pablo

here is an ode
that you may have
forgotten

to touch
divinity

through nearness of soul
animal and man
woman
and man
fabrics and feathers

to what is behind the
eskimo songs

fleeting snow
and dew
in her eyes
melts
into forms

ease the searing abyss
carved into skin
a balm
of being near
touching the face

of God

Ducks and Lovers

"Lily, the ducks are back!" Ashley called down the stairs.
"What?!"
"Yeah, sitting on the front lawn."
I raced up the stairs two at a time, and ran to the front door only to only open it very softly.
"Hi guys..." I whispered, "how are you? Are you hungry?" I turned to Ashley, "it is 10pm, is it too late to feed them?"
"Nahh.. just see."
"Okay!"

I brought the corn out and sat on my front steps. I threw a handful and immediately Daisy was up and devouring each kernel. "Good girl!" As I watched them eat I realized how relieved I was to see them on my lawn again.

Last night Brad was over and said, "I just want kids! I want to play with them and take them to the park, but then I remember," and his voice drops off, "I need to get married first..."
I laughed - I have so often felt the same way. Though the task of raising children is a difficult one, it seems nothing compared to the overwhelmingly staggering task of finding someone to marry. It isn't this difficult for everyone. It could be that I am too picky, but seriously, I have not found anyone good enough. My last boyfriend was completely shallow and too interested in fictitious women, but I naively didn't realize it until my heart was invested. I usually am interested in the bad boys, but the good ones are so boring! I know, generalization. But I want to give all of myself to someone. There is no other relationship in which one give all....

"Good night Daisy." I stood up, "Good night Donald."

Donald and Daisy

I pulled my pant legs up over my knees and stood on the front porch.
"Daisy!" I greeted my duck, "are you hungry this morning? Look, I brought you corn!" I reached into the bowl of thawed corn (it isn't quite time for fresh corn) and tossed her a handful. I was amazed at the agility of her beak in picking out the kernels among the blades of grass.
"Where's Donald this morning?" She didn't even look up. "Is he at the pond?" Again, my question was met with silence. My feet began to freeze on the wet cement. "Daisy, are you cold in this rain?" I stood there for a moment longer, and then went inside my warm house.

That afternoon I watched a somewhat geeky couple stop in front of our lawn and talk to the ducks. The guy even started to walk like a duck and quack. My ducks are smart. They didn't quack back, they retreated from the crazies. Another guy bent and picked some of our grass and tossed it to the ducks. Smart move sir. They really love that grass. Yup. I think to myself, "you don't know the first thing about taking care of ducks!"

Over the past few weeks, I have become attached to those two ducks. I love that Donald will eat hard boiled eggs, but Daisy will not. Daisy has enough audacity and belief in being fed that she will come within inches of my hand, but Donald will stay at least three feet away. Donald won't even eat until Daisy has, the gentleman that he is. They are pragmatic creatures, no fooling around, ever.
Their schedules run like this: wake up, wait for breakfast on the lawn, eat breakfast with starving child in ethiopia speed, drink water from the corel bowl, sleep, eat lunch, drink more water, poop in the water dish, drink more water, sleep, dinner, disappear for the night.

I wonder if my ducks would like Duke Ellington.

Trying to get out

Sometimes life hurts. It feels good to get it out through paint. I have found finger paints to be the most effective. (I always start with paper...)

"Some of us are wound a little tighter," she said. (My amazing therapist)

I am one of those.

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Sometimes I wonder why I am alive, why I am here, why I even get out of bed. Graciously, Heavenly Father lets me have incredible teaching experiences where I taste eternity - it is something like a souffle, very difficult and very divine. And then, despite all the sad things I feel like it is okay to go on.

Plus, I have gained so much more compassion for those who never marry. There is nothing like being alone. And yet, if I am true to myself, I know that I am never alone.

