In Russia, many men now carry purses.

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

Freedom

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

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?

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

"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?

Hi. I'm back.

Little brown dress

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

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

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

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

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

... 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

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

"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)

• 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 ...

... to elf yourself!

Images of Christmas

Washington, DC Temple:







Our house decorated for Christmas:

His charisma is killing me

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

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

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

(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

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

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"

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

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

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

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):

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


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


3. 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.)


4. 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

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

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