Ma's and Da's

I spent a good hour this morning (after making Mikey his morning breakfast sandwich, which, for the record, I only make 1 out of 15 times. I married an extremely self-sufficient boy) reading about mothers and daughters (or ma's and da's). As if I need more reason to be excited and anticipatory and sky-high-all-the-time-about-my-baby. (Did I mention we bought a bassinet? This one, to be exact. Sure, it's not "girly" but we're more into function and features. I love me a good set of features. Just ask Mikey).

I started with a recent conference talk, "Mothers and Daughters" and basically cried through the whole thing. (Chalk it up to the hormones). And then watched a video that I've seen before, but I waited for the line "Beauty and motherhood are one; they're the same thing." It was good for me to hear since these days I just feel chubby and covered in zits (hormones = 2 points, Paigey = 0). But despite the uglies that "I'm the only one who notices" (right) I love thinking about the divine role that mothers have, and knowing that I'll soon have a part in that.

Life is funny in the way it unfolds. Had you asked me this time three years ago--when I was a wide-eyed freshman, walking campus with my Y-Group Leader and feeling very grown up--if I thought I'd be married and pregnant at 21 I would have stared at you with my mouth open and then laughed. Hard. "Never in a million years!" I would say.

But now, as I'm here in this place and it feels so right and good, if you asked me if I could imagine my life any differently, I'd tell you, "Never in a million years!"

It's a testimony to the fact that we are part of something bigger and we are guided by a Father in Heaven who knows us very personally.

I also read some blogs written by mothers who inspire me. I have felt nervous at various times over the last 4 months that I would have a baby with complications, that I wouldn't have the know-how or the courage or the understanding to deal with the unexpecteds and the what-ifs. But I'm encouraged by women who do it everyday. And they do it well! And they face it with humor and gladness.

And then I realize that I'm made of the same stuff; that  I could do hard things too if I had to.

But mostly I realize again and again how grateful I am that I have the opportunity to be a mother too. Because it truly is (going to be) divine.

Outside the womb

I'm loving the sound of loud thunder outside. It makes me feel cozy, like I'm in a womb too. I feel enclosed and safe while the sticks and leaves riding the backs of raindrops sail into the windows and sides of the house.

But I did venture out. I walked barefoot in the gutter for a few minutes and let my feet taste nature and concrete.

And so must we all? Venture out I mean. While we feel safe in our cocoons, what adventures await when we let our hair get wet and the smell of storms soak our clothes. I stood letting the rain run down my arms--it reminded me how alive I am--and then watched the drops dive off the tips of my fingers to the ground.

I stepped on a pokey. This often happens when we step outside our wombs. But I smiled when I realized that while it hurt, I didn't bleed.

Renewal

I'm getting seriously bummed about the rain and cold. Our Y-hike was nipped in the bud when we looked towards the mountains and found them dusted with snow and shrouded in clouds that looked so cold they could instantaneously turn your hair to icicles.

But I do love the green. And the spurts of sun that I still find magical. Maybe Mother Nature is just a lot like me. I wake up relatively early with Mikey, brush my teeth, grab a yogurt etc. but then promptly get back in bed, laptop in hand and do all of the schoolwork I can possibly think of that I can do while sitting in bed. Waking up (or warming up) is hard.

But the world is waking. Every second it wakes a little more. It's on a continuum of creation. It seems certain that the world exists anew every moment; that the existence of things every moment ceases and is every moment renewed. It gives abiding assurance that we, every moment, see the same proof of God as we would have seen if we had watched Him create the world in the beginning.

So I'll be patient and watch as the world is slowly, slowly brought to life.

Avalanche

Was anyone else outside last night around eleven?

It. was. beautiful. and bright.

We got quite the snowfall and it made the world feel awake, quiet and still. I think one of my favorite parts of the night storms is the soft brightness it brings. (I also love how the limbs on the trees in Mom and Dad's backyard touch the ground. When you walk underneath them it feels like they're hugging you).

As Mikey and I drove home slowly, trying to soak in the wonder, we drove past the intermural fields on Canyon Road. You know, the ones with chain link fences that reach to the sky? The fences looked like giant blankets or sheets or canvas.

I wanted to shake it. So did Mikey. We parked and walked over to the mile-high chain link and laced our fingers in between the metal before thrashing our arms; causing our own personal avalanches.

It was hilarious and freezing. I think I pulled eight full-sized snowballs out of my coat.

And two more from my undies.

Burrrr.

Fotos

Just a few pictures from my trek to Kanosh and back.

