Sacralization of space

I came across a line in a book Mike and I have been reading together that was this, "THAT'S IT!" type sentence; I immediately made a note to revisit it.

I have a hard time talking about my art. In fact, Mike walked me through writing the artist statement for my final show and all of the best lines people mentioned in the guest book could pretty much be attributed to him. He has a gift for taking in lots of information and spitting it back out in digestible bites. In the case of my artist statement, he took lots and lots of late night talks, recounted conversations with professors, secondhand critiques, and mostly lots of random bumbling from me (that nearly always ended in the phrase, ". . . I don't know how to say it, but you know what I mean?") and helped me synthesize it into a few beautiful paragraphs.

I just really love that boy

House of Bondmen, 12"x12" oil on panel

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So this line in the book. It stood there, answering the question I've had about my work for the last few months: "What is this about anymore?" The motifs I'm using are the same—pattern, shape, covering, revealing, repetition, meditative processes—but I can't seem to explain my work in the same way I did over 2 years ago. It's just not really about ancestry anymore. It's more about this: "The sacralization of space [that] usually results from a succession of holy events like repeated miracles, or from accumulated layers of worship and veneration . . ."

I have thought a lot about space lately—how physical space is tied to emotional or spiritual space, how the daily acts in my space affect the feeling of that space, how I can make my home a sacred space no matter where it is and what our budget. I love the idea of repeated acts sacralizing a space; that as we repeatedly pray, or love, or aid in the space of our homes, those acts make it sacred. I think about repetitious acts that can tend toward monotony but allow for a holy work to take place there. I think about temples. I think about motherhood and routine and divinity. I think about our hands and our hearts and what motivates us to use them. And as my baby grows and my belly swells, I think about creation and time and how space is shaped by both.

Fireballs and Ai Weiwei

Don't be jealous, but this morning my daughter dropped three Atomic Fireball candies into my bath effectively dying the water pink in a matter of seconds. And then demanded to get in with me. We were like a couple of pink Easter eggs when we got out. I'm glad she didn't get her hair wet. That wispy, dye-prone stuff probably would've taken to the Red 40 more permanently.

Moon boxes

view through the Moon boxes

Like one of our favorite storybook pigs, Olivia, on rainy days, we like to go to the museum. Today we visited the Hirshhorn. The Ai Weiwei exhibit is almost over and I would have felt seriously amiss had I not seen it while it was in town. There were enough odd-ball things to keep Ada interested (i.e. a giant snake made out of backpacks that wound around on the ceiling).

Ai Weiwei's "Cube Light"

The moon boxes were basically the best thing to happen to her since her birthday (I was just telling a friend that the post-birthday adjustment has been a difficult one. She's constantly asking for presents and balloons and cupcakes...oh my). We spent a lot of time looking through them from one end and the other. Security guards got a kick out of her. She reminds me so much of my little sister who would greet people with sticking her tongue out, or a raspberry, or some other charming salutation while a preschooler.

Ada greets people with a short grouchy squawk or a, "Noooo." What happened to my social girl? (To be fair, people are so weird. They ask questions like, "Oh my goodness I like your shoes, can I have them?" I might feel constantly violated/on guard too if I were a two year old and people felt the need to get right up in my business to have a conversation).

The simple color block paintings provided lots of color-naming practice. And shhh, don't tell, but one of the security guards told me it was okay for her to rub her hands all over them?? Sorry Ellsworth Kelly . . . Maybe they're reinforced against toddler hands because they know there's nothing so alluring as a giant green triangle within arms reach. That maybe have been her favorite things of the day. Besides the light cube. We circled that puppy a dozen times while Ada dutifully repeated, "No touching. Just look with mine eyes." It's becoming a sort of mantra at our house.

The visit wouldn't have been complete without singing the alphabet song while looking at the GIANT LETTERS downstairs

Art Sale!

Hello friends,

Just a little business announcement:

From now through the holidays I'm offering 30% off any painting in my Etsy shop. Just enter the code JOY30 when checking out.

Happy Holidays!

Womanly monotony

I've been painting quite a bit lately. At least a little each day, which is a real accomplishment some days. On one piece in particular (there are a few pictures of it in-progress on my Instagram feed @paigecanderson #thatyebenotdecieved), there are nearly 4,000 triangles. I've filled in over half of them, but as soon as they're all meticulously painted I'll brush over the whole of panel and attack the surface with a power sander.

