I feel bad about that last post. It might leave a bad taste in your mouth. You may have noticed that I'm sometimes a confessional blogger, and that's not often good. I should try to write about other things. So consider this post a mental tooth brushing and gargle.
David Ramirez is on a constant loop around here lately. I love his sound. Just listen:
And to this one:
Is it weird that I think that would be a great wedding song? I have a thing for songs that are achy and honest and redemptive. So sue me.
Like I needed another reason to drop a load of cash on air travel to Texas.
This one's my favorite. Enjoy!
Monday, September 9, 2013
And then I threw up again...
I don't get sick very much. Exhausted, yes. I usually catch a mild cold that lasts from January to April and flairs up every three years into a miserable 3-day flu-like interlude in March. Every once in a while I get a tummy ache. But I never throw up. In fact, I'm one of those awful people who actually wishes, upon feeling even slightly nauseated, that I could just barf and get it over with, because it would be just that easy. I can count on less than one hand the number of times I've vomited in the last twenty years. Until this weekend.
Oh glory, that was a heck of a camping trip. Friday was lovely. A lucky campsite at Calf Creek. A nap by the water followed by a late afternoon hike to the falls. A campfire dinner, s'mores, then dead tiredness and such readiness to sleep in the dark and the quiet. I ignored the mild nausea I felt in the morning, and we made breakfast, broke camp and headed on to Capitol Reef. Halfway between Boulder and Torrey the mild nausea took a nasty turn, and there I was, asking my friend to pull over at the next turnout.
It is a humiliating thing, bending over by the side of the road as minivans and bikers pass by, revisiting your latest meal and getting a good glimpse of your stomach acid. But that's okay, even if it's the very first time you have ever vomited anywhere but in the safety and security of your own home. Because then you feel better. You brush your teeth, you drink a little water, you chalk it up to something you ate, and you move on. You also get a little hungry and you eat a half a scone after setting up camp in Fruita, where you are shocked to find several delightful sites on a Saturday morning in September.
So, you're feeling fine, and looking forward to another delightful day and night in what may just be your favorite place in the world (top 5, for certain) as you drive into town for ice and firewood. And then you start to feel that bile-ish rise in your esophagus, and you suggest that maybe you should lie down in the shaded tent for a few minutes, to which your kind friend readily agrees. It only takes about 30 minutes before you're apologizing as you lean out the tent door, wretching and trying not to hit the tarp, limbs shaking and color going out of your face. And that's when you realize that most of your camping neighbors are there, witnessing your gross among the shade and the quiet. They give you looks of concern mixed with disgust, and you are relieved when kind friend quietly and decisively invites you to sit and rest while she packs up the tent and gets everything ready to go.
At this point, you know that it's not something you ate. It will likely be anything you eat for the next 24 hours. And you're four hours from home. Strategy turns into avoiding dehydration, so it's a cold Aquafina sipped very slowly from a straw. And still, two hours later, you are hunched over by the side of I-70, mostly dry heaving the very dregs of your stomach, and wondering what the h went wrong here. And as you drive into the weirdest storm Utah county has seen in a lifetime, you pray a mixed prayer: that kind friend will somehow make it through the zero-visibility and washed-out freeway safely, and that the storm will move south and wash away the evidence of your stomach despair in that pristine wilderness.
So how was your weekend?
Oh glory, that was a heck of a camping trip. Friday was lovely. A lucky campsite at Calf Creek. A nap by the water followed by a late afternoon hike to the falls. A campfire dinner, s'mores, then dead tiredness and such readiness to sleep in the dark and the quiet. I ignored the mild nausea I felt in the morning, and we made breakfast, broke camp and headed on to Capitol Reef. Halfway between Boulder and Torrey the mild nausea took a nasty turn, and there I was, asking my friend to pull over at the next turnout.
It is a humiliating thing, bending over by the side of the road as minivans and bikers pass by, revisiting your latest meal and getting a good glimpse of your stomach acid. But that's okay, even if it's the very first time you have ever vomited anywhere but in the safety and security of your own home. Because then you feel better. You brush your teeth, you drink a little water, you chalk it up to something you ate, and you move on. You also get a little hungry and you eat a half a scone after setting up camp in Fruita, where you are shocked to find several delightful sites on a Saturday morning in September.