Grounds

I rode my bike to school yesterday and purposefully went through the piles of leaves. I was glad I beat the grounds crews to them. All too often the only reminder of Autumn on campus is when you look up (well, that and midterms) and see the trees ablaze. But yesterday I looked down and saw gold.

I'm just itching to rake leaves. It finally feels like Fall.

RainText

What if it rained letters? What if little p's and q's splashed on your arm or stuck on your glasses? L's would slide down my fingers and drop onto the ground, joining the alphabet soup that was forming the puddles. T's, c's and k's would pound hard on the tops of umbrellas and the b's would simply bounce off.

Maybe if it rained letters I could hold out my notebooks and collect poetry and prose. Or maybe my essays could write themselves.

If it rained letters we could read what the clouds say. Maybe they could settle this whole "global climate change" debate.

Perhaps different combination of letters would make a different taste when you caught them in your mouth. We could taste the satisfying words like, "understand" and "embrace," but "conflict" might not taste as sweet.

If it rained letters I'd go outside and collect them in cups and bowls, then arrange them on my refrigerator like magnets. And I would spell words that I really meant, and leave them there for you to read. Words like, "I Love You True" and "This Tastes Delicious" and "Thank You."

What would you do?

(photo credit: unknown via DesignCrush)

Autumnal

I wish I was Nathaniel.

Pouring

It's storming outside my window. Loud thunder. Raindrops racing down the pane of glass. Sounding rooftops as they get attacked with water. Flashes of light, bringing contour to an otherwise flat, gray sky. Slices of brilliance seemingly severing the clouds.

I'm entranced. I can't focus on emails and designs for Christmas Cards, branding for the department . . . All I want to do is sit here and wait for the sun to break up the commotion. And for the wetness to cease.

It's amazing. I feel like I'm back east again, only this time I'm inside rather than caught in the downpour whilst walking the city streets.

Is this what majesty is?

The sun is here.

Silence

We took a walk along the beach at sunset. After finding a spot to sit and talk, I became enveloped by the sounds of crashing, receding, coming, roaring . . . There was one moment when it became completely silent. And not a small moment, like a hiccup of stillness, but a sustained suspension of sound. I was awed. I was struck by how the waves, though the beat and beat and beat upon the beach, how they roll back on each other and crash with towering power, can suddenly stop.

And leave your ears full of ringing.

Winner

I finally bought shoes to wear with my wedding dress today. It has been more of a task than I anticipated, but eBay came to the rescue.

There is something strangely exciting about shopping on eBay. Not only is there a heightened sense of anticipation and suspense, but there is this great reward at the end. If you are the highest bidder, eBay kindly informs you that YOU WON! You have the fantastic opportunity of PAYING MORE MONEY THAN ANY OTHER SCHMO would pay for that item! What a lucky winner.

I got to be a lucky winner today. It felt great. It was like I was applauded after my purchase, like a big cybercrowd was cheering me on as I was granted the chance to cough up the cash.

But my satin ivory flat are one their way. 3 weeks from today. It's. Un. Real.

Womartherhood

Tonight I watched a screening of "Who Does She Think She Is" and stayed for the Question and Answer session with the director/producer and one of the artists featured in the film. I walked away so empowered and inspired by these women. One of the experts interviewed in the film is Courtney Martin, the award winning author of Perfect Girls: Starving Daughters The Frightening New Normalcy of Hating Your Body set the tone for the film by commenting that, "this patriarchal world gets perpetuated by the fact that it would fall apart economically if women didn't accept the burden, and joy of course, of being caretakers without pay . . . the world sort of spins on that idea . . . "

The film reaffirmed my belief that art is the soul of any culture. It explains why we're human. It is an expression of the deepest aspects of humanity. It illuminates humanity and sheds light on the souls that inhabit it. 52 percent of those souls are women, the driving force that literally perpetuates humanity. The film featured five women artists who all spoke about their experience of balancing motherhood and their careers as artists. They explained their inner turmoil caused by being torn between wanting so badly to dedicate all their time to their kids, but at the same time having an insatiable want and need to be in the studio creating. They spoke about how interconnected the creation of a family has been to the creation of their work.

One artist, Janis Wunderlich, is a Mormon woman who was featured in the film. It was so interesting for me to watch her balance her life as a mother and artist and see how the two complimented each other. I found myself really getting emotional as I watched her with her family at one of her openings in Chicago. It was such a culminating moment for her, and I felt such a part of it as a spectator through the screen. There is a direct connection between motherhood and art, but I think that to be a mother and an artist, it takes a particular mix of spirit, drive, sacrifice and focus to pull it off.

