Allison Road

Trunk or Tail?

2010-10-30T20:10:00.016-04:00

A few years ago, a friend of mine came back from Thailand with a very important question.

If you could have either a trunk (like an elephant's trunk) or a tail (like a monkey's tail), which would you choose?

We debated about this for weeks. I was firmly in the "trunk" camp, and after seeing an elephant trunk up close this week, I'm even more convinced that having a trunk would be AWESOME.

Let me tell you why:

More muscles in the elephant trunk than in the entire human body.
Showering -- you could control the water pressure AND the height of the showerhead, two things that constantly annoy me in showers
Vacuuming made easy
Drinking made easy
Throwing people across the room made easy. No more need to learn tricks like putting your car keys through your fingers or poking attackers in the eye. Trunks are powerful, yo.
Reaching things up high
Some people argue that when it comes to kissing/love life, a trunk would only get in the way. But I say it could also make things more interesting. In any case, there are at least as many advantages as disadvantages in this area.
It's like having an extra hand.
I have never seen a tail on any animal as cool as a trunk on an elephant.
Trunks can do everything tails can do PLUS snort things up inside.

I mean, just look at these trunks. Trunk all the way, baby.

48 hours

2010-10-29T22:04:00.005-04:00

During the last 48 hours, I have:

Seen a lion
Had a strange woman ask for a bite of my candy bar as I walked down the street
Seen a stack of sheep heads on a street corner
Been offered marijuana twice

Going solo

2010-10-26T20:35:00.079-04:00

A person is a person through other persons. –Desmond Tutu

Traveling alone is sort of a love-hate thing for me.

For example, today I loved taking my time making decisions and going up to Table Mountain when I was ready. I loved not having to make conversation with anyone on the drive there or discuss whether we were going to wait in the 60-minute gondola line to ride to the top or not.

But I hated not having anyone next to me I could poke and say, “Hey! The floor of the cable car is rotating!” or “Look! You can see Cape Point from here!” or of course, “Take a picture of me pretending to fall off the edge of the cliff!”

Instead, I asked a couple of strangers to take a few pictures and then perched myself on top of a large rock looking out over the mountain dropping into the ocean. I had just settled in to eat my dark chocolate seed bar (it was amazing) when two guys clambered up next to me and actually asked me in to move so they could take have their picture taken where I was sitting. Dude, seriously? There are approximately one million rocks all together right here with almost exactly the same view, and you want my rock? Can’t you see I’m sitting here far away from other people eating my lunch and having a moment?

Later, as I walked in the Company’s Gardens, a gangly man with one eye and a limp (and alcohol on his breath) pointed out the South African white house and a couple other sites to me. I tried to shake him, but he kept walking with me and to be fair, he actually showed me some interesting things, like old apartheid benches with “non-whites only” still painted on them and the way into Desmond Tutu’s church. But I was relieved when I finally gave him a handful of change and we said goodbye.

I spent the day warily keeping people outside my bubble, enjoying the sights but also enjoying being inside my own head. But by the time I sat down to dinner at a restaurant called Fork, I felt a little lonely. In Shall We Dance, one of the characters says in effect, “We have relationships in order to have someone to witness our lives.” And when I travel alone, I acutely feel the lack of a witness. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear the sound, did it make a sound at all? If I eat a fantastic asparagus and parmesan stick and no one is there to witness it, did I really eat it? I thought of trying to replicate the meal later in my own kitchen just so that I could share with someone else how tasty it was.

I glanced over at a window and noticed my own reflection, looking like a ghost sitting at an empty table. And I felt like a ghost, like someone who breezed through this city today without leaving a mark, someone who was almost here – but with no one to witness it, was I really here at all?

Halfway through the meal, a new server started waiting on me. She laughed when I told her that I almost licked the plate clean and her eyes got round as she described which desserts were “to die for.” She brought me the strawberry and lemon curd pavlova along with tea made from fresh mint leaves. It was divine. I told her if I lived in Cape Town I would eat there every single day, and she laughed with real delight and said, “Yes! I know what you mean!” And for a moment someone witnessed my life. I realized I didn’t want to be in a bubble, I didn’t want to be a ghost, I wanted to witness life, to participate in it, to leave a mark.

I left an overly generous tip with a note: “Thanks for the great service, and for your smile and laugh. Best wishes.”

Things I procrastinated today

2010-09-16T22:25:00.000-04:00

Things I procrastinated today:

Waking up (snooze, baby)
Getting up
Leaving for work
Doing my job ... I put off a simple number check ALL DAY LONG
Eating lunch
Answering e-mails -- also avoided all day long
Calling about an apartment -- which is crazy because I'm sleeping on a HIDE-A-BED
Deciding whether to go to happy hour. I decided AS PEOPLE WERE LEAVING. (I went.)
Reading about how to stop procrastinating
Blogging
Going to bed

Sunrise, sunset

2010-09-13T09:21:00.015-04:00

My summer is now a nearly perfect palindrome: Russia sandwiched between trips to Utah and the Outer Banks on the front end, and trips to Utah and the Outer Banks on the other end.

Beach highlights: Watching the sun rise, watching it set.

(Am I getting old? Who says things like that? In my defense, I also helped bury C. in the sand, played Frisbee and ate fresh shrimp. And it was FUN. I never, ever want to go back to work.)

(But seriously, have you ever watched an entire sunrise or sunset? Like, start to finish, all 45 minutes, or however long? Just watched?)

Sunrise

Sunset

Utah

2010-09-13T09:15:00.010-04:00

Creative uses for items from mom's garden:

1) Cucumber and mint face masks!

2) Zucchini cobbler! No, seriously:

http://allrecipes.com//Recipe/zucchini-cobbler-2/Detail.aspx

What a great week. Nothing compares to the healing power of facials, mani-pedis, gardening, sleeping in, new recipes, satin sheets, bike rides and MOMS. I'm still processing, still sorting out this whole Russia experience and not sure what to make of it all. But I do know that It's really, really, REALLY good to be home.

Russia in pictures

2010-09-03T11:00:00.001-04:00

What Rostov made me realize about love

2010-09-01T00:53:00.007-04:00

I’m glad I went to Rostov.

I always said I wouldn’t go back to my mission until I was married, so I could take someone with me and introduce them to the people and places that meant so much to me – and so I could have moral support as I visited once again this country that I have such a love-hate relationship with. BUT – here I am, single, twelve years later. And despite all the comments I’ve endured the past ten days about my marital status (some nicer than others), despite the vague loneliness/awkwardness of navigating everything on my own – I’m glad I came.

Because I’ve remembered something about my mission that is blowing my mind a little bit.

I’m amazed by how much I loved people – how deeply, sincerely, urgently, completely. I’ve also been reading my mission journals on this trip. I went through a period where I felt a little embarrassed for myself as I’d read them – for my naivete, my over-the-top sugary sweetness – but now I’m kind of in awe. And the feeling I had when I saw Alla Ivanovna last week for the first time in twelve years, when she came running over and hugged me, was overpowering. I felt it in my whole body, and I couldn’t stop myself from crying. When did life teach me to stop feeling that way about people? Was I hurt? Did I not get in return what I was giving? Did I become distracted?

I wonder if I can love people that way again. While deep and sincere, those feelings were also so wrapped up in my urgent desire for them to accept something, to do something, to believe something, to become something. Now the “fervent zeal of youth” has worn off, my own ideas about faith have matured, and I no longer have the same urgency and drive to push myself towards something so ideal, so torturously unattainable. Which is a relief and feels peaceful and right – yet at the same time, I’m a little sad that I also don’t feel as deeply, as passionately about others. Maybe I can be that devoted in a different way – love that way again, be that person, but reconcile it all somehow. Take it to a new level, loving deeply but more quietly, without a secret hope for people to change, without a secret conviction that I know what they need so much.

There are people in this world who I have loved, and loved deeply. And who have loved me, too. So many that it’s impossible to maintain deep and constant connections with them all. I recognize that in a way I didn’t before, and it’s stopping me in my tracks. These connections are more real and more important than anything in my life, and I find myself wanting to settle down, to build a life in a settled place with deep and lasting connections. I think that “fervent zeal of youth” is giving way to something different.

Today I am as old in years as all the Jewish people

2010-08-31T22:50:00.007-04:00

About ten years ago, I read a poem by Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko dedicated to Babi Yar, the site of a Nazi massacre of 100,000 Ukrainian and Russian Jews. I was so moved by its indignation, its pathos, that it's always stuck with me. And today, I went there.

Babi Yar today is a winding, grassy, mowed ravine just a few hundred meters from a metro station on Kiev's green line. People on cell phones walk past it on their way to and from work or school, and couples push strollers along the same ground where children, women, men were slaughtered 60 years ago.

I sat on the edge of the ravine, dangling my feet over it, and tried to fathom 100,000 people. Tried to fathom the people who pulled triggers and pushed bodies down the slope – what did they think in that moment? And what did those people, those fathers, mothers, those children, think as they saw bodies piling up, what were their last thoughts, their last words, as they tumbled down into the gulch?

I wanted to say a prayer in that moment, but for who? For the people who died? For the people who killed them? It all seemed so cliche somehow. In the end, I prayed for all of us, for, as FDR put it, “not just an end to war, but an end to the beginning of all wars.” For people today who kill and are killed in places like Sudan, for those who are trying to do something about it, and for those who just don't know what to do about it.

I stepped over the edge, walked into the middle of the ravine, looked back at the monument and remembered the end of Yevtushenko's poem:

The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar.

The trees look ominous, like judges.

Here all things scream silently,

and, baring my head,

slowly I feel myself

turning gray.

And I myself

am one massive, soundless scream

above the thousand thousand buried here.

I am

each old man

here shot dead.

I am

every child

here shot dead.

Nothing in me

shall ever forget! …

In my blood there is no Jewish blood.

In their callous rage, all anti-Semites

must hate me now as a Jew.

For that reason

I am a true Russian!

Read the whole thing here. Seriously, read it.

Flavors

2010-08-31T22:18:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I ate calamari-flavored potato chips.

Today, I ate mushroom-flavored potato chips.

They tasted surprisingly like calamari and mushrooms, and were surprisingly tasty.

The end.

Kiev Temple

2010-08-31T16:22:00.008-04:00

And now, to the point of our arduous journey to Kiev: the dedication of the newest temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

The night before was a pre-temple-dedication cultural extravaganza, held at the largest concert hall in Kiev. There were dances and dramatizations from Ukraine, Russia, Armenia, and Khazakstan. President Monson was extremely relaxed and casual. As he entered, he greeted the piano player, and then sat down and played a little Chinese chopsticks. And after his short talk, he actually gave noogies to his interpreter.

The Ukrainian choir director, on the other hand, conducted furiously, passionately. It made me smile. There was a dramatization of the history of Kiev, including the baptism of Rus by Prince Vladimir, who, according to legend, investigated a series of religions before choosing Christianity for his people.

Russia’s section of the program was unabashedly passionate and over the top. The section presented by Ukraine had a distinctly Westernish, Mormonish feel to it, but when the Russians came out with their dramatic poses and a passionate love song to God, it was something completely different. And it really made me smile. In Russia, bigger is better, deeper is better, more passionate is better! It’s a little too much for us cool Westerners, but that’s kind of what I love about it. It’s 100% from the heart.

Yulia looked around at the hundreds of people in the audience, leaned over and commented that it was really warm in the room. Yeah, I said, it is kind of stuffy in here, but she said, no, I meant the feeling. It’s like family. And it really was.

After the actual dedication the next day, I started chatting with a woman who I thought was one of the American senior missionaries I knew from Moscow -- shoulder-length hair, lots of makeup, big eyes. It was only when she asked to interview us that I realized it was Carol Mikita of KSL in Utah. I knew she looked familiar!

