All the Birds of This Day

On Repeat

2012-02-08T15:53:00.000-08:00

My life is pretty simple these days. On Monday, I get all my etsy orders from the week ready to send off. On Tuesday, Remy and I hop on the bicycle (I hop on, Remy hops in his carrier) and we ride to the post office. On Wednesday I do laundry and join my neighbor to do cross-fit. On Thursday, I get ready for Friday. On Friday, we hop on and in the bike again and ride to the store to get bananas. Saturday we try to go on an adventure with all of us. Sunday we teach five little munchkins at church and come home and lay on top of our bed in the sunlight while Remy spies on kids out the window.

I just read through that list at least four times, and I am totally nervous to put it up because it makes me sound as if my life were insignificant or shallow. This is my list of the 'big events' of the week, but it looks so silly to me because I feel like the thoughts that swim around in my head, the way I looked at Remy while he bathing in the kitchen sink today and thought my heart might burst, the things I read in Laurel Thatcher Ulrich's new book that are turning some of my thoughts up-side-down-in-a-good-way, and the ways in which my faith in myself and in life is challenged and restored a hundred times daily, are not, nor ever could be reflected in that wee little list. Maybe the point is then, our lives are made up of the simple things we do repetitively, but we are a product of things of a more internal nature, if we choose to be. Our simple, daily acts do not have to define us, but we also don't have to fight with them.

My days and weeks are made of repetition, in fact, they would not exist without repetition. There is task-oriented repetition, which can at times be dull, but at other times, can be confidence boosting and satisfying. There is joyful repetition too. For a long time I thought that childhood was the only place where repetition brought real joy, but I was wrong. Engaging with repetition as a mom, a wife, a writer, an artist in my adulthood is starting to show me that making enough marks of the same kind requires a great deal of imagination and play, and I believe those are two places where joy is found. There are many hours spent in the sandbox; pages of books read, both of my own and of Remy's, we know the words and pictures by heart; words written and re-written and re-written again; paintings; late nights sitting on the floor with Carl and talking; so many dishes washed by hand; callalillies bloomed; snow pea plants that grown at least four inches; leaves swept off our patio; cookies baked; dinners made; floors vacuumed; Remy and Remy and Remy, crawling and making a mess and clinging to the bottom of my dress.

I used to think I was too good for repetition. I used to think that I was so adventurous and spontaneous that mundanity would never catch up with me, it would never even be able to find me. To some degree, I was right. For most of my life, until Remy came along, I was pretty free-spirited, as in, I didn't quite grasp the concept of consistency and its benefits. I don't feel less 'free-spirited' now, but I do feel the necessity of slowing down and repeating as I teach someone else what their little spirit is capable of. I am enjoying, more that I ever thought I would, this simple, simple life. Yes, there are times, (you can ask Carl) when I go wild and feel like a trapped canary, but even in those moments, I know the the whole of me is happy, even when parts of me aren't at the end of a long day when I'm thinking about getting up early and starting over.

I think the most significant thing I've learned from the temple painting series I've been working on is that repetition is well, repetitive, but that doesn't mean the doing over and over is without meaning. Temples are made up of pattern. Small pieces woven together over and over to make a whole. Sometimes as I am drawing and painting the parts of a temple, I can't even imagine how it could all come together to make something meaningful. I've also found though, that there is variation in repetition. I think I knew this in theory, but it didn't quite make sense to me until I sat for many hours moving my hand in nearly the same motion, but not ever exactly the same.

All of this reflection on the repetition that constitutes my life these days makes me wonder if my life always had this capacity for this sort of simplicity. I'm also wondering what made me so resistant and nervous to even try it out in the first place. I'm not advocating for mundanity. Do things exactly the same way always, is boring. Maybe I'm advocating for a little more acceptance and peace in the things that simply have to be done over and over and over. I think that I was so resistant to a schedule because I assumed that my ability to think critically and smartly would diminish if I were to engage in the minuscule things that construct the life of any person who cares for anyone else, or works, or has kids, or goes to school, or has a house, or a pet, or teaches, etc... I realize now that I was wrong in thinking that my desire or ability to think critically have been diffused. They haven't. However, my will to find the right forums in which to think critically, or just really hard, has been challenged, and that is still something I am working through.

I know I've been one to make my life more difficult and complicated than it needs to be. I have a friend here in California who is so calm. She has four kids who are home-schooled and whenever I go to see her, she is peaceful. I asked her about it, and she said she is careful not to schedule herself for things that don't matter to her. She doesn't have to be anywhere but where she is. I know that the type of life I live, and the type of life my friend lives, is not possible for everyone. I know that people have to work, go to school, do a million different things in a million different ways, but I do think that all of our lives probably has a greater capacity for simplicity.

I think that we all get so scared of our lives being 'normal'. I think we easily pick on repetition as being against us. As I've been pondering on this though, I think back to the women I knew in Uruguay. I loved and admired them so much and they lives were testaments to repetition. They knew they built families on repetition because if they didn't keep things together, no one else would. If you've never hand-washed a load of clothes with a bucket and some bar soap, you do not know repetition.

One of the best women I ever knew worked in the fields picking whatever fruit was ripe for the season. She had probably done this for forty years. One day she said to us, "I was picking strawberries and thinking of Jesus, when I reached in a strawberry plant and accidentally grabbed a snake. I thought of Jesus again, and knew I would be fine. I put the snake down and it slithered away." Of all the stories I brought home from my 18 months in Uruguay, this is one that comes back to me so often. I don't know that it is Jesus we all need to be thinking of as we go about our daily's, though I'm sure it wouldn't hurt, but the point that strikes me every time is how deeply engaged in meaningful thought this simple woman was as she did the most routine of things, bending to pick strawberries out of a plant for 8 hours at a time. I love her for many things, but I love her for reminding me that a simple life can be a good life, and that while repetition may not make a person famous, it will make a person strong.

In other news...

2012-02-06T22:28:00.000-08:00

I am really working on my children's book. Presently, and for as long as I could form words with a pencil, have such a hard time with plot. Actually, it was going on long before then when my best friend always wanted me to have a clear story and reason to our games and I was just blowing about, going with whatever fancied me in the moment. How anyone knows what they are going to do or say beyond a paragraph is difficult for me to fathom. When I hear that someone is writing a novel, with twists and turns, and an ending where everything is accounted for, I nearly shiver and I hope I am never called upon to do the same.

Despite my inability to give these characters a perfect story, things are coming along. So far, a buffalo, a fox and some other secret animals are nuzzling their way into my heart, and I have a very good feeling in my gut. I was totally the kid all growing up who covered her paper during art and writing time because I was too embarrassed to let my neighbor see, most likely because the most inevitable response would be, "What?!" "Ha ha, what were you thinking?!" and then attention I very much did not want would be rocketed to me and I would have to explain myself, as I realized that I was doing something in fact, a little bit strange. That is why I must keep things mostly a secret about this book, lest I get too embarrassed and shove all my papers under my closet door.

However, if you want to give me any words of encouragement, I have no shame. I could use them. Turns out, doing the things you most want to do is a little bit terrifying, and also terribly exciting. Sort of like getting seat belted into the seat of a roller coaster. (which I actually did recently, and unbeknownst to me, until I got off at the end, I apparently screamed 'Nooooooo!!!!' the entire duration of the ride.)

Here is Remy and me, not taking naps.

Magic and Weight

2012-02-04T21:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes there are moments that propel us forward, remind us that at least at some point in our lives, we believed in very big things. Not just effervescent, heat of the moment belief, but a real, tangible winking that good things are going to happen. For me, one of these moments happened when I was a junior in high school. I was at a friends graduation at the Cathedral of the Madeline in Salt Lake City. I don't know if it was the way the stained glass looked with the early morning sun glowing through it, or the birds in the trees outside just before we came in. It could have been a really good graduation speech, though I kind of doubt it. It could have been that I was sitting up so high looking down on everyone, watching time inch forward like white, flapping wings. Whatever it was that morning, I remember feeling so excited, so ecstatic, that my stomach was in knots. I think I recall writing something about magic in my journal. I was honest to goodness, just so excited about what was to be accomplished in this life, that my insides were going wild.

I've felt that subsequently, though perhaps with less intensity as the years go on. I've gone through phases where I think, "I've lost it, any magic, or pretense to magic I may have ever had, is just gone." Then I go through times where I reflect back on that moment and think, "silly girl, so naive and fresh, how embarrassing." Then there are times like today, when I realize that I am not the only one who has ever felt these things. Wow, big surprise. I don't know how I ever imagine that I am the only one who feels certain things, though those moments still are very much my own, it is most refreshing to know that I am not wading in an empty swimming pool with them. At a Women's Conference today at my church, a very smart women was the keynote speaker. She said that she originally wanted to use a talk that she had written twenty years ago as a missionary in Russia. She said she wanted to use the talk because it seemed so brimming with hope and happiness, but as she read the old talk, she realized that while her essence was still made up of the same particles, she was a different person today, with different things to say. She said that she worried, like I have, that she'd lost the magic that she felt those twenty years ago, but then she said something that should accompany any sentence about feeling magic: we also grow older, and add to our souls the weight of wisdom. I don't know that I heard too much after she said those words, "weight of wisdom".

In my head, my life from that point in the church pew began to rewind itself and I followed myself back through the weight of moving to a new place and starting over, the first year being a mom, the weight of pregnancy, of marriage, of mistakes, of heartbreak, of schooling, of disappointments, of a mission, of imperfection, of joy, of doubt and loss, of happiness, of service, of friends, and family, and painting and poetry and hikes in the mountains. And when I was all through journeying back through time and had returned to my place in the church pew where everyone was singing a hymn, I felt better. I felt like I no longer had reason to lament the fact that I don't get giddy with butterflies as often as I used to. I am far from ripe, but I am preparing for a harvest when I am wrought with the weight of wisdom. I think it is possible to cultivate both.

I also realized that those fifteen years ago, when I was so excited for the things that were to happen, which I imagined at the time were earth-shattering and totally life changing, are actually happening and have been happening all this time. Yeah, I'm not actually saving orphans or starting revolutions, I haven't even protested something in years, but my place has been pretty good. My place over the past fifteen years has been filled with white flapping wings and birds in trees, and many friends in so many places, and rain out my window at night, and Carl, and Remy, sweet Remy who bites me each morning when he comes into our bed, and the new friends who surprised me with birthday party when I least expected it. Later in the conference I started to write down a quote by Emma Smith, but I only got part way before the slide changed and it was gone, but I kind of prefer the small piece I managed to get down in my journal. It says simply, 'We are going to do something extraordinary,...'

Never heard a prettier song about being pregnant

2012-01-31T22:14:00.000-08:00

The Big Blog Conversation.

2012-01-26T23:42:00.000-08:00

*disclaimer: this is a rather long post, with a lot of ideas. I would love to hear your thoughts and opinions. Stick with me, I think these are things worth taking a moment to really consider and think about. I just realized that last sentence made things sound like they are about to get dire and real serious, they are not, don't worry.

One of the best lessons I've learned about reading and writing poetry is that a poem is not autobiography, nor is it beholden to real life events or even real people. When reading a poem, it is easy to assume that the narrator is the writer and that everything that happens in the poem is true to life. Most times that isn't the case. My thesis advisor and favorite professor always said that as soon as you start putting words onto the paper, your responsibility is to the poem, and not to accurately represent history, events or even people. Some people may disagree, but I think that you'd be hard-pressed to find a good poem that doesn't enhance, change, manipulate, or edit real life events in order to get the right image, thought or language across to the reader. I don't think there is anything wrong with that because when a reader comes to a poem, they are aware of the medium and they know that a poem's job is not to portray reality exactly, but to provoke thought.

However, there is another medium that is far more prominent in our lives, but is not nearly so transparent as the poem, though these two share many similar qualities. The blog. The blog, like all other forms of writing, photography and art, is a medium that can and is manipulated according to its creator.

I've had a similar conversation about blogs with many different people a dozen times in the past months. I think we've all engaged in the dialogue at least once. It goes something like 'why aren't blogs more honest?' 'Blogs give us a false sense of who and what we should be because everything looks so perfect' 'some blogs make us feel like we are not good enough because we don't look, do, act, a certain way' etc... The conversations aren't meant to be petty, or gossipy. These quandaries are simply a product of what is around us and what influences us. I've had my, albeit small, bit of frustration with blogs that portray lives as perfect and shining, always. I think that there can be sadness or depression that is produced when there is a 'keep up with the Jone's' type attitude because of what we see on popular blogs. This attitude is not even based on what is tangible, but based on a brief internet view via photographs and paragraphs. As I've done more thinking, I want to talk about another angle of this blog conversation that seems easy to bypass because it involves taking a closer and harder look at ourselves.

