Amazing Grace/Til the Chicken

"If the angels is gonna come in, we should sing a song the angels know, George. They don't know this song."-Tori

I am in a position to neither confirm nor deny these events:

1. The rumors are yet unconfirmed, but it seems that I might have eaten Kashi shredded wheat, milk, blackberries and… chocolate chips mixed together, for breakfast.
2. I may have had to chase chickens during a bridal photo shoot. Some genius thought it would be “so cute” to incorporate them in the bridal/groomal portraits. Exercise for the day= a big, fat check.
3. It is possible that I choked on water during sacrament meeting today and it could be that afterward, the young man passing the water spilled it on my back. Does God have a sense of humor? I am going to have to go with, “YES.”
4. It is possible that three of my favorite people in the whole wide world are coming into town this week. Happiness? I think so.
5. The jury is still out but this week might make me one big ball of stress. Fingers crossed this one isn’t true.

Outta Mind (Outta Sight)

I saw him last night. It took me by surprise when he walked into the kitchen as I turned the corner to go outside. His smile was friendly and gentle…familiar. My knees were surprisingly sturdy and my feet carried me past him and out to my car. My friend Melanie followed me. Normally after an encounter like this I panic and cannot breathe. It is different this time. I pull out some “stained glass” projects I have been working on and set them up on the trunk of the car for her to see. She is sunshine embodied. She showers me with, perhaps unwarranted, praise. I am grateful. He comes outside and strikes up a conversation. Stumbling through a description of my job and my plans for more school I shift weight from my left to my right. I try to find a place to put my hands. On my hips? No. On the trunk? No. I start putting the glass away. He tells me he is moving to the Midwest. He introduces me to his wife. I didn’t really see her until this moment. I guess she had been there all along, following him around. She seems quiet… nice. Not like me… maybe my opposite. They leave. Okay. All right. Okay. All right.

Keep the Car Running

A portion of this week was spent up at a little piece of wilderness heaven near Mount Pleasant. Most of my energy was exhausted by setting up, making/serving food, decorating and doing other campy things: attending flag, applying mosquito repellant, starting things on fire, attempting to sing songs I thought as a teen (and still do think) that I am too cool for i.e. “Sippin’Cider,” and “Wadaliacha.” Really? Who wrote those songs? They are an embarrassment to American culture. Well, maybe I don’t really mean that. It is good for people to do silly stuff, it might be too indecorous for me, though.

Anyway, because I just got the serious-person job, I had to show up at the office 3 days this week, so Tuesday night I drove home. The way to the campground is curvy and next to a cliff most of the way. As I was driving down at sunset I got to see the trees in this incredible, golden light. Each conifer was luminescent and although the light was fading, the details of each tree were clearer as the sun passed into the distance.

It is times like these that I think, I wish I had an incredible camera so I could capture this moment. That thought is immediately followed by the knowledge that even the most talented photographer can never really capture this moment: visceral reaction to light and chlorophyll and oxygen and the fuzzy-horned deer that lifts its head from the tall grass. I am grateful for those moments; I consider them a benefaction from above.

By the time I arrived at the bottom of one of the curvy roads leading from the camp turned the wrong direction. There are apparently two ways to drive up to the camp. One was outlined on a map distributed that morning and the other was the direction given by one of the 16-year-veteran girl’s camp leaders in the car with me on the way up. I saw a sign for Route 6 (a road from the map) and thought I would be less likely to get lost, now that the evening had turned from gold to purple. The road was made of dirt, rocks and potholes and began uphill. Up mountains and into valleys, past groves and open fields into a herd of black cows sitting in the middle of the road. The calves, still unsure of what vehicles are all about stood until I got within a few feet. When I got too close they did this unnatural sideways skittering with a look of terror in their eyes. The bulls and cows just stood there, unflinching, forcing me to drive around their solid, substantial bodies.

Then I drove and drove and drove on this road into what felt like a horror film. There were no houses, no lights, no signs of life just a few abandoned trucks on the side of the road. I kept thinking of Ed Gein, that creepy guy who Jame “Buffalo Bill” Gumb is based on in “Silence of the Lambs.” I have got to stop reading about serial killers. I decided I was only driving this direction for 20 minutes and as soon as 9:00 hit, I was turning around no matter what. Well the time came, it was still the middle of nowhere and I made a U-turn, back through the woods, past the trucks and the stubborn bovine and 45 minutes after I had made the turn, I was back at the sign. The one that alleged that Route 6 was the direction I had just come from. I glanced to see if I had made a mistake. Nope. It was 28 miles that way, meaning I was probably almost there when I turned around. I drove home in the dark and got home nearly an hour later than I had planned.