So, you're feeling fine, and looking forward to another delightful day and night in what may just be your favorite place in the world (top 5, for certain) as you drive into town for ice and firewood. And then you start to feel that bile-ish rise in your esophagus, and you suggest that maybe you should lie down in the shaded tent for a few minutes, to which your kind friend readily agrees. It only takes about 30 minutes before you're apologizing as you lean out the tent door, wretching and trying not to hit the tarp, limbs shaking and color going out of your face. And that's when you realize that most of your camping neighbors are there, witnessing your gross among the shade and the quiet. They give you looks of concern mixed with disgust, and you are relieved when kind friend quietly and decisively invites you to sit and rest while she packs up the tent and gets everything ready to go.
At this point, you know that it's not something you ate. It will likely be anything you eat for the next 24 hours. And you're four hours from home. Strategy turns into avoiding dehydration, so it's a cold Aquafina sipped very slowly from a straw. And still, two hours later, you are hunched over by the side of I-70, mostly dry heaving the very dregs of your stomach, and wondering what the h went wrong here. And as you drive into the weirdest storm Utah county has seen in a lifetime, you pray a mixed prayer: that kind friend will somehow make it through the zero-visibility and washed-out freeway safely, and that the storm will move south and wash away the evidence of your stomach despair in that pristine wilderness.
So how was your weekend?
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Infinite Love
Last night was a hard night. I ran headlong into the dreaded 3 AMs. You know about those? When something-a dream or a subconscious thought-triggers serious anxiety, and doubt tries to consume you. It's been happening to me more often than usual lately. I've felt a little like I was under a spiritual assault for the past 3 or so months, and I'm not a good warrior. I opened the scriptures, prayed, got out of bed to try to calm myself down, and couldn't fall back to sleep until after 6 in the morning.
It left me a bit awash on the stormy sea at church today. I slept for a couple of hours, then got up and got ready for Sacrament meeting. I was still feeling heavy and dark and weak, in desperate need of redemption. But I was also feeling unworthy and unloved. How could one so filled with doubt, so weak to temptation, be worth the sacrifice of God's only begotten son? And He must be tired of this already. He must be tired of me, weak as water, impatient, lazy, so easily distracted, a hopeless case.
I looked at the hymns we were singing. "How Great Thou Art" for the intermediate hymn. Can't we sing something else? I thought. We always sing the same 25 hymns. Can't we sing "O, Savior Thou Who Wearest a Crown?" Ungrateful, little soul of mine. I tried to focus as the sacrament was administered, listened closely to the talks. Then we sang. I really do like "How Great Thou Art", and as we sang the third verse, I was overcome by the lyrics: And when I think, that God his son not sparing, sent him to die, I scarce can take it in. That on the cross, my burden gladly bearing, He bled and died to take away my sin.
My burden gladly bearing. He's not tired of me. He doesn't think I'm unworthy of his sacrifice. Good God, He loves me! How is that possible?
He must know something about me that I don't.
Just in case I was tempted to doubt, He planted little reminders through the rest of church--a comment about the power of hymns to teach and inspire us, an opportunity to pray where I could express my gratitude for his blessings.
I am lucky to have friends and family who gladly bear burdens for my sake. A mother who has been a rock at my lowest points, who demanded that I get the help I needed. Sweet, strong brothers whose ears, hearts, and priesthood power are always open to me. Countless prayers from my sisters, supplication to God, on my behalf. Kindness and patience when I'm silly or sad. And I am lucky, blessed, to be touched by my Savior's infinite love, even as I'm trying to grasp what infinite love really means.
I hope for you, believer or not, a friend who gladly bears your burdens--the chance to have your soul filled with the knowledge that someone thinks you are worth bearing that load. I wish for you infinite love.
It left me a bit awash on the stormy sea at church today. I slept for a couple of hours, then got up and got ready for Sacrament meeting. I was still feeling heavy and dark and weak, in desperate need of redemption. But I was also feeling unworthy and unloved. How could one so filled with doubt, so weak to temptation, be worth the sacrifice of God's only begotten son? And He must be tired of this already. He must be tired of me, weak as water, impatient, lazy, so easily distracted, a hopeless case.
