Simple Gifts

When true simplicity is gain'd,
To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come round right.

I have had this Shaker tune in my head all evening. This is a beautiful day of simple, delightsome gifts. I got off work at 5:00 (on time!), came home to a lovely bowl of local peaches and some fresh, hot nutella crepes, spent time in the garden with my fall planting, and even went running a couple of miles during the sunset. Now I'm off to stretch and take a bubble bath, followed by some reading of my new novel (Foucault's Pendulum) and a decent bedtime.

I have been working on simplifying my life through detachment from identifying too much with outside things such as career, peers, pressures, and material possessions. It is painful work, brought on by suffering because in the past I have let myself become attached to things that are not who I really am. Today I feel the difference.

How about you? What have you given up lately that has made things simpler or better in your life?

The Curious Incident of the Arch in the Nighttime

I used to backpack up through Landscape Arch before boulders feel from it in 1991. Since then I've been resigned to take the Devils Garden trail past Wall Arch, but now that area is in peril and the trail is closed. Or should I say that, as of two weeks ago, Wall Arch no longer exists?

So my question is this: If an arch crashes 71 feet to the desert floor, but no one is around, does it make a sound?

T.S. Eliot has this answer:

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

-The Hollow Men (image from Arches National Park)

So what is left for us is the evidence of an unobserved, but supposedly violent transformation. And maybe I should try to make my next post about something besides the end of the world.

Evanescence

Waves harmonized, with slivered particles
Refraction blasted on boulders
Forms a dissolving phantom
Covenants no immediate Armageddon
Which signals no Rapture, but I'll take it

Bark Beetle

“The clearest way to the Universe is through a forest wilderness” -John Muir

Have you seen how the bark beetle thrives in some forests? I was sad to go up Cedar Canyon and discover the forest is half dead.

Ransacked, rummaged bark,

Beetle swallows, grinds, renders

Breathless remembrance

Shakespearean Festival: 2008 review

It's time again for my annual Shakespearean Festival review. Kevin and I saw two plays in the outdoor Adam's Theatre--we really enjoy the outdoor ambiance and try to see our plays there if we can. Although the outdoors have their drawbacks--we were slightly distracted when a big unassuming bug crawled along the balcony railing and the man next to me leaned forward and flicked it down onto the people sitting in the orchestra seats. Kevin and I had to try very hard to not laugh.

(Images courtesy of bard.org.)

I know that Othello traditionally ranks as one of the top four Shakespearean tragedies (with King Lear, Macbeth, and Hamlet), but there was a lot in here that reminded me of Julius Cesar: wars, senators, spousal (dis)loyalty, deceit to gain political position, trust, distrust, shame, and suicide. Igao has more lines than anyone, so this play could bear his name as the title, and he serves as an author and director of the plot from within the play. I've always wondered why he is so malicious. It's not obvious he's doing it for promotion only, but (sorry, but I think the analysis fits) like Heath Ledger's Joker, he just wants to control people, to make people destroy their own excellent lives.

I also found myself admiring Desdemona more this time. Lindsey Wochley did a fabulous job portraying the smart, gracious, sincere (and innocent!) woman and bringing her to life so we are truly as amazed as she is at Othello's turn in character. Jonathan Earl Peck performed a masculine and tragic Othello.

Cyrano de Bergerac was a different change from the Renaissance-era outdoor plays. What an interesting character. He makes many enemies with his sensitive poetic soul and his inability to walk away from an insult. Yet, he bears tragic sorrows and personal inhibitions for years and years. Despite that, he's determined to never miss a letter to or an appointment with Roxanne, and he dies fighting to the end, refusing help and sympathy. Brian Vahgn, a regular at the festival, played very convincingly and amazingly. He was the show. I really felt Cyrano's loss in this play.

Dangerously Beautiful

While in Yellowstone over the weekend, my family watched a dramatization of the "super volcano" of Yellowstone erupting and taking out the entire continental U.S. I'd just like to thank my brother for bringing that movie and its thoughts of impending doom on our trip.

Despite being one of the world's largest and most active volcanoes, Yellowstone is beautiful this time of year--covered in wildflowers. I wasn't too hot walking around unshaded geyser basins all day either, although I've never known the Old Faithful and related geysers to be a cool (temperature-wise) place to hang out.

It is a fragile and changing place. I was surprised that the Steamboat Geyser I remember from my childhood trips has stopped erupting at all.