Blog writers seem to get a lot of guff for being too perfect, too cute, too fashionable, all of the time. They get criticism and sometimes even angry people (I don't feel angry btw) who want them to be more open, more real. What seems easy not to take into account, however, is that 'the blog', just like everything else is its own medium. Just like a novel, or a painting, or a music piece. The blog doesn't so readily announce its medium though, letting us know that just like anything else, the content is edited, arranged, and displayed according to the creator. It is easy to forget that the person in charge of the blog can arrange things according to what they want the reader to see. Many blogs are honest, and are based on real life, and some people's lives just really are that good, but I think we are doing ourselves a disservice if we convince ourselves that the people writing those blogs have perfect lives, better than our own. Am I the only one thinking these things? I hope not, otherwise I am looking rather foolish right now.

I am in my own process of turning responsibility inward on myself rather than blaming pretty bloggers or perfect instagrammers. I love the first paragraph 'Being Enough', a book by Chieko Okazaki. She says, "All too often we compare our light with our very brightest moments or with someone else's brightest moments, and it makes the darkness deeper around us...I want to explore 'being enough'." If I feel annoyed that my house, hair, child, party, life, outfit, wit, etc... is less than picture perfect, letting myself feel annoyed is my own problem, not anyone else's. We tend to assume that anything on a blog or any photo on instagram is straight non-fiction, which in a lot of ways it is, but there is also an element of fiction to what shows up on a blog or in a photo. This happens simply because there is no way that a blogger can always, or should always divulge the sticky details of their lives.

Coming to this realization has actually done me so much good. I started to see myself pushing responsibility further and further from my own hands, and then brushing them off and saying 'those perfect bloggers and their perfect lives are making me think that I have less.' In actuality, that isn't true, and it's an irresponsible way for me to act. I am learning that as I dive into (which I don't even do all that often) the world of blogs, I am accountable for how I come away from those blogs feeling. No one else. I can be accountable for thinking critically about the medium of a blog. I can consciously recognize that although [insert your favorite blogger] may look absolutely adorable in every photo (which she does), her life also has its challenges, even if she doesn't write about them, I think it is safe to assume they are there. It is not her responsibility to write about them if she chooses not to because she is in charge of what she does and does not reveal, and that is totally fine.

It seems that we often do a great disservice, and honestly, a little bit of cheapening of our own agency when we allow ourselves to believe that because a party looked so perfect, or the photo of someone's living room is clearly superior to your own, or the things they eat are more lavish, or their clothes seem cooler, that we are somehow less. I think we are also letting go of a bit of our own courage when we allow ourselves to blame our laments and frustrations on someone else. It is easy to say, 'a blog made me feel that way', it is hard to say, 'I may not ever throw a party like that, or be able to wear that outfit, or have a child who wears that outfit, and that is fine and there is no reason to lament.' It is sometimes hard, but also the most rewarding and wonderful thing to turn our gaze away from our internet, instagram, Facebook world and look around you only to realize that you do indeed have the very best things, and they are not things that you cannot touch, they are not photographs, but most likely, real things and people.

Most likely little things with scrubby faces, who like to eat things off the floor (this could be a dog or a child), or fingerprinted windows that we look out to see a favorite scrappy plant, or a dirty bowl next to the sink that remind us how good last nights ice-cream was. Most likely we will see real things, pertaining to a real life that is awash with the difficult and the divine. We will see messes, but also a place to call home. We will see real imperfect people trying to do their best and not just photographs of people. A blog, however lovely, cannot accurately portray all of these wonderful things, or all of these sad or difficult things, which somehow also make life good. Nor should a blog have to. A blog is a fine medium for what it is, it does a lot of good to connect us to other people, even rally support and succor friendship, but I think we should be careful to never be tricked into thinking that the blog of someone else is better than the life you get to live.

"It may not be for many years, it may not even be in this life, that you will understand how great and glorious your works truly are. (Okazaki 22)"

Ready

2012-01-24T15:11:00.000-08:00

A displacement activity is the result of two contradicting instincts in a particular situation. Birds, for example, may peck at grass when uncertain whether to attack or flee from an opponent; similarly, a human may scratch his or her head when they do not know which of two options to choose. -wikipedia

In Ashley's world, when Remy is taking a nap, and I am unsure as to whether I should start work on my children's book, or work on an essay I've been writing, I start to wash the dishes. Then I check my email, then a I dilly around a little, then I pretend to organize, eat an avocado, sweep the floor. The Remy wakes up. I don't do this all the time, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't follow a similar pattern frequently. It wasn't until Carl recently brought home an article talking about displacement activities and self-handicapping that I realized how much I do this.

The gist of the article talks about how we set ourselves up to do less that we are capable of because we are afraid of failure. Wikipedia explains self-handicapping as well: ...the process by which people avoid effort in the hopes of keeping potential failure from hurting self-esteem. It was first theorized by Edward E. Jones and Steven Berglas, according to whom self-handicaps are obstacles created, or claimed, by the individual in anticipation of failing performance.

Art by Lucas Grogan, found on the Jealous Curator

In other words, we stop ourselves from being awesome because we are afraid we might fail. Which we might. A good example of this is procrastination. Waiting until the night before to do something and then feeling great when we still do alright in that thing because in our heart we know that if we would have spent as much time as we had wanted on the project, it would have been really great. We spread ourselves too thin and then tell ourself inside that "if I hadn't been doing all of these other things, I would have been able to focus and do great at this." I think as humans we are all masters of these techniques. When I taught freshmen english classes, a good portion of our time was spent talking about how to start something well in advance instead of cheating ourselves of a decent learning experience, and thus depriving others of something decent as well. I am a master of displacement activities and self-handicapping, and honestly, I would like to not be anymore. I want to tackle the things that seem most scary to me and I want to take some risks. I feel ready. I'm not sure exactly what form this will take on, and that is perhaps the most exciting part. My head and my heart are ready to at least try the things that are hard.

Temple Giveaway winner

2012-01-21T23:16:00.000-08:00

I did the random number generator, I promise. Debbie Boldt, the very last person to enter the giveaway is the winner, which means that I will be painting the Nauvoo, Illinois temple next. Hooray! Thank you all for your comments and for spreading the word. It's been helpful to see what temples people are hoping for. I will keep working and hopefully have many of them done in the coming months.

In the meantime, I did do a Logan Temple. It is up in the shop now. I think this is such a stately temple. I wanted it to look that way when I painted it. It is the second temple built in Utah, it was dedicated in 1884. I had such a hard time with the color. It seemed to look different in every photo I looked at, and I looked at a lot of photos. This is probably because it is made of a hard-packed limestone, but sandstone was also used in parts. I have been to Logan and seen the temple from a distance, but I couldn't remember exacts. I checked with a friend who lived in Logan for a long time, and she said this looked pretty right. Let me know if I am off though.

Thanks Justin.

2012-01-20T10:33:00.000-08:00

I finally watched the Justin Beiber movie and I finally understand all those swooning tweens in my neighborhood. But also, it made me think that I want/need to be more considerate of my own self and the things I really want to do. What do I want to do? I really want to write and illustrate a children's book. Why have I not done that? I think because I'm scared I will fail. Oh well, now that we've got that out of the way, I should really just start. I know that a movie is just a movie, but kind of the way that hockey movie (not the mighty ducks, but the one about the U.S. Olympic team) totally inspired me to the max on my mission, Justin has inspired me to actually do the things I talk about, oh yeah, and also try to learn how to dance. I have actually been working on that with Remy in the mornings.

I'm a baby, and I'm holding a baby.

2012-01-18T22:38:00.000-08:00

There may have been some tears shed tonight, (melodramatic ones at that), unwarranted. I may have thrown a piece of cake on the floor (don't worry, it stayed on the plate after the bounce). Really? I did that? I may have sat on the couch for twenty minutes with my hands in fists pushed up against my eyes. Good thing Carl is a saint. What was all this about, you ask? To quote myself, "I'm sick of making stupid things." I don't think temples are stupid. I don't think art or paintings are stupid. I don't think writing is stupid, I just sometimes (or a lot of times)...am...immature? I just sometimes don't like the way I do things, but too bad, I'm me and I have no other way of doing them. I think today was a throwback to about 1987, when I was a mere three years old. Back in the day when I demanded my mom cut out the elastic from all of my clothes, including underwear, because I just couldn't handle the annoyance of something trying to bind me all up like that. This morning I insisted that Carl cut the elastic on the sleeve of my shirt, while it was on my body. He was hesitant, but since I have been acting like my three-year old self all day, I was indignant and insisting and he shut his eyes and snipped my fancy shirt. Also, this afternoon, I was in the sandpit with Remy. Not perched on the edge watching, but in. I realized at one point that I was way more into sifting sand and building up towers than he was. What? I thought writing this out would make me feel better, less embarrassed. It didn't really. I guess though, I've been touting honesty in blogging, so this makes me a shining star.

Little Rituals

2012-01-17T22:34:00.000-08:00

I don't remember exactly the events surrounding this poem below, or what was happening in my life at the time I wrote it. I don't remember precise sentiments. I do, however, remember the idea of very much wanting to be reminded over and over about the moments in life that remind me that I am as human as can be and that in the midst of monotony, there is variation. In the everydayness of detail, there is ritual that will one day make us nostalgic, and I am finding that 'one day' isn't so long off. In the poem I wanted to convey the surprise and shock of something real and living moving against my palm in total desperation and desire to fill its purpose. Even when that purpose seems small and insignificant. The repetition and constancy of something like a sand crab is comforting and a little bit scary to me. Scary in that I suddenly see my life as a series of movements that are simple and still difficult for me, and comforting in that my movement is constant, and at the end of the day, makes me happy.

I've read the books I was told to read on putting Remy to bed, which I am glad I read them, and honestly, I'm pretty glad some nights when he finally does go to sleep and I get a little time to mosey about on my own. Lately though, I've been putting the schedules and rules aside and I, or Carl, have been rocking him to sleep, until he's completely asleep. Even if the books tell me not to. For me, it is one of the feelings that gently reminds me that I am alive and that my purpose, however small seeming and insignificant, is pretty great. It is one of the times when I have to stop completely. I rock back and forth in a dark room and everything is sound. Repetition has become a friend. I find peace in knowing it will all happen again soon. Instinct seems more important to me now. I think we all have those moments and tasks that we do because we do. But sometimes it is the ones we are doing like crazy without stopping to wonder why, that are the most beautiful when we take a moment to think about them.

Sand crabs—

round as my thumbnail,

swashed from that deep sea,

with each wave washed up.

Kneeling on the shore,

I lean over dozens of tiny holes

where bubbles rise and dome on the surface and sunlight refracts every prayer.

Delivered and already disappearing.

I plung my hands into wet sands.

We race.

Sand crabs

downward

burrow.

And I, all I want

is to pull up a handful of earth

and feel the frantic movements

against my palm.

(Did anyone else did for sand crabs? If not, they are pebble sized little crabs that bury themselves in the sand when a wave comes up on shore.)

Giveaway Mania (winner+next temple giveaway)

2012-01-13T12:06:00.000-08:00

The moment you've all been waiting for. What will Ashmae paint next? A unicorn? an airplane? a flower? Actually, I will be painting either a car, or a kitten, for Megan's son. Yay Megan! We'll be in touch. Maybe I'll paint both. If Remy continues to wake up every hour at night and I have lots of extra time on my hands like I did last night while I couldn't sleep, I would love to paint more things for the lovely little creatures you asked. In the meantime, stay tuned for another giveaway that has to do with the next temple I will paint.

Okay, should we just do it right now?

I've started my new temple etsy shop, ashmaetemples.etsy.com, which I am very excited about. I am excited because 40% of sales goes directly to the LDS Temple Patron Fund and I've always wanted my art to help people in some way. This is small, but I like doing a part. The fund is set up to help people with the financial means to get to the temple when they are in areas without a temple very near by.
I have a lot to say about painting temples (which I will write in a soon-post), as it has been both an internal struggle and a joy throughout the last year. After much thinking about religious art, talking to gracious folks, and asking myself what is important to me, the scales are definitely tipped toward joy and excitement about making these paintings. So, I've received lots of requests for all sorts of temples, and I want to make them all, because I know that they are reminders of specialness to people, but I have a very long list, and I don't know where to start.

Here's where giveaway mania begins (haha, don't worry, i'm not taking myself too seriously over here).

For this giveaway, you can enter as many times as you pass along the word (Facebook, Twitter, your blog, word of mouth, Pinterest, hand-written letter, phone call)

Let me know what temple you would like me to paint next and a week from now (Friday, January 20th) I will pick a winner and get to painting. However, even if you don't win, your votes are not in vain. I will try and surmise and compile my list in the order of the temples that people most want. (Okay, please note that I don't think I'm some big deal and that people are just refreshing my etsy page waiting for the next temple to come out, but humor me a little, I'm just trying to do something good. Aren't we all?)