So she talked to Julia, Alla and me about our trip to Kiev, and we might be on the worldwide newscast between conference sessions! Here's what I told her (more or less):

“I wasn’t sure whether I was going to come to the temple dedication. I spent the summer in Moscow and then traveled to my mission to visit people, and they said, we’ve chartered a bus to go to the temple dedication and there are extra seats -- come with us! And so I did. It’s so great to be here with them. I was on my mission twelve years ago when this temple was announced. It’s been a long time coming, and it’s so great to be able to share it with people who have waited so long and who it means so much for.”

(These three families from Rostov got sealed in the temple the day after it was dedicated -- and I got to see it. Neat.)

A supposedly fun thing I'll never do again

2010-08-29T22:29:00.003-04:00

Add to the list of supposedly fun things I’ll never do again: A 22-hour road trip with 45 friends on a bus. Add in Soviet-era roads; waiting four hours at the border between Russia and Ukraine; two group sing-a-longs; and rest stops with squat toilets that you have to pay to use, and you have an idea of the luxury travel I enjoyed this weekend.

Trip highlights included:

*Rest stops. And not just for the rest. It was amusing to watch the mothers and grandmothers in the group venture into the bushes to avoid paying a 50-cent fee to use the bathrooms. That was the first rest stop. Later, after dark, we pulled over for another rest stop, and as I got out of the bus I realized that there was no rest stop at all. We were pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and people were scattered among the trees doing their business like it was the most normal thing in the world.

*Eating kolbasa sandwiches and sharing a teacup of juice with the Hausbiulins, each drinking out of a different side.

*Showing Roma the PhotoBooth application

Funny thing is, when they all got back on the bus tonight to head back to Russia and I stood waving and blowing kisses on the sidewalk, I actually felt a pang of sadness that I wasn’t going back with them.

But I guess that didn't really have anything to do with the bus.

Rostov’s believe-it-or-not

2010-08-27T22:55:00.002-04:00

On Thursday I met up with Lyudmila, Alya and Ruslan, some of my dearest friends from my mission days in Rostov. We met in Gorky Park, in the center of the city, and caught up over ice cream and juice. I met Ira, Alya’s daughter, a 100% sweetheart:

And then, because we had a little extra time, Alya suggested we visit the Peter the Great Kuntzkamera exhibit in the museum nearby. I didn’t know what Kuntzkamera meant, but a museum exhibit sounded lovely to me, so I agreed. We bought tickets and stepped through a red velvet curtain into the exhibit space, which was filled with … wax statues of people with odd deformities.

For example (and I wish this picture had come out a little clearer but I took it on the sly), this man with two heads, and this man with an unusually large mouth. There was also a dwarf woman, a man with a huge pointy nose and ears, and some others -- all exact replicas of real people and real deformities.

We moved onto the next portion of the exhibit: deformed fetus pictures. Um. I won’t go into detail, and I wasn't about to take any pictures -- I could hardly look at them. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, we rounded the corner into a room with wax heads depicting various skin diseases on the right side, and jars containing actual deformed fetuses in formaldehyde on the left. Alya, her four-year-old in tow, studied all the descriptions, fully intrigued.

Just when I think I know what to expect from Russia and Russians, I get another weird surprise. I kind of love that about Russia. Keeps me on my toes.

Hug me

2010-08-27T15:47:00.002-04:00

They say that if you are going to adopt an orphan, you are better off choosing one that hides in the corner from you than one that runs up and gives you a hug. The hesitant child has healthier boundaries and fewer attachment issues, while the affectionate one is more likely to burn your house down one day.

All the same, when a little boy named Sasha jumped into my arms, wrapped his arms and legs around me, and held on even when I moved to put him down – I couldn’t help hugging him back a little longer, a little tighter, wondering how often, if ever, he got a hug long enough that he was ready to let go.

And as I held him, I felt something inside of me release, and I realized it’s been a while since I had a good, long hug, too.

I went with Raya last week to the orphanage to deliver some blankets that the Relief Society women’s organization in Rostov made for them. Here's Raya (in red) and other members of the congregation presenting the blankets to the director of the orphanage:

The orphans are divided into groups of about ten children, and one small wing of the orphanege served each group. Here is the bathroom for one of the groups -- ten little cups, ten little toothbrushes, ten little towels.

The tables were all set for lunch.

And this ... this is a little mini sauna for children. They sit on that little shelf (height-adjustable) and put their heads out the top. Then the door is closed and the steam is turned on. The director told us it helps panicky children calm down.

And here are some of the kids:

There would have been a few more pictures of the kids, but as soon as that last pictures was taken, I was swarmed by small children with attachment issues who wanted to see themselves on the screen, millions of little fingers grabbing and groping the camera, and the battery died a few minutes later. But I still won’t forget all the little eyes looking hopefully up at me, the little arms reaching out, the sense of all the little people in this world looking for a little love.

(Insert rousing rendition of “We Are the World” or "The Greatest Love".)

Ghosts, part 2

2010-08-26T10:51:00.004-04:00

I just realized that the subconscious influence behind my last post was a collection of pictures I saw recently. Photographer Sergei Larenkov started with photos of the siege of Leningrad in WWII, then photographed the exact same places today and combined them in Photoshop, reminding people of the history that happened on the same streets they walk down every day. The result is haunting, and cool:

See more photos from the collection here and here, and an article about the artist here.

Quantum leap

2010-08-26T01:59:00.004-04:00

So many unfinished blog posts, so little time ...

I've escaped the heat and smog to Rostov-na-donu -- the city where I served 9 months of my mission, all in one area. I feel like I'm in a time warp. Where am I? Who am I? What year is it? Where did all these supermarkets and billboards come from?

I was kind of disoriented at first, and exhausted by Moscow both physically and emotionally, but a few days of Raya Hausbiulina's amazing cooking and stories revived me. Turns out a Russian grandma was just what the doctor ordered.

I rode the 71 bus from Zorge to Tsentralniy Rinok the other day, craning my head to see out of the dirty window. If I peeled back the layer of billboards and storefronts and new buildings pasted onto the familiar landscape, I recognized the same crumbling balconies, the same worn dirt paths. I remembered buying ice cream on the corner of Stachki and Zorge – I knew the shape of the corner, I could almost see the ghost of a woman pulling the squat cone out of her portable freezer – it was a cold day in February. It was like the image was superimposed on the current August scene, and if you tried to focus on it too closely it would disappear, but if you let your eyes blur then it appeared right there.

The trees around our apartment were much bigger, and I remembered walking through the park nearby to visit someone who was selling eggs at a rinok in the middle of winter. We brought hot chocolate to her. I remembered a pile of watermelon, taller than I was, on the sidewalk in the summer, and buying chocolate at a kiosk from someone who wanted us to invite them to visit America. I remembered walking in the chastni sector singing “country roads,” eating mulberries right off the trees, and walking through the meat section of the market near Druzhinikov Square. I wanted to peel back the façade of modernization – because that’s all it seems to be here, is a façade pasted onto the same old crumbling landscape – peel back the years, see myself walking through the square to Alla Ivanovna’s apartment or talking to Ruslan, Alya and Lyudmila and the elders at the bus stop about how to properly eat sunflower seeds.

Ghosts were everywhere, and for a moment, all moments were present, and I knew that the core person I am now really is the same person I was then, as much as I may or may not have changed. The trees around the statue of the working class man waving his flag at the beginning of Zapadny region have grown tall enough to obscure the foot of the statue, and riding past them I lost my sense of time and place -- for a moment they became the trees on the way from Bethlehem to Jerusalem, and all moments were present. If I had exited that bus and found myself in Jerusalem or Moscow or Washington or Peru, it would have seemed completely normal.

And it was comforting, in a way. More to come about people, experiences, thoughts.

Congrats to the happy couple!

2010-08-26T01:46:00.003-04:00

Yay for Zach and Heather!

(Blogger and iPhone and Microsoft and Russia are conspiring to make it impossible to turn this picture right side up. I can't fix it now but will repost soon. In the meantime, please celebrate by standing on your heads.)

UPDATE 9/3/10: I'm back in the land of internet connectivity and just went to change out this upside-down photo, but it's sort of grown on me. Enough of you liked it that I think I'll just post the right-side-up version here along with it (thanks to b. for helping me right it, even if I couldn't post right away):

Congrats again! Love you guys!

Moscow burning

2010-08-07T02:44:00.004-04:00

There's a scene near the end of the novel Master and Margarita where the devil sits on top of the Vorobyovi Hills in Moscow and watches fires burn in different parts of the city. Apparently Bulgakov originally planned to have the entire city go up in flames (perhaps as a statement about Moscow, the guardian of Orthodoxy, the “Third Rome, never to be a fourth”).

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about that almost-scene in the last couple of weeks. I can’t describe what it’s like to walk along the street and not be able to see the trees or buildings you know are just a few hundred yards away. What it’s like to feel an itchy sensation at the back of your throat and know that all kinds of particles are filtering into your lungs each time you take a breath. What it’s like to be so hot, -- so very, very hot -- and so tired, so ready to drape yourself on a chair and just sit and stare. It’s still around 100 degrees every day, no air conditioning, and I’m starting to feel a little crazy. Especially now that I’ve closed my window so as not to breathe in air that I’m told approximates smoking four packs of cigarettes a day.

From what I understand, this is all due to a number of forest fires and peat bog fires in the Moscow region and across Russia. Apparently many of the peat bogs were drained in Soviet times in order to harvest the peat, leaving a situation where the peat can spontaneously start to burn if the temperature gets too high. And Moscow has had record-breaking temperatures with no rain for over a month. Depending on which way the wind is blowing, the smoke from the peat fires can cover the city. And let me tell you, it smells awesome.

But I don’t want to let a little smoke get in the way of my summer, so a couple days ago I set off in search of a modern art gallery that I’d been wanting to check out. I came up out of the metro and walked for something like two miles trying to find it, spending more than an hour in the smog. The city felt so desolate, so apocalyptic. I tried not to think of the treeless, hazy end-of-the-world scenario in The Road by Cormac McCarthy. I tried not to think of the anti-smoking ad in the metro here that pictures a hand squeezing a lung and a thick stream of greenish gook oozing from it, tried not to picture my own lungs and what they might now resemble. I tried not to hear Robert Frost’s lines about the world ending in fire echoing in my head. The music in my headphones was like a soundtrack to an apocalyptic film, blocking out all street sounds, and everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion.

I finally got on a trolleybus, not knowing where it was going, but hoping it would deposit me at a metro stop, any metro stop. It did, and I got on a train heading for home, sank into a seat, put on my headphones and closed my eyes, pretending to be anywhere else but there. Pretending I wasn’t covered in a thin film of salt and dust and moisture, pretending everyone else around me wasn’t either, pretending I wasn’t breathing in smoke, even inside the metro – trying to go somewhere, anywhere else in my mind.

I think that was the first day I came home and put my head in the freezer to cool off.

Photos from the Moscow Times.

and here http://www.themoscowtimes.com/news/article/moscows-smog-worsens-as-wildfires-rage/411872.html#no

Enough with the tortured soul already

2010-07-29T11:01:00.006-04:00

Ok, I started feeling like maybe the blog was getting a little too broody. Just to lighten the mood a little ...

There's a whole new genre of Russian jokes based on the New Russians (the newly rich business class, perceived as arrogant, stupid, dishonest, conspicuous consumers with poor taste). For example:

Two new russians are at a concert. One says to the other, pointing to the director, "This is, what, Mozart?" The other says, "How am I supposed to know? You can't tell anything looking at him from behind."

One new russian says to another, "Look at the awesome tie I got for a thousand dollars!" The other replies, "Idiot! I got the same tie right across the street for two thousand!"