It's always a scary moment—the jump into the dark; the one you know is coming (that you're bringing on yourself) but the unknowns still overwhelm you; the one right before a mass of paint covers up what took so many hours to do; right before a glaze covers things over; right before I sand everything away. Am I being dramatic?

There's a bit of exciting suspense in it all, too. Sometimes a glaze works, it urges colors to life, merges shapes into other forms, releases the painting from something too rigid and sterile to be emotive and gives it depth and richness. Other times, it dulls the whole surface, making it seem dead. And so I get to work reviving it, breathing color and structure back into it as I work the pattern up again (and again, and again). Each time some of the process remains, like a record that work happened and progress was made.

I'm always reassured by my process. As scary as the point before no return is, I'm find repose knowing that I have a process to regain whatever what was lost as my hand hums across the surface again.

It has memorized how to fill the triangle in just a few strokes. Down. Diagonal. Cross. Down. Diagonal. Cross. And in the monotony I find myself in quiet meditation, that tranquil spot that lives in me often when I'm working. Maybe it's why I paint, and why I get so anxious to get back after a long weekend or a busy few days.

I've started to find the same meditative powers in the repetitious activities I compulsorily complete each day. Folding a mountain of clothes. Wiping down the table. Changing a diaper. Putting on shoes. Filling up a sippy cup. My hands are memorizing these works too.

The whole process is making me feel so womanly.

(and now, for those of you who only check back here to see pictures of The Lou, here you are:)

Lincoln Park is so magical

Aestheticization

the latest 11x14 watercolor

 A recent article on the Art21 Blog got my mind moving. It talked about fashion and altruism and the dangers in associating inherent morals to images. In a culture so image-based, I often overlook the underlying meaning in many of the images or messages in day-to-day objects. I especially thought it true in so-called "religious" art that appropriates an image and super-imposes its related-values onto other unrelated spheres.

As a Mormon artist I often grapple with how I can draw on my culture and beliefs in creating, but not produce art that comes off as a cheap knock-off, borrowing images that convey quick superficial messages. (I had a good wrestle about using beeswax and the hexagon in the installation I created for my thesis show). Like everything else, good art needs to have a lasting value, the kind that settles on you slowly and fills you from the bottom-up—rather than shoving a quick snack down your throat.

Here's a quote from the article that stuck with me:

[Here is] the danger inherent in aestheticization: signifiers become detached from their original meanings [and] float unmoored within our culture of images, vulnerable to endless appropriation and misuse.

There is a season

I remember listening to a guest lecturer during my undergrad who was a mother and an artist and spoke candidly about what life was like day to day for her. I specifically remember her talking about the seasons in our lives where we are able to do more as our kids need less. It made so much sense to me and gave me hope as a then-pregnant student wondering what my artistic life would look like after my baby was born.

Being in the thick of a I-have-to-paint-less-because-my-kid needs-me-more phase is rewarding and frustrating. Progress on paintings is made so slowly it hardly can be termed "progress." By the time I get the house back to square one after putting her down and look at the clock, half the time I think, "It's hardly worth getting everything out my time is so short." And I'm not trying to complain, I'm just trying to work through this phase (which is in all honestly probably the beginning of many years like this) where I have to set my expectations low and take small opportunities as they arise.

But a question keeps bouncing around in my head as I work: how do you stay relevant and current and inspired when art is all-of-the-sudden such a small slice of the pie? How do I build on what I've done so that when this season in my life is over I can step out of it ready to create, rather than floundering for my artistic footing?

I started a painting a few days ago. It's a small watercolor. It's easy to pull out for just 10 minutes at a time as 10 unfilled minutes present themselves. I sighed while working on it the other night, "I have missed painting triangles!" Mike reponsded, "Did you used to paint a lot of triangles?"

He must have selective memory (I worked him way too hard in preparation for my final show).

It feels good to be working in a way that feels at once familiar and new.

I don't know where I'm going with all this. Maybe I just needed to write it down so that years from now when I'm a guest lecturer explaining how to balance it all, I can tell them, "Practice patience now and grow some faith and courage. You'll need it when you haven't made something serious in years and you're wondering if you'll ever make something serious again."

Now off to pick up my brush before the little one wakes!

Belief and beauty

I visited the MOA again today. It made me excited to visit (read: chase Ada around) museums in DC. I wonder if taking kids to museums often as toddlers makes them appreciate them more as older kids, or reminds them of the hours of boredom their mother subjected them to.

