lately, i refrain from sharing, but today you're getting the guts. brace yourself.

this week, i got several messages from the universe and each of them said, 'good morning. you're kind of lame.' don't start feeling sorry for me--this is self-imposed lameness. like, 'good morning. you didn't return the calls of any of the people who tried to show you they cared about you AND you still had the nerve to tell yourself that no one cared about you. you're kind of lame.' or like, 'good morning. someone extended a heart to you and you stared at it like you'd never seen a heart before til finally the owner ordered a retreat. you're kind of lame.' or like, 'good morning. you didn't have the guts to do what you knew you needed to do, namely make that choice close that door turn off that light and keep walking. you're kind of lame.'

there's a happy ending to this story, and i'm going to spoil it and tell you: it's me learning to love myself when i'm kind of lame. you know those crazy people who think they're going to get to heaven and happiness by blowing their own sail? i'm one of those people! perfection, in my eyes, is like bowling a strike. it shouldn't be too hard if you just apply yourself. weakness is a choice.

well, i'm not a great bowler. infer what you will about my level of perfection.

i have a friend who believes there is depth under every surface. she doesn't only believe it, she looks for it, and i aspire to be like her. the other day, we were having a nice little chat about heartbreak wherein i expressed a concern about the depth of my heart, and she said, "i know that my heart has the capacity to expand and love someone so well, better than he even knew he could be loved." since then, this thought has been running around inside me because while i'm drawn to the depths i've never felt like my heart had anything great to offer.  just ordinary love.

here's what i've determined. my heart is the best thing i've got to give. it has to be, right? and not just romantically, or to one person--to myself, to you, to everyone.

this post is a real-life triumph about the power of writing to reveal you to you (or me to me). yesterday i wrote in my journal that i wanted to work on developing a new gift, but i wasn't sure which gift, and now, at the end of this post, i know. i have a good idea of where to find depth too: in loving my lameness, my gutter ball days, my shallow sometimes.

cheers to the over and over quest for an extraordinary heart. join me?

creme brulee can never be jello

every time i look at someone's feet, i think they have six toes. every time. and then i count them, and inevitably, there are five toes. i've never met someone with six toes. that don't make no sense.