Mama

Mom
mama
mom dirro

you are da one
happy mudder's day
don't feel guilty today
you are the mom i love

I wrote you down in an earlier entry
you can read it if you want
or just know that you
are beautiful and
please realize
the ducks
are still
here.

look. I wrote you a duck shape.
Happy Mother's Day!
your first

si je vis je choisis la masochisme

Quelque fois
mon ame pleure

mon cou
fatigue par le vent

comme un pierre

se durcir

les yeux regardent
moi tout nu

il y a un soleil
il est hors de ma portee
comme des enfants, des amis

je touche le mur

c'est juste
les larmes qui me rassure
que la douceur existe toujours

Spring and fall

spring exhibition

I felt stressed.

Within the first ten seconds of my program I knew something was wrong with my right skate. The laces were loose.... and they eventually came undone. I shouted at Afton, "my skate is untied!" but she didn't hear me and so I just went through the motions. Imagine a lemur ice skating.

I asked to reskate my program, and I was allowed to, but instead of being more calm that I had the chance to redeem myself, I was frantic. It felt terrible to have to go through the experience twice, and I really couldn't stop shaking. So the second time I skated with a very stiff air. Imagine a man on stilts ice skating.

The climax unfolded as I ended my program and got into my ending pose. Tout de suite, I was on my bottom. My feet came out from underneath me, and all I could do was lay on the ice in surrender. Oh, how the crowd laughed. I was glad too, because then I could laugh. Which I did. When we were SAFELY at home, I watched the video of the fall over and over again, laughing with my mother.

I was glad for those who were there; it would be a bit of a lie to skate well. I fall down nearly each day, and so I gave them a true picture I suppose. (And on a sappier note, I felt very loved that people I adore came.)
That is how it went down.

My own mom

Jet Blue flew my mom up to my cute red brick house for the weekend. The pilot hovered above my house long enough for her to climb down a rope ladder, and we put our lovesac on the lawn, and she landed with a graceful poof. I grabbed her arm and her shirt and pulled her around, showing her the tulips, the old window panes, and I let her go only because I wouldn't let her carry her suitcase. I gave her a tour of the inside of my house as well, the wood flours, the torn surfer magazine pictures with our autographs, the dungeon, and the white lights in my room. She was my own mom, in my house, and it felt really good to have her there.

When she is happy, or proud, or even silly and sarcastic, her voice goes soft and high. Sometimes I hear my grandma come out of her voice, and I love it. When she is telling a story, her voice carries emotions, and I have a greater understanding of them as a result. My mom and I share the same hands. During my mission, I rarely missed my family, like three times in the year and a half, and this was partly because I felt my mom's presence always in my hands. When she is tired she is an inch shorter. When she is sad, she doesn't seem to fit into any form at all.

This weekend, it was lovely to see my mom again. We went to the duck pond, a quirky attraction (young mothers, lip-smacking couples, aspiring photographers, and little boys who love to chase ducks). My mom and I sat and admired a mother duck, sitting on her 9 babies, completely altered in form to cover them up. The father rested nearby, and kept an eye on his family. My mom had her sketchbook and mused aloud over their various markings and tracings, trying to capture the life of a duck family. "He has a flat beak doesn't he... and look, there is a line that runs through their eyes... and black feet!" She was as interested as the one-year old little girl, gawking at the birds, but with a life's experience enhancing her ruminations.

As my mom sat and studied the birds, I desperately wanted to hold one. I wanted to feel the soft slick feathers, and I wanted to feel the warmth of the bird. I wanted to examine not through eyesight alone, but through touch and smell, and also through a sense of trust between the bird and myself. Growing up, I was allowed to touch. My mom keeps a beautiful garden, and when she used to trim the giant hedge that acted as a fence, I took all the branches and built a fort on the driveway. I went as far as to rub the green of the plant onto my face, marking myself as a child of the bush. She also let me run my fingers through dry macaroni, and have macaroni tea parties with my tea set. In the summer, when days were long, my sisters and I collected all the empty containers and scratch paper we could find, and built paper cities. An upside down paper cup could be a small home, and an empty cracker box turned into an apartment building. My mom always made it possibly for me to have a constant supply of watercolors, to paint the world as I saw it. She allowed for me to interact with the world on a very tangible level.

My mom is as tangible to me as the macaroni I played with. She is a very real force in my life, and I have been greatly shaped by her. I am thankful for her today, not just today, but especially today.