Oh yeah, and I'll send you a print of the temple you picked when it's done.

Here is a list of temples that I've already painted and are up in the shop:
Boise, Idaho
Draper, Utah
Laie, Hawaii
Los Angeles, California
Manhattan, New York
Manti, Utah
Mesa, Arizona
Newport Beach, California
Oakland, California
Portland, Oregon
Provo, Utah
Salt Lake City, Utah
Timpanogos, Utah
Washington DC

I believe I'm Beautiful

2012-01-11T15:48:00.000-08:00

A dear friend of mine works at a center where women are in the process of recovery from different eating disorders. This friend told me that one afternoon she was talking with a patient and my friend told the patient she was beautiful. The patient in return asked my friend if she (my friend) thought that she (my friend) was beautiful. My friend said she was a little taken back by the question, as we are not asked that in such a direct way very often, or even ever. She paused, then answered in the affirmative. Correct answer. Later that week as we were out at dinner, my friend passed the same question on to me. I squirmed in my chair, swished a few half-answers around in my mouth and finally sputtered a yes. I've thought about that question over and over in the months since, and I wish I would have, or even could have answered the inquiry with more confidence and enthusiasm. At the time though, I wasn't prepared to respond that way because I'd never been asked if I thought I was beautiful. It seems vain to say yes, we assume we should be 'modest' (insert self-depricating), but is it really vain to say yes? I don't think so, or at least after a lot of thinking about it. I think it is actually incredibly refreshing to find someone who stands on their own two feet instead of leaning about waiting for someone to tell them what they are. It's a hard thing to do though, to say, 'yeah, I'm pretty imperfect, but also pretty awesome.' Brave? Maybe. Practical? I think so. Joyful? Definitely. Liberating? a hell's yes. I have to say though, even having said all that, I find myself reticent to post this post. I'm taking that as a sign that it is important for me to write then. It's funny that in a world that is fairly obsessed with looks, body type, hair, fashion, etc... we rarely, if ever, actually have to answer to the questions that are perhaps the most vital for our well-being and happiness.

I feel like I am asked if I think I am beautiful indirectly everyday. Like when I went shopping for a pair of pants yesterday, and again, nearly left in tears because although I don't feel like a giant, according to j. crew and the Gap, I am. I look at blogs and the tape recorder in my heads starts the reel: 'I wish I could dress like that, have hair like that, be skinny like that, have that room, that wall, that skill...etc...'. It seems faux paux to actually say that you think you are pretty alright.

I love to look at old pictures. It is a favorite Sunday activity to pull out of box of photos or look through an album on the computer. A couple of months ago I was going through pictures of myself from past years and I started to think, 'hey, that girl looks beautiful.' I realize that I am no hot babe, and that no one is envying my sweet styles. I know that I am not the perfect weight. If I had a fashion blog it would be titled, 'how to wear black leggings everyday' Trust me, I know my insecurities and flaws like obnoxious roommates, but... as I looked at those pictures, I suddenly felt very sad to think that the girl in those photos had spent time and energy (and by spent, I mean wasted) feeling un-beautiful or un-pretty. This may make it sound like I myself had an eating disorder, or extremely low self-esteem, but in actuality, I didn't, nor have I ever. I am just as average as can be. But that is the problem, I think we are all investing time and energy into feeling less than we really are, no matter who we are.

Birthday crayon self-portrait.

I've been letting myself feel beautiful these last months and I feel like a weight has been lifted. Actually, even literally, the less I stress about extra baby weight, the more it slinks away. I think we should all try letting ourself feel beautiful. It's actually pretty fun. I realized that I don't want to look back on my photos with me and Remy and Carl and know that inside I was feeling overwhelmed with trying to be perfect. I want to look back on our photos and know that I am totally present. I have a lot more to say about all of this, so I will probably come back to the topic several times.

If you read and want to make a comment, please do this: Ask yourself, 'Do I believe I am beautiful?' Then in your comment, write why you are, or at least one reason. Maybe your answer is no, and that's pretty tough. I think we've all been there too. Maybe it's time then to ask yourself why you feel that way, and what can be done to change it. I imagine the answer is not simply to go to the gym more, or to get a new haircut, but probably requires a little more searching around on the inside and coming up your own reasons that are not beholden to anyone or anything.

Gee whiz, don't think that I am trying to become a motivation speaker or something. I realize I can wax a little corny, even melodramatic? But seriously, I feel like these topics are so important and we rarely have to stare them in the face.

Birthday Giveaway!

2012-01-05T23:30:00.000-08:00

Hi all,
here I am again. The holidays were a whirlwind of one Beehive Bazaar, where I spent one of the more glorious hours of my life swapping goods with other vendors (Why can't I buy everything in life with paintings?); six boy cousins around Remy's age all in the same living room at several points in Utah; five more cousins romping in the same room in Portland; one perfect lunch at Sundance with my parents; one round of Christmas carols around the piano; many a cup of eggnog; three plane rides; one train ride; one Denny's breakfast; very good and several nights with both families; one road trip to Santa Barbara; one round of sparklers on the beach; one hike through a butterfly preserve; one new pair of shoes from Carl; two gifts opened well before Christmas; two immature people (me and Carl) who insisted on opening (not even opening, we hadn't wrapped them yet) these gifts without a stitch of fanfare or even a soul around except my sister Sage who seemed a little confused by our behavior; one bout of the flu for me; heaps of joy; four rainy days in Portland; three people happy to be back in their own little home.

I kept a list of things on my phone that I want to blog about, but not now. Today is a special day. Today is the eve-eve of my birthday. I unabashedly love my birthday and have no problem asking groups of people to sing to me or letting people know how much I love my day. I love celebrating and have been known to throw myself a party or two. That being said, I want to celebrate on this here blog as well. This requires a giveaway, because the last one was seriously a lot of fun. I've had to temper myself from doing one every other day (It's a good thing that Carl is my business agent and accountant and not me, I give things away willy-nilly and tend to have little concept of how one goes about making a large profit).

Drumroll....

Birthday giveaway rules:

1. We all know a kid right? Some sort of young creature with a fresh mind. Go to them and ask them a few questions, talk to them about their stories, things they find hilarious, pictures floating about in their delicious little minds. Get around to asking them what they would like to have painted. If you absolutely can't talk to a kid, talk to someone! An old person, a funny person, a stranger. Be sincere though, snarkiness will not get you a win here.

2. Write the response in the comment box. You may enter twice if you spread the word in some way. You may enter more times if you talk to more than one kiddo.

3. You have until one week from now to go about this task. I hope it will be an enjoyable one.

4. Next Thursday, already five days into my 28th year of wisdom, I will use the random-number-drawer to select the winner.

5. I will then draw and paint whatever is depicted in the winning comment and it will be sent directly to the clever child who supplied the idea. I will send an extra for you too.

Doesn't this sound fun? I'm pretty excited about it.

Also, in other news to celebrate, I have a new etsy site. The old one is still up and running, but this new site ashmaetemples.etsy.com sells temple prints exclusively, and the best part? 40% of sales goes directly to the LDS Temple Patron Fund. This is a fund set up by the LDS church that provides financial assistance to those seeking to go to the temple, but haven't the monetary means to do so. Think, you could have a temple in your home AND be helping to send people on their way to be a part of the wonderful blessings of the temple. Double win, I think.

And lastly, who doesn't want a photo of Remy? Happy Birthday eve-eve!

Coloring outside the lines

2011-12-16T10:45:00.000-08:00

It seems that Christmas is a time for expectations. Some that are met, and some that are unfortunately not. However, I've been thinking a lot about the 'unfortunately' part of that sentence and wondering to myself if I've been misdirecting some of my own time and energy.

As a caveat before I begin, I will say this: I do believe in change. I do believe that even people, habits and hearts can change. I believe that is why we are here roaming about on this earth; to change ourselves into better beings.

My thoughts have been directing me to a different understanding of change and expectations in these last months. Maybe it's a product of getting older and realizing how much I just want people to love me despite my many shortcomings. I know I have shortcomings, maybe I know it better than anyone because I live with them, like obnoxious little critters that nip at my ankles, and I also know better than anyone how much I want to make those shortcomings into good things, like butterflies that circle around my head. I guess what I'm realizing then is that if I feel that way, it's pretty likely that other people feel the same way about their very own selves. We don't usually sit down and talk about our weaknesses face to face. Maybe we all should, but we just don't. We sometimes talk about them without the faulting party present, which doesn't seem all too productive either. I'm learning though that it is safe to assume that people are trying their best, and maybe it isn't my place to fret and push and insist that they become or do things the way it seems best to me. Am I being vague?

A short illustration: When Carl and I lived in my parent's basement for a year, we shared a kitchen. Said kitchen was not a lustrous place of recycling and I made it a habit, as if I couldn't help myself, of going through the trash and pulling out every cardboard cracker box, milk carton, empty coke can, hardly used paper towel and separating them into a bag under the sink. The bag fell out every time anyone opened the cupboard and I'm sure it was annoying to everyone that I insist that we recycle, even if I had to take it upon myself to see to it that we did. Yes, recycling is important. I still believe that. I once spent a summer going to door to door in Provo trying to convince people to order a blue recycle bin (an activist story from my youth that I'm sure I will one day tell my children). However, in coming back home for Christmas break, I have found myself wanting to separate the trash, but realizing that maybe other things are more important. This is not to say that I don't have a stash under the sink, but I've been a little more subtle about it. I've stopped lecturing my family on stewardship, because honestly, i don't think that is what they need right now. I don't want my zealousness for recycling to get in the way for my stewardship over my family. Replace stewardship for charity.

The recycling thing is just a small example of me attempting to re-align and re-evaluate expectations. I'll share one more image that's been coming to mind. When I think of people, I think of a drawing of them, like one you would find in a coloring book. When I go to color this person in, I initially think that I have to color them all within the lines, with even strokes and reasonable colors. Really though, those lines I've created in my head are simply my expectations and maybe they are hindering both me and the people I love. I've never been one to do things just by the rules, and further, there never were any rules on the opening page of a coloring book that said, "please make sure to color perfectly and carefully within the lines." Nope, never saw that, and never had anyone tell me I had to do it that way. This Christmas season I am working on simply loving people, and not waiting until they fulfill expectations that they probably don't even know I have for them until I love them. It's fine to do a lot of coloring outside the lines, even when you didn't expect to. It is fine to love people enough to want them to change, but I am learning it has to go in that order. I'm learning to push aside heavy black lines that hover and box us in, because I don't always know best. I'm finding joy with people I love, and that makes for a good Christmas this year.

Beehive Bazaar

2011-12-08T10:48:00.000-08:00

Fact: I have peddled wares at the Beehive Bazaar since I was in high school and I sewed my own pants out of old sheets I batiked. I sold when I thought the hot commodity was puppets, turns out they weren't. I've sold, or rather displayed an array of eccentric items made by yours truly, always thinking, 'the people will love this, how will they be able to resist taking it home?' Somehow, for a decade, I've been a part every spring and beginning of December and I love it. I mostly love seeing all the people that sell, and I love to see what they've been making with their hands and time. I'll probably be lingering about all weekend, as per usual, because I just can't help myself. And now my mom got Remy a little hat that looks like a bee, so I feel it our duty to keep the mascot present as much as possible. Hope to see you there! My booth is by the fountain. It looks rather simple next to some pretty elaborate displays surrounding it, but that's how I roll.

And another

2011-12-01T21:23:00.001-08:00

Getting in the spirit of things around here.

2011-11-30T23:53:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about how I want Christmas to be this year. I don't want a lot of Santa, just a lot of celebration. This print is in my etsy shop now.

Our Voice

2011-11-30T11:00:00.000-08:00

While in the final stages of putting together my thesis last spring, another poet helped me out by reading my collection of poems. I didn't know this poet well. Actually, we'd only met one day when I drove up to Park City to pick her up so she could do a reading at BYU. We shared a lovely drive down Provo Canyon and a little hike up Rock Canyon, some curry with other professors after the reading and a few exchanged emails in the weeks after that. I think she's pretty great, and I respect her work, so I was grateful when she agreed to meet up during her last days in Utah and read over my collection with me. This poet hardly knew me, but she pointed out something pretty vital to the crafting of work that matters, to both the creator and receiver. We sat over a chocolate mud pie and she began reading the stack of poems. I, of course, was a nervous and didn't quite know what to do with myself as she hmmmmed, and scribbled notes, and turned pages. After she finished, she went through each poem with me and pointed out what was working for her, and what wasn't. The most surprising thing to me was that all the lines and thoughts that seemed to work best were the ones I had almost cut out through obsessive editing. The ones I was embarrassed about being too sentimental, too obvious, too much written just the way I would say it. The lines that moved the poem forward, that gave it heart, surprise and stability were the ones that were most in my own voice. Not that the other lines weren't mine, they were. I had spent dozens of hours carefully crafting and re-crafting them, I knew them like family. However, there were some lines that I wrote thinking that I was saying the thing that everyone was already thinking, that my thought would be too familiar to give credence to. I thought that surely, everyone has already thought this 1000 times, why would I put it here? There were other lines that seemed too comfortable, like the worn blue blanket my grandma used to keep in the chest behind the couch; they just seemed too easy for me to write. These were the lines written in my own voice.