I looked at the hymns we were singing. "How Great Thou Art" for the intermediate hymn. Can't we sing something else? I thought. We always sing the same 25 hymns. Can't we sing "O, Savior Thou Who Wearest a Crown?" Ungrateful, little soul of mine. I tried to focus as the sacrament was administered, listened closely to the talks. Then we sang. I really do like "How Great Thou Art", and as we sang the third verse, I was overcome by the lyrics: And when I think, that God his son not sparing, sent him to die, I scarce can take it in. That on the cross, my burden gladly bearing, He bled and died to take away my sin.
My burden gladly bearing. He's not tired of me. He doesn't think I'm unworthy of his sacrifice. Good God, He loves me! How is that possible?
He must know something about me that I don't.
Just in case I was tempted to doubt, He planted little reminders through the rest of church--a comment about the power of hymns to teach and inspire us, an opportunity to pray where I could express my gratitude for his blessings.
I am lucky to have friends and family who gladly bear burdens for my sake. A mother who has been a rock at my lowest points, who demanded that I get the help I needed. Sweet, strong brothers whose ears, hearts, and priesthood power are always open to me. Countless prayers from my sisters, supplication to God, on my behalf. Kindness and patience when I'm silly or sad. And I am lucky, blessed, to be touched by my Savior's infinite love, even as I'm trying to grasp what infinite love really means.
I hope for you, believer or not, a friend who gladly bears your burdens--the chance to have your soul filled with the knowledge that someone thinks you are worth bearing that load. I wish for you infinite love.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
We're not going to Hell in a handbasket, and we're not going to Heaven on anyone's coattails, either.
President Obama is projected to have won a second term tonight. My Facebook feed is overwhelmed by a collective lament from many of my fellow Saints. I've already unsubscribed from several people because I just can't take the tribalism. Pretty much anyone who used the phrase "hell in a handbasket" was out.
Don't misunderstand me. I don't really celebrate an Obama win tonight, and I wouldn't have lauded a President Romney either. I have faith in God, and I know He loves me and all his children, here and around the world, just as much today as He did yesterday. He expects us to get up tomorrow and do so much better than we have been doing during this campaign. He expects us to be kinder, more compassionate, more careful not to cause harm to anyone, especially the people you value the least, be it the "soulless corporate pigs" or the "lazy,mooching 47%." He expects us to figure out His will and submit to it, stop being so damn sure of our own narrow perspective, and try-at least try!-to see the world from someone else's eyes. Kind of like Christ. When He suffered willingly for my sins. For yours.
I'm intrigued to see where we're going. I hope this will lead to less tribalism--less leaders and followers wielding metaphorical clubs in some clan war with their fellow citizens. I hope we all stop drawing lines in the sand, borders in our minds and our hearts, and instead take positive steps toward real friendship and connection with people who are different from us. In a day or two, when my heart heals a bit, I'll go and re-subscribe to those Facebook friends. It's a little thing, but one worth doing, I think.
I love my country. I'm grateful for it. I love this world; I love it's diversity, the inherent difference in land and life that makes it so lovely and intriguing. I love the One who created it, and I trust Him to see us safely through whatever the future holds. No president can solve our problems or lead us into exaltation. That belongs to One so much greater than Mitt Romney or Barack Obama. And His power will elevate the sun tomorrow morning when we wake.
Helaman 5: 12
And now, my sons, remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you, it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Nearly perfect songs, vol. 1
I am grateful for many modern conveniences. Indoor plumbing. Education and economic opportunity for women. Electricity. Among them, I count the opportunity to listen to so many amazing musicians as a tremendous blessing. In addition to the genius of the ages--the Bachs and Handels and Chopins--modern technology has introduced me to many a songwriter I never would have known in another time and place. So I thought I'd start a series of blog posts highlighting some of the songs that delight my ear and my spirit. Tonight, a few from a long-time favorite of mine, the inimitable Ray LaMontagne.
LaMontagne is a poet--his songs work musically, but his lyrics often could stand alone. They are rich in imagery, lush with emotion. A favorite of mine, Winter Birds:
"a many-petaled kiss I place upon her brow"
"it's green to gold, and gold to brown, the leaves will fall to feed the ground"
"the kettle sings its tortured songs"
Exquisite. He juxtaposes beauty and suffering, life and decay.
Oh, and he does all right with that guitar, too.
Here's another, Empty:
"she lifts her skirt up to her knees, walks through the garden rows in her bare feet laughing." Geez, where do I sign up to be that girl? Such a lovely, peaceful image, followed up by "Never learned to count my blessings, I choose instead to dwell in my disasters."
