God is good, and goodness is all around.

God's Grandeur

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.


And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

--Gerard Manley Hopkins

(forgive me for posting this poem over and over, but i love it.)

oh sweet summer

first things first. worst smell ever: egg salad. worst place to smell said smell: byu library bathrooms. yuckarama.

moving on. lately i've been looking out the window and feeling like i could fly. could run across the clouds. could jump up into space any old time and chat with the moon (which is really the only reason why i'd go to space.) good music gives me my wings, along with this place i've been the past little while. check out these pics . perhaps they will make you as happy as they make me.

brother shredding.

view from the porch. i can trick myself into thinking i deserve a lot of my happiness, but i never feel like i deserve this place. it always feels too good to be true. like one summer i'll drive down the lake road and the cabin will have faded into a shadow on the tall tall grasses and i'll have to wonder if it was ever real. of course, i'll know it was.

kingfish.

land of the BIG SKY. home of my heart.

this is the view i see most often when at the lake. peering over a book. or hiding behind a book. depends on my age.

one of the hardest things for me is accepting that my eyes show a different scene than other people's eyes. not that i have a hard time accepting that we're all different etc, but that what's home to me is just like any old mountain lake to someone else.

i feel like i have less and less to say these days. i alternate between thinking that life is so rich that i need to document it all and thinking that life is so rich that living will be enough. i have to remind myself sometimes that things still exist without being put in words, that i can still feel things without writing about them. i often think of the verb "capture" in conjunction with writing, which proves that i am a hoarder. i like putting anything that will hold still long enough (and especially memories, though they're unusually frisky) into a box to collect dust in the back of my closet. i want to know i've caught it. i want to know it's mine in case i need it later. it's like the boy Marvin who puts his ice cream cone in his pocket for later and is so sad to find it melted the next day. when i go to pull out my boxes, it's all dust.

among the things i wish:

that my mom had a blog (i'm curious what she'd write) and a cell phone that i could send silly text messages to.

that i could do everything from my bed. perhaps i could get a rolly bed. (i'm typing on my lappy while in bed right now. number one reason i wanted a lappy. typing in bed.)

that i could handle the big choices in my life and give all the little choices (what to eat for breakfast and what music to listen to--MAJOR time-wasting dilemmas in my world) to someone else. like a personal shopper. except for choices.

that, if no on the rolly bed, i could live underwater. just for a week or so to see what it would be like. my underwater world would have to be totally shark/jellyfish/stingray/danger free. i'm not that great of a swimmer.

that i could turn my internal autocracy into a board of regents, with different little people representing my various interests, debating various decisions, and sending me the results and weekly minutes. how cool would that be?

that i could write song lyrics. i wish i could write exactly what i wanted to say.

that i never ever wished to be someone else.

that i was a star on broadway, or even the playmill would be fine...i just want to belt it (on pitch) in front of a crowd.

that it would rain at least once a week. and be cloudy at least twice a week. and snow from november to april. i've always preferred inclement weather.

that the world was more conducive to bare feet. or that my bare feet were more conducive to the world. either way. i really like the textures of the earth so i'd probably choose tougher feet.

that people's attractiveness reflected their personalities. kind of like that bit in 101 Dalmatians where the dogs look like their owners.

that i could shop off of other people's bodies. when i saw a sweet article of clothing on someone else, i could request one in my size. and free shipping.

that when someone says, "you think too much," i could say, "yes. i do," and promptly think less.

another birthday

thanks for laughing at my jokes and playing along with my charades.
thanks for playmill double headers and mrs. field's after shopping.
thanks for teaching me perseverance in pain on a mountain bike.
thanks for exhausting me with your love for life.
thanks for singing in the kitchen and on the trail.
thanks for big dreams and the confidence to catch them.
thanks for knocks on my door after arguments and for quick apologies.
thanks for being a woman who loves her body.
thanks for being a woman who loves her strength.
thanks for being a woman who loves her daughter.

thank you Brian Doyle, once more.

"Piety is valuable but not intrinsically interesting, whereas belief is intrinsically insane and usually interesting."

Missing

David with the curly locks, who sang "raindrops are falling on my head" and "i like to move it move it", who called the portapotty yuckarama, who would not hold my hand, but who smiled at me enough that i got over it.

Juliette with the many colored barrettes that slapped her head when she ran, who preferred tether ball outside to movies inside, who was shy but not insecure.

Jillian, who frequently "peed herself" but never got upset about it, who came to camp with her whole calf blue from marker, who rubbed my arm black with a dry erase marker, then disappeared to get towels to clean me up, who gave the most sincere apologies.

Every boy who cried without shame, from the four-year-old who was afraid to take the swim test, to the ten-year-old who got in a fight with his friend.

Mattie, who could never seem to keep her nose blown, who loved holding my hand, who had energy to spare but not for camp activities.

Connor with the short temper, who drove me crazy at first and won me over at last, who loved calvin & hobbes, who was not afraid of the diving board, whose skin was tan and leathery.

All the fish bodies refracted and wavering under the pool surface, the kool-aid mouth stains, the sticky fingers, the dirty clothes, the trail of belongings, the general dishevelment.

obsessed with the police.

what gives?