As a caveat, we talked a lot about the term voice in my graduate program; we talked about how we disliked it. It seems that we sometimes substitute the term voice so we don't have to think further about what that terms actually means or implies, as if we will all instantly become epic writers if we only listened to the inner muse and listened to our 'voice'. Really, writing is tough work, and chiseling out that voice from all the other stuff is pretty hard to do. We have to condition our voice, work to make it dance with our intellect, teach it, feed it with knowledge, facts, and experience, let it write and write and write, let it speak out loud to know what it really sounds like, and then, I think we have to learn to trust it every once in a while.

In my poetry collection, I had nearly scrubbed my poems clean of that 'voice', the ones that is the first thought in my head, the one that seems most obvious to me. Interesting then that Jill, the poet who read my poems was able to pick out every line that managed to stand its ground and stay in my poem. She circled them and wrote in big letters, 'More of this! This is where the poem begins to mean something!' I realized in that short session in the middle of a crowded restaurant patio, with Remy sleeping in his carseat, and me, a new mom, poet, artist, just trying to figure things out, that sometimes, or probably more than sometimes, it is important to say the thing you think has already been said. I realized that the thoughts and connections in our heads are often not as obvious to everyone else, because, of course, we all have different brains, holding a myriad of different experience, memory and paradigms. I guess that is why I love poetry: we work and work and work on this little thing, then bring it to the table and say, 'here is my experience and my idea, do you want to think about it with me?' And of course, as language is a pretty meager means to actually convey something exactly as the way you understand or question it, you will still be sole owner of your experience and understanding, but at least you may have moved one or two steps closer. So, I've been thinking a lot about saying the things we think, out loud, just to say it and see if it really is as obvious as you feel. I think we need to say things and write things to get them clear, to understand ourselves. Then try saying it to someone else, try writing it, experiment with it, challenge it. I think it's easy to rummage in cliche's because we are afraid to say what we really want, or maybe we are being lazy, or maybe we've just never said it out loud and so never realized what a treasure of a thought and idea it really is. Try it today, I'd love to know what happens.

After all this poem talk, I'll leave you with one here.

Ode on Forgiveness

I wrote it out five times

in just one week,

my apology.

I wrote it in longhand

and on the computer.

Some days it was blue

like the lonely light that emanates from a glacier.

Some days it was pink

and pregnant with memories

whose birth we would never witness

together again.

Yesterday for a few moments

it was yellow,

like the color one might expect

of the words hope

or thank you.

Or the color you see

when you’ve gotten up

early and hiked a mountain

just to see the sunrise.

The color not anything new,

not anything we haven’t seen before.

But in that moment,

the way sunlight peaks up and over the crest of the world,

reminds us that we are so small

and that the world

has been spinning all this time.

2011-11-28T10:05:00.000-08:00

Just Remy laughing himself silly at some dogs over Thanksgiving.

The crying only lasted maybe a total of thirty seconds, but still, Remy fell down the stairs. He had been following me from room to room as I put away laundry, but he took a wrong turn and I heard his little voice calling down the stairwell. I dropped everything and ran, but I came too late. I saw his body tumble down the six stairs to the landing. I think he has forgotten about it. In fact, I'm sure he has because he has made his way to the top of those stairs and called down them several times since. I am having a hard time forgetting about it though. I'm learning that a mother makes many very conscious decisions to just be okay with things, especially things out of our control and so I am telling myself that it's alright. The thing is, I don't think I'm a bad mother because it happened, I think it was just a quick shock into reminding me how much I love him, and sometimes that is the scariest thing to realize. Last night he woke up in the middle of the night, as per every night, and I went to get him. I've been insisting that he wear a soft, fuzzy bear suit to bed, so he was particularly cozy. Usually Remy twists and wiggles and pulls my hair, but he just lay on my shoulder for a long time and we felt each others chest moving like birds wings slow flapping across the sky. It amazes me that we can love other people in such away, but even more perhaps, is that someone else loves us the same way, and we probably don't even realize .

Mormon Women

2011-11-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

We must cherish one another, watch over one another, comfort one another, and gain instruction that we may all sit down in heaven together.

Lucy Mack Smith

It is easy to believe you are small, even insignificant in the world. I've done a fair share of wondering in the deepest parts of my heart, where I had assumed there was simply no one else around those places to whisper a good word to my doubts and fears.

I live in a quiet place. Somedays, I only talk to 10-month old son, Remy, the three nine-year old boys in my courtyard, and my husband when he gets home from school. But in my heart, women I hadn't known until now are slowly filing into those deep places. They are my friends, better yet, my advocates.

They seem to nod to me, tell me to keep going, to work hard, to speak up, that I am good, even better than I think I am. We even celebrate together. I met these women one at a time. I am getting to know them through their words. Some through stories told by others, some typed out in books they’ve composed, and others in speeches spoken in front of many people.

I was inspired to take up this project after I had painted a similar series of the Twelve Apostles and the First Presidency of the church. I didn’t feel right about offering a painting of fifteen men for people to put in their homes without a companion of equally influential and important women to put up alongside it. I felt like the men in the first painting would agree with me. As the idea for the mormen women artwork formed I realized that there really wasn’t any resource or visual gathering of these women. It made me sad to think that in many mormon households there are prominent photos and paintings of mormon men, but rarely are we exposed to mormon women. I thought a lot about myself as a youth, and even now, as a young mother in a new city, I wondered which women I could invite into my own life and hopefully the lives of others to bless, uplift and inspire.

For me, this project of compiling Mormon women visually in one space is important because as Mormon women we are a nexus of history, accomplishment, change, challenge, faith, and story, yet so often these women have no voice in our daily lives because we don’t talk about them. When I first had the idea for this project I asked on Facebook for feedback about prominent Mormon women. A good portion of the responses were the author of the Twilight series. While I’m sure that Stephanie Meyers is a lovely person, I was sad to realize that many incredible women are lost to us simply because we do not know or hear about them. I want these paintings to be a catalyst meeting many more strong and beautiful women of the Mormon Church, both in our history and with our contemporaries. I have read and researched these women night and day, and the more I read, the more women I find. I’ve found a new resolution to love myself while still expecting much of myself while reading the words of Chieko Okazaki; proof that our writing does make of difference through the example of Emmeline B. Wells; courage to make art about my religious convictions through Minerva Teichert; more reason to stick up for what I believe in through Esther Peterson; peace in working hard and moving forward the best way I know how through Laurel Thatcher Ulrich.

I want the stories, the words, the faces of Mormon women to be in our lives. I realize that the images on this work are by no means comprehensive. I want our Young Women to learn about these women at Wednesday night activities and camp, I want Remy to respect and love them and then in turn, I want us to love ourselves more because we know about them. I want these women to continue to teach me daily so I can better know how to teach others around me. I don't want this artwork to simply be a tribute to these women, although it is partially that. I want this artwork to celebrate that within the gospel there is a place for women who do grand and public things, but there is also a place for women who do equally important work that is quiet and may never be known publicly. I want the artwork to inspire Mormon women to be better, but also to realize that they are already probably better than they think they are. I want us to be able to celebrate collective accomplishments, both large and small. Perhaps the most important part of the painting is the space left to insert your own photograph.

I am grateful now to be learning in depth about these women, but it makes me sad that it has taken until so recently. Why had I not heard some of their names before? I think I could have found solidarity and confidence in my youth had I known these stories. I cling to them now. I vacillate between feeling so excited about this project that I wake up in the middle of the night and wonder, how can I get this to every woman I know, and then there are times of extreme self doubt where I think 'silly silly silly, no one cares'.

Funny though, it seems to be precisely in those times when the words I've been reading seem to take life, and I picture these twenty-four women all in my living room, eating warm bread and honey, looking lovely and telling me, 'Go ahead, do the things you feel you should do.'

*To purchase packs of 25 Mormon Women cards, go here:

http://www.etsy.com/listing/86813761/mormon-lds-women-poster-6x8-pack-of-25

IKEA Land

2011-11-21T10:00:00.001-08:00

Our Ikea idea started out as a fun venture. We thought, 'hey, we're poor college students, but we maybe we can afford an Ikea couch.' As we entered the complex, I pretended in my head that we were back in Denmark, it was delightful for about fifteen minutes. We sat Remy in miniature chairs, we ate some meatballs, we thought we needed lots of things we don't and then we realized we actually don't need them at all. We sat on a myriad of couches. Up and down we went, like we were real couch connoisseurs. Then we were snapped back into a reality that was not the happy country of Denmark. This place was packed to the brim with people and kids and meatballs and cheap furniture and this was our Saturday, our day to be together. My dad put it best when he said that Ikea couches (at least the ones we can afford) are like wooden planks with some fabric on top. Carl and I looked at each other just about the time when the girl in the cart next to us was having a meltdown and I nearly got stuck in an oddly shaped chair and knew we needed to get outside. We started following the checkout signs. We thought we took shortcuts, but there we were, in the lamp section, the frame section, the rug section, fabric, beds, more frames. We were lost deep in the abyss of Ikea. All I wanted was to see the plant section, letting me know that I was close to escaping, but it seemed the more we wanted freedom, the further in we got. When we finally reached the warehouse section, I've never seen Carl walk so briskly, and Carl is a brisk walker. It was a dramatic ending and we careened around shopping carts and people, at one point I saw a man struggling to get a box off a shelf, and since I was in heroic mode, I stopped and helped him, then was on my way, without even skipping a beat. We finally made it to the car and breathed a sigh of relief, then realized that the parking garage was our final maze and obstacle. Outside! We needed to be outside. We drove straight to Palo Alto's tiny zoo where we saw bunnies, ducks, two bobcats, a peacock and a raccoon, and a bat cave with no bats. Moral of the story, being outside is almost always better. Don't be surprised if you come to visit and instead of a new couch, we offer you a seat on a new beanbag chair, we won't be making it back to Ikea land for some time.

Good news!

2011-11-19T20:09:00.001-08:00

So, here I am on the other end of my very first giveaway. I was so apprehensive, but I think may have a new favorite hobby. Who knew that hosting a giveaway could be so much fun? Not me. Until now. I already have a list of future giveaways that Carl told me I cannot just do all at once, even though I'm really impatient and would like to spill every last bean right now.

The hard thing about a giveaway though is that I would sincerely like to send two prints to each one of you because I believe that you would take it and make a friend, and I love that, but more than that, you would love that.

I don't have the funds to send everyone two prints, but what I can do, and this is a no pressure situation, I'm just throwing it out there, is this: If you entered the giveaway, and didn't win but would still like to buy a print, let me know in the 'notes to seller box' on Etsy that you would like a second print for a friend and I will put it in there for free. If not, maybe you should go over and visit that friend anyway.

I did the random number generator and the winner of Ashmae's very-first-on-her-own-blog giveaway is none other than my mission companion, Juile Newhouse, to me better known as Hermana Bateman. Hermana, could you ever imagine that I would pay you back for nursing me to health, helping me with my spanish, enduring stifling after stifling day of heat, teaching people we loved very much about things we love very much, talking me through my lack of letters from certain people, helping me pick up rocks for my rock collection, being patient with me, kind, funny, lovely in so many ways. Did you ever think that I could pay you back in such a way as a print for you and for a friend? My offering is measly in comparison to how dear this companion who was literally by my side for 6 weeks is, but I'm very glad you won nonetheless Julie. Do you remember how hard we laughed!? Everyday?!

As for the rest of you very kind people, buy one get one free if you'd like, or get ready for a series of giveaways that are not for the faint at heart in the near future. Thank you for your participation and encouragement!

As Remy's Agent

2011-11-16T20:21:00.001-08:00

I feel he would want me to share this video of him thanking me, his mother, by saying my name loud and clear.

Make a friend giveaway!

2011-11-15T14:45:00.001-08:00

A giveaway is happening right here and now on this blog. I'm actually a little embarrassed, I can't quite pinpoint why, but here goes anyway. There is however, a small contract attached to this giveaway. It isn't hard, but I feel serious about the terms, so if you are not up to it, don't sign up.