I wish it would rain down, down on me

2010-07-28T04:04:00.002-04:00

I want to live; I crave for sadness -

Against my bliss and love, in truth;

They sank my mind in idle gladness

And made my brow very smooth.

It's high time for life's derogation

To blow away the hazy peace;

What’s a poet’s life, void of desolation?

And what are void of tempests seas?

-Mikhail Lermontov, age 18

I watched an entire rainstorm from start to finish, curled up on the ledge of an open window 5 stories above the ground. From the sudden quieting of the birds, to the first big raindrops pinging the tin windowsill, to the people running for cover from the downpour, to the sun coming back out and everyone going back about their business.

There’s something about a rainstorm when there hasn’t been one for a while. It was a relief. It lasted about ten minutes, and I was sad when it was over. It was too quick -- I didn't have time to absorb the quiet that was almost sacred, when life stopped, people and animals disappeared, and it was just the elements, just the wind and the rain – and a couple standing on the path near the pond embracing. I watched them, imagining the double sensation of a kiss and the giant drops of rain on my face. I wanted to run out into the rain, too, to feel it on my hands, my face, my skin, my clothes, to gradually become completely wet.

I want to live! wrote Lermontov. I crave for sadness -

I want to live. Russians love suffering, Alla Vasilievna insists, because it’s part of happiness – indistinguishable from happiness – it’s part of life. I get that. I won’t go so far as to say I crave sadness in Lermontov’s madly romantic way, but I want to live, and to live completely. I want to feel it all, see it all, understand it all.

Now the construction workers are banging away again. Everyone’s out making noise and tinkering with the world again. I want to hold onto the feeling of the storm – the sensation of being alive again after a long hot spell. The presence in the solitude. The relief, peace, contentment, laced with a certain tingliness and excitement about what it all could mean – something new, something different, something dangerous.

Perestroika, physical and spiritual

2010-07-27T08:03:00.006-04:00

Perestroika: The literal translation is "rebuilding."

The word you really hear all the time is remont -- it means "repair" or "remodel."

And it's going on everywhere you look in Moscow. Including here:

Hram Hristos Cpasitel (Church of Christ the Savior) is the largest Orthodox church in the world.

It was built in Moscow in the 1800s and destroyed by Stalin in 1931 to make way for an enormous Soviet Palace topped by a colossal statue of Lenin, designed to be the tallest building in the world. But the palace was never built, and the foundation of the cathedral became a huge swimming pool. (Yes, everything is huge, colossal, enormous, mammoth – we’re in Russia, and bigger is always better!)

In 1994, after nearly five years of petitioning, the Russian Orthdox Church was granted permission to rebuild the cathedral on it’s original site, and in 2000 the new building -- an exact replica of the original church -- was consecrated.

From the guidebook I bought there:

A tragedy for Russian Christians, the attempt of the Communists to put up the Palace of Councils in place of the cathedral revealed the struggle between God who had become man to save humanity and man who was trying in vain to become God.

The gigantic “Babylon Tower” … was a symbolic antithesis of the Saviour cathedral, its anti-reflection. … Many elements of the palace were devised as antipodes of the cathedral’s elements -- the huge statue of Lenin instead of the cross crowning the cathedral, the representation of a five-pointed star on the ceiling of the Grand Hall, and articles of the Stalin Constitution carved on the walls of the foyer.

And then this symbolism of resurrection and repentance, which I found especially moving:

Many Muscovites who watched the [groundbreaking] ceremony [for the new building] on TV in 1994 could not believe their eyes: the miracle did occur. The main national sanctuary was being resurrected from its ashes, like a mythological bird Phoenix. ...

Today it is primarily a place of repentance, a personification of the country’s conversion from atheistic theories to the Law of God, to Christian doctrines of eternity and the City of God, to the traditional roots of the Russian Orthodox civilization. The cathedral, regarded as a martyr for Christ, has been resurrected on the site to show gratitude to God for saving Russia and overthrowing the utopian theory of the earthly paradise. It is a sort of memorial to Russia’s history, heroism and sufferings. It is the national Orthodox idea embodied in stone.

It's. So. #@&%. Hot.

2010-07-26T11:20:00.007-04:00

It's been around 100 degrees every day for about two weeks now. Oh, and did I mention there is NO air conditioning? I kind of want to die. I'm looking at a pile of seven empty 5-liter bottles of water and calculating that I'm going through about 2.5 liters of water a day right now. I think that's roughly double the recommended 6-8 glasses, no?

Some folks here are drinking more than water:

Drunk Russians Drowning Due to Heat Wave
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/russia/7891040/Drunk-Russians-drowning-due-to-heat-wave.html

AND (yes I'm on a weather rant) it hasn't rained, except for few brief rainstorms, which I'm convinced the Russian government is artificially creating by doing that thing where they put chemicals into the clouds and force it to rain. (I mean, why shouldn't the government control everything, including the weather?) The rainstorms last for about five minutes -- really big drops, but not quite enough of them -- and all they do is make the ground sizzle, then they stop.

And that's not all. In addition to all the crops dying from the drought, there are also shortages of electric fans (my friend saw a woman selling an old fan at a metro stop for 4000 rubles, which is about $130) and ice cream. Yes, they're running out of ice cream. Luckily I haven't been affected by this … yet …

So, I'd love to stay and chat but there's a cold shower calling my name. Or maybe a hot shower. It would still cool me down. You think I'm kidding, don't you …

The doorway

2010-07-18T08:04:00.002-04:00

On Monday morning I meditated for the first time. Not like deep thinking (which I have actually done before, thank you very much), but like a guided meditation. Here.

This meditation used the sound of a bell to focus the mind and open the spirit. It sounded three times, with the idea being to feel the reverberations and welcome the sound physically into the body, followed by a period of remembering the sound and feel of the bell, the echo or memory of the bell. And then a mental letting go of the bell sound and opening to other sounds, followed by another focus on the memory of the bell.

It was during one of these repetitions, one of these moments of allowing the bell sound to come into you, that I felt it. It was fleeting, but it was as though a feeling of openness penetrated into the protective shell I’ve built to protect myself from life’s disappointments – especially from spiritual experiences that I may or may not be able to trust. At the beginning of the meditation, the guide said, “Cultivate the mood of wonder, of humility. Let this be the doorway to the practice.” That resonated deeply with me, and I think that inviting those particular emotions allowed that brief feeling of pure openness and centeredness.

In some ways, it was like an old familiar friend. In other ways, it was a little terrifying. I mean, can’t it be possible to have both my protective shell and that openness at the same time? I mean, what’s so wrong about being careful with your heart, not just in a romantic sense but in a life sense? I want to be cautious and yet impulsive, protected and yet vulnerable, distant and yet intimate. Paradox? Maybe.

“Cultivate the mood of wonder, of humility. Let this be the doorway to the practice.”

And not just to the practice, but to life. A further explanation of the meditation:

“Do you have the patience to wait ‘til your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving ‘til the right action arises by itself? The master doesn’t seek fulfillment. Not seeking, not expecting, she is present and can welcome all things."

[Here’s the point where this blog post should end, both because of length and because of overshare. But I can’t resist wanting to sort out this other idea … and yes, if you read it and it makes you feel the need to share the name of a good therapist with me, please go ahead and leave it in the comments ... ]

I have deep angst about this trip (ok, about my life) that stems from wanting to do something, to be something, to make an impact, to please have some meaning for someone somewhere. And I am realizing that this desperation – born of loneliness, of cultural conditioning, of the pure desire to give to someone – is paralyzing. It makes me choke. And this seeking, this expectation, this need is intense – I am desperately in search of fulfillment, I admit it. And yet “The master doesn’t seek fulfillment. She is present and can welcome all things.”

It sounds so beautiful. Simply to be present and welcome all things, all people, all experiences. To be open with the mood of wonder, of humility, like a child. Not to find or accomplish something specific or to return with something grand or impressive. But to be alive, and to find meaning and connection in being open to the world.

But this is a difficult state of mind to sustain. Already in the 35 seconds since I typed that last line, my mind has started off down the road of justifying my desire to achieve something visible, something tangible, by tying it to the lofty desire to love and be loved, to give, to impact. But is it really for others I want this, or for myself? I feel afraid that by letting go of trying to do something impactful, I will sink into oblivion, into meaninglessness and loneliness. It’s like a struggle between the will to power and nirvana. The desire and ambition grip me, paralyze me. The letting go, the mediation is lighter, more open and yet now in it’s aftermath I seem to fear it more. I fear losing control, losing everything. Abandoning myself to the higher power and then simply disappearing. Alone.

And all of this -- all of it -- exists only inside of me, only in my mind, yet it affects everything. That's sort of weird, right?

“Cultivate the mood of wonder, of humility. Let this be the doorway.”

(June 2010, Peterhoff, Russia)

Meet Rosa

2010-07-17T11:40:00.001-04:00

Rosa is my suitemate. We share a bathroom, a fridge and a door. We really can't communicate at all, but I've grown to sort of adore her.

Rosa is from Palermo, Italy. She's in Moscow for four months learning Russian. She has two daughters in their 30s, and her husband either died or divorced her -- I'm not sure which -- 20 years ago. Like I said, we can't really communicate. Rosa speaks an unintelligible mix of Russian, Italian, English and Crazy. She gesticulates wildly in a quintessentially Italian fashion and is passionate about, well, I'm not sure what she's saying, but about everything, it seems. She has a portable CD player, and I can often hear her in the next room either repeating Russian words or singing along as she putters about her room.

One day not long after I arrived, I answered a knock on our door, and there was a young, ripped Egyptian guy standing there. "Is Rosa here?" She wasn't. "Tell her I stopped by to say hello?" Um, sure. "Rosa is such a cool lady." Really? Huh. I mean, I don't really know her. Sometimes she invites me into her room to drink juice and "talk," which basically consists of me speaking Russian and her not understanding, her speaking Italian or her special mix of languages and me not understanding, and a few times we've actually used two dictionaries to translate words from Italian to Russian and then Russian to English. Usually they're words like "birch." I mean, I had already guessed "tree," but apparently she really wanted me to understand that she was talking about a birch tree. So you can see why conversation might take a while.

After the Egyptian guy stopped by, I started paying more attention to Rosa -- not just her quirks, but her essence, you could say. And I have to agree that she's such a cool lady. I love that she gets really big eyes, smiles, nods 50 times and says "ciao" when she sees me. I love that she sings along with her CD player everywhere she goes, that she talks to the TV in the cafeteria while she's watching auto racing, that she sketches the pigeons that land on her windowsill and shows me the drawings multiple times. I hope that when I'm Rosa's age, I'm still as passionate, as adventurous, as excited to travel the world, to try to learn new things and to connect with people as Rosa is. She's kind of awesome.

So You Think You Can Dance ... Moscow?

2010-07-11T11:50:00.011-04:00

I took a stroll down Arbat Street this weekend and discovered why the SYTYCD franchise has yet to branch out into Russia ...

(Highlight is at about 2:00 when one pretends to shoot the other, who is then miraculously resuscitated)

And yes, you heard right, they did mention Michael Jackson's name ... more than once. And yes, the music piping out of their tiny little speakers is directly from Super Mario Brothers.

You gotta give it to these guys for getting out there, though. Living the dream. I respect that.

Also, I feel kind of like the tall guy when I dance. Sort of all over the place.

(almost) White nights

2010-07-05T15:32:00.000-04:00

The view from my window, 11:00pm.

Sister Pond

2010-07-01T04:16:00.009-04:00

There’s something about speaking a language you don’t know well that makes life seem simpler, more straightforward, less complex. Suddenly, talking about everyday things like where you live and how many people are in your family is SO interesting. A simple conversation becomes a cultural exchange, a linguistic challenge. And as the Russian language slowly comes back to me, I feel so satisfied with myself for my little victories in small-talk, of all things.