While watching the film I felt a powerful surge within me telling me that yes, I can do this and it can be a bonding force within my home rather than this difficult choice between to great things. I want more than anything to be a mother, to be a wife, to be a cultivator, to be an artist. I want to build. I want to create. And the message that I got tonight is that I can.

I think that one of the most powerful pieces of advice that I got out of it is that all it takes is time every day. Wunderlich is a prolific artist, participating in 10 to 15 shows annually which means she is constantly pumping out work. But she runs a household of seven and spends most of her time with her kids. She says that some days it's only an hour, sometimes even less. But rather than wasting time feeling guilty about not spending more time or being frustrated that she never has enough time, she focuses that little bit of time in her studio. Obviously the little moments of time really add up.

She says that some of the most fulfilling moments in her life is when she is surrounded by her kids in her studio, them working on their own little projects, homework or whatnot, and she busily creating, and all of them engaging in a great conversation, informing each other's ideas and work. I want that. So. Badly.

What a great example so many of these women are. I felt today that I can do what I love and be who I know I want to be. It was empowering and also made me realize what a need we have to hear from those who are like us, to build us up, encourage us, and keep us all moving toward becoming more like the people we want to be.

Symbolism

BrightBoy and I got into a bit of a discussion last week about symbolism verses representationalism in art. We were walking around the exhibitions in the B.F. Larsen Gallery on the third floor of my home-away-from-home and I fell in love with the BFA show by Whitney Lewis Johnson (I've tried Googling her for a website but found nothing). It was a series of oil paintings collectively entitled Pattern in All Things. I oohed and ahhed over her rich patterns and deeply seated symbolic representation of things that are significant and spiritual. I made some comment about wanting to make compelling work like this. Work that isn't engaging in a superficial way, but in a way that asks the viewer to dig a little, to have a dialogue, to interact in such a way that they walk away enlightened.

BrightBoy felt like I was attacking some of his favorites (and maybe I was little) by saying that I didn't find much fulfillment in works that have been so commercialized they're now on every bookmark in every primary child's scriptures across the globe. I agreed with him that there is a place for that sort of art; there is a place for that which is so easily accesible it is comfortable. But yet again I argue that some of the most growth comes from spending time with that which is uncomfortable. Maybe it doesn't challenge you directly, but it's uncomfortable in that the meaning doesn't jump out at you from across the room. It takes study.

Yesterday in my D&C class the resident Museum Educator came and talked to us about the show a few years ago that explored images of Christ and "beholding salvation" through them. She talked mostly about symbolism and how much of it is all around us; what a powerful teaching tool it is. She referenced scriptures that showed how inspired teaching with symbolism is. I kept wanting to smack my hand on the desk and shout "Amen!" when she started going through works of art and showing how by spending time with these works that may seem "Catholic" or "Puritan" that there is actually a lot of insight to be gleaned. They can be difficult for a Mormon viewer who is used to learning symbolically through the scriptures but has yet to fully understand how intragal learning by visual symbolism is.

She told us a short story of when she worked in the Salt Lake Temple how the president of that temple came to her, knowing of her position as an educator and her involvement in that particular exhibition, and asked her fervently to, "Teach them to learn by visual symbols." He said that so many come to the temple so prepared to think in literary allegories and follow parables in their scriptures, but they do not know how to use the symbolism that is represented in a visual way, and learn from it.

I believe that visual symbolism is an inspired way of teaching, and I think I have back-up from someone who knows well what they're doing.

Birds

This morning while sitting at my desk on the fifth floor I had to close the blinds so the sunshine pouring in the window, piercing my eyes for the first time in months, didn't get in the way of my work. While the vertical slats slid closed, blocking out the streams of light, the birds out my window started dancing in the breeze and singing, welcoming the warm morning rays.

It's no longer debatable. It is Spring. It is Spring. It is Spring!

Joggers

I've never been a door buster at the mall before. In fact, I'm not really a shopper at all. Ideally, I'd just get everything online and never have to find a parking space, walk for hours, spend way too much time looking in mirrors and dealing with annoying sales people. But this morning I was fighting the clock, trying to nail down what I'm going to wear for engagements, and make it back to campus for class. I got to the mall at 10:04 am, just in time for the doors to open. This gave me plenty of time.

When I opened the doors I was stunned at just how many bustling walking groups were powering through the mall. I've never seen so many larger ladies in black stretch pants all in one place in my life. It was uncanny. Who knew there was this sort of mall subculture? It reminded me of this episode I listened to the other day that highlighted other such subcultures in the mall. Like the T-Mobile sales punks who hound everyone that walks by their pink and silver booth. Or the Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas (AORBS).