There are many ways to get to the right place but occasionally you take the Robert Frost road and end up in arboreal arches surrounded by your own fears and obstinate livestock. Mistakes, decisions and getting lost are part of the process of making it back to where you started or maybe just back home.

I am growing tired, so instead of telling more stories I am making a list of this week's highlights:

-I built a fire in the rain. . The score at the end of the night was Team Heidi + Fire = 1 Team Water + Wind = 0 Take that nature!

-An albino cat crossed my path on the way to a party. I think that means I am supposed to have good luck, right?

- Heather told me The Arcade Fire is releasing a new album next month. Wahoo! I have been listening to Funeral and Neon Bible to prepare. Also, in other good music news, Brandon Flowers of The Killers is releasing a solo album, so Hot Fuss, Sam’s Town, and Sawdust have been keeping me up on long drives.

- Lots of deer were seen this week, which normally wouldn’t be that cool because they walk into my neighborhood all of the time, but there were two that caught my attention. The first one I already gave a shout-out to, but still deserves some consideration. He was a teenager and consequently had fuzzy horns. RAD! I also saw a super-tiny baby deer. It was only about 3 feet tall and had the white spots. It was trapped on the cliff side of the road so I drove very slowly as it scurried to the side and front of me. It finally got up the courage to cross the road and it hopped with such speed that it brought its legs in and out at the same time. It looked like it was bouncing! Baby deer are so dang adorable I could just squeal. (It is possible that I might have.)

-I held two babies (human) this week and cooed at them. Their moms must think I am nuts but infants make me crazy happy.

- Car Talk- Those guys crack me up. I caught the end of this week’s show driving up to Salt Lake yesterday. If you don’t listen to that radio program you should. Also, This American Life is pretty much the best thing that ever happened on the radio (and possibly TV). I think I have heard about every episode they have ever produced and I have realized that I am annoying at parties or in conversations when I constantly reference that show. Nerdiness abounds. Thank you Sara, for the introduction.

-Diane Rehm – Apology-
This was a show about, as you may have guessed, is the art of apology. The most poignant thing they discuss is the “I am sorry if…” statement. They point out that it is not a real apology if you shift the focus from your mistakes to the feelings of the injured party. For example saying, “I am sorry if I hurt your feelings,” isn’t a real apology. A real expression of regret sounds more like, “I am sorry I said those things about you, I was wrong.” It was great to feel validated. I am tired of the “I’m sorry if…” statements! Granted, I do this too so it was a real wake up call to me. I am going to try and be more careful when I express remorse.

-I stumbled onto this blog and it made me laugh. That was me as a teen, more or less.

-I have been thinking about doing this. It might be the only time my stuff ends up in a museum.

That is it for the week. More soon.

High on a Sunday

It’s an Aimee Mann day; her melodies have drifted through my plans, my successes and my setbacks this past week. Her voice puts ice on my stinging skin and sets a light bulb up at the end of a dark hallway.

All week I have been trying to maintain my equilibrium on the tip of my toes, attempting to shift my weight away from the edge of tears. Here is a short list of things that made me tear up or cry this week (possibly for no explicable reason):

Hearing The Association’s “Never my Love” on the radio while driving past a cemetery
Watching a short doc on Stephanie Nielson
Reading the edible Wasatch website
Talking to a really nice person at the San Francisco Film Commission on the phone
Having timed something perfectly today
Eating a fresh tomato with salt
The Extras Special Series Finale- that bit where Andy apologizes and tells
Maggie he’d be a penguin so he could eat the “glidey-flappy fish”
Sitting behind a baby at church

At work, we are producing mini-docs on people who are trying to make the world more habitable through kindness and good deeds. Under normal circumstances the cynic in me might do a little eyeball-hula but I love the project and my team and all this inspiring stuff makes me feel a little less suspicious of people. I know that human beings are capable of unthinkable things. Even trusted people can betray us in surprisingly cruel ways, but seeing people give up their time and energy to do their part has reminded me that people are good, too. There is this scene toward the end of P.T. Anderson’s Magnolia, and if I remember correctly, there is a montage of all of the tragic characters underscored by, you guessed it, Ms. Mann herself. At the end of their destructive paths there is this narration:

“Most people don’t know how hard it is to do the right thing. Sometimes people need a little help, sometimes they need to be forgiven, sometimes they need to go to jail.”

That line has stuck with me. It is hard to do the right, kind, and good thing. I fail. A lot. Everyone does. But there is joy to be found in reaching out for help and also in extending an arm or hand in a gesture of love. All we can do is just try and sometimes give in to the tears.