I wonder if, for me, part of it is that speaking Russian takes me back to a previous time in my life when things really were more simple and life really did seem black and white.

Last night I went to the English club that the missionaries hold each week. I chatted with people in Russian afterwards for a long time, and found myself falling back into patterns of conversation and even of thinking from my missionary days. All my complex questions about life and God and the universe seemed so far away, and for a moment, the world was black and white again. It was so easy to invite people I just met to come to church and to sincerely hope they would. And the whole experience felt like a relief, like a return to childhood of some kind.

But that’s just it – it’s a part of my spiritual childhood, a part of my history, not of my present. My mission was a foundation, a jumping-off point for my adult life, and just like my childhood, it inculcated many good things that I’m grateful for, but it also sowed the seeds of misconceptions that have caused me pain as I’ve tried to sort them all out. There will always be fond memories, nostalgia, and the longing for lost innocence, but I don’t know if you can ever truly go back. And I'm making peace with that.

Not to completely switch tone, but since we’re talking about nostalgia, here’s a video I stumbled across of a Russian singer singing “Where does childhood go?” It’s truly horrible. I should probably be embarrassed for posting it. But it's fully on topic -- and fully Russian.

In Russia, many men now carry purses.

2010-06-27T15:20:00.007-04:00

I'm not really sure what else to say about this.

Freedom

2010-06-25T15:58:00.010-04:00

All we have to do now
Is take these lies
And make them true somehow
--George Michael

Alla Vasilievna wears the same white shirt with the same beaded necklace every day. She has short, dyed blond hair that she pulls while she's talking. She's at once a cosmopolitan world traveler and a deeply nationalistic Russian (unconscious racist overtones and all). And she's a terrific Russian teacher.

Yesterday's topic of discussion was freedom.

Alla Vasilievna asked us all what freedom means to us. Lena, a Cornell student and daughter of Russian immigrants to the US, said freedom is the opportunity to make of your career and your life whatever you want to. Tamara, a history professor from Germany, pointed out that poor people aren’t free because they don’t have the same choices rich people have. Terry, a native of Trinidad-Tobago now living in Washington, DC, said that he has very little, but that he is freer than people who are in slavery to material items. And Pavel, a lawyer from the Czech Republic, said that he doesn’t feel free in Russia because he always has to carry papers with him and because someone refused to sell him beer when a policeman was nearby.

And then, animatedly pulling at her hair, Alla Vasilievna explained that to the Russian psyche, freedom is not an obviously and inherently good construct in the same way that it is to people from some other countries. There is a fear, she said, of unchecked freedom, of anarchy. The idea of the “will” is an ancient one in Russian culture, but the word for “freedom” entered the language more recently and is not understood to have a necessarily positive connotation.

Alla Vasilievna also drew a distinction between personal freedom and political freedom. Personal freedom, she said, is the freedom to choose what you do, where you go, who you marry, etc. Political freedom includes things like freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, etc. According to Alla Vasilievna, personal freedom is important to Russians, but political freedom is "not as interesting." When I pressed her, saying the line is not very clear and using freedom of speech as an example, she even went so far as to say that as a Russian, she felt just as free under Communism as she does now, because she still had personal choices about her career, her family, and the rest of her personal life, and government is another realm altogether.

Now, I'm not a Russian, and I get that I can probably never completely overcome my own cultural upbringing and fully grasp another culture. But is this a bit of a stretch in defense of the Russian people? Alla Vasilievna added that Russians feel free because their country is so large and they have myriad options for travel or living within their own country, unlike smaller countries with close boundaries. And then she capped off her defense by asking each of us what we do when the sign says "don't walk" but there are no cars in sight? Apparently Russians tend to walk, but people from other European countries wait for the light to change. "Who is more free," she asked?

Today we talked about religion (that's a topic for another post ... or hundred posts). Alla Vasilievna mentioned that she is Russian Orthodox, and I asked her about practicing under Communism. She said that she went to church secretly because she knew that if she was caught, she could lose her job at the university or compromise opportunities for advancement. Which sounds to me, with my American predispositions about freedom of religion, like an infringement of personal freedom.

And yet, I believe Alla Vasilievna. I don't know to what extent she represents the rest of her country, but I believe that she secretly attended church and felt somehow personally free at the same time. And I'm fascinated by the idea that in this country, the lines between church and state, between personal and political freedom may not necessarily be drawn more thinly or thickly than in a place like America, but rather on another plane altogether.

Russia

2010-06-23T16:17:00.006-04:00

It is impossible to comprehend Russia with the intellect,
Or to measure her with any common measure;
Russia has a unique posture --
It is only possible to believe in Russia.

--Feodor Ivanovich Tiutchev, 1803-1873

Where am I, you ask?

2010-06-22T13:55:00.009-04:00

I'm in Moscow.

Why am I here? Great question.

A few years ago, at the recommendation of several friends, I started reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. She writes about her travels to Italy, India and Indonesia on the heels of a wrenching divorce in an attempt to rediscover meaning in life. But I found myself resenting Gilbert and all her exotic wisdom so much that I had to stop reading after the first few chapters.

Nice for you, I thought, that you can just pack up and travel the world to mend your broken heart. Nice that you have the means and the time and everything to do whatever you want. If I had that luxury, I could also write full-time about the purpose of life, have more spiritual epiphanies and sort through all my personal psychoses.

But I don’t have that luxury. I’m stuck here in what feels like a dead end life with crushing student loans, an hour-long commute to an unfulfilling job, a crisis of faith, disappointment upon disappointment in my personal life and no idea what to do next. And all I’m getting from reading your "inspirational" book is that if I want to find purpose and meaning and healing I need to have a ton of money so I can travel the world. What about the rest of us? What about people who have to find a way to sort things out on a budget, while still juggling life's responsibilities?

And yet, here I am. I’ve arranged for 16 weeks of leave from my job to work on an important-sounding writing project. I've put all my earthly belongings into a 5' by 8' wooden crate. I’ve scraped together enough money to get to Russia and (hopefully) survive there for ten of those weeks. Maybe I bought into it after all. Maybe a part of me really believes that leaving my life behind, even temporarily, and living a foreign life in a foreign country while writing about foreign people is the path to life's answers. Maybe I resented Elizabeth Gilbert because I wanted to be her. Or maybe I just bought exactly what she was selling, without even realizing it.

A few weeks ago, I said to M., Maybe after three months in Russia I’ll know exactly what I want to do with my life. I’ll have direction and answers.

Probably not, he said.

Wow, I thought. That's a little mean.

But he was right, and that's when I realized how hard I was trying to be Elizabeth Gilbert. Life's answers aren't just out there for the taking, growing on mango trees in Thailand or currant bushes in Russia. It's not like there's an on-demand channel for them. I'm just as likely to come back and be right where I started as I am to find answers to any of life’s questions, solve my crisis of faith and have clear direction for my career and my love life.

And you know what? It's a relief to think that maybe I won’t figure it all out this summer. Or ever, for that matter. And so in the end, the answer to why I'm here is that I want to be here. Sure, maybe I'm trying a little too hard to find meaning. Welcome to my world. And yeah, maybe I'm just running away. So what? (Thanks, Dad, for helping me come to terms with that one.) It comes down to the fact that I just want to be here, and I can. And so I am.

It's like this guy said, after quitting his fancy New York City engineering job (what is it with our generation?) to walk across America. (Yep, just walk. He loves walking, apparently. And he’s meeting people and seeing the country and getting to walk.) He said:

"I didn't want to be too ambitious about what I would figure out on this walk. I didn't want to tell myself that when I was done, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. But maybe in the back of my head somewhere, I'm kind of hoping that."

Amen, brother.

Quote of the Day

2010-06-21T12:37:00.002-04:00

"We would like to draw your attention to the fact that hot water in the dormitory will be closed until June 30 due to technical reasons of Moscow government."

Um.

Remember me?

2010-06-20T12:34:00.001-04:00

Hi. I'm back.

Little brown dress

2009-02-24T20:39:00.005-05:00

Would you -- could you -- wear the same thing every day for a year?

This person did. And I'm fascinated by it:

So, here's the deal - I made this dress and I wore it every day for a year. I made one small, personal attempt to confront consumerism by refusing to change my dress for 365 days.
In this performance, I challenged myself to reject the economic system that pushes over-consumption, and the bill of goods that has been sold, especially to women, about what makes a person good, attractive and interesting. Clothes are a big part of this image, and the expectation in time, effort, and financial investment is immense.

She blogs all about her experience and insights over the course of the year, and as I read I found myself secretly wishing I could wear the same thing every day, realizing that it's not realistic in my world -- but then thinking, ok, what IS realistic? Ten items of clothing? Fifteen? Yeah, maybe, actually. Twenty? That's still a LOT less than what's in my closet right now. And it's also a lot more than most people in most countries in the world own.

Anyway, I have approximately one million more thoughts related to this topic. The idea of simplicity, of simplifying life, seems to be popping up every time I turn around -- in movies, music, and friends' homes.

So this post is kind of just a teaser. More thoughts on this later.

Everybody hurts

2009-02-24T20:20:00.001-05:00

Without going into personal detail, can I just acknowledge something here?

Sometimes I hurt. Sometimes I hurt a little, sometimes a lot.

Don't worry, I am fine. But the past couple of weeks have not been fine. That's just kind of how life works sometimes. I'm coming out on the other side of this one, amazingly intact, and starting to have some pain replaced by wisdom and insight and even peace. But a part of me -- call it the emo part? -- still wants to acknowledge it, to say, this is how I felt. Not, this is how I fixed it, or this is what I learned, or this is who helped me -- but simply, I felt this. I am a real person having a real human experience, and this is how it feels sometimes. And I know I'm not the only one who feels it.

And so, in the spirit of teen angst, this song from my teen years is for all of us.

Getting my stuff done

2009-02-12T10:15:00.007-05:00

I'm having one of those days.

Four in a row, actually.

In fact ... posting this video to my blog is a shining example of my amazing non-productive productivity ...

My dad and the untold story of black mormons

2009-02-06T16:15:00.002-05:00

I saw a moving film (for the second time) on Saturday night called "Nobody Knows: The Untold Story of Black Mormons."

It does a beautiful job of covering, as one of the producers, Darius Gray, put it afterwards, both the the bitter and the sweet. I felt somehow healed by it, not just in terms of racial reconciliation but also in terms of reconciling my faith. I highly recommend it to anyone who has the opportunity to see it -- whatever your race or religion. Check out some extended clips from it here.

Coincidentally, I also received a short memoir from my dad this week on the same topic. I was excited to get this piece of family history -- I'd never heard all the details before. Like my dad, I am proud of the progress my country and my church have made over the past several decades. Thanks, Dad, for recording and sending this!

"In light of the recent inauguration of President Obama, our first black president, I thought it would be fun to share a set of cultural experiences I had in South Georgia.
"In 1979, I was living with my growing family in South Georgia. Just one year after the revelation on blacks receiving the priesthood, our small branch of the Church, in Americus, Georgia, was the only integrated church in the County, with 50% black population. I was a counselor in the branch presidency, and we were having trouble getting white members to accept black members attending church with whites, refusing to sit anywhere near them, and certainly not on the same pew!
"I had a black home teaching companion named Willie, and after home teaching the relief society president, I learned from the elder’s quorum president that I was never to bring Willie with me to her house again. Not letting us in the house the first time, she had let us visit with her on her old southern porch. Next time, I was informed, she would not be so kind.
"At work, I was teaching multi-cultural training, with a 50% black and 50% woman workforce. The white men didn’t like us “HR black lovers” too much, because of this training, and said it was totally unnecessary, since they had been raised by black mammies, and therefore got along with their black brothers quite well.
"On the home front, the white man who built my house came by one night, under the cloak of darkness, to tell me that if I sold my house to a black man, which I was considering doing, he, the builder would be run out of town and it would destroy his business.
"One day, Sister Stevenson, a black member of our branch asked my wife Vicki and me to sing at her son’s funeral. Her son had been killed in a drive-by shooting. So Vicki and I went to the funeral at a small, one-room church out in the country. The church looked like an isolated wooden shack, with a red dirt parking lot, and a single picture of Martin Luther King hung from the white walls inside.