This giveaway is for two prints from my shop. Both prints however, are not for you. One is. The other one is for you to give away. The terms are as such: you can't just give the print to a family member (i.e. your husband, child, mom when she comes over to visit) and you can't just thrust it into the hands of the next person to walk through your door. This print is meant for making a friend, or visiting an old friend, or making an acquaintance into a friendship. This print should make it's way out the front door with you and up the pathway to someone else's front door. Or out of your office cubicle and to another office cubicle, etc... you get the idea. I think it will be fun! I use my paintings all the time as an excuse to knock on other people's doors, because honestly, I'm too awkward to go over without a reason most times, but I really want to be friends with people. So, go to the shop and tell me in a comment which two prints you would like. You can enter twice if you post this somewhere else (twitter, Facebook, your own blog). I will pick a number (randomly, you know, like fancy bloggers do) on Saturday night, so enter your little name before then. woo woo!

Bijou Market

2011-11-15T07:32:00.000-08:00

There are few things I love more than being together with people I love. However, couple that love with a gaggle of well-crafted, clever handmade goods, wowzer. I love Provo, I think we all know by now, and I love the people and things Provo creates. The Bijou Market is this weekend! Yip yip! Go to, peruse, enjoy, buy local and handmade for Christmas, see the most fashionable group of moms you'll ever lay eyes on.

Take that!

2011-11-14T09:52:00.000-08:00

You two unfounded fears of mine. Today, this morning rather, I did two things that have been standing in my way. I went to a yoga class for the first time since before being pregnant and I finally put on the light pink dress in my closet that has been hiding in there like a nasty little sneak. Sure, in the yoga class I may have clearly been the least flexible one there, and maybe I did forget that there were large holes in unlucky places in my leggings until I got there and sat cross-legged, but do you know what? My body still works pretty great. I am still strong (kind of) and it felt so good to just be with the old body, stretching and moving about. I have for so long made it up in my head that I couldn't do yoga anymore, or that starting up again was just too much, but this morning, I said to myself, 'get a grip', and off I pedaled on my bike to yoga class. So glad I did.

Secondly, I came home and thought, as long as I'm on a roll, and clearly have no shame, let's try on that stupid dress that's been haunting me for literally years. As 'one chance to impress' is coming along quite nicely, I had no other choice but to face that article of clothing that I think is so adorable, so adorable that it probably, most likely, almost assuredly won't fit, and then I will have to be embarrassed and feel chubby all day. I bought this dress probably four years ago. It was an online purchase from j.crew, the only one I've ever made. I'm pretty sure I had just gotten some student loans for the first time as well, and was feeling spiffy and independent and clearly responsible enough to purchase things like full-priced dresses that I've never even tried on. What?! Anyway, the dress came, and it was of course, darling. Just the right length, lovely buttons on the front, a nice cut. I wore it a couple of times, and then it hung there, like a taunting little sass (this dress is somehow a nasty sneak, adorable and a little sass) for the next four years, where I've always worried that I'll put it on, or just try to put it on and it won't even close to fit. Until this morning, when I put it on. And guess what? It fit fine. Okay, it's a little snug, but I'm okay with that. But do you know also, if it hadn't fit, OH WELL. Adios, I say, to things that make me feel foolish. I've since learned from my mistake of fancy online shopping that I can't afford. I haven't done that since, and if the dress hadn't fit, too bad, my body can still do a pretty mean downward dog.

Making my art

2011-11-10T08:59:00.000-08:00

First, thank you dear friends for all the suggestions and encouragement about the last post. I'm glad we could all be honest about the closet situation. Second, I want to talk about my art for a moment. I don't often talk about it, just throw up an image on this blog every now and then, and every once in awhile, I'll find one of my images up on another blog. Apparently I am really coming to some serious terms with a lot of things lately, and one of those is who and what I am as an artist. I got a BFA in studio art, and an MFA in poetry. Both of those subjects, in the academic realm put heavy emphasis on the cerebral, as well they should. But along with that dose of the intellectual, there is a sense of cynicism or criticism of anything that is not just that. Now, I am all for art that really makes you think, that questions you, that questions what we think we know, and I am also all for poetry that takes a read, or thirty, to understand. I love things that challenge me, and I love the people who are brave enough to make things that challenge. Some of my dearest memories from the last decade involve a small classroom, a group of students and a professor, all discussing the corners and undiscovered rooms of art and poetry, both technique and theory, for honestly hours at a time. Oh, I get chills just thinking about how much fun it was. Some days, what I wouldn't give to be in a roomful of people who are totally passionate about Gertrude Stein or Henri Matisse.

So, now, here I am, graduated, independent and making art and writing a children's book that in some ways seems to be the very things that I learned is my programs as less valuable. And maybe worse, I am making religious art. For some time, this has really stressed me out. For several reasons that can maybe be summed up into one word: Kitsch. I don't want to make things that are just a fad. I worry that people will think that I'm out to make big bucks on religious material. I do love that I can have some income and work from home, but I am not out to make a fortune on religious art. For the past year, I've received countless emails asking if I've made, or plan to paint a specific temple, and I've mostly been writing back, 'maybe in the future...' without too much intent to really get around to it because I've spent so much time battling out this inner conflict about making art that is illustrative and simple.

However! Let me share a few of the things I have figured out, which in some ways has required some re-learning, being less prideful and listening to my own little soul when it tries to yell to me loudly. Here is what I have learned about the art that I am making and selling currently:

1. I love making it. I love it. I am delighted at putting down lines with my walnut ink and bamboo stick. I dreamt the other night about making drawing after drawing, and in my head, they were all so beautiful. I am giddy about putting down color with paint. It is a gift to see the way colors mix into one another to make another color.

2. I love selling my art to people who also seem excited about it. I am happy writing emails back and forth with people, or selling in person and getting to pick out and give opinions about what they should take home. I very much adore this part of the process. Much of the time, especially with portraits, people are giving the art as a surprise gift, and I love being a part of that.

3. I've had many people write me and tell me that for the first time they have a temple print up in their home, or their children's room. This means a lot to me. My temple paintings are imperfect, but I think that's why people like them. I'm so happy to be the catalyst for someone to have a reminder of something good in their home. I have to be honest and say that I have never actually had a temple hanging on my wall, until now, where I have a growing collection. My neighbors ask questions and it is nice to be able to talk to them about why these buildings are special to me.

4. I don't plan on stopping making abstract and cerebral art. I still love things like the BillboardPoetryProject and I plan on continuing to pursue these types of projects. I think that I can also find ways to continue to write poems that are more than some nice images. I am going to keep working on my children's book and at the same time continue to send poems into journals, and probably continue to get a few rejection letters a week.

5. I love kids! I feel so passionately about the art and books that I grew up with as a kid. They shaped the world for me. Images like The Alphabears, The BFG, Blueberries for Sal, Peter Rabbit and Winnie the Pooh, are embossed on my heart. They, along with countless others, made this world a good place for me. Made me hopeful, and whimsical and believing in magic. I love nothing more than when a parent, aunt or uncle or friend buys one of my animal paintings, or a portrait or even a temple and tells me that it is going a children's room. I want to make art for kids. I want to eventually make enough profit that I can just give my art to kids that don't have any.

6. I feel like my art is allowing me in some ways to give back, even when I spend most of my day in our small house or on the grass outside. I've been able to contribute money to the temple building and temple patron fund with the money I've made from temple sales. This makes me really proud, but probably more than that, really excited that I can in some way try to help. Which also is why God is really nice, he actually lets me feel that way.

7. I've decided to take down some of my preconceived notions about what art and writing can and cannot be. For me, right now, making these images is a part of my life. I actually don't care so much what name they go by either; art, illustration, paintings. They are just what I am making. I feel compelled to continue creating. I bring the paintings as gifts and as an excuse to go by new neighbor's, and they are making me new friends in new place. I'm going to stick with my gut on this one and keep making, even at the risk of criticism or failure. I think that my worst fear is that some past professor that I respect will see what I am doing now and be disappointed that I am not doing something different. But when I really analyze that fear, I don't think it is true. I think that would be happy for me. Plus, I've been in lots of modern art galleries and read lots of fancy poetry journals, and sometimes, I just don't think that's my place. I want to be with people, talking and laughing and being happy just to be happy.

One chance to impress

2011-11-07T09:50:00.000-08:00

My life is becoming increasing simple. It started with a 'no juice' policy, we just drink water from the tap. We don't have a microwave, or a TV. Remy and I ride our bikes (rather I ride, Remy cruises) a lot. I've stopped making crazy to-do lists everyday. Carl and I drive to the coast to get Rosemary Artichoke bread from a little bakery on Saturdays. I don't think I'm totally awesome for doing these things, and I don't think that everyone else needs to do them too, but for me, in this time, simple is good. I've realize that throughout my short course in motherhood, I've done a lot of definition shifting. Productive no longer means what it used to, and I'm learning to be alright with that. In fact, this paradigm shift is showing me that there is more than one way to really love life. My life has shifted from a constant influx of people, conversation, parties, to a rather quiet existence. For the time being, this is also good. I do lots of painting, translated: work. I know that I am so lucky to be able to work from home doing something I genuinely get jazzed about while Remy naps and after he goes to bed. Our social lives have shifted to hanging out with retired cartographers we met at Costco and the occasional courtyard barbecue. One way though, hence the title of this post, that I am simplifying my life is a system I have implemented called, 'clothes, you have one chance to impress me'. It seems like kind of a silly thing to even have to make a system about, but let me explain. I realize that a lot of my insecurity comes from the way I feel about my body, even though it made a baby, made that baby milk, plays soccer, skis, etc... I know these things on the outside looking in. I have an incredible body that does incredible things. Thank you body. But, from the inside looking out, it's sometimes not so easy to convince myself. Clothes then, have always been an issue for me. Even when I was younger I made my mom cut the elastic, cuffs, tags and anything possibly annoying, out of all of my clothes, even my underwear, and even then I only wore two things: a pink dress with an ice-cream cone sewn on it, and my rainbow striped swimsuit.

I was reading this article on one of my favorite blogs, Zen Habits, that talked about clutter and why we keep things. The author said that we keep things for one of two reasons: one, we are living in the past and are worried that if we get rid of something, then a memory, relationship, etc... doesn't exist anymore. Two, we are living in fear of the future and we keep items just on the off chance that we 'might' need them someday. The reality is, even if we get rid of items (not totally special ones, but ones that are excessive and cluttering) those relationships still very much existed, and probably still do, and as far as the things we are saving for the future, we could probably save ourself some space and sanity and just purchase, borrow or do without an item in the future.

So, back to my closet and drawers. I took a good hard look at my clothes and realized that I had a cluttered wardrobe, full of things that caused me both to live in the past and be afraid of the future. The past represented in things like my tattered, worn, white sweater that I wore nearly every single day of my mission six years ago. I loved that sweater, but lets get serious, I had visions of my daughter someday wearing it on her mission, but no one else is ever going to want that sweater. It saw its day, rather days and days and days. There are also things that have been handed down at least three times. Yes, it was really hip when my sister-in-law wore it six years ago, but it's not hip on me now. Bad impulse purchases stare at me and I felt an obligation to wear them, even if they were on the 2.00 sale rack at Old Navy. But no more! Now, with the 'one chance to impress' system, the article of clothing goes on and must be worn for a sufficient amount of time in order for me to assess whether it is impressing me or not. Some clothes don't even make it past lunchtime before the go in the 'get out of my life' pile. The other clothes, the ones that leave me feeling fearful for the future are the ones that once fit me, but no longer do since I had a baby and am nursing (I have a large bosom). These clothes make me feel badly, but I hang on to them thinking 'one day I'll fit back into them and be the hottest babe around'. These clothes are hurtful to me and to my self-esteem, and they are also going in the 'get out of my life' pile. Truth is, I am exercising, and eating healthy, but it may be awhile until I fit back into those clothes, and when that time comes, I will go out and buy a few well-fitting things. This program has caused me to be brutally honest with myself. There are so many things that have just hung in my closet for literally years without me ever having to face them head on and wear them. Now, I have to wear them, for at least half a day, and if that is too much, I had best be getting rid of them. I know, silly perhaps, but this system has been totally therapeutic for me and I'm realizing that sometimes less is more. I am actually feeling a little bit stylish again because I'm just wearing the things that look good on me, and make me feel good about myself. Who knew? Rocket science here. I suggest trying this if you have any of the same feelings, or I'd love to hear your suggestions/experiences with similar things.

White Peacock

2011-11-02T09:20:00.000-07:00

Remy makes his mum proud

2011-10-28T23:40:00.000-07:00

I can't tell if I talk about Remy a lot on here or not. Truth is, these days, everything blends into Remy. There are honestly days, and I don't mean rarely, when the only person I talk to is my boy (until Carl gets home). That is not a complaint. I am going to take a few moments to write about him here because I am his bragging agent. Everyone in this world needs a bragging agent or two, I think. My parents have far outdone their job for me, just ask anyone who has ever talked to them. They talk about all four of their kids with a twinkle in their eye. We've always been told, and perhaps too brazenly believed, that we could do anything, and that we were brilliant. I thank my parents for that, because by the time I was old enough to realize I couldn't actually do everything, I was well on my way to trying.