Today I went with my grandpa while my sister took The Lou. At one point he was in tears looking at a vase and thinking about what devotion the work expresses.

I was reminded again that religious experiences can happen outside of religious context. In fact, maybe a typifying aspect of Islamic art is that it is expressive of the sacred without having a religious function. I wondered about the ways I could incorporate the sacred into the more mundane aspects of my life—in real ways, not just turning on old EFY soundtracks as I do my hair.

I loved a line repeated often in the exhibition: God is beautiful and loves beauty. If there is one thing my short experience has taught me, it is that those words are true. I believe in a God who loves the beautiful.

Featured on Design*Sponge

My city guide is featured today on Design*Sponge. Writing it really made me miss our home and life in Bologna—not that I'm not thoroughly enjoying my summer, but it was a reminder of how beautiful and simple our lives were.

I'd go back in a heartbeat.

Also, there are a few new paintings of that city I love up in my Etsy Shop (and I've listed several from my BFA show).

Today is Pioneer Day in Utah, so we're spending it poolside, and hanging with our family. Nothing better. True?

I opened my eyes

I felt almost like I'd never opened my eyes before, or at least, not in Utah. The landscape was seeping gold: from the sky, from the grass, from the ridges on the mountains. The colors were grounded, deeply adhered to the earth. I forget sometimes that pigment comes from the dirt and the plants and the elements. Deep purple, rich blue, warm gold. Greens, browns, pinks that I hadn't seen for what seemed like a long, long time. And then we saw a rainbow.

I had to take off my seat belt on our drive back from Idaho. I was bouncing from window to window with my phone nearly pressed against the glass.

Maybe I'll try some landscapes next. Utah is too beautiful to not honor with brush and knife.

I love the city. I loved our lifestyle in Bologna, walking to the store everyday, going to parks, piazzas, shops, the library. . . stopping by local events, feeling part of a community that extends beyond the back fence. But for a moment I thought I could be a cow girl. I could wake up happy smelling grass and mud and seeing the sky stretch out forever overhead. I could tromp for hours and never see another human being. I could let my hair grow wild. I could be free.

I felt connected to my roots, to my Utah heritage, to my God when I looked out the windows, constantly capturing. I think as much as I am many other things, I will always be a Utah girl.

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Don't forget to enter the giveaway before Wednesday, July 18th at 12:00 AM MDT (so it's basically like Tuesday night, right? Right)!

17 months, 1000th post and a giveaway

Yesterday Ada Lou quietly went from 16 months to 17 months. My girl is growing before my eyes. Nearly every time I lay her down to change her diaper or unbundle her wet, towel-wrapped body I marvel at how long she is, how much she has changed since that first day I un-swaddled her in the hospital to reveal a tiny, newborn body. She's becoming increasingly independent and entirely convinced that she is speaking to you in full, comprehensible sentences. She is still so curious, loving to explore with all her senses. She makes me laugh and has a perfect sense that she's the center of my world.

Yesterday also marked my 1000th post. I can't believe how my life has evolved since that Summer day in 2007 when I thought, "My life is about to get wild. I should start a blog." And so my first post was born in a half-packed bedroom a few days before starting college.

In celebration of my Ada and 1000th post, I wanted to do give away one of my "Bite-sized Bologna" paintings. To win, visit my Etsy shop and tell me which painting you would like. For additional entries, mention the giveaway and my shop on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram and come back letting me know you've shared. Enter before 12:00 AM MDT Wednesday, July 18th. The winner will be drawn at random and announced next Wednesday, July 18th.

Also, use the code 1000THPOST for 20% off anything in the shop through the end of July.

Via Muri, oil on paper, 5" x 7"

To make me happy

I think I add too many frills to what my dream life looks like, "A nursery!" I cry, "All I want is to decorate a nursery!" or "Living in one place for a whole year!!" or "A J.Crew shopping spree! I'm pretty sure I have to have one to be happy!"

Yesterday afternoon I got a taste of what living my dream really is: The summer air was breezing through the patio as I painted; Ada Lou skipped about my feet with sidewalk chalk in one hand and an orange Creamy in the other. She'd make semi-circular drawings on the sidewalk while I painted. By extending her little arm, crouched in a squat while rotating her frame, she would drag the chalk in short curved lines, and when satisfied, move to a new spot to make a similar pattern.

It's what I've always told Mike that I've wanted: to make art, side-by-side, with my kids. And it happened. If only for a few brief moments, it happened.

And I realized how little I truly need to make me happy.