Hayden Valley

Artist Paintpots

Porcelain Basin (double meaning, I know)

Wildflower Meadow

Lower Falls/Inspiration Point

Jackson Lake with Grand Tetons

This is the birth day of life and love and wings

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

- e. e. cummings

MVSEVM

Over the weekend, Kevin and I went to the "Monet to Picasso" exibit at the The Utah Museum of Fine Arts. What cool set of unique pieces: Lots of Monets, Rodins, a couple of Van Goghs, a Dali, and oh yes, Picassos. If you go, wait for the free audio set--it's worth it.

This exhibit also made me realize how much I don't know about art history. I'll always be sad that I didn't take a university-level art history class when I had the chance. Instead, I only find art very mysterious.

One thing I learned is that Rodin's "The Thinker" is symbollic of Dante plotting The Divine Comedy. That creates a whole new meaning for that piece for me. How the physical ability in the sculpture represents a mind capable of taking on such a huge task.

And this is my favorite piece in the show:

This is a piece Monet did of his future wife. He captured her in this pose like a camera's snapshot. The whole idea that this is like a snapshot, even though a photgraphic lens was not developed enough at the time to take snapshots, just intrigues me. It makes me contemplate my own anachronistic observation I impose on the painting. The closed doors and the sideways glance also imply future separation (she later died in childbirth). So it's sad and beautiful.

August at Albion Basin

Today Kevin and I took our annual wildflower walk through Albion Basin. The wildflowers this weekend are strong and amazing, and there are hints that more are to come through August.

The one thing I wish I could document for myself is the fresh, clean smell. As I'm up there, I know I'm getting sweaty and dirty from the trail, but I can't help feeling like I want to bring my entire wardrobe up here and just let the fresh breeze clean my clothes straight through with the mountain air.

I wish I had that smell, that coolness, the overall feeling of mountain air to go back to whenever I wanted.

A Blog Text Mosaic

Rachel led me to a very fun website, wordle.net, and I could stay at this site forever. You can enter any text you want (in this case I chose my blog), and it creates an image from your text. Apparently the more times you enter a word, the larger it shows up. I love what showed up from my blog: garden, Keats, family, motto, Kevin. I could do this all day, if only I had the time (I don't). I will defintely be back later to try some others out.

A Simple Thing

Today I found a saving grace in a small thing. Lately I have been experiencing a lot of stress, and today I just needed a break from it all. I went on a walk around the LDS Conference Center to get my heart pumping as I trucked up part of Capitol Hill. And while I was in the middle of power-walking, I saw lamb's ear next to the sidewalk. I never pick flowers out of someone else's garden or even off of the nearby mountains. But, I love lamb's ear and I felt the need to touch it. I reached down to feel it, and then I picked a leaf. I felt a little guilty, but I figured my tithing would more than cover picking one leaf out of a little garden by the Conference Center.

I've kept this leaf with me all day. It's so soft and comforting, like flannel sheets out of the dryer in winter. Thank goodness for the little things.

Family Motto

Upon reading one of my old friends' blogs this weekend, I was curious to find out that she has a family motto. Hers is "Je suis pret," or "I am ready." I think the family motto is a great idea. The problem is deciding on one good phrase out of so many. Kevin and I are the open-ended sort of people. We don't have "a song," because that would be unfair to all the other songs, and also block out any new songs that might come out that remind us of each other. We don't have "our show" anymore either, especially after the Simpsons really started going downhill. But, I thought, why not a first for decisiveness? Why shouldn't Kevin and I have a family motto?

Today at church I suggested to Kevin that we should stay open to the inspiration that might come in helping us decide on a family motto. After much pondering, here are our best options (and sorry to those authors and pop icons who we've hopelessly ripped off):

• "I can't believe I ate the whole thing."
  
• "Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhh"
  
• "Look upon our works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
  
• "I would prefer not to."
  
• "Never complain. Never explain."
  
• "Live with intention. Play with abandon."
  
• "I don't know why I said that."

My favorite is the one from Shelley's "Ozymandias," about the mighty despairing at our works, because it's very tongue in cheek, and how can that be bad in a motto? We also really like the Bartleby one, "I would prefer not to." I need to use this phrase more in my life.

(image courtesy of wikipedia.org)

Do any of you have a motto, personal, family, or otherwise? If not, what would it be?