So, as Remy bragging agent, I already do, and plan to continue to take my position seriously. How to do so without letting it get to his head may be a challenge, because I sure love that boy. A friend said to me the other day, 'I don't know that I've seen anyone so pleased with their child continuously.' It's true. While pregnant with Remy, I didn't have too much premonition about what he would look like, do, or even be named, but I did, for nearly the whole nine months have the overwhelming feeling that he was so content. I adored that about him, even before we saw each other. He has proven my instincts right. Remy is one of the happiest people I've ever known. He seems genuinely delighted by life, and even more so by people. One of my favorite things about him is that he loves people. Loves them. He takes a special interest in strangers that are different looking, or even awkward. Maybe nothing makes me prouder. Remy has gathered friends in a myriad of places: the concierge at the hotel in D.C., the woman sitting near us on the plane, the young black girl who nicknamed him Sunny on the bus, the woman in line near us at the DMV. Where ever we go Remy is a light. He is the best friend maker I've ever had. In his baby blessing in the church, Carl said that he would give hope to people and let them know that they are special. I'm so happy I get to see him do that already. Oh Remy, you are a dear. Also, let it be said, I do realize that Remy is just a normal baby, doing normal baby things, but they are so magical to Carl and I. To anyone with nieces or nephews, neighbor kiddos or babes of your own, i believe you understand. I promise that this blog won't go Remy-centric and I'll keep it under control, but come on, a mom has to do her job here.

New little thing.

2011-10-28T11:59:00.001-07:00

ashmae.etsy

2011-10-25T11:28:00.000-07:00

Last week there was a high moment in the midst of a low day. Only low because I sometimes bombard myself, as I think we all do, with thoughts of being not up to par. I don't like when I spend my time feeling like I'm not a good enough mom, because I also know that I am doing my best, and that is probably good enough. The high moment was this: as I was in the grocery store, I got a little paper cup of water out a dispenser. Remy and I were in front of the cheese aisle, I took some sips and then probably took far too long trying to give some sips to Remy. When I'm doing things like that I totally forget where i am and that I am most likely in the way of a lot of cheese wanters. When I finally stood up, a middle-aged man said to me, "Well, that was just the most pleasant thing to watch." I said thank you and smiled and we moved on to the cereal. As I walked home (on said walk I lost my wallet, sadly) I reminded myself that I am probably better than I think I am. I think that most of us are.

Beebox

2011-10-14T14:22:00.000-07:00

Monday Monday

2011-10-10T09:08:00.000-07:00

It was exciting to fly into San Francisco and call it home. I do miss Provo. Sometimes fiercely. I miss those mountains like they were part of my own body, like they help me breath. And I miss my family. I do have to say though, that after I wrote the post about being lonely, I no longer felt very lonely. It was as if I just needed to share the sentiment with someone for a little while, and then once I realized I wasn't the only one that felt that way once in awhile, I felt calm and full. Washington DC was so good. I've learned over my life that there are few things really worth spending money on, but one thing that I never ever regret is going out of my way to see someone I love or to support a friend or family in what is important to them. My dear friend Marc, who has been a dear friend, nearly brother since our junior year of high school was married to his boyfriend, Andrew. I was so happy to see them both surrounded by a nexus of people who are invested in their happiness. The wedding was incredible, in the National Building Museum. For half the night the rumor flew around that the building was where Abe Lincoln held his grand balls back in the day, but that was corrected by Nikki, who told us it was actually a WWI pensionary building. Either way, it was dimly lit, fancy carpeted, DIY detailed, with the ballroom the size of a football field and a ceiling over four stories high. I will post pictures soon because it is worth seeing. After all of the festivities, we were on the metro with Nikki and she said, "That's really cool that you guys came out." but, since the metro is loud and I am always eager to find some common ground and agree, I quickly responded to what I thought she said and replied, "oh yeah, that is really cool that Marc came out." We laughed through the next three stops. In my head, i really was thinking, 'yeah, that is cool that marc came out, so he could meet andrew, so he could be happy, so he could have this beautiful wedding, so we can all be here at this moment together having a good go at life.' Ha ha. I will probably also write more about this next point later, but Remy was a star traveller. I don't want to brag, but I'm going to. He was superb. I think he honestly thought that both flights were five hour celebrations in honor of him. At one point, he and I walked up and down the aisle to get a little change of scenery, and I felt like we were in a movie. People were reaching up to touch him or say hello and he in return was more than gracious to all his admirers, smiling, laughing and touching their hands. I am a lucky girl, sure glad I came out.

Addendum

2011-10-04T10:10:00.000-07:00

I don't take back my last post, nor do I feel apologetic for being honest, but I feel as if I should add an addendum to some of the things I mentioned. First, it is totally normal and natural that I feel a little lonely in my new circumstances. I did just come from the place where I grew up for 26 years. I was literally surrounded by the best of family and friends. I even accidentally used my brother-in-laws toothbrush a couple of times while we were all living together in my parent's house for a few months. I realize that feeling a bit out of place is part of change, and I'm okay with that. Secondly though, and perhaps far more important are the things that were said over the weekend during conference. Not just because they were said, or even because I simply believe them, but because I feel them on a day-to-day basis. Here are some of those things. (these are paraphrased from my notes) Elder Uchtdorf: No matter how insignificant you feel, you are not invisible to Heavenly Father. When you feel lonely or sad, know you will not feel this way forever. The most powerful being in the universe is the Father of your spirit. Neil A. Andersen: We must devote our time to the things that matter most, and the things of God matter most. Robert D. Hales: We will not be left alone in our Gethsemane. He who watches over us will not slumber.

On my mission, there were always little old ladies who were telling us, "Oh, yes, I am speaking to God all day long." I was usually a tad skeptical, and I still think you can say that and not have the actions to join it, but I am understanding better why and how one could say that.

lonesome

2011-10-03T21:48:00.001-07:00

I've been feeling a little lonely lately. You needn't, however, feel sorry for me. Lonely isn't always a sorrowful thing. Sometimes it is cleansing, like a fall rain, or waking up in the middle of the night under the stars. Sometimes loneliness means pulling out the ukulele and learning the tabs to The Cure's Friday I'm in Love and singing it in a room with your baby, even when you know you are terribly off key, because you wouldn't have the courage to do this without lonelinesses prompting. Sometimes it means that you speak spanish in a terrible American accent and pretend your baby is soaking it in or listen to every story on the Moth podcast, just to feel like your house is full of voices. You step back, and into the shoes of all the other people in the world who must have at one time or another, also have been a little bit alone, and then you realize you have good company. Sometimes, in loneliness, you talk to God a little more, are happy to put on mascara and not leave the house, wonder who you will meet. I know this time won't last, and again, this isn't a pity party, I don't feel put upon. I have a dear little companion by my side who bites the ends of my hair and eats popsicles like a maniac in his high chair. There is happiness hidden in change.

Maybe this guy is lonely too. We should be friends.

Stanford, we finally made it, thanks for having us.

2011-09-27T21:39:00.000-07:00

My dad and Remy checking out the new courtyard at our house. All of the houses are in a circle and we share one gigantic gated backyard with all the little kid mobiles one young heart could ever desire. Bring your kids! come visit. We will send the tots outside while we relax inside and I make you some homemade ice-cream.

Ah, yes. Here is the photo I emailed all of my cousins, sisters, friends as bribery to come visit.

This is the Stanford Tower. Not quite sure what goes on in here, but the campus is beautiful, to say the least. And very large.

This is Remy in his new bathtub. He is the happiest boy. He literally screamed with joy when Carl walked in the door from his nearly-three-week field camp. We love him so much we can't even stand it. Turns out, the doctor was right, compared to all the other kids in the courtyard, he does have a big head. We don't care! Go Remy!

I have the best parents who road-tripped out here with Remy and I, then moved us in and got us settled. They are champions among champions. Go parents! This is at the Memorial Church on campus. If you can't tell from the photo, Carl also has a birthday glow here. The big 26. I know, I know, everyone always thinks that he must be older than me, and when they are surprised they usually try and stop themselves from saying the sentence they really wanted to say, "but he's so much more mature than you..." It's true. Go Carl!

Also, you had all best be planning yourselves a little trip out here. Carl and I may be jumping the gun or presuming we have more friends than we do because we already bought an inflatable mattress and an extra set of towels.

Why I am cool.

2011-09-19T15:25:00.001-07:00

The other day I was feeling particularly fancy. It is fall in these parts, and nothing is better than fall in Provo. It makes me so excited my stomach gets all in knots. Carl left to school to do a field camp a couple of weeks early so Remy and I have been here packing, swimming and soaking up the delicious feel of autumn. We have also been borrowing my parent's car on occasion, as we are without. This car is not so much nicer than our own, except for the fact that it is spotless, black, without squeaky breaks and has a better stereo. Really, it is nicer. Remy and I were driving near BYU, we had the windows down, I had Ratatat playing a little bit loud, and honestly, I'm embarrassed to admit, but I was feeling kind of cool. Like, 'yeah, maybe I did graduate from college, but I can still listen to cool music with my baby and eat snow cones whenever I want.' Fast forward five minutes later when we pulled up at a stop light next to a car load of college kids. The car was far beyond capacity with hot babe bodies and young studs. They looked over at me, and one of them started to clap, then all of them started to applaud and holler and yell woooooo! you did it! woooooo!!! I waved, like I was so cool that I totally knew how to play along. Except that this was a really long red light, and the dumb kids kept wooing for an entire three minutes. I was acutely aware of how uncool I was to them. I don't really care, I'm still intact and I'm glad that I'm not the one trying to make people feel awkward at stop lights, but still. The light finally turned green and I made it to my professor/friends house where Remy and I were invited to dinner. It was very lovely. and then I stood up from picking Remy up off the floor, and ripped my overalls in a less than fortunate place. For the second time this month. Really? I thought I had patched them, but apparently not that well. So, in commemoration of the passing of my overalls, I am switching to a new wardrobe of strictly leggings and zip up sweatshirts. I hope Carl likes it when he sees me again. (by the way, 2 1/2 weeks of not seeing Carl is too long). Anyway, that in a nutshell is why I am cool. Good thing I have Remy to make up for any lack thereof.

Farewell Provo

2011-09-14T23:35:00.000-07:00

Tiny baby boys everywhere! Hawk, Nixon and Remy (who is not so tiny anymore, hence his distance from these fragile two)

Cousin Dash and Remy love each other.
I make Nixon let me hold him as much as I can. Sweetie baby!
Remy, among many others in this household, loves his aunty Sara. He even got babysat by her for a whole Saturday.

I think I got discouraged from my blog for a little while because the only comments I got were from 'anonymous', which is a euphemism for crappy spam. I know this is pathetic, but I actually opened the email saying I got a comment from anonymous every time, just in case it was a real human with something to say. This is not a cry for comments, but I'd be lying if I said, 'what do I care if no one reads this, I write it only for myself.' I actually don't. I hope people read it on occasion, and that we are better friends because our minds have co-mingled for a few moments. Really, I love tangible, pen and paper journal writing, so I see this as more of a community writing space. Duh, I just defined a blog in case you weren't aware of what they are. I just packed up a huge box of journals from over the years. Which brings me to my real point: aside from the four journals from my mission and the one journal that I took to El Salvador and fell in love with one foreign boy, while still loving one at home, all these journals have been written in this little valley I've called home for nearly 26 years. Provo has raised me. I want to launch here into a list that will likely make me emotional, but I'm not going to do that just yet. My heart does ache a bit, in two ways: one with delight at starting anew, and one with nostalgia at leaving a place and people whom I love so dearly. Oh my goodness, don't even get me started at the ways I love Provo. Suffice it to say that on Saturday, there was a park full of people listening to poetry, setting up a portable art gallery and eating good local food, partly because they were excited about the project (billboard poetry, that is), but I'm sure partly because they were supporting me in one of my odd endeavors, and I think that means more.

So, I'm not going to say farewell Provo just now. And I will be back, oh, I will be back, but I am also trying to remember something that my mission president told me many years ago. I was still a missionary, nearing the end of my mission in Uruguay and thinking that I had reached the pinnacle of all happiness and accomplishment and was not looking forward to coming home. My mission president talked in a zone conference about the importance of our role and attitude when we got back to real life. He reminded us that our mission was not serving much of anyone if we continued to live in the past and spend our time wishing we were a missionary again instead of embracing what was ahead. He said that we would exemplify our happiness as a missionary by being happy at home, in a new situation. I'm trying to remember that. I think it will be hard for awhile, to not feel safe nestled to these mountains and everything this valley contains for me, but I also want my next journey to be painted with the sweetness and joy that I've known here, and for the past 26 years. I don't want to mull around in nostalgia for too long, because I don't think that is what we are supposed to do. I feel like there is a lot more I could say right now, but I also realize that it is a danger to blog late at night, so I'll stop and just post some photos. Hey, if people are reading this, call me! I only have a week left in Provo, and Remy and I want to hang out.