Cubicle

I moved into my cubicle. The contents of said cubicle are as follows:

one red pen
one blue pen
one black pen
one yellow, clicky highlighter
one fat pink highlighter
one stack of yellow, 3x3 Post-it notes with 100 leaves
one ample, white notepad significantly thicker than the Post-its
one small yellow legal pad
one box of paper clips
one semi-functional, green, office chair (I am sitting significantly lower than my desk)
one personal computer to be replaced by a work computer within the next week or so
one stack of paperwork filled out with my name and a hundred numbers that help identify me
one pamphlet geared at telling me what behavior is off-limits in this establishment
one purse
one water bottle filled with ice water and cut strawberries (when Heather found out I did this she called me a snob- to my face)

and me, one employed, Unit Production Manager.

Commencement

So much is happening I am feeling excited and apprehensive. Between preparing for girl's camp and the wedding, this morning I am starting a legitimate real-person job. Not a waitstaff, free lance, flexible hours, on your own time position but one in an institution with bureaucracy and a boss who isn't someone I've been friends with for years. This is what I have been saying I should do forever, but now that I am here, I am unsure. Commence chapter one of adult life... four...three...two...one...

Tangled Dreams of this Mortal Coil

When I woke this morning I realized that I had a midsummer night’s dream within a dream. In the beginning, I was roused by the patter of tiny, padded feet on my bedroom floor. Cloaked in a pall, my mind reached for the switch to illuminate the quiet, unknown guest but my arm stayed limp on the mattress. A heavy weight pinned my chest and limbs; I could neither move nor see. My lips formed a whispered plea but the calm did not come quickly. Panic rose as the padded feet approached and leapt from the floor to my bed and landed near my feet. The animal was small, lithe and boasted four delicate paws that started between my immobile ankles toward my face. Struggling harder to reach the switch, my arms stayed in place. I would not be able to confront the creature in the light so I lay helpless as my mind darted around for a solution. The animal stepped onto my abdomen and walked a few more steps to settle on my chest. With some difficulty my hand broke free and reached up to feel the conical ears and the silky fur. A distinctly feline purr revealed the nature of this guest but not its identity. This cat, although unknown, appeared to be amiable so I stroked its fur to calm us both until I woke up in another dream.

Stepping out of bed, climbing the stairs, splashing my face with water and brushing my teeth, I begin a new morning. Bread slides into the toaster and the fridge opens. Confronted by bright light and an electric hum, I scan the shelves for preserves and milk. I shut the door, comestibles in hand, and begin to assemble my breakfast on the counter. My sister enters and I ask her, “We didn’t get a new cat, did we?” A quizzical look crosses her face. “Why do you ask?” I proceed to detail my dream while pouring myself some milk and she tells me, “I have heard of that before. Some cultures say it’s the devil sitting on your chest.” “Wait, the cat?” “No, that feeling of being unable to move even though you are wide awake.” “An apt name, I must admit, it was paralyzing. Pun intended.” She rolls her eyes. I offer her toast and then I wake up.

Now I am sitting in front of a bright screen in the dark of my crowded room. The books I have been reading are encroaching upon my side of the bed and I keep pushing them toward that empty space on the other side. I keep thinking about how that feeling, the “devil sitting on my chest,” is familiar. It was as vivid in my dream as it was when I was awake and having the same experience. I am in awe that my brain can produce such elaborate reproductions of reality. What a strange thing: to be both delighted by and suspicious of one’s own brain, attempting to untangle verity from fantasy.

Once (or maybe a few times) I read this play, in which, the protagonist is caught in a loop of questioning. In the most famous soliloquy, perhaps the best known in the English language, death and suicide becomes knotted up with images of sleep and dreams. You may have heard it:

To be, or not to be- that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die- to sleep-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die- to sleep.
To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death-
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.- Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememb'red.

Painted by scholars in shades of yellow, he is a tragic figure to be pitied. Critics have called him a coward, saying he could not commit to a decision but I have empathy for this man. He is bold enough to ask if there is something worth the trouble that life brings. He grapples with despair and gets caught up in confusion but at least he is asking, thinking, reasoning and wrestling. When paralyzed by panic and desperation he reaches out even with one nearly powerless hand in the dark and finds comfort in a friend and a prayer.

Breathing In Nurture and Nature

Greenhouses are lovely. I spent some time breathing in a warm, fragrant, and colorful air of diffused light today. My muscles slackened as the oxygen rich atmosphere enveloped my body. I passed the sage, thyme, fennel and basil, all aromatic and delicious. I admired the blooms of the lilies, foxglove, and lantana. Walking through a space surrounded by verdant life is yoga: deep and controlled breathing, relaxed muscles and meditation.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
Tranquility just enters and stays.

In my dreams I have a space filled with trees, flowers and a bounty of vegetation, a place to wander and reflect. This nursery to rear small plants makes the corners of my mouth pull upward because flora paints the soul with bright splashes of lemon, fuchsia, periwinkle and lime. I was glad to take a small bit of that peace home with me to tend and nurture myself.