A few things

I never appreciate the sky like I do when I live in Utah. Something about the way it's always framed perfectly—not cropped in too tight, but not left too open to overwhelm—by the mountains and trees. Something about the West and the feeling of space. Something about fewer big cities and more openness. Something about vantage points and the ability to climb a mountain and feel like you're a little bit part of it all.

I finished the Book of Mormon this morning. I think Mikey has lapped me several times over, but I'm learning that as in all things, reading the Book of Mormon is not a race. And competing with your husband is only fun when it's friendly. Seconds after I read the last word I heard Ada wake up in her room across the hall. I was flooded with love for my family and especially my girl and I felt grateful to have a little person who depends on me. Her dependence (though if you ask her—and if she could answer in comprehensible words as opposed to constant jibber-jabber—she would tell you she's completely independent) ignites me desire to learn and and grow and fortify my resolve to be good and charitable and selfless. Her very existence reminds me each day that God exists and that He loves me greatly.

I'm venturing into a new place in art. I okayed the proof yesterday to reproduce one of my paintings. I had all sorts of moral battles over whether or not I should go here, reproductions often struck me as something that cheapen work. But I've come to terms with it, and have a better understanding of what reproducing a work of art allows you to do: share your art with more people. Which is never a bad thing, right? I feel good about this new journey.

Scattered at the Time, 30" x 40"

The painting above is available full-size as a giclée pigment print on William Turner fine art paper. The edition is limited to 50 and each print will be signed and numbered.

Email me if you are interested.

About as constant as the weather

My afternoons have looked much like this lately. So far, I like our Spring routine: errands done before noon, a quick lunch, maybe the park for a few hours and then home for Ada's nap. While she sleeps, I paint. It's what I always wanted my life to look like; balancing mothering and art making in a way that wasn't stressful or burdensome for me or my kids.

But probably as all phases go, this one will undoubtedly be short. Naps are evolutionary things that are about as constant as the weather. And we move back to The States in less than three months. An onslaught of tumult will undoubtedly ensue as we shift into another gear and try to root ourselves again.

It hardly seems real. Just three months?

I remember our first night here so vividly. Mike and I were both overwhelmed and nearly paralyzed by questions of: What have we done? Is this the right thing to be doing? Where are we? I think we would both quickly answer all of those questions now with a resolute: Yes. This was the perfect thing for us to do.

But until things get unsteady again, I'm going to ride this calm wave while I can and hopefully pump out a few paintings in the process.

Shouldn't be for art's sake - Part 2

Foss, mixed media, beeswax on panel, 9 1/2" X 9 1/2"

I well remember writing my artist statement for my final show. I remember reading countless other artist statements of artists I respect. Many seemed evasively succinct. Others didn't have statements at all. I remember talking to Mike about how much to reveal about my work and how much to leave to the viewer to piece together.

He was on the Just-Spell-It-Out side of the line. I teetered towards the other.

Why did I feel some need to leave my viewers in the dark a bit? Why did I want to keep a sense of mystery? Why did I want to limit my statement to something "artsy" and "thought-provoking"? I think I was fighting against a trend at school to be mysteriously post-modern; to not assign meaning for fear of limiting interpretation; to seem grown up and mature in my work and my ability to let others view it.

Alain de Bottom said that one of the myths that the secular world propogates about arts is that, "Artists shouldn't say what they're up to because if they said it, it might destroy the spell and we might find it too easy. That's why, a very common feeling when you're in a museum—let's admit it—is: I don't know what this is about. . ." He says this feeling is structural in Contemporary Art. He might be right.

He points out that religious have a much "saner attitude towards art." Art is about two things in all the major faiths: 1. What there is to love, and 2. What there is to fear and hate.

Doesn't that seems simple? It seems so much easier to draw meaning from art if it's that simple to dissect. How can we draw strength from art is we don't know what art is supposed to be telling us? If the meaning is so shrouded in theory and self-referential pedagogy that no one can get through to understand anything? We all pretend in art school. But I think everyone feels a little uneasy claiming to know what anything is supposed to mean.

But that's not the point. The point is not that everyone should imbibe the same meaning from the same work of art. The point is that art should be imbibe-able. It should be accessible enough that it is performing it's primary historical function: to improve society.

It seems to bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to exclaim, "ART CAN CHANGE THE WORLD!" But I think that art can, as de Bottom indicates, cement ideas in our minds that have otherwise come to us. He says "art is a visceral encounter with the most important ideas . . ." I think it's true. Art that moves me is art that I feel like I can learn from and connect with in a real way. If it's too highfalutin and cerebral, it's a lot harder to do that.