Billboard Poetry Project

2011-08-28T23:13:00.000-07:00

The point of this project is to celebrate and acknowledge what ideas, thoughts, things are created locally. Partly this idea stems from something I gleaned from, oddly enough, the many hours I've listened to Ralph Nader speak over my lifetime (which in reality is only at two rallies, but that man sure speaks a long time). He gave the example that oftentimes we have 140 channels on our T.V., and they are all crap. We know they are, but we assume that because that is what we are given, we have to just choose one of them. He said, (and this is what's stuck with me for so many years), if we don't like any of those channels, we don't have to put up with them. We should just start our own channel. Duh! He's so right. Well, I really didn't like what was up on many of our billboards in Utah, so I decided to put up something that I do like. Something that makes me think, and means something to the community. So... come to these events! Let's talk more. Let's celebrate who we are.

You may have seen this on my Facebook or in the newspaper! but... I'm pretty excited about the project, so you will see it again here too. I won't spend too much time explaining my motives and inspiration for the project here because most of that information is on the main page of the website. I will say though that you should be a part, there are three ways:

1. See the billboards with a poem by a local poet on State Street between Provo and Springville, going southbound.

2. Go to the website billboardpoetryproject.com to sign up for a free writing or art workshop and to read more fabulous local poetry.

3. Attend the drive-by caravan and reception on Saturday, the 10th of September. We will meet in the BYU Stadium parking lot between 6:00-6:30 p.m. and drive by the billboards in a caravan. At seven we will gather at the park on 8th East and Center Street in Provo for a reception with delicious food, poetry reading and a short lecture by poet Derek Henderson.

Also, there will be an impromptu art show, which means that all of you should bring a piece of art to put up in the portable art gallery that will be set up at the park. This is fun stuff!

You can also read about the project here. The dear friend who wrote this has done so much to help, organize and support along the way.

Email me with any questions. ashley.mae.christensen@gmail.com Woot!

Some August photos

2011-08-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

Good Weekend.

2011-08-21T23:30:00.000-07:00

I took it upon myself to make a wedding video this weekend. I had no intention of doing this upon arriving at the temple for the wedding, but things were just too wonderful to not record, and then, I didn't know I had it in me to just keep going. All throughout the day and into the night at the reception Carl kept turning around expecting to talk to his wife, only to find her on the ground or panning around getting some sweet footage. I had so much fun all day at the most lovely of weddings, and I'm so glad I made this little video, however simple and inexperienced I may be. I feel like this is what life will look like to us in heaven. This, or if I had made a video of my nephew Dash dancing with Remy in our living room on Friday night while we intermittently took turns showing our moves, including Dane spinning around in a metal bowl from the kitchen. I had intentions of taking long hikes and writing this weekend, but I don't regret one bit spending almost every moment with people, just doing our people thing.

Some Portraits from Lately. I love my job! (is it a job?)

2011-08-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

2011-08-16T06:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I am being super dramatic and overwhelmed, Carl sits me down and we write a list of all of the things that are making me upset. It seems to help when I can physically see on paper all of the things that are stressful and difficult, and then usually by the time they are all written down, I am fine. I wish that we'd kept the lists he's penned for me over the past couple of years because they are, to say the least, awesome. If there were an award for the best melodramatic list, the one about 4 months into my pregnancy would win. It went a little something like this:

#5. I feel fat

#8. I am always hungry

Really? I certainly make some difficult demands on myself, my body and my husband. We still laugh about that list. Let's all be nicer to ourselves. We're doing a good job.

Graduation

2011-08-14T15:56:00.000-07:00

Here we are. We graduated (obviously). Carl with a bachelor's degree in Geology and a minor in Italian and me with a Master's degree in creative writing. I'm glad we have this photo because I feel like someday it might mean something for Remy to see, but to be honest, neither Carl nor I were too pumped (up to graduation) to go about all of graduation pomp and circumstance, if you will. We actually didn't even decide if we were going to walk until the night before. We read a talk by Hugh Nibley (which I will share from later) that convinced us to dress up in these somewhat silly robes and hear our name called as we collected our diplomas. I have a hard time with graduation because it seems totally weird to me that I should be celebrated or congratulated on doing something that I absolutely adored for the past 2 years. Sure, there were times when school was stressful and overwhelming, but really, studying writing and language everyday lit my mind on fire in a way that proved to me that I am more capable than I thought. Education is a privilege to be a part of. There are not many things I love more than getting in a classroom with ten bright people and discussing poets, poetry, language, ideas, philosophy. I feel extremely blessed that I was able to go to 2 more years of school and write a thesis (collection of poems) that mean a lot to me, and get to teach on top of that.

I think graduation can often lead to false ideas that what is happening in school is more worthy than what is happening in the lives of other people, and that is hard for me. Shouldn't we throw my dad an honorary party for working so hard for so many years? Shouldn't my mom don a special outfit and be celebrated for writing on my 'first year of life' calendar every single day when she was a young mom or the years she's spent since taking care of all of us? Shouldn't my sisters and sister-in-law and cousins get a hooray and a room full of applause for being good always? For these reasons, I felt a little silly about walking at graduation. I guess though, these acts and/or sacrifices, often times performed in the quiets of a home are perhaps too sacred to celebrate in a graduation-like festivity and the people involved in them are exalted and revered in ways that may not ever be made public. I still feel a little silly about walking, and I don't plan on blowing these photos up and putting them on a wall to flout a degree or two, but after reading this talk, I understand a bit better what these robes and what this ceremony should stand for.

We don't wear these robes to say that we are smarter or more achieved than anyone else. We wear them because there is an importance and validity to education and dedication to the things of the mind. We wear them because they represent, or should represent a movement away from the slum of the world (morally degrading entertainment, inequality, laziness, etc...) and remind people that there is value in pursuing intangible ideas. We are uplifted by things that seem to offer little monetary value. i.e..I am not tricked into thinking that my degree in art and poetry will get me the big bucks. All this being said, I was proud to walk at graduation because I realized that I do feel strongly about using and challenging our minds. I'm so grateful for the people that have supported me in my endeavors. In particular, my dear parents, who were beaming. If you do have the time, read the talk I linked to, especially if you've also felt sheepish on your graduation day.

Hugh Nibley:

In a forgotten time, before the Spirit was exchanged for the office and inspired leadership for ambitious management, these robes were designed to represent withdrawal from the things of this world--as the temple robes still do. That we may become more fully aware of the real significance of both is my prayer in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Boy in a Balloon

2011-08-11T07:54:00.000-07:00

2011-08-10T07:36:00.000-07:00

On Sunday morning I went through all of the photos on my parent's computer from the last three years. Aside from some startling fashion choices all of us have made at some point or another, I kept thinking about how we have changed. The faces of my family members look older, as rightly they should. But also, they look wiser, which at many times, we could never have expected. Like any family, we've had our share of hard times in the last few years. I was surprised then to see that simultaneously, our wisened faces looked both full of joy and sorrow. Not so much weeping sorrow, just sorrow in the way that the world is hard sometimes, and things don't always go as expected. Later that night, we were all sitting around eating ice-cream and homemade chocolate sauce. Remy was on a blanket in the middle of the floor. He didn't want to stay in his bed downstairs and we didn't want to leave him there, so he was behaving himself at the late night party. As he was laying there, he drifted off to sleep. It was the most peaceful falling asleep I have ever witnessed. He looked up periodically and smiled to himself and then as slow as grass grows, his eyes closed, he put his arms up in little fists next to his face, and he was asleep. We put tiny sleeping Nixon next to him and as we took about 100 photos of the scene, I imagined what they must have been thinking as they drifted off. I think our faces and voices must have been perfect to these new little creatures. I don't think he minded the fact that we've all made mistakes, that things haven't gone all as planned, that we didn't turn out to be rich, or famous, or that we still have some bad style that we just don't realize yet. They trust us completely that life is good. I think we were all beautiful to them.

Lately

2011-08-09T07:25:00.000-07:00

We go on little hikes. Remy looks very intense here, which actually, he is, but he was loving this tree-covered little trail.

As was my mountain man husband. cute!

We went camping up Diamond Fork Canyon for a couple of days. So beautiful and Remy loved waking up outside (or with just a bit of netting between him and the outside.) RIP Bumbo chair, this is the last evidence we have of you before some wiley squirrels or mice ate you to pieces while we were gone.

The most lovely wedding in the middle of nowhere Utah. It was magic, I would have stayed out there under that tree and eaten cake night after night.

Dear friend/brother Joseph with baby Remy. When I see this photo I just think "two good souls."

Thank you, Earth.

2011-08-08T07:06:00.000-07:00

The man standing behind the dried mango sampling booth at Costco imparted some advice I keep thinking about. I normally steer clear of samples at Costco because it stresses me out to see people snatching up things like crazy people just because they are free, and I don't want to be that way, but this guy was filling up paper cup after paper cup with dried mango without any takers. I got one and gave it to Remy. While he was busy making himself the stickiest baby within miles, Carl and I had a nice talk with the mango sampler. He was from India and hadn't been here too long. He shared interesting details about himself with us: delhi, gem-studying, rock climbing, portland dreams. But the thing he said in passing that I can't stop thinking about is that each morning when he wakes up, before his feet his the ground, he reaches down, touches the earth and says, "thank you for letting me walk around on you today." Why have I never done that? Or even thought to do that. I think I'm grateful, mostly. And I do care about the earth, I am constantly taking recyclable things out of the trash at my house (a battle I can discuss later) and folding them up for the recycle can. I love being outside, clouds, grass, rain, thunder, but have I ever stooped close and whispered 'thank you' to this good earth? I don't know that I have. I certainly didn't the other morning when I emerged from the tent after my second night of camping and both my hips were bruised, even with a foam pad underneath (I have some powerful hips). I wish I would have said thank you, even then, especially then, because the river was humming, the dirt smelled damp and fresh, and I saw every star in the sky as I fell asleep the night before. Thank you mango man, for showing me there is always more to be happy for than I had remembered.

Mr. Remy laughs

2011-07-23T19:48:00.000-07:00

Wilderness

2011-07-22T13:56:00.000-07:00

Immediately after the photo below was taken I told Carl that I was embracing life, that normally I don't eat cups full of sugared syrup and ice, but that this day, I didn't care, I was simply enjoying. About 20 minutes later I remembered why I don't normally eat snow cones. I apparently maxed out around my freshmen year of college when one night I was sitting in the dollar theater at a midnight showing with my boyfriend and I thought my teeth were all going to fall out they hurt so badly. Strangely, I don't even remember who the boyfriend was at the time, but boy, do I recall vividly the sensation of having eaten one too many snow cone in a day. I vowed to never eat another one, or just to slow down the intake, no matter how fun a snow cone seemed. A couple of days ago however, in my quest to embrace life, I was again convinced that snow cones equal summer, and was consequently struck with some very sore teeth. The sensation came on just as we were pulling onto a dirt road at the very end of Hobble Creek Canyon. Normally I would just brush my teeth and get on with things. I didn't realize at the time that Carl, Remy and I were about to embark on a three hour journey in the nether reaches of Utah's finest back country, and that although my teeth would continue to hurt, I would soon forget about them as I grew more and more enchanted with the uninhabited landscapes on the backs our our mountains.

This photograph was taken by Carl at one of the only points with a

sign and map, about 20 miles into our journey. This map makes no sense to me. It does to Carl though, he was rather excited by the whole thing, enough so to take a picture of it. So, we were somewhere in this region; that was us winding about on that green line.

It was honestly kind of a strange experience to be away from all people, except one leathery looking old man wearing a green canvas jacket and driving a golf-cart on the dirt road. We stopped him and asked how far we were from any towns or highways. He made it sound like we were minutes from a main road, like he'd just zipped into town on his cart. About 40 miles later we emerged into Spanish Fork Canyon, we never saw any sign of a town, or even other people for that matter. What was that guy doing out there, and how did he get there?!

It was a strange thing to be away from everyone and everything, if even for just three hours. It was beautiful out there, and we scouted out a load of places to camp. I found by the end of our exploring and hiking, I was excited to get back home, it was getting a little lonely. I thought about the guy on the golf-cart, scooting back to his trailer camp, I thought about the cow that got scared by our car and galloped down into a gully, I thought about how at the beginning of our journey, we had no idea what we were going to see, how behind the mountain that I live on, there are vast miles and miles of silence, how I was so glad that Carl and Remy were with me, because there was too much world for me to take in alone on that drive and hike.