"When it was our turn to sing, there was no piano for the accompanist we had brought, so we proceeded to sing Oh My Father “acapella.” In the middle of the first verse we realized the crowd of black family members was beginning to sing with us, clapping and swaying to the beat. So, yes, you guessed it, we went the distance with all the verses with black choir accompaniment. Vicki and I adapted to the southern singen style, and found ourselves exhilarated by the spiritual experience we were having together.

"After the funeral, and at the luncheon, most of those black family members and friends hugged us and told us how much they liked the song, accepting us as members and friends of the family. I was deeply moved by this experience as our hearts were touched by their kindness and love. I have often wondered since then, when and how we might begin to be as loving and Christian as this community of black people. 30 years later, I take great joy in seeing how much progress the Church and our nation have made."

Obamarama

2009-01-25T17:41:00.019-05:00

It's really the only way to describe DC last weekend: Obamarama. One big Obamafest. Or, as one columnist put it, a combination of an Obama-themed flea market, a tour bus park, a street party and an armed camp.

Another way to describe it would be our mantra for inauguration day: "More miserable = more memorable!" The complete story:

Yes, I managed to roll out of bed with a 6 on the alarm clock, dress in five layers on top and three on the bottom, and pack sardine-like onto a train with folks from Missouri and North Carolina for what turned out to be an hour-long ride into downtown. More miserable = more memorable!

By some miracle, I actually met up with my friends (Kim, Richie, Hannah and Greg) in the throngs of people. In eight years in Washington, I've never seen anything like these crowds. We waited in line for a couple of hours -- I won't comment on the tundra that was DC except to say that I've never been happier to pay above-market price for anything than I was to purchase $5 handwarmers some lady was hawking out of a backpack. But it was ok, because more miserable = more memorable!

Our line eventually dissolved into a crowd of confused people. At one point, people started chanting, "Let us in! Let us in!" and I pictured myself actually dying heroically while protecting the two women next to me in wheelchairs from being trampled. (More miserable = more memorable?!)

We squirmed around the outer edge of the crowd to the front where security guards were turning everyone away (even though we all had tickets!), saying the mall was at capacity -- which turned out not to be true, as we found out by running half a block down and cutting onto the mall between some parked tour buses. After jumping a concrete barrier, pushing through another crowd, breezing through a make-shift security point and running across two downed fences, we ended up with a great spot on the north side of the Capitol reflecting pool -- just as the ceremony started. From there on out, it was much more memorable than miserable.

It was true -- there was real energy and comraderie in the crowd. My favorite moments of the ceremony included:

Aretha Franklin's song (she rocked), especially when she sang the line "Land where my fathers died" -- it gave me chills. (Yo Yo Ma was cool, too, but the slow song, although beautiful, didn't match the upbeat tempo of the crowd. I did love it later when I watched it on TV.)

Obama's speech, especially this paragraph:

"Those values upon which our success depends - hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism - these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility - a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task."

People-watching in the crowd around me, especially all of the older African-American ladies dressed to the nines in their pearls and fur, walking with their heads high and seriously contagious smiles on their faces. The meaningfulness of this event to the black community in DC can hardly be understated and has touched me over the past couple of weeks.

So there you have it. My view of the Obamarama. But this post would not be complete if I didn't include a picture of the cookies we frosted at Collette's house sporting the Obama logo. Ryan and Kim brought some Obama cookies from New York, too -- please note the "black and white" cookie, as well as the mini-pecan pie -- "Yes Pe-Can!"

Whatever your politics, it was hard not to get caught up in the excitement of this weekend -- of being alive to see history in the making. Here's to America!

The problem with getting to work on time

2009-01-25T16:53:00.001-05:00

... is that it makes the day too long!

That's what it says on a refrigerator magnet given to me by someone who knows me WAY too well.

Last week I discovered another problem with getting to work on time. Well, in this case, early. I arrived at 7:40, almost an hour and a half before our office officially opens. I turned on my computer and then walked out to the cafe to get water and tea. As I was about to walk back to my desk, I realized I didn't have my little grey fob-thingy to get me back in. I was locked out, trapped in the lobby, and no one else was in sight.

I didn't know what else to do, so I watched CNN for a while, all about Bush's farewell address and the plane crash into the Hudson River. I tried using the lobby phone to call and see if any of my coworkers who usually arrive early had snuck in through the other entrance. Finally, at 8:10, the director of our project came into the cafe. I, of course, pretended like I'd only been in the cafe for a few moments and nonchalantly let him hold the door open for me because my hands were full.

His reaction to seeing me at 8:10 am: "What are YOU doing here so early?"

My nephews are cuter than your nephews

2009-01-15T22:13:00.003-05:00

Sorry, but it's true. Could these guys possibly be any more ADORABLE?!

Seriously. Just try to resist these handsome baby blues ... go ahead, try.

Thanks for the pics, Em! I love them! And I love the real you guys, too!

Everything we have ever loved

2008-12-25T22:25:00.012-05:00

"Christmas--that magic blanket that wraps itself about us, that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance. It may weave a spell of nostalgia. Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer, [or of craziness], but always it will be a day of remembrance--a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved."
~ Augusta E. Rundel

It has been such a day for me. Thank you, dear family and friends, for being part of my life and for including me in yours. Merry, merry Christmas!

Year-end stats: 2008 (aka my sort-of Christmas letter)

2008-12-25T22:10:00.002-05:00

Houses lived in: Just 1! (This is the first time in six years I've stayed put in the same house and the same room. Yay!)
Herb gardens planted: 2
Herb gardens still alive: 0 (except for one determined rosemary plant)
Pounds lost in biggest loser competition: 10 (see here)
Pounds gained back at end of competition: none of your business
Episodes of LOST watched: 72
Writing classes taken: 1
Book club meetings hosted: 10
Countries visited: 3 (Egypt, Jordan and Israel; see here and here)
States visited: 4 (See here, here, and here for Colorado; here for Idaho/Utah; and here, here and here for North Carolina)
Trips to Utah to see family: 3
Vacation days left at end of year: 0
Pounds of Hunter's seriously sharp cheddar cheese consumed: ~10
Awesome kids I teach music to at church each week: ~40
Presidential elections survived in DC: 1 (Third one! Can you believe I've lived here more than 8 years?!)
Times pressed snooze: 365 x ~5 = ~1,825
Minutes spent commuting: ~21,600 (45-60 each way every day - see here and here)
Books started: ~50
Books finished: 15?
Major reports released at work: 4
New blogs started: 2 (see here and here)

'Tis the season ...

2008-12-25T22:00:00.003-05:00

... to elf yourself!

Images of Christmas

2008-12-23T16:19:00.000-05:00

Washington, DC Temple:

Our house decorated for Christmas:

His charisma is killing me

2008-12-17T13:09:00.015-05:00

I was walking past a stack of newspapers on my way to the printer this morning when I saw a headline out of the corner of my eye that literally stopped me in my tracks:

"Obama's Charm Offensive."

Man, I thought, you just can't win with some people, no matter what you do. People are offended that he's a nice guy who's good with people?

Then I caught the subhead: "Radically different from Rahm." Wait, I thought Rahm was the offensive one. I'm so confused.

Luckily there was a second subhead that shed more light: "Republicans clearly flattered by personal calls." And suddenly I got it. "Offensive" is a noun here, not a verb. He's waging a charm campaign. Killin' 'em with kindness. Ha ha!

I immediately remembered the list of funny actual headlines we got in one of my college journalism classes -- things like "Iraqi Head Seeks Arms" and "Red Tape Holds Up New Bridge" and "Kids Make Nutritious Snacks." In fact, I just found a similar list here:

Funny Newspaper Headlines:

Drunk Gets Nine Months in Violin Case
Safety Experts Say School Bus Passengers Should Be Belted
Survivor of Siamese Twins Joins Parents
Iraqi Head Seeks Arms
Eye Drops off Shelf
Reagan Wins on Budget, But More Lies Ahead
Shot Off Woman's Leg Helps Nicklaus to 66
Enraged Cow Injures Farmer with Axe
Two Soviet Ships Collide, One Dies
Two Sisters Reunited after 18 Years in Checkout Counter
Cold Wave Linked to Temperatures
Red Tape Holds Up New Bridge
Deer Kill 17,000
Man Struck by Lightning Faces Battery Charge
New Study of Obesity Looks for Larger Test Group
Kids Make Nutritious Snacks
Chef Throws His Heart into Helping Feed Needy
Fire British Union Finds Dwarfs in Short Supply
Ban On Soliciting Dead in Trotwood
Lansing Residents Can Drop Off Trees
Local High School Dropouts Cut in Half New
Vaccine May Contain Rabies
College Opens Doors to Hearing
Old School Pillars are Replaced by Alumni
Include your Children When Baking Cookies
Hospitals are Sued by 7 Foot Doctors
Bank Drive-in Window Blocked by Board
British Left Waffles on Falkland Islands
Air Head Fired Steals Clock, Faces Time
Lung Cancer in Women Mushrooms
Farmer Bill Dies in House
Teacher Strikes Idle Kids
Plane Too Close to Ground, Crash
Probe Told Miners Refuse to Work after Death
Drunken Drivers Paid £1000
War Dims Hope for Peace
If Strike isn't Settled Quickly, It May Last a While
Typhoon Rips Through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead
Astronaut Takes Blame for Gas in Spacecraft

(This list also kind of reminds me of some e-mail forwards I got circa 1998, back when it was cool to forward funny jokes and I would even print some of them out and put them in a binder -- true story. Didn't grasp the whole Internet thing at all back then.)

Anyway, I'm kind of proud to have discovered my very own unintentionally funny headline.

And here's another thing about this front page that you might have found interesting: the picture of the guy with the white hair. Um, that's not Rahm. Or Barack. Did they get mixed up and put someone else's picture under that headline? Nope. Turns out that pictures belongs with the story BELOW it, headlined "Larson: I'm not afraid of Speaker."

Note to editor of The Hill newspaper: Might be time for a small chat with your copyeditors and layout folks. (Try not to be too offensive, though.)

Have a funky, funky Christmas

2008-12-17T13:00:00.007-05:00

I can't believe I forgot my camera and couldn't record our bad-poetry-slash-Matt's-birthday party!

The winning entries (we didn't actually pick winners but since it was Matt's birthday we'll call his entries the winners):

-Funky Funky Christmas, by New Kids on the Block
-18 and Life, by Skid Row

I contributed a dramatic reading of Christmas Eve in Washington (turns out we had a lot of song lyrics), and Liz and Kim came through with some HILARIOUS poems written in all seriousness by people they actually know, all about truth bombs and Mormon singlehood.

Though none of the bad poetry performances were preserved in video format, I did manage to snap a few pics with my phone. Please note Liz's awesome decorations, including the hot seat for dramatic readings:

And here is Matt with a few of the ladies:

Have a funky, funky Christmas, everyone!

Adrenaline junkies and blogging

2008-12-06T18:00:00.008-05:00

Brilliant.

I'm seriously considering investing in this alarm clock, called the SnūzNLūz:

How it works:

"Connects to your online bank account, and donates YOUR real money to an organization you HATE when you decide to snooze!"

