today is the last day of june, which means tomorrow is july.
I don't know where it went.
need to pass a math test even though I already passed the class
and that gives me anxiety.
math is one of the only things that really gives me anxiety.
math and mosquito bites.
the Fourth of July starts on thursday.
best holiday and much needed weekend.
and I get to see my family-- haven't been home since april. alas.
I like nilla wafers and cold milk.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
June Love List
- fireworks
- playing guitars on the front porch
- my roommates
- phone calls from Bailey
- campfires
- laughter
- giving campus tours
- singing in the car
- finishing books, then starting new ones
- windows and doors open in the evening
- popsicles- especially orange dream bars
- sour patch kids
- emails from my Dad
- pictures of my niece
- visits from long lost friends
- hiking
- driving to Hebgen
- the SUN
- gardens
- snoasis!
- finishing projects
- summerish music
- weekends
- barbecuing
- pink toenails
- watermelon
- father's day
- Hebgen
- people
Thursday, June 5, 2008
this place I know
I've been thinking lately about places:
This is Mount Olympus. I love all mountains-- but to me, this one means home. I love the view of it from my kitchen window, and to drive along its side on Wasatch Boulevard. Sometimes I miss this when I am displaced in Idaho.
You don't know me completely until you have visited Hebgen. This place has healed, molded, created, and represented me indefinitely. Quite possibly my favorite place.
I would be amiss if I did not mention London, or 27 Palace Court, or the people and experiences and life that changed me during my time there. London made an imprint on my character.
Other places I love:
Snowview #4 (and #10)
New England
New York City
Seattle
San Fransisco
Bountiful
Cedar City
Yellowstone
Rexburg
4051 MorningStar Drive
Green River
Millcreek Canyon
Solitude
The basement bedroom
The Hinckley building
Mom's backyard
This is Mount Olympus. I love all mountains-- but to me, this one means home. I love the view of it from my kitchen window, and to drive along its side on Wasatch Boulevard. Sometimes I miss this when I am displaced in Idaho.
You don't know me completely until you have visited Hebgen. This place has healed, molded, created, and represented me indefinitely. Quite possibly my favorite place.
I would be amiss if I did not mention London, or 27 Palace Court, or the people and experiences and life that changed me during my time there. London made an imprint on my character.
Other places I love:
Snowview #4 (and #10)
New England
New York City
Seattle
San Fransisco
Bountiful
Cedar City
Yellowstone
Rexburg
4051 MorningStar Drive
Green River
Millcreek Canyon
Solitude
The basement bedroom
The Hinckley building
Mom's backyard
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
May Love List
- warm evenings
- sitting on the front porch
- chocolate milk
- spring rainstorms
- hiking
- planning (friendly) pranks
- a daily routine
- roommate dinners
- flying kites
- bubbles
- bubble gum
- playing guitar
- Hebgen
- long weekends
- homemade salsa
- talking to my siblings on the phone
- daylight savings
- listening to music in the morning
- my little car
- clothespins
Thursday, May 8, 2008
the Beginning
From Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury:
Grandfather smiled in his sleep.
Feeling the smile and wondering why it was there, he awoke. He lay quietly listening, and the smile was explained.
For he heard a sound which was far more important than birds or the rustle of new leaves. Once each year he woke this way and lay waiting for the sound which meant that summer had officially begun. And it began on a morning such as this when a boarder, a nephew, a cousin, a son or a grandson came out on the lawn below and moved in consecutively smaller quadrangles north and east and south and west with a clatter of rotating metal through the sweet summer grass.
...God bless the lawn mower, he thought. Who was the fool who made January first New Year's Day? No, they should set a man to watch the grasses across a million Illinois, Ohio, and Iowa lawns, and on that morning when it was long enough for cutting, instead of rachets and horns and yelling, there should be a great swelling symphony of lawn mowers reaping fresh grass upon the prairie lands. Instead of confetti and serpentine, people should throw grass spray at each other on the one day each year that really represents the Beginning!
(They mowed the lawns on campus on Tuesday, and this is how it made me feel).
Grandfather smiled in his sleep.
Feeling the smile and wondering why it was there, he awoke. He lay quietly listening, and the smile was explained.
For he heard a sound which was far more important than birds or the rustle of new leaves. Once each year he woke this way and lay waiting for the sound which meant that summer had officially begun. And it began on a morning such as this when a boarder, a nephew, a cousin, a son or a grandson came out on the lawn below and moved in consecutively smaller quadrangles north and east and south and west with a clatter of rotating metal through the sweet summer grass.
...God bless the lawn mower, he thought. Who was the fool who made January first New Year's Day? No, they should set a man to watch the grasses across a million Illinois, Ohio, and Iowa lawns, and on that morning when it was long enough for cutting, instead of rachets and horns and yelling, there should be a great swelling symphony of lawn mowers reaping fresh grass upon the prairie lands. Instead of confetti and serpentine, people should throw grass spray at each other on the one day each year that really represents the Beginning!
(They mowed the lawns on campus on Tuesday, and this is how it made me feel).
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
April Love List
- homemade cookies
- baseball (it's just so American)
- school
- phone calls
- stake conference
- sunny days
- books
- the David O. McKay library
- meeting new people
- getting to know people
- my mom
- Alison's spring mixes
- mornings
- organic yogurt
- feeling lucky
- pictures of my niece
- making plans
- sitting on the front porch
- Sunday naps
- yoga
- kites
- sidewalk chalk
- the Reading Center
- mountains
Friday, April 18, 2008
each year inside the next one
From "Eleven" by Sandra Cisneros:
That's the way it is with twenty-one, too.
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.
You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.
You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.
That's the way it is with twenty-one, too.
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