I didn't know the groupies at the mall extended far beyond the eighth graders who have their mommy's drop them off at four and pick them up before dinner. My eyes were opened this morning as the mall joggers lined up outside their favorite stores before the gates were unlocked and lifted. As I thought about it, it seemed pretty efficient to couple exercise with shopping to-dos. It's all pretty tidy . . .

Bigger

I walked part way to school today before Extraordinaire! flipped a U and picked me up. But during those precious few steps outside, the gusty wind picked up my hair and threw it back at me, lifted my skirt (and even my feet a little), and reminded me of the many things all around me, that are so much bigger than myself.

Just

I'm convinced it's Spring. The calendar and maybe the forecast wants you to think otherwise, but Spring is just as much an inside thing as it is an outside. Spring, to use the brilliance of cummings, is "everything/which is natural which is infinite which is yes." Today it is Spring because my days don't seem quite so dark. Because the world is full of little sprouting yeses and budding truths. It is alive again. There is something about Spring that e.e. cummings understands.

in Just

by e.e. cummings

in Just-

spring when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far and wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's

spring

and

the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles

far

and

wee

as a note: one of the most beautiful things about cummings is how he arranges words on the page. Blogger hasn't figured out how to let us be equally as beautiful yet (which is why there are a few poems I've written that I haven't posted even though I've been asked to). But I couldn't pass up posting this one. It's been in my head all day. However, if you really want the full experience, you just need to see it on the printed page.

People

BrightBoy walked by while I was reading Dooce and all too astutely commented, "You love to read blogs."

True? True. Double true.

But I know I'm not alone, and whether it is a blog, the newspaper, or simply lending an eavesdropping ear across the table in the library, I think that people have an innate love affair with knowing what other people are up to.

Exhibit A: Gossip.

We crave to know the ins and outs of other people's lives. The question you probably ask more than any other throughout thy day is "How are you doing?" (or some other variation on the theme) and I don't think this is solely because we're being polite. I think people are curious. Sometimes you ask and hit goldmines. Other times you get thrown into a swamp you really didn't care to wade through, but regardless of the response, you asked. Because you care.

We all want the story, the goods, the "what's new?" and then we enjoy thrusting our own commentary on it, laughing at it, crying at it, commiserating with it . . . what have you. I'll be the first to admit that I absolutely love knowing what other people are doing. Even people I don't know. Because people are interesting. I find them fascinating and most of all (this will probably come across as remarkably hypocritical) people find themselves fascinating. So much so that they actually take time to write about themselves and go so far as to publish it! The dynamics of the whole thing is enthralling. People love to know about people and people love to tell you about it.

So yes, I do love reading blogs.

Snow

So this is what it feels like to live inside a snowglobe. Until this afternoon, I don't think I had seen the sky since last Friday. It was so refreshing to walk out of my class today and step onto sunlit walks, sparkling with melting snow. At work I can look out the window and see blue sky, sharply contrasted against the starkly white mountains. As much as I wish it were 90 degrees and sunny outside, there is something magical about the winter months.

Night falls earlier, and the people all return to their cozy living rooms when the sun goes down, but somehow the stillness outside is in anticipation for something. Like the whole world is waiting to jump back to life. It's quiet, yes, but not a lifeless, idle quiet. It's a clean, calm quiet. An encompassing queit. A thick quiet. And somehow, it doesn't get dark like it does in the warmer months. Every bit of light is reflected off a million tiny snowflakes that make Night glow in a haze of light. It looks like magic.

I paused in wonderment last night, after taking BrightBoy home, to look up and feel like I was staring at a sky not so far away. Everything felt close and calm. I felt the weight of the sky, like an embrace around my shoulders helping me understand the beauty of Winter. After the weight lifted, I was left to myself. Beaming.

Transition

I think this year's transition from Autumn to Winter has been the most stunningly beautiful changes I have ever been a part of. It was gradual one. A golden one. A crimson one. A chilly one. The warm faded as slowly as the cool came. And silence swallowed the shrills of Summer into the slumber of quiet dormancy brought on by the impending season. The days have been full of gray. Beautiful, deep, warm gray. The air has been brisk, and the thickness of the it has left my face damp as I spent time scuffing the walks and paths home in my red rain boots. Tonight I had to pause and take in the foreboding majesty of the sunset. It was was darkest I have ever seen, only lightly kissed on its undersides with intimations that something warm was there. All is in transition.

I thought about that as I walked home today. Every minute is transitioning to the next, every step to the next, every phase of life, semester, year, decade, era . . . we live in a constant state of transitory change. Flux. Good change and bad change, the slight alterations that take place between the seconds ultimately drive us in diverging directions until eventually we all end up. One.