Are you a butcher? Set your SnūzNLūz to donate to PETA
Are you a republican? Set your SnūzNLūz to donate to the ACLU!
Are you a land developer? Set your SnūzNLūz to donate to the Wilderness Society!
Enjoy your freedom? (Blue state version) Set your SnūzNLūz to donate to the GOP. or
Enjoy your freedom? (Red state version) Set your SnūzNLūz to donate to MoveOn.Org
Are you a hippie? Set your SnūzNLūz to donate to the American Coal Foundation.
Are you a Ninja? Set your SnūzNLūz to donate to, hrrrm, we can't find a Pirate Charity at the moment. But there must be one...somewhere...

I'm not sure which charity I'd choose. Any (non-partisan) suggestions?!

So, yes, I admit it, I have a lifelong addiction to the snooze button.

A friend asked me recently how my mornings typically go. Well, I answered, they usually start with me hitting snooze for approximately an hour, then rushing out of the house late for work with unwashed hair, eating breakfast on the way to the bus stop, putting on makeup while riding the metro, and finally slinking to my desk and pretending I've been there awhile already.

So how does this tie into blogging?

I'm not so good at doing things on a normal timeline, or in installments, whether it's getting up in the morning, getting a project done at work, writing a paper, planning a party or a musical number or whatever. I tend to put things off, keep putting them off, put them off some more and then suddenly get it all done in a big burst of hyperfocused energy. My mother calls me an adrenalin junkie. I'm pretty sure this type of behavior has shaved a few years off my life.

So when it comes to blogging ... well, I try to space out posts and all, and I have ideas for posts regularly, but somehow they just pile up and the only way I know how to do this is to catch up all at once.

This is basically a very long way of explaining why there are eight new posts all of a sudden, and inviting you to read all of them (even though I have a feeling this is probably bad blog etiquette or something, and only my mom and like one other person will read them all). Ah, well, all I can say is, Welcome to my world.

Pearls before swine

2008-12-06T15:37:00.001-05:00

(Scene: Morning. A reasonably attractive woman in her early thirties boards a city bus and finds a seat across from several other riders, including a man about her age reading a newspaper.)

Man (looking up from newspaper): Hey, you have some dirt on your pants, yeah, right there.

Reasonably attractive woman: Oh, thanks. (Rubs at dirt with fingers.)

Man: I think it's actually from your purse -- it's all dirty on the bottom.

Woman (turning an impossibly large purse to look at the bottom): Oh, no, I must have set it down at the bus stop. Thanks for pointing that out.

Man: If I were you, I'd wait until I got to work and use water on it; otherwise you'll just rub it in.

Woman: Ah. Good point. (Sits still, feeling uncomfortable, wanting to rub dirt from her pants and planning to do so as soon as man gets off bus.)

(Pause.)

Man (looking up from newspaper): You have more self-control than I do. I would have been rubbing at that dirt like crazy by now.

Woman (laughs self-consciously): Well, really it's just par for the course for me. I'm always having minor mishaps -- it's kind of a way of life for me. My friends tell me I'm like the heroine of a romantic comedy who's always falling down and hitting her head, but who gets the guy in the end. Like Sandra Bullock or Meg Ryan or something.

Man: Do your friends always lie to make people feel better about themselves? (Laughs at his own joke; woman laughs confusedly.)

Man: I'm Tyler.

Woman: Nice to meet you. Allison.

Man: Hey, do you read the comics?

Woman: Yeah, sometimes.

Man: My favorite one is this one about a pig and a zebra. Last week, they had a really funny one where the pig ...

(Man keeps talking. Woman's mind wanders to other riders on the bus who are trying to appear as though they are not eavesdropping, which, of course, they are. "Is he hitting on me?" the woman thinks. "Are all these people laughing inside, like I do when I see someone hitting on someone else in public? Is this awkward? Or not? AND -- did he really just say that my friends are *lying* to make me feel better when they say I'll get the guy in the end?"

Man finishes story and laughs, looking expectantly at woman. Woman realizes she wasn't listening and has no idea what he just said and pretends to laugh awkwardly.)

Another reasonably attractive woman (sitting next to the man, laughing loudly): Oh, that's a good one! I love that comic!

Man: It's called "Pearls Before Swine." I have no idea what that means, but it's my favorite comic.

First woman: It's from the Bible.

Man sitting next to woman #1: Yeah, it means, like, not tellin' people your personal business 'cause they don't understand. Like, if I believe somethin', and I know people don't respect that, then I ain't gon' tell those people, 'cause it's special to me.

(First woman stands as the bus pulls up to the metro.)

Man: Hey, nice to meet you.

Woman: You too. Have great day. (Exits bus with a sigh of relief.)

Uh huh. Welcome to my world. :)

I <3 DC

2008-12-06T15:31:00.000-05:00

I have officially lived in Washington, DC longer than any other place my entire life. 8 years! That's one quarter of my life so far. I was just looking through my pictures from this past year and decided to post some of the best places in DC I've visited this year.

1. Eastern Market: Hands down one of my favorite places in DC. Amazing blueberry buckwheat pancakes for breakfast ("bluebucks"), and then flea market / craft heaven. My favorite bookstore is also at Eastern Market: Capitol Hill books, inside a converted row house with teetering piles of books taking up every last square inch of space and cranky, funny old man running the place. (See last three pictures).

2. National Aboretum: It's a fairyland every April when the azaleas are in bloom. And the bonsai exhibit is cool, too. This year I went with Liz and Rachel.

3. The National Cathedral: I visited twice this year. The first time, they were projecting artwork on the outside of the cathedral at night to celebrate its 100th anniversary. The second time was for a concert on the 4th of July. Next time I go, I want to buy a guide to all the gargoyles in the gift shop and then go outside and spot them. Or do the same thing with the stained glass inside. Someone out there wants to do this with me, admit it.

4. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints built a chapel in the heart of DC in the 1930s. Tragically, the Church later sold it to the Unification Church. I called up and asked for a tour one day on my lunch break, and ended up explaining to my guide why the stained glass in the sanctuary represented the holy land on one wall and the central/south American lands on the opposite wall. Another highlight was the mosaic of the Sermon on the Mount over the front door, signed by someone named, simply, Mahonri.

5. The Smithsonian Folklife Festival: Every summer for three weeks, the Smithsonian highlights a couple of countries and a US state on the national mall. There are crafts and food and art and demonstrations. The first time I attended, one of the countries was Oman, and I left with henna tatoos on my hands that lasted more than a week (this was just as I was starting a new job). This year, Bhutan was highlighted. The third pic is of a sand painter. Here I am with Kim, Richie and Liz:

6. The Air Force Memorial: I did NOT like this when it was built a year or so ago. But I drove past one day when there was a rainbow, so I got out and visited it up close, and decided it's actually kind of cool.

Non-chronological post with beach pictures

2008-12-06T14:10:00.000-05:00

It turns out I have approximately one million pictures on my computer that I've been meaning to post ... including some from a beach vacation back in June that I still smile when I remember. (This was the second of two Outer Banks treks this summer, this one with some old, dear friends that I don't get to see nearly enough -- read more here.)

"And here we have Idaho, winning her way to fame"

2008-12-06T13:39:00.000-05:00

Family Reunion! In August, we packed the fam into cars and drove up to Stanley, Idaho to the cabin my grandparents owned throughout my childhood. Pictures this small probably won't do it justice -- the mountains, the sky, the lake are all breathtaking. And could my nephews get any cuter? Seriously.

It's all about me. me me me

2008-12-06T13:21:00.007-05:00

I was spotlighted in the Relief Society [church women's organization] newsletter. Lucky me! It's rather informative, and is just like these sets of questions that are all the rage to tag people with on blogs these days, so I figured I'd post it here.

Where were you born and raised?
Where wasn't I? I was born in Provo, Utah, and over the next 13 years, my family lived in Utah, Idaho, Connecticut, Georgia, California, Mexico City, Michigan, Kentucky and Colorado. Some of my favorite childhood memories come from Mexico City, where I attended kindergarten and first grade at a British school called Green Gates, and from Kentucky, where we lived for five whole years. I went to high school in Colorado, and my parents still lived there until a couple of years ago.

How many siblings do you have?
Three. My brother Zach is just a year and half younger than I am and recently finished business school in L.A. My youngest sister, Emily, lives in Indianapolis with her husband and two adorable little boys. My sister Lindsay passed away in a car accident while I was serving my mission; she was 17 at the time. I still miss her.

Where was the last place you traveled to what was your favorite thing about it?
The Outer Banks, North Carolina. I loved the sun, the sand and the long talks with some old, dear friends. Just before that, I was in New Orleans -- my favorite things there were the live music, the beautiful cemeteries and all the balconies in the French Quarter. [I wrote this back in September before I went to the Middle East.]

Favorite Church Calling
I didn't think I'd like being a Primary [youth Sunday School] music leader, but I LOVE it. It's my new favorite calling. My other favorite calling is [adult] Sunday School teacher.

Favorite Hobby?
Reading. I've also taken up jewelry-making over the past year or so, and I play ultimate Frisbee regularly. And I love to sing.

Favorite Food?
Lebanese. And sushi. And C-H-O-C-O-L-A-T-E.

Favorite Book You've Read This Year and Why?
"Gilead: A Novel," by Marilynne Robinson, and "The Brothers Karamazov," by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Both books deal with issues of faith, doubt, grace, and human relationships in a beautiful way and are superbly written. I was deeply affected by them both.

Good Advice You've Received?
"Wherever you are, be there." My brother said this to me once in college, and it just stuck with me. It reminds me to relish life's experiences now, rather than dwelling on the past, obsessing about the future, or just wishing life were different.

Tell us one thing we wouldn't know about you after meeting you once?
I double dip. Salsa, ice cream, you name it. Guilty.

Groove is in the heart

2008-12-06T13:00:00.002-05:00

Just had to post a couple more pictures from my trip to Denver:

(That's me, Marlise, Janson, J.D., Jen and Marie)

There's just something about old friends -- people you've laughed and cried with, who've seen you at your best and at your worst and still love you anyway, etc. Few things in life compare with talking long into the night with friends like that. It was also fun to get to know the rest of the Smurthwaite fam better and experience what a special, amazing family they are.

And ... I hope Marlise doesn't mind me posting this video, but I can't resist ... it just reminds me too much of all the awesome impromptu dance parties we had in our house, right down to the song! It feels good to know that the tradition is being passed on to the next generation.

Vagaries of the crowd

2008-12-05T17:40:00.004-05:00

Anyone want to start a band?

The rules, according to someone named Drew, who got them from someone named Heather via George (Does it count as being tagged if you are reading the blog of a random person you've never met? I stumbled across this while searching for bad holiday poetry, but that's another post altogether):

Click on this link. The title of the page is the name of your band.

Click on this link. The last four words of the final quotation on the page are the title of your album.

Click on this link this link. The third picture is your album cover. (Or, if you're a cheater like me, you click the first link a few times, you pick the quote that works best and the picture you like most.)

Take the pic, add your band name and album title.

My results:
Band name: Slim Williams
Album name: Vagaries of the Crowd
Album cover:

Now you. I tag you all. (I've never tagged anyone before. Is this weird?)

Overanalyzing the Polar Express

2008-12-02T22:34:00.008-05:00

I have a sore throat.

So, I just made some chicken soup and found myself curled up in front of the ABC Family Christmas movie of the night: The Polar Express.