In some ways the emptiness we had encountered scared me, though I am a believer in quietness, in wilderness and in meditation. I felt safe driving back onto our street. I found comfort in the daily problems I had so recently bemoaned, not because they are problems, but because they belong to people, and the fact that I worry about those people means that life is pretty good.

Waking up.

2011-07-20T22:03:00.000-07:00

Today was vastly better then yesterday. I think a good part of that has to do with the fact that we all got up early. Getting up early has never been a strong point of mine, and I seem to bring whoever is around me right down with me. Just ask my roommates about the sleepy aura that permeated the rooms we shared. I always thought I would grow out of my sleeping-in problems. At first I thought it was a teenage thing, then I thought certainly, as a responsible college freshman living on my own, I would change my ways drastically. I even went so far as to take a 7 a.m. Book of Mormon class, needless to say, I received my first failing grade and at the end of the semester, the teacher pulled me aside and said, "I'm going to give you some advice: never take an early morning class for the rest of your college career, I don't think they are for you." I'm sure I nodded and went directly back to my dorm room and dove into the covers. I swear I'm not a lazy person! Nor a slob! I want more than anything to be a morning person. After the freshman incident, I lived with my dearest friend, Brooke, who also was not the best at getting up. We would set our alarm clocks three minutes apart and at the end of our beds. Our tactics did not deter us one bit, we sat up like alternating jack-in-the-boxes to slap the snoozed button for honestly, hours on end. In the meantime, our other two good friends who lived in the room next door had been up for hours. It was nothing short of out of control.

After these two years, I went on a mission. At which point, I was sure that I had matured into a young lady who would be able to rise with ease, even poise. For 18 months it was not so.

When people ask me what the hardest thing about my mission was, I never tell them that it was the endless slammed doors in my face, countless rejections, heat so intense I cried once, tough companions, wearing the same ugly skirt for over a year straight, no, the most difficult part of my mission was none of those things. By far, waking up at 6:30 every morning, every single morning, was the greatest trial as a missionary. For a time I had a companion who was a terribly eager girl, she got up at 5:30 a.m. to study. One morning, it must have been at the peak of my morning woes, I woke in the dark, found my way out of my sleeping bag and struggled to put on my sweatshirt. Uruguay is humid, and my hair is nigh unto crusty the clown's during most of my mission. When I am especially tired, my eyes get really puffy. That morning, I shuffled out to the kitchen where my companion was studying and without a word, rose my hand to greet her. She later told me that she had simultaneously never felt worse for someone and wanted to laugh so hard. I realized later that my sweatshirt was on upside-down, which explained the difficulty I had in trying to zip it up.

Five years later, when I got married, I thought that surely this would be the changing point when I would act like a real adult and really be able to get up the first time my alarm went off. Again, it was not so. In our first year of marriage Carl witnessed me pedaling my bike like a mad woman past walking students and up the big hill where I parked the bike hidden amongst the motorcycle parking lot on every Tuesday and Thursday at 9:29 a.m. He saw the back of my dress as I flew up the stairs and barely made it to the front of my class to teach.

Now, I am a mother. I am realizing that I have created a son who is very much after the manner of his mother. At 3 months old, he harnesses the capacity to sleep in like a miniature teenager. We've let it happen a few times, Remy and I, and occasionally Carl sleep in like our lives depend on it. I'm also realizing though, for perhaps, the first time in my life, that maybe I've been getting tricked all this time. I am realizing this because each morning as I wake Remy up at 8:00, he goes through about 30 seconds of absolute disgust and sadness for life. He cries, more yells, and tries to close his eyes again. However, when those thirty seconds are over, he opens his eyes wide and recognizes there are a lot of pretty great things around. Like me, with sweet bedhead. He is so happy and seems delighted with the morning. I am wondering then, have I just not ever let myself get past those thirty terribly crusty seconds that tell me not to get up, that it's best to stay in bed? (besides my mission, but I was just constantly exhausted then) I am learning, along with this little creature who somehow ends up right beside me every morning, that I just need to push past things that seem too hard. Don't quote me on this, but I think I may even become an avid morning person before I'm through yet.

no good, very bad, horrible....

2011-07-19T21:16:00.000-07:00

Carl discovered an excellent way to diffuse a maniac wife today. It was a rough day, not for any reason in particular, I was just terribly overwhelmed by a myriad of things that seem they will never be right. I chose, yes, chose consciously to speak only in extreme hyperbole and in worst case scenarios. Plus as I was rolling around on the bed in distress, Carl pointed out a hole in the crotch of the black spandex shorts I've been wearing every single day because nothing else fits my woebegone post baby body. In the midst of this Carl was very patient. At one point during the conversation, he reached over and took my phone from me and said something into it in Italian. It google translated back out loud in Spanish. A calm woman's voice said to me, "Por lo menos, mi actitud no tiene que ir al bano." In English: 'At least my attitude doesn't need to go to the bathroom.' I think something was lost in translation, but you get the idea. My attitude stunk, and it needed to spend some time contemplating its stinkiness, I guess in the bathroom.

My attitude still stinks, even right now. I was gearing up for an optimistic post as I put Remy to bed, but when I went to the computer, the internet was down. I spent half hour waiting for the comcast guy, who was, of course, terribly kind, to help me fix it. There are times when you know you should do things, and you just don't. I don't have a story about how I opened up the pages of the scriptures and found the perfect scripture to chase away my woes because I didn't bother to open up the scriptures. I imagine if I did, I would find a magic scripture, but I just don't want to at the moment. That's probably what I should do, but I'm not. Is that bad?

I know things will actually be just fine. Totally fine. Even better than fine, even if, and quite possibly when worst case scenarios unfold. Heavenly Father doesn't just leave us hanging. I imagine if He could send me a google translate message right now, it would say, "Chill out girlfriend, I know what I'm doing up here."

Going to bed.

2011-07-17T20:59:00.000-07:00

If we were keeping score, Remy would be two, us zero. I am trying, and with more diligence than I've done a lot of things, to get Remy on a sleeping schedule. I do this not so much because I feel like I want more time to myself, but because I feel obsessed about his brain growing and retaining things while he sleeps. We have not yet been able to let him cry himself to sleep. I'm a wuss. Tonight we got him out of him crib with the double-head shake sobs and immediately he was quiet. He remains completely quiet when we get him out of his bed past his bedtime, like he knows he's not supposed to be up, and he feels a little guilty, or is trying to lay low, like maybe we won't notice the adorable, round-noggined baby in our midst. When I was little, I also was notorious for sneaking out of my bed after my parent's had gone through exorbitant (at the time unknown by me) amounts of energy and patience to get me there. I distinctly remember slinking out of bed, making myself as small as possible while going through the bedroom door so as not to move a shadow or make a creak, and nearly crawling on my stomach to my place behind the couch. I remember thinking to myself, 'man, am I going to surprise them! My parent's are going to be so excited to see me!' I really and honestly thought that. A testament to their goodness. How the tables have turned. Except, maybe I am actually going to be the undisciplined parent I was worried I was going to be, because I don't mind that Remy is up partying (quietly) with us, even when, according to the book I read, he should have been in bed hours ago.

Leon

2011-07-13T21:45:00.000-07:00

I painted a lion today, because it was just that kind of a day. A good one.

2011-07-11T21:19:00.000-07:00

I like this picture. I like the outside. I like Remy. I like wind (sometimes in small doses) and I love these yellow pajamas and the pendleton blanket that we deliberated over for an hour. It has birds on it, and it's made of wool. Of course we made the right decision. Things are looking good for the week. I went on a run tonight, and boy, did I have some heavy feet, but I did it, and that is what counts. I am kicking into serious gear with this grant project I've been working on (if you have a poem that is 10 lines long, specific to Utah and might like to be on a billboard, please send it my way before the 20th of July). My electronic thesis is FINALLY done, and in, with every single page number and small detail you never imagined in place. I am already getting excited for the Farmer's market again this Saturday, it's becoming my favorite five hours of the week, and I think Remy would agree. Lastly, Carl is home from his week camping in the middle of nowhere Idaho gathering rock samples, actually, he was in a place called the City of Rocks, rather appropriate. Today as I was driving, I thought to myself, 'in terms of family and friends, I have extreme wealth.' and I really meant it.

Gift Giving

2011-07-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

Elisa possesses a gift for giving gifts. I've never known anyone to plot, notice, create and give with so much joy. I have a box of dear gifts from Elisa, and honestly gifts that shaped me as a person at a time when I didn't even know that someone could be so thoughtful and aware of the things that would always be important to me. I've tried, hard, and I've never

amounted to the gift-giver that I've wanted to be. I wanted to do

something nice and very good for her and Alex for a wedding gift. I thought for weeks, searched all over Portland, the internet, the good-gift archives of my brain and nothing seemed right.

I finally ended up spending a fair number of hours putting miniature stitches into this little ditty. It's not much, especially as I see it now. I did love moving the needle in and out of

the fabric. The repetition seemed meaningful and even symbolic of so many days she and I passed

together and apart, both good and bad. I used an embroidery hoop that belonged to my

grandma because she and Elisa spent many hours together, and Pat would have wanted to somehow be a part of her wedding day. I wish now that I could have done something better. I don't know what. Though, I think, even on her wedding day, she one-upped me again by giving me the better gift of inviting me and my family to be a part of her most beautiful wedding.

in which Remy loves to be outside, which reminds his mother...

2011-07-07T21:28:00.000-07:00

My heart has grown a few inches in gratitude since Mr. Remy has come around. The other night I actually found myself lying awake at 2 a.m. hoping that I would hear him crying so that I could go and get him and bring him into our bed, even though I pretend like I am a tough mom who thinks it's important for kids to stay in their own beds (I don't actually believe that constitutes a tough mom, if you are associating tough with not nice). I am grateful to that tiny boy for a lot of things, but most recently, I am grateful that he has reminded me to be outside. I realize that I am a doting mother, and doting mothers tend to capitalize on any movement or motion that indicates that their child may have a preference or quirk. My sister-in-law told me that one time she and several family members were convinced to say 'sweater' very enthusiastically, over and over to a 7-month old that never performed the promised trick she was supposed to when the word 'sweater' was said to her.

I therefore realize that what I am about to say may be more mother-induced prodigy, but Remy loves to be outside, more than your average little cub. We spend copious amounts of time through the front door and into the wilds of our neighborhood each day. Remy doesn't mind if it is sweltering or a bit chilly. He doesn't even mind if the grass is wet, or if a bug lands on his head, or if the water we dip his little feet into at the runoff in Rock Canyon Park is dazzlingly cold. Sometimes it feels like there is a little switch that immediately stops any fussing as soon as we step foot out the door. I am a doting mother, but I was also skeptical that what we were experiencing were more than normal three-month old things, so I've tested my theory that Remy has an actual and strong preference and love for the outdoors, over the past few weeks, and I believe I am right. My little son finds great peace and happiness in the outdoors.

Just tonight he was arching his back and fussing in our living room so we went and walked around our neighborhood for an hour. We looked at ripening cherries, wet lavender, we sat under a tree, and Remy pulled the petal off a snapdragon in the front yard. The whole time he didn't make so much as a peep. I'm grateful for his persistence in wanting to explore the world outside of the house, as if he knows that he came here to see some pretty spectacular things, and who am I to stop him. Now days we plan our day around how we can maximize our outdoors time. I've been reminded a tree, a sky, clouds, grass, dirt, secret places that we pass everyday in our cars are more than dear to me, they are the things that grew me up. I will end with a quote from a book that Carl and I have been reading, Last Child in the Woods. The quote is thanks to one good Walt Whitman,

There was a child went forth every day, and the first object he look'd upon, that object he became, and that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day, or for many years or stretching cycle of years. The early lilacs became part of this child, and grass and white and red morning glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird..."

Thunder

2011-07-03T10:09:00.000-07:00

A small moments reels itself through my head these last few days. The moment goes like this:

Standing in the kitchen in slippers, holding Remy with both arms around his small belly, raining outside, lightning and then loud thunder like our house is a drum hit with a heavy fist, my nephew screamed, the beta fish that refuses to die flicks his faded tail wildly and moves toward the window in his tall glass bowl. I don't know why the last detail moved itself so permanently into my mind. I think it must have been the way that red and blue fish sat at the bottom of the bowl on the marbles my dad put there for him, the way the water was murky. When the fish, a prize from one of Carl's biology classes, swam toward the window as the thunder thundered the neighborhood, his tail swacked and swashed wildly in the water. I think it was the way this fish seemed so intent, his tail moving aside the murk settled between the marbles until for a split second, everything seemed clear, for all of us. My nephew who screamed, the world with the rain and clap of thunder, me with my arms around Remy. I remembered, 'oh yeah, I'm here, and so much is unpredictable.' and that happiness is something I would like to teