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.

hey, albert

I had a very Garden State moment last night, wandering the spring-cold streets of Provo. The sun was sinking slowly and the light was at a weak slant, sending shadows long and lean across the chilly avenues. I walked, arms crossed against the creeping cold and a worn letter clutched in my left hand, just thinking. Blocks and blocks had passed when I came upon a corner completely torn apart, the apartment building destroyed and the ground mounded in heaps of rubbish, dirt, and construction. At the center was a hole, a deep wound reaching down into dark dirt and hackneyed tree roots. A bulldozer teetered on the cliff edge, idle for the night. To the right was all that's left of the building, crumbling concrete stairs leading up into the fragile sky.

I stood there, watching. Nothing happened. No one near. I felt like the very last person in the whole entire world. I took the stairs one at a time, balancing without a handrail, before sitting down at the top, legs swinging over the edge. For a while, I just kept thinking. It had been a rather mellow day, quiet and unhurried, and while I didn't feel lonely, I certainly felt alone. I thought about the light and the color of the end of February, and then I wished for a Polaroid. I thought about Spring and What Happens Next, and then a little bit about strangely familiar places and wanting to soak them all in, from pretty pioneer architecture to makeshift chain link fences. I thought about old friends and new ones, and then I stood up and stared over and into the abyss. And I shouted, screamed, yelled right into it.

It felt absolutely wonderful.

The End.

insert gasp {here}

In my early years, I was introduced to the glossy-covered Clairefontaine notebooks at Carden Memorial: five new staple-bounds a semester, a color for every class. They were used for absolutely everything from Bible Study to Algebra, and whenever a field trip called for reflection, they became our journals, too. I loved those little notebooks: the blocky lines and foreign measurements. I couldn't imagine writing seriously without Clairefontaine guidance, and whenever an odd shipment came about, my teachers knew who would take the difference. By graduation, I had a small collection of nearly new notebooks, kept empty for my next adventures.

The few I managed to squirrel away, however, lasted all of one month into high school. By October I'd scribbled across the very last page of the very last notebook (something about Lord of the Flies, no doubt). And while that wasn't necessarily devastating, it was rather sad. I slipped fully into a world of tear-away spiral notebooks and tried my best to move on with graph paper notes. This carried me through four years of rush-writes and lecture learning, and I even came to love the classic Composition Book as dearest confidante, recording nearly every day in 100 page volumes. With the discovery of the Moleskine (squared notebook small, sketchbook large), french-ruled lines were a thing of the past.

Or so I thought. For two years now I've always had a Moleskine near, tucked in between text books and stacked neatly amongst my journals. Fellow members of the trend would nod knowingly whenever I pulled one out, some even occasionally giving me an atta-girl thumbs up as if welcoming me in on the secret. Coming in every possible paper variety and handy-dandy sizes, the Moleskine fits all kinds of creativity. The small file folder at the back is pure genius. And with Hemingway, Picasso, and Chatwin for company, who wouldn't be smiling? There is simply no reason you'd need to look elsewhere for notebook nirvana.

Except . . . well. Truth be told, I don't fully love Moleskines. This entire time I've been trying to talk myself into them, carrying them close in the hope that I'd get used to the idea. Thinking that maybe one day I'd feel the need to fill Flickr sets with their pages. Wondering if they really are an acquired taste, or if I was (as ever) the odd man out. Yet no matter how long I stuck with it, the feeling never left. With the last page of my NZ journal, I made the decision. It was time to take a stand.

My first day home at university I was back in the bookstore, debating. I felt almost guilty walking past the Moleskines, sensing that this probably meant something about me and society and how I didn't quite fit. The Composition Book, too, had lost its flair, and no new notebook stood out to me at all. Exasperated, I took a turn in the Art Department, looking through sketchbooks and Manga pads for possibility. Wandering helplessly now, it's no wonder I ended up on the engineering aisle---I was desperate for anything. And there, surprisingly enough, I found happiness. In the form of the orange-bright Rhodia, available in all sorts of clever sizes with a most modern old-fashioned feel. I was instantly enamored, stealing a No. 16 off the shelf and never looking back.

Today, I went back for my second Rhodia, hardly hesitating in my choice (though the No. 08 looks ever-intriguing; a to-do list, perhaps?). At the register, I paid a happy $3.69 for the book, flipping it over to peel off the price sticker as I skipped up the stairs and to class. It was then that I noticed the small triangle in the corner, a vaguely familiar logo. I scanned the rest of the cover, a chart dedicated to all the different formats available, noticing that the information came in both English and French. Could it be? I flipped the notebook open, taking a good look at the graph paper. Lavender lines: easy on the eyes and so completely . . . comforting?

A quick stop in the computer lab and a Google search later, my connection was confirmed: Rhodia is, indeed, a child of dear Clairefontaine. The even better news? Every one of their notebooks comes not only in ruled or graph, but my childhood Grands Carreaux. Sure, I'd have to order that sort straight from France, but with the way serendipity's been playing with me lately, I just might push my luck.

a happy birthday haiku

all joy in praises:
light longer lingers near her,
inspired by heartsong.

{and today she is twenty}

all the art of living

I'm beginning to believe there might be nothing better than an empty kitchen sink and newly-shined floorboards. With every window open to the winter-spring air, my little apartment positively breathes new life. It has every feeling of starting over, a rather nice reflection of how I'm feeling myself this weekend. Everything seems new, full, moving forward. That could be due entirely, of course, to the promise of March and the coming Spring, but every year it is the same: come the last of February, I feel new hope. New independence. Something in me a little stronger, a little more confident.

The news of Wales, however, completely threw that feeling. With Italy a definite, I didn't imagine they'd still want me in Cardiff, too. So I'd planned on a summer at home with the family, last moments with friends, and an August departure. Thursday's email scrapped that plan, fast. Suddenly I'm looking at staying for Spring semester, choosing the two classes I'll need to carry to keep my scholarship, rearranging housing plans, trying to wrap my head around not one, but two semesters abroad. For two full days now I've been in a bit of a panic, trying to put all these pieces back together. For two full days now, I've been living in fear.

{Brief pause while my dad quotes Strictly Ballroom (8:15 mark'll do it)}

Okay, so maybe that's a bit dramatic, but it seems most accurate to me. Not fear as in terrified; fear as in unsettled, unsure. Most ridiculously, it has nothing to do with these new adventures, the foreign languages and challenges ahead. That I'm looking forward to with bright eyes and happy heart. No, I'm worrying over what I'm leaving behind. It's one of my most major flaws: the inability to Let Go.

I can hardly stand it. I mean, I know how stupid my worrying is. I know everything will work out, that I'm being overly dramatic and sentimental. The Writing Fellows I love will let me know what Grad school they decide on, and Room 118 is always open. A. will keep me updated and she wouldn't dare fall completely in love without me to see it. Jacq will write me from her mission and I'll see that joy in her wide-eyed writing. And I don't even want to be a Lab Assistant when I get home, nor do I want to live in #215 again. So why all this worrying? Why do I do this to myself? Why do I ruin a perfectly lovely prospect with such unfounded anxieties?

I don't know.

But while I'm not exactly sure how to fix it entirely, I do know how to move past it. It's been said a million times over, but it's true: live in the present. Live the now. I am today. Which isn't to say forget the future---or even the past---but to live this moment as a testament to your best past and as preparation for your best future. The days I manage to live this truth are the days I feel that wide-open-spaces possibility, that hope and independence I so associate with the Spring season. When you live like this, every day is a new one, ready to fill right up to the top. And the most absolute best part of this Way? It's not about you anymore. It's about Giving Back, because you realise that's what the Present means. It's whatever you choose all wrapped up and beautiful, ready for the giving.

So now it's merely a matter of listening to myself. Remembering those fleeting times I managed to Let Go and strive to live them. Easier said than done, of course, but there's always something to be had for trying.

ioan! (that's the only welsh I know)

I'll be in Cardiff by July.
Now I just have to figure out how to stay focused
through tonight's art class and lecture.
{do you ever just feel ridiculously blessed?}