Am I the only one, or does anyone else ever feel like the kid in the Polar Express who is running around on the top of the train in the freezing cold, having run-ins with a hobo who fills your mind with questions and doubts, chasing after golden tickets that actually belong to someone else that you accidentally lost, jumping between train cars, delivering cups of hot chocolate, singing cheesy songs and looking at the northern lights -- oh, and nearly dying several times? And then, just for a moment, you go back to the regular coach full of the all other kids who are completely oblivious to the danger and complexity of the journey, who are just enjoying the ride and looking forward to the destination?

I mean, who are those kids, just hanging out in the coach car, sipping their hot chocolate and looking placidly out the window -- while for others, the entire journey is a mighty wrestle within themselves for the meaning of everything? Do I envy those kids in the coach? Pity them?

I can think of real-life counterparts to those kids. But now I'm asking myself, if I really got to know them, would I realize they are all fighting top-of-the-train battles of their own? Is it the human condition to have to struggle through things, to face challenges -- or are there people who really do just get to ride in the coach?

"One thing about trains: It doesn't matter where they're going. What matters is deciding to get on."
-- Conductor, The Polar Express

Happy Birthday, Linds

2008-11-18T23:00:00.009-05:00

Say not in grief that she is no more
But say in thankfulness that she was
A death is not the extinguishing of a light,
but the putting out of the lamp
because the dawn has come.

-Rabindranath Tagore

On Saturday I visited my sister Lindsay's grave for the first time in at least three years. Jen and Marlise, former roommates of mine in Washington, DC, have been hearing about Lindsay for years, and since we all met up in Colorado last week, they got to come with me. I loved sharing something so special to me with dear friends; it was almost like I was finally introducing everyone.

I brought Lindsay some lilies -- my favorite flowers because of their strong, sweet smell. I took a moment to trace my finger over the image of the bleeding heart plant on her headstone and looked at the dates under her name: November 18, 1980 - December 28, 1997. She would have been 28 today.

We stood there watching a colorful sunset and I spouted a few memories; then we sat on her bench talking about life and made sure to sing her Happy Birthday before we left.

And I know it seems slightly irreverent to strike a silly pose in a cemetery, but trust me, Lindsay would appreciate it:

The next day, on my way home from church, I couldn't help stopping by the cemetery again. This time, I plopped down cross-legged in front of her headstone and stared at it for a long time. There were some bees crawling around on the flowers, and I watched them come and go, their legs heavy with pollen. I thought Lindsay would have been interested in them, and I wondered what she would be doing if she were still here. I felt the gaping Lindsay-shaped hole in my life, the one I don't think about very often, thought about the confusion and crossroads of my present life, and had a good hard cry for several minutes.

Today, Lindsay's actual birthday, I came home from work and found a candle burning in my room. Next to it was a white mug with blue snowflakes on it and a canister of Stephen's gourmet hot chocolate. And on the bed was a blanket with a yellow note and a yellow bow. It took me a moment to process (and to realize I wasn't being stalked or seduced), but I recognized the blanket as the afghan Lindsay started knitting, with stripes of different colors for each of her friends. It was a perfect, utter surprise, and some combination of a long day, the recent visit to the cemetery, and the unexpectedness of something so meaningful triggered a fresh set of tears. So, since I was already in the mood, I dug out the tape of Lindsay singing "Breath of Heaven" that she sent me just before she died, wrapped myself up in the blanket and listened to her sweet voice.

I don't often cry when I think of Lindsay, and her birthday isn't normally sad for me. In fact, we like to have fun with it. It's been almost eleven years, and it's gotten easier with time, but somehow this year, Linds, I miss you more than usual. Thanks for the blanket. I love it.

Death is not the end
Death can never be the end.

Death is the road.
Life is the traveller.
The Soul is the Guide

...

Our mind thinks of death.
Our heart thinks of life
Our soul thinks of Immortality.

-Sri Chinmoy

Roots

2008-11-18T10:59:00.006-05:00

I didn't expect anything special when I walked into church on Sunday with Grammy. I hadn't been to the Littleton 5th Ward since my parents left Colorado several years ago, so I figured I'd probably see a few people I knew but mostly just look around and reminisce about my high school years.

It turned out to be so much more than that. Not only did I know everyone on the program (my dear laurel adviser spoke, a boy I used to babysit was reporting on his mission, and so on), but I was also just overwhelmed with the love I felt from and for so many people -- people I haven't seen in years. People who grabbed me and hugged me with tears in their eyes; people who sat and talked to me about my life and career decisions; people who were anxious for news about my family.

I have been thinking about this ever since Sunday, about how profoundly it affected me to remember that I have deep roots in a community. As a single person in a city of transients, I have grown accustomed to constant change, to getting new roommates and new jobs and new wards almost as often as new clothes. My family has always been a constant, but on Sunday it was like I visited my village. The ward where my dad was a bishop, where people rallied around our family when Lindsay passed away and Mom broke her neck, where Zach and I left on missions and came home again, where Emily got married. I didn't realize until I was there A) that I actually had roots like that, or B) how much it meant to me. I don't know when it will be, but I'm looking forward to the next chance I have to go back.

Back to my Roots.

Window on Wadi Musa

2008-11-10T23:50:00.008-05:00

(Go ahead, click on it. That's right, there are 400 itty bitty trip photos in there. I'm not gonna lie, I'm kind of impressed with myself right now.)

Favorite Mideast memories, stream-of-consciousness (aka, How I spent my stimulus check and tax refund)

2008-11-09T23:30:00.005-05:00

The warm, gooey perfect falafel we bought just outside the Western Wall
Making a human pyramid at the pyramids
Referring to any food we didn't recognize as "wikipedia"
Singing hymns in the matchless acoustics of Saint Anne's church
Laughing, talking, sipping lemon tea and eating wikipedia crackers and white pomegranate at the hostel in Petra, afternoon sunlight streaming in through the perfect window
Matt's spirited rendition of the Lion King in the Petra monastery
Floating down the Nile talking with dear friends and watching a slow sunset
Wandering through the tunneled streets of Acco at night
Dumping piles of dust out of my shoes after a day in Petra
Falling asleep on a horse and buggy ride around Luxor from sheer exhaustion
Sinking in up to my knees in mud at the Dead Sea
Paging Andrea over the airport intercom in Amman
Praying in the church on the Mount of Beatitudes
Getting lost driving in the West Bank … I'm not sure where we are but there’s a sign to Ramallah … yikes ...
Rusty and Dave pelting each other with olives all along the Jerusalem city wall
Jewish men and boys singing and dancing their way to the Western Wall at sunset
Wading through knee-deep water in Hezekiah’s tunnel
Camels everywhere! I heart camels
Getting proposed to by my camel driver (he offered 1 million camels for me!)
Being told by my donkey driver that my donkey was slower because I was too fat
All the homos – I mean hummus – I could eat. I heart hummus
Being nearly accosted by Egyptians for money
Melt-in-your-mouth Egyptian pizza
Randomly meeting someone from the Cairo ministry of culture who got us reserved seating at the whirling dervish show
Matt reading us select verses at Biblical sites in and around Jerusalem
Walking smack into a wall in the Masada museum
Shekels!
Dinars!
Hearing the call to prayer virtually everywhere
Sprinting through the old city with a djembe and a backpack full of dishes and scarves
Losing half my body weight in sweat at the Valley of the Kings
Gaining it all back eating pita bread and every kind of salad imaginable

Salaam alaykum

2008-11-09T22:55:00.005-05:00

This is how awesome/nerdy my family is: A week or so after I got home from Egypt, Jordan and Israel, we used freeconference.com to set up a conference call. It included a web feature where they could all see my desktop, and I walked them through roughly 400 (out of 1500 ... ) pictures I'd taken. And not only were they actually interested right up to the end, they were jumping in with additional wikipedia info on things I didn't know!

I won't put all of you through that, but I will post a few pics and highlights here (an even better album of the best pictures with soon-to-come captions is here here):

Long time, no posty

2008-11-09T21:22:00.003-05:00

I'm back.

Just to reassure you, most things in my life are still just the same as ever.

Presidential Mad Libs

2008-08-05T12:18:00.009-04:00

Finally, a way to get the candidates to talk about my issues ...

Generate a Barack Obama Quote!

"You know, there's a lot of talk in this country about fear of falling. Well I think Americans are tired of the same old mushy bananas. Ordinary Americans believe in kittens, they want less
kidnappers, they just aren't sure if their leaders believe in sparkling effervesence."

"These people haven't had brilliance for fifty years. So you can't be surprised if they get bitter and cling to their ants and their fire ants and their fire-breathing ants. That's what my campaign is about. Teaching all the little people in this country that they can have castles."

Generate you own Barack Obama quote here and share it below ...

Can you hear me now?

2008-08-04T11:36:00.006-04:00

So, last Monday, I come home early, change into my comfies and settle into my bed for a conference call. About an hour in, I hear a knock on my door. That confident, familiar knock, you know, the “RAT-tat-tat-TAT-TAT” you would answer with a "TAT-TAT." Oh, I think, it must be one of our friends, so I get up to answer it, thinking I'll just apologetically motion to my phone, shrug, mouth the word “sorry” and send them on their way.

I put my phone on mute and open the door and there's a perky, overweight girl smiling up at me. She launches into a schpiel about how she's from the inner city and has a two-year-old daughter and is selling magazines so she can to go back to school and get a degree in social work.

Now, it normally takes all my courage and concentration to say “no” to anyone about anything, and this is even harder because I'm distracted by the conference call and taken off guard. I find myself smiling and nodding and being nice, even though in my head I'm thinking, no, stop, you'll only encourage her! So I start to explain the whole conference call thing and motion the phone, which just makes her increase the speed of her schpiel, and before I know it I've purchased two magazine subscriptions to be sent to soldiers in Iraq to read during their free time. I’m still not sure how it all happened. Argh.

Anyway, the magazines are not the point. The point is that I close the door and go back to the conference call, commenting here and there along with the other four people on the call. I start making a pretty important point when Rob suddenly interrupts me and starts wrapping up the call. I stop and try again, talking louder this time, but now Dan is talking over me, and I'm thinking, hey, why isn't anyone paying attention to me?!

That's when I look down at my phone and realize it is still on mute. Twenty minutes I've been talking and no one's been hearing me! I take my phone off mute just in time to sign off, and then sit there holding the phone and replaying the last 20 minutes of conversation, wondering how I didn't realize sooner it wasn't a conversation at all. It was like the restaurant scene in The Sixth Sense, where you think Bruce Willis and his wife are talking to each other, but then after you find out he was dead and she could never see or hear him, you realize that the scene still works without anything he said. So basically ... I was the dead person!

Um, just so I know I'm not writing this blog post to no one ... can you hear me now?

What I did on my summer vacation

2008-06-17T10:41:00.013-04:00

This awesome video of Memorial Day weekend pretty well sums it up, from spoons to Kitty Hawk to lots of sun and sand to MIKA and Ken Lee. (The only thing missing is all of the nutella I consumed ... which is probably better left out ... ) Shout out to Emily for putting it together and taking some great shots, including the one below -- you're amazing!

How do you beach?

2008-06-12T17:01:00.014-04:00

During my first job out of college, I kept a little window open in the corner of my computer screen with a live beachcam of Waikiki Beach. I just checked, and it still plays Waikiki Baby and Rhythm of the Ocean ("Hear it calling your name ..." ) over and over and over, which is funny to me now. Anyway, when work was just too irritating, I'd click on the window and look at all the little people on vacation and daydream about my upcoming trip. (I believe this type of behavior is also known as "going to your happy place.") When I finally made it to Waikiki a few months later, I stood in front of that camera and waved encouragement (or gloated? not sure which) to whatever beleaguered office peon might be watching at that moment.

These days, my happy place is still the beach. After two sublime beach vacations in two weeks, I'm back in the office wishing for a live beachcam of the Outer Banks. But this time, I'm reading beach poetry, too ...