A Gardening Exercise in Futility

After viewing an awesome virtual garden tour on Brooke's blog, I decided to go through my backyard and take a photo tour of my own. I've been working hard in my garden, and I watch it grow every day. I am happy that I've only had the online seller replace five or six of the 120 plants I ordered. It makes me feel like a good nurturer.

So I thought it would be fun to do a side-by-side comparison of my Afternoon Delight garden that I posted on a few months ago. When I got back to the computer, I looked at the new photo and the previous photo. Surprisingly, I could see little difference between the two. Oh, and did I mention that it was supposed to look like this? It makes me sad that despite my efforts, the garden hasn't grown that fast. After all, it's been three months.

Here's the garden before:

And now:

Granted, this picture doesn't show the close-up details like the flowers some of these have now. But just so this post isn't completely depressing, I am posting my favorite, healthiest coneflowers planted this spring.

"When I have fears that I will cease to be": A Tribute to Keats (of a contrived nature)

In what way do you think the angst of a young adult differs from that of a teenager? While all angst seems somewhat narcissistic, to me teenage angst is routed in powerlessness. For a young adult, angst is more about futility, failed hopes and dreams, and a feeling like life has already passed us by. Now in my late twenties and re-reading John Keats' poetry, I view Keats' obsessions differently: that his life was wasted, was essentially over, and he would never achieve his dreams. He died slowly of tuberculosis at 25 and never knew he would become so revered.

I read this book review of Keats' poetry in my most recent New Yorker Magazine, which reminded me of my admiration of the poet. My senior-year seminar was on Romantic/Victorian poets and painters, and I became amazed at Keats' clear analysis of literature (he coined the description "negative capability" in regard to Shakespeare's enduring characterizations) and his own poetic creations.

This inspired me to write a poem of my own about the angst I see in Keats. Below is the sonnet I wrote, which contains four quotes cited in the New Yorker article. Now I can tell you what I found out: I hate writing sonnets. I find the form very limiting and the results contrived--I used words I'd never actually say. It's not just the rhyme scheme, but the ten syllables per line that are supposedly alternating between "down" and "up" emphasis of the iamb--or is it "up" and "down"? You take a line directly from Keats himself, “Here lies one whose name was writ on water," and see that it's hopelessly the opposite of iambic (it's trochaic). On the other hand, "When I have fears that I will cease to be" is perfect iambic pentameter. Oh well. Perfection be damned, and here it is:

Angst of a Wasted Life (A Sonnet inspired by Master Keats)

Earth awoke to cheerful blossoms and hearth
While I awoke to meet the Pain of Day
Noted a poet I met on my way,
“When I shook her by the hand, there was death!”
When I have fears that I will cease to be
I differ not from the fresh-scented flower
Turned withered bloom or dried-up bower—
I live this existence Posthumously.
Earth’s Glory subside, her Wonders deride
Praiseworthy actions all shrink before long
All Courage deemed haughty—Right be judged Wrong
Mercy extinguished by Fear and by Pride.
Moot is my glory or voice’s thunder
“Here lies one whose name was writ on water.”

Now on to doing something I enjoy: eating spaghetti made from herbs in our garden, made by Kevin, the superior chef in this house.

A Mosaic Meme (of Me)

D'Arcy presented this meme of an artistic expression, and I thought I'd give it a try.

And for those of us who don't know what "meme" means:

Meme: (from mimesis) "An idea, behavior, style, or usage that spreads from person to person within a culture."

I made a meme--this is how the meme works:

Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr or Google Image search. Using only the first page, choose an image. Copy and paste each of the URL’s into the mosaic maker over at FD's image maker.

The questions:

What is your first name?
What is your favorite food? (cheese, but not all kinds are created equal)
What high school did you attend? (Brighton)
What is your favorite color? (blue)
Who is your celebrity crush? (Bono, for the whole persona, not just looks)
Favorite drink? (Coke Zero)
Dream vacation? (Southern France)
Favorite dessert? (crepes with nutella or lemon juice & powdered sugar)
What do you want to be when you grow up? (a leisurely woman)
What do you love most in life? (wilderness)
One word to describe you? (seeking)
Your nickname? (only one Kevin can use--lisa bug)

When Grandpa was our dealer, this used to be easy

Alisa: “Enjoy driving your new Hyundai!”

