dear world,

Sometimes I wish you were all ocean, so you could swallow me whole. Other times I wish you were only mountains, Himalayan size, so that I stand on your summits and feel invincible. Or simply a sphere of wide open spaces, so I could see clearly.

But today, I rather like you the way you are. It may be grey and almost dismal, but I saw the way the early sun tipped Timpanogos in rosy gold and how the lemon green of new grass bent soft under my spring heels. Today, you make me want to write, to capture you in words. I want to preserve this moment of quiet work as I sit behind the desk to the hum of industrial fans. I want to keep the way Jordan and I just laughed over a language barrier, debating our native English. I love how I seethe same students every week, the regulars that haunt this lab on Tuesday mornings. I love the boy in overalls at the end of Row 9, and the couple sitting hip to hip along the back wall, her short hair just inches from matching his. I love the snow that falls like glitter outside, barely-there stars that catch the weak light. One day, maybe I'll remember this. Write it into a story.

But mostly, I love that tomorrow will be completely different.

truly,
E.

standing for something

On a china blue afternoon last autumn, I finally understood my love for World War II. I explained my new knowledge to a friend in the quiet corridors of an art gallery and he nodded, understanding. "I may be oversimplifying things," I whispered, "but to me it's the pull of Black and White. You were in or you were out, fighting for a truth. I want to believe that it was that easy, wearing your colors and taking a stand." He waited a second. "I'd like to believe I'd have chosen the right side." He quoted Churchill and the paintings along the walls were forgotten.

Of course, this is a notion based on books, tales of the most courageous heroines sacrificing everything for country and kinsmen. It's made up of my shelves dedicated to the children's fiction for that era, from The Endless Steppe to Number the Stars. And, having just read Eva Ibbotson's Song for Summer for the umpteenth time, it's a passion reawakened. But today, reevaluating this love, I realise it extends to most every area of my life, not just that part dedicated to the 1940s. As the world becomes more grey to me I find myself holding onto those who took sides. Tom laughed at me last week for my choices to represent Celtic Wales, saying I must have "something of the rebel" in me as I put down my cards for both Caradog and Boudicca. I'm consistently drawn to the people most passionate (burn, burn, burn) who won't back down in their cry for Light. In the Book of Mormon I love the story of Abinadi, and in the Bible, Queen Esther. I am most in awe of my dearest friends who have given two years of their life to take Christ's message to the world. I admire those that live most fervently their beliefs. And aren't afraid to share them.

{And, in a truly cosmically coincidental turn of events, I just chatted with a boy completely excited about the same idea. Busy scanning old plans for Hitler's Volkshalle, he explained to me in every detail the history behind the building, which then led to a discourse on all architecture of the Third Reich, dramatic hand gestures and all.}

five things that really shouldn't make me this happy

1. creating title pages for sketchbooks + journals.
2. descending numbers in Georgia font (the ones that drop below the baseline).
3. messing around with web colors.
4. running with my house key safe in my left shoe.
5. sorting lists alphabetically.

and while he lives, I'll sing

{this post is short, but long in coming: first drafted march fourth}

Just a few weeks ago, as I hopped across the quad to visit Jenny with the month's gospel message, I noticed in the back pages of the Ensign the news that March's magazine would center entirely on Christ. And maybe the dancing was a bit much (Emily laughed at my pirouettes), but I was excited.

Last week, I came home from a long Tuesday to find the magazine on my doorstep and, forgetting all other realities, took the evening to read it. Every page, word, and sentiment is beautiful(my only complaint being that one Teichert painting is never enough), with the added joy of a final testimony from President Hinckley. I could never do the publication justice, but I couldn't blog without sharing the joy, either.

So, taking the cue from page 64 (Worship Through the Hymns), I leave you with my favorite lyrics, some link love, and the hope that today's Tuesday is just as brilliant as the last. Hurrah!

. . . . . . . . . . .

Though I may speak with bravest fire
And have the gift to all inspire
And have not Love, my words are vain
As sounding brass, and hopeless gain.

all creatures great and small

For months I've been pleading the ducks' case, their frozen feathered tails my cause. Daily I'd pass their pond on my walk home, each time wishing I knew how to knit. If they're stupid enough to stick out the Utah winter, they may as well have wing-mittens, right? And perhaps a small, snug cap, too? On dark nights I'd wander back to their small corner of campus, bringing the last of my bread in a small offering of my sympathy.

Turns out, they didn't need any sort of protection from the ice and the snow. Oh, no. They need saving from themselves.

Tonight, Zamora and I witnessed a near-homicide, a scene that will reside in nightmare nooks for weeks. What started as yet another innocent food donation became an all-out rescue mission, complete with irrational screaming and just short of 911.

With the last of our bread tossed to the quacking masses, we'd turned towards home, hands curled into pockets, seeking warmth. We were laughing about the latest twists in a whirlwind romance when the commotion behind us grew even louder and, turning around, we were just in time to see a flurry of feathers streak from pondside to pondside, landing right at our feet. There were three of them, two large white ones double-teaming a scrawny brown, beaks digging into backs and webbed feet kicking into the air. Within seconds they'd dragged the victim into the water, bills now on neck, pushing the poor thing under.

At first, we only stood there, completely stunned. Then, my years of Pet Vet training kicking in, I jumped into the fray. Swiping a stick from the dirt, I rushed to the pond bank, slashing my weapon furiously at the water. Zamora was close behind, gathering bark chips and small pebbles, aiming directly into the fight. For five long minutes we kept it up, but the ducks seemed unfazed. The small brown was surely drowned by now; we hadn't seen him surface the entire time. We were beginning to panic.

Suddenly, he shot out of the water! Right past us! Up and into the air! He only made it a few feet beyond the soggy shore, but it was enough. Zamora and I instantly rushed at the horrible birds that now tried to follow, scaring them back into the pond and finally to the opposite shore. We returned to our dear duck a moment later, only to find him trembling uncontrollably and unable to walk fully. Pretty sure we were just as shaken up, completely horrified as we were. We stayed only long enough to make sure our little one kept safe and sound, and then we ran home, fast.

I am so done with the duck pond.