I'm not saying we should dumb down art or limit it in creativity or style, but I think artists need to be award of their heritage: we come from artists who cared about transferring strength and ideas in real—accessible—ways.

Part 1 - HERE

Why art shouldn't be for art's sake - Part 1

Crawley, mixed media and beeswax on panel, 9 1/2" X 9 1/2"

"Art for art's sake" has always seemed to be a ridiculous claim. To claim that only "true" art are works that are divorced from any didactic, moral or utilitarian function seems like a scapegoat for artists. Not only that, I think it strips art of its intrinsic value. Viewing art as merely an image that has achieved some sort of self-referential autonomy seems like looking at food as only something nice to smell. Art should be nutritious for our minds. Art can do this.

Often as an art student I felt some need to defend art that claimed to be "purely visual", or some sort of isolated phenomena governed only by the laws of form and color. Maybe it's because what I make is usually abstract or perhaps it's because Clement Greenberg is a hot shot. Or maybe it's just because I'm not brave enough to speak up when I encounter things that seem to run against the grain of my gut-instinct.

Whatever the case may be, Alain de Bottom's TEDtalk on Atheism 2.0 had a segment on art (go to minute 10. If you've got 20 minutes the whole thing is super interesting, though I am an ardent believer in God). He argues that although secular society claims to value art, it has handicapped its primary (now historical) function-- to improve society--by propagating the false ideas that 1) Art is for art's sake and 2) Art shouldn't explain itself.

I couldn't agree more.

I'll write more about this soon. But taking attention spans into consideration (my daughter's, not yours) we'll break here.

Multiplied ignorance

I got excited about art again last week.

It feels like a while since I've had an idea driving me. Every painting I begin here starts with a sketch of some beautiful pocket of the city. And it ends with me going, "I'd rather be painting pattern."

But I feel so disconnected from my pattern paintings right now. I don't think I'm done exploring the idea of ancestry and outgrowth and perpetuity, but it's hard to feel invested in that body of work conceptually when I am filled with an overriding sense of how disconnected I feel from my roots right now. So exploring family through patterns will remain on the back burner until I'm charged by it again.

I was reading the October Liahona and came across a quote from Joseph Smith about translating the Book of Mormon. He said:

"I translated the Book of Mormon . . . in which wonderful event I stood alone, an unlearned youth to combat worldly wisdom and multiplied ignorance."

Multiplied ignorance.

That phrase echoed around in my skull for a bit before I grabbed my sketchbook and started writing. The idea of multiplied ignorance is so pervasive here. I think about it everyday--the "truths" that have been distorted or bent or misshapen or complicated--are everywhere. And I think it's relavent. Everyone is seeking truth.

Can I represent this idea using pattern? (Another thing that is ubiquitous here).

Pattern distorting, bending in on itself, multiplying, complicating its form, pattern that has a seeming life of its own, folding pattern, loosing integrity of form.

I have a few ideas brewing about how to pursue this new idea.

I also prepped 15 of my bite-sized Bologna papers to begin painting on. I've also been taking photos. It just seems criminal to not paint the city while living here. Now that I have another body of work to fuel my brain, these little paintings can act almost like exercises, scales, arpeggios, veggies. . .

And I've found a focus for collaging. I want to make little icon collages.

I need to get researching.

I'm excited again.

Bite sized

It's amazing how much of this city I have never been too. I walk the same streets day in and day out and forget how much of this place there is to explore.

I form habits and "routes" all too quickly.

I've been trying to take new roads to the various places I frequent. It has been a fun change of pace, and it always boosts my confidence when I find myself in a section of a city that I've never been to, and though disoriented, I find my way back. It makes me feel like, Yes, I really do live here. And by the way, Here is Italy.

I forget much of the time where exactly I am.

Ada at Parco del Montagnola

We went to a new park yesterday. Ada had a ball. We rummaged through the flea market after that. Then Ada started to bawl. She fell asleep on the way home.

I've been taking more photographs. I'm not sure what it is that always makes me feel so self conscious taking out my camera (unless I'm taking photos of Ada. Then I just feel like a mom). But I was telling Mike last night that I want to make a whole bunch of little paintings (maybe 5"x7" or so?) of simple scenes in Bologna—a portico, a window, a door, a bit of architecture—so I need to get snapping!