Kevin: “No, it’s a Honda. Oh wait…” Pauses while reality sets in. “Oh crap.”

All jokes aside--after several weeks, three makes, three models, six dealerships, and a lot of research, we are finally very happy with our new Hyundai Elantra.

Methodical Miscellany: Two Ideas

I discovered Jana's blog through Exponent, where I guest posted several months ago. I enjoy her nature photography--she has enviable close-up skills. There are two of her older posts that I think are really worth revisiting.

Maya Angelou on Forgiveness

Living Small

Beautiful Repetition

For the last few years, my family has made a tradition of going to the Uintah Mountains on July 4th. This was where I, as a child, first learned to love the mountains, forest, meadow, and fishing. It's wonderful to see that, nearly 30 years later, my father hasn't changed much, although the little girl has.

A God Among Cats

Many people will say that emotion is what separates us from the animals. Sure, they have fight or flight responses; they can feel pain and fear. But complex emotions, those are reserved for the humans and maybe a few of our like-minded mammal buddies, such as dolphins and chimpanzees.

I, however, proudly stake myself with the other crazy pet owners who think our animal companions have the ability to show and process complex emotions. The skeptics say this is merely a form of projection—a need of our pathetic pet-owner lives to see more than what is actually there. Well, let them say it. I just happen to disagree and can vouch for the complex emotions animals express.

Jealousy: Take for instance my cats. When we brought Phoebe home to live with us, I wasn’t surprised that Aja rejected her at first. But what surprised me was how she rejected me. Even though she had little idea of why this kitten appeared in the house, she knew I was trying to make peace between them, and that made me her enemy. We had it out and didn’t really get over it for a few weeks.

Let me even make a further stretch: Empathy. What makes a cat realize that when she wants something—to go outside, to have her litter box changed, to have the floaties removed from her water—that the more pathetic her meow is, the more likely she is to receive attention? She’ll start off whining, but gradually the meows will become elongated, deeper, and more mournful. Why does she doe this? Empathy. She has to know that I want her to be happy. Then she makes her pitiful attempt, so that I will realize how my lack of action is torturing her, so I will obviously remedy the situation. Her ability to feign complete helplessness is an exercise in her emotional awareness.

Yesterday I discovered a new emotion in Phoebe. Everyone knows cats to be an aloof sort of creature. I am their servants, they are the queens. It is a privilege for me to scratch Aja behind the ear, or to twirl a toy for Phoebe. This is one thing they never let me forget, until yesterday morning. I was sitting on the couch, reading, and Phoebe came to grace me with her presence. She sat sitting on the arm of the couch, and, not wanting to make eye contact with me, she stared at the closed blinds covering the window. For a few minutes she sat that way, deeply interested in staring at nothing to avoid my gaze. At that point, I got out of my seat, walked over to the window, and turned the wand on the blinds. A whole universe opened up outside the window. Phoebe stared at amazement at how the view from her couch arm was transformed. She then looked up at me, as if I had not only exposed this new world, but created it myself. She stood amazed, asking with her eyes how I had accomplished this great work. Projection of my own desires? I think not. Since that time, I have been admired as her god.

Surprise Arch: A Poem

I'm on the quest to write at least one half-decent poem in my life. Because of my perfectionism, I avoided taking a creative writing class through all six years of earning my degrees in literature. I just knew I could never write the way the poets I love did. But I figure I'll never learn if I never try, so here goes.

This one I hammered out today when I felt very comfortable. I started exploring that feeling, the sensations, the places it reminds me of, and I came up with this poem about Surprise Arch, a part of the Fiery Furnace in Arches National Park. The picture is a view of that arch from directly underneath.

Within the ancient rough-hewn room
Cave of Cliffs—and an Arch—
the Expected Place, no Surprise,
Nothing grows of Physical Matter
but of Spirit.

Cradled between the rising walls, blocking
the ever-parched Sun
A shelter provides rock, hard and cool.

Sand-paper sound on boots, on hands,
And an always-ready Breeze hollows the shout
of the Word Outside muted, softened,
Lifting hairs on arms, the gentle brushing
Easing Breath, as atmospheric pressure
on the Shoreline.

Besides this breeze, alive—
Persists the Barren Stone.

Canteen water, warm and metallic,
dripping slightly,
Splashes upward, outward—Expelled Away
from the unreceiving Rock of Earth.

There is no use of Living Water
in the Desert Cavern.