"If through my cracked and dusty dime store lips I spoke these words out loud would no one hear me?" is followed by this tender line--"lay your blouse across the chair, let fall the flowers from your hair and kiss me with that country mouth so plain. Outside the rain is tapping on the leaves. To me it sounds like they're applauding us, the quiet love we've made."
This song demonstrates something central, I think, to both LaMontagne's music and my own life. Joy and pain are inseperable in this sphere. You love and you hurt. You will lose what is most precious, after all, even if only temporarily. "I've been to hell and back so many times I must admit you kind of bore me...It's the hurt I hide that fuels the fire inside me." Joy and pain, life and loss, growth and decay. You hear it in his voice, in the melancholy wail of the pedal steel, even in the most upbeat of his songs.
Trouble, or at least the memory of it, stalks the shadows, but never overcomes. I never get tired of Ray LaMontagne
LaMontagne is a poet--his songs work musically, but his lyrics often could stand alone. They are rich in imagery, lush with emotion. A favorite of mine, Winter Birds:
"a many-petaled kiss I place upon her brow"
"it's green to gold, and gold to brown, the leaves will fall to feed the ground"
"the kettle sings its tortured songs"
Exquisite. He juxtaposes beauty and suffering, life and decay.
Oh, and he does all right with that guitar, too.
Here's another, Empty:
"she lifts her skirt up to her knees, walks through the garden rows in her bare feet laughing." Geez, where do I sign up to be that girl? Such a lovely, peaceful image, followed up by "Never learned to count my blessings, I choose instead to dwell in my disasters."
"If through my cracked and dusty dime store lips I spoke these words out loud would no one hear me?" is followed by this tender line--"lay your blouse across the chair, let fall the flowers from your hair and kiss me with that country mouth so plain. Outside the rain is tapping on the leaves. To me it sounds like they're applauding us, the quiet love we've made."
This song demonstrates something central, I think, to both LaMontagne's music and my own life. Joy and pain are inseperable in this sphere. You love and you hurt. You will lose what is most precious, after all, even if only temporarily. "I've been to hell and back so many times I must admit you kind of bore me...It's the hurt I hide that fuels the fire inside me." Joy and pain, life and loss, growth and decay. You hear it in his voice, in the melancholy wail of the pedal steel, even in the most upbeat of his songs.
Trouble, or at least the memory of it, stalks the shadows, but never overcomes. I never get tired of Ray LaMontagne
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Things you maybe don't want to have up on your screen during a grad school team meeting...
So, this morning, I was doing a little online shopping for bras. Brassieres. Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. You get the picture. So I found what I needed, put them in my shopping cart, then promptly got distracted and didn't finish the order. Tonight, I put the laptop on hibernate and hustled on down to the Lee Library to meet with my grad school team. When I got there, I turned on the laptop, and promptly realized that there were three lovely white bras modeled by three lovely headless torsos prominently displayed on my screen. Ack! Minimize! Quick, minimize!
I don't think anyone noticed. Phew. But that brings up two important questions about bra shopping. A. Which is creepier? Cropping the bra model's head out of the picture? or not cropping the model's head out of the picture? I wonder if bra models recognize their own body in the headless pictures. Could you pick your own boobs out of a bra ad lineup? And B. Why is it that the more expensive a bra is, the less satisfied I am with it? Maybe the uber-expensive ones are also uber-awesome, but I will never know because I refuse to pay $100 for a bra. But anytime I've paid more than about 15 bucks for one, I've been massively dissappointed.
Being a woman is complicated.
I don't think anyone noticed. Phew. But that brings up two important questions about bra shopping. A. Which is creepier? Cropping the bra model's head out of the picture? or not cropping the model's head out of the picture? I wonder if bra models recognize their own body in the headless pictures. Could you pick your own boobs out of a bra ad lineup? And B. Why is it that the more expensive a bra is, the less satisfied I am with it? Maybe the uber-expensive ones are also uber-awesome, but I will never know because I refuse to pay $100 for a bra. But anytime I've paid more than about 15 bucks for one, I've been massively dissappointed.
Being a woman is complicated.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Speaking of Shakespeare...
A Sonnet for a Wednesday, when things get a little disheartening.
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
and look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing myself like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate.
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
and look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing myself like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate.
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
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