Nothing too elaborate. Bite sized paintings.

It only makes sense since my painting time is bite sized. I think I might buy some canvas. Painting on paper is getting old.

The art shop near my house is this charming family run place (oh wait, that probably explains nearly every shop in Bologna). No one in there speaks a lick of English. I went in the other day and asked for gomma cemento. Blank stare. I said the word for glue, and picked up a paintbrush and started applying the imaginary glue to my hand. Ahhh!  They got it. Only rubber cement here comes in a tube. Weird.

Every time I go in there is a lot of pointing, pronouncing words like "oil" in a pseudo-Italian accent, roll playing and blank stares. But every time I manage to get what I'm looking for and only make myself look like a fool some of the time. I'm just glad Ada's with me. She imbues people with patience for her linguistically-challenged mother.

Advent Calender Day 16: Watch It's a Wonderful Life. And snuggle. And drink hot chocolate.

Christmas Song: Winter Storm by Joshua James

Finito, finally

Working on the mural a few weeks ago.

I swore off murals after painting one in high school and launching myself through the ceiling with a cherry picker (that's a story for another day). But Mikey (bless is heart) sort of pseudo-volunteered me to paint one at SAIS. I ended up having a lot of fun and meeting some great people along with way. I'm glad he pushes me to do things like this. I would have never done it had he not thrown my hat in the ring for me (and I never could have done it without his unfailing support and late-night Ada duty).

In our morning family prayer we asked for a blessing on Ada that she would nap long enough for Mike and I to finish up what we needed to at the school. I was bent on finishing the mural. Mike, as always, had a pile of reading to plow through.

Praises! Praises! She slept three hours!! And the mural is done. And we had the afternoon to laze around like a real Saturday.

The progress from a few weeks ago.

Signing the finished work. And singing celebrations in my head.

Ta-da!

We're going to celebrate the completion with a brindisi  and dinner on Friday. Now I just have to decide on the most tactful way to ask if they can have a sparkling grape juice in my wine glass for the toast . . .

Advent Calender Day 10: more Christmas treats

Christmas Song: Do You Hear What I Hear by Ben White

Hey mom! Look at me!

I was recently featured on a little art blog, ArtHound.net. Makes me wish I was painting more. Also, it makes me realize that I'm not done painting patterns.

I need to get ahead on house work, homework and other work so I can spend more time at the easel. (This is beginning to feel like the story of my life.) Problem is my immune system keeps taking a hit. Monday I felt about 100% again just to spend yesterday night throwing up. Isn't that fun? I slept 12 hours last night, so let's hope my body can fight it off soon!!

The meditative kind

Via San Leonardo - near Johns Hopkins

Life here often feels like one long inhale. The meditative kind. Not the kind you do to make sure you don't do something you'll regret.
When I wrote about my work for my final show, I talked a lot about how powerful meditative, repetititve processes are. They make up rituals, ceremonies, traditions, music, housework, caring for people. Repetitive processes are often executed with our hands, creating muscle memories that make work seem like second nature. We begin to anticipate which action comes next and prepare for it without even having to think. But we do think, just about other things.

By painting square, square, square, square, circle, circle, circle, circle, line, line, line, line I got lost in the process and began to get caught up in contemplative reveries that could last for hours.

Nothing I do now can last for hours anymore (naps times are sometimes the rare exception), but the same feeling I got while painting I often get while walking through the city and absorbing the repetition (arch, arch, arch, arch, shutter, shutter, shutter, shutter, pillar, pillar, pillar, pillar), or placing each piece of clothing on the drying rack, or playing the same games and singing the same songs with Ada day in and day out.

There's comfort in repetition. Perhaps that's why I haven't really felt homesick here. The routines we keep each day make us feel that life is predictable, even when much of the time it isn't (see: us moving across the ocean for graduate school). So I'm glad for this city of repetition. I felt so at home here visually. The walks to the store or the library or the school are often accompanied by similar reveries (albeit shorter in duration).

I think about how different my life is from the women at Mike's school. I wonder what they think of it all.  I think about how my life is a product of my choices and how I don't regret one of them even though they seems crazy or scary while I made them. I think about feelings of fulfillment and accomplishment. I think about productivity. And I think about how my definitions of all of those things have changed so dramatically, even in the last two months. I think about what my life will look like several years from now. I think about what Ada will remember. I think about how she's growing and what an outgoing girl she is. I think about how much I love her. And how I love Mike. And that I am so, so blessed.