This first one is dedicated to Rachel and to walking until we can't walk anymore. In beaching and in life, I think I'm a walker.

The second is dedicated to John and his drip sand castles. And it is simply the essence of my very happy place.

Beach Glass
by Raymond A. Foss

How do you beach?
Sorry, don't want to get
Too personal
Just asking, to get a perspective
To put us on the same page.

Do you lay in place
drink in the rays, melt the stress?
Or maybe play – ball, Frisbee, or V-ball?

Not me. I walk, the length of the beach
Too restless to sit
Lost in my own thing
Looking for shells, people,
and beach glass.

Taking in the scene;
Hoping I remember where I left her
on my return.

Beach Sand
by Raymond A. Foss

Maybe it is the memories
the change of pace that brings us there
the sense of vacation
maybe the smell of the place
the sights of the gulls, the dunes, the grasses
but oh it is the feel of it,
the crunch and slide of it
the feeling of beach sand
so different from dirt, soil, loam
no, not earthy, moist, rich,
but oh so granular and gritty
even when wet,
moveable paper spreading under toes
sliding beneath the soles
smoothing my skin
clearing my mind
unburdening me of the rest
drawing me to the tactile, the feel
of beach sand

More New Orleans Pictures

2008-05-30T00:31:00.001-04:00

The Big Easy

2008-05-22T16:00:00.006-04:00

New Orleans top ten highlights (I attended the AAPOR annual conference last weekend, and also found plenty of time to play tourist. I became unexpectedly fond of this city):

10. Being in New Orleans during a flash flood warning

9. Not tripping over my feet or my words in my first professional conference presentation

8. Bourbon street. Yikes! (Anyone who has been there knows exactly what I mean.)

7. Room service :)

6. Getting trapped momentarily in an elevator just below the 27th floor of the hotel (hey, it could have been worse)

5. Balconies! Everyone in the French Quarter seems to have them. I want one. With plants.

4. Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. Have I ever told you that I love cemeteries? New Orleans cemeteries are known as Cities of the Dead because they look like streets with rows of buildings. This one is in the beautiful garden district.
3. Sitting in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant watching a man at the next table use his shoe to smash a giant cockroach on the wall, then hearing the bartender scream out a moment later, "What did you do to Frankie?!" (Seriously, though, the food all weekend was excellent. Jambalaya, gumbo, seafood and po'boys, mmmm!)

2. A driving tour, offered through the conference, of areas affected by Hurricane Katrina, most of which are still in various states of disrepair. Conducted by a non-profit group called Women of the Storm. Sobering and inspiring all at once -- these ladies saw something that needed to happen in their community and just started doing it. I want to do that. (I also heard heartbreaking stories from my taxi driver and others I met along the way who lost friends and family, who tried to rescue who they could, who pulled together with others through the storm. It all put my life into perspective. I thought my basement flooding a few days before this trip was something, but compared to this, I am not complaining.)

1. Live jazz. I can't describe this in words. Click on these links to have a listen yourself:
New Orleans Jazz 1 (Panorama Jazz Band playing at the Spotted Cat)
New Orleans Jazz 2 (Preservation Hall Jazz Band playing at Preservation Hall)

And I didn't even get to take the plantation tour or the swamp tour or help rebuild a school or house! All in all, I highly recommend N'Awlins as a destination. Interesting history and culture, great live music, and they need the money coming into their economy. Let me know when you go and I might even come with you!

I don't want to be an ant.

2008-05-20T16:47:00.002-04:00

I have a love-hate relationship with public transportation.

OK, I admit, it's mainly hate. I hate waiting, I hate standing, I hate not getting a seat. But there's something else. Something about the social phenomenon of so many people, fellow human beings, acting completely indifferent to one another. I mean, you're all in this small space together, and everyone is avoiding eye contact and pretending like no one else exists. It's like John Hannah's character says in Sliding Doors:

"It's funny the way nobody talks in the tubes, isn't it? I mean, I rarely catch the tube myself, but --or lifts -- confined spaces, everybody shuts down -- why is that? Perhaps we think everybody else on the tube or lift is a potential psychopath or a drunk so we close down and pretend to read a book or something --"

But then I also completely relate to Gwyneth Paltrow's response (in fact
sometimes I actually hide from people I know):

"Look, I don't think you're a psychopath, I just want to read my book."

So it's kind of contradictory that I want everyone to leave me alone, and yet I wish we all could be more human with each other.

Anyway, I was explaining this to someone who pointed me to this clip from the movie Waking Life. I'm weirdly fascinated by this:

Big Fat Loser

2008-05-19T00:14:00.018-04:00

So, my excuse for not posting for more than a month is that I am a big loser. No, seriously. Just when I got rolling with this blog, I also became involved in an intense Biggest Loser competition. Who knew trying to be more healthy could be so time-consuming?

This is the point in the conversation where people start in with, "Oh, you don't need to lose weight! Why are you doing this competition? You look great!" And I want to say, "Spare me," but instead I explain that it's not just for weight loss, it's to be more healthy.

I say, "See, there are these eight things that you try to do every day (like eating five fruits/vegetables, working out for 30 minutes, sleeping seven hours, drinking 6-8 glasses of water, not eating after 8pm, and so forth) -- and you get a point for each one. So you can get eight points a day, and at the end of the competition, you get a little bonus for any weight you lose. So really, it's more about being healthy than losing weight."

(I always say that last line, but let's be honest, it's not really true. It really is more about losing weight, and about competing with other people. Especially in the moment when you're chugging two glasses of water before bed just to get that point for the day. And hoping your seven hours of sleep won't be too interrupted by it.)

At this point, people often interject one of two things: 1) "I could never do that. There's no way I could not eat after 8pm," or 2) "Oh, I would love to do this! Is it too late to sign up?" (The answer is yes. Sorry. We do have about 60 people participating -- and with each person putting $10 in the pot, it makes for some serious high stakes!)

Anyway, my point is that this competition has taken over my life. Sleeping seven hours a night takes a long time! Plus trundling back and forth to the gym all the time ... which brings me full circle to where I started this post. If you'd like to see what I've been doing instead of updating my blog, check out my progress here. And stay tuned for The Big Reveal, coming up next week ...

Beats getting towed

2008-04-17T20:00:00.008-04:00

Saw this sign in front of a Baptist church on Washington St. in Old Town Alexandria:

No joke

2008-04-11T17:20:00.016-04:00

Anyone who doesn't think working out is fun should have been at our house for laughter yoga last week. Sure, it weirded out Mike and Kevin when they came up the walk and saw, through the window, a group of girls inside walking in a circle high-fiving each other and laughing hysterically ... but it really was physically and emotionally therapeutic!

Like regular yoga, there are names for certain moves. Check it out (from the AU Laughter Club handout -- which also explains the laughter yoga philosophy):

Hi-5 Laughter: Raising both the hands up, go around giving each other high fives while laughing heartily.
Appreciation Laughter: Join your pointing finger with the thumb to make a small circle while making gestures as if you are appreciating your group members and laughing simultaneously.
Milk Shake Laughter (a variation): Hold and mix two imaginary glasses of milk or coffee and at the instruction of the leader pour the milk from one glass into the other by chanting Aeee...., and then pour it back into the first glass by chanting Aeee..., after that everyone laughs making a gesture as if they are drinking milk. (Repeat 4 times).
Silent Laughter (without sound): Open your mouth wide and laugh without making any sound and look into each others' eyes and make some funny gestures.
The Bald Eagle Swinging Laughter: Stand in a circle, spread your hands wide and move towards the center by chanting Aee....Ooo....Eee...Uuu...
Lion Laughter: Extend the tongue fully with eyes wide open and hands stretched out like the claws of a lion and laugh from the tummy
Cell Phone Laughter: Hold an imaginary mobile phone and try to laugh, making different gestures and moving around in the group to meet different people.
Gradient Laughter: Gradient laughter starts with bringing a smile on the face, slowly gentle giggles are added and the intensity of laughter is increased further. Then the members gradually burst into hearty laughter and slowly and gradually bring the laughter down and stop.
Heart to Heart Laughter (Intimacy Laughter): Come closer and hold each others hands and laugh. One can shake hands or hug each other, whatever feels comfortable.

I mean, seriously -- I'm laughing just writing this post. And because I just found this video of a laughter club in California:

Go ahead, laugh at me or with me -- either way, it beats 30 minutes on a treadmill any day.

I am a n3rd

2008-04-08T21:58:00.008-04:00

I can't help it -- I love this (from John Tierney's column at NYT):

Q: Suppose you're on a game show, and you're given the choice of three doors: Behind one door is a car; behind the others, goats. You pick a door, say No. 1, and the host, who knows what's behind the other doors, opens another door, say No. 3, which has a goat. He then says to you, 'Do you want to pick door No. 2?' Is it to your advantage to take the switch?

A: Yes! I know, I know, I couldn't get my mind around this. But check it out -- play the game here and then read the explanation at the end. If you do it enough times you see the pattern -- 33% success rate if you don't change, 66% if you do!

Up through the atmosphere

2008-04-05T02:00:00.029-04:00

So, it turns out that springtime in DC is just like in the coloring books. March wind, April rain, the whole bit. Seriously. Popcorn popping, too. I never fully understood it before moving here.

One of the best parts of this is the yearly kite festival on the mall. They just plan it for March, and it's always windy. Amazing. There are hundreds of people flying hundreds of kites -- butterflies, pirate ships, racecars, you name it -- and this year I saw the kite fighting contest, which was exciting a) because it's a fight, and b) because it reminded me of one of my favorite books/movies, The Kite Runner. (Seriously, it's probably the best adaptation of a book into a movie I've ever seen. Ever. Watch it. See the trailer here.)

This is the launch of the first heat (sorry about the quality, my camera battery died and I took this with my phone):

And here's a kite getting cut down (umm, don't mind my finger -- yes, I was struggling with the videography skills on Saturday):

And a close call:

Here are a few more pictures of the kite festival and the cherry blossoms (most of these are Layla's due to my dead camera battery):

Peep Wars

2008-03-26T22:12:00.017-04:00

For the record, I had a very grown-up, nice Easter/birthday dinner party: cloth napkins, crab cocktails, coordinated place-settings with assigned seating -- not to mention an amazing spread of all the ham and funeral potatoes and orange rolls you could eat. We even participated in a Romanian Easter tradition and I read one of my favorite poems after dinner.

Unfortunately, none of this was captured on film. What was captured was this slightly less mature, somewhat degenerate, but, well, hilarious after-dinner activity:

Yes, those are pink chicks and blue bunnies flying through the air. As Jenn said afterwards, "I stopped for a moment to consider the cumulative educational level of everyone in the room, and had a good belly laugh." A memorable birthday for SO many reasons.

p.s. I can't resist adding that I also received a very grown-up birthday gift that I LOVE. After fourteen years of living on my own and chopping all my vegetables with a dull knife and a cutting board, I am now the proud owner of a brand new KitchenAid food processor! It's so dreamy. Peep salad, anyone?

I had a blog once.

2008-03-19T17:11:00.012-04:00

I had a blog once. I posted to it three times -- sentimental, introspective, poetic posts. I never sent the address to anyone, and finally it dawned on me: I didn't want a blog. I wanted a journal.

Fast-forward a couple of years. I say to Margaret, "I have an idea. I'm thinking about starting a blog. There are just so many great people that I want to stay in touch with, and I just don't have time. I think blogging would be a great way to keep up with friends." Margaret says, "Yeah, that's kind of the point."

Oh. I get it.

So, um, hey guys! Here I am, I have a blog now, let's, like, link to each other and stuff. FYI, I don't have any cute kids and I don't work in Abu Dhabi, but I promise to have funny mishaps and make witty observations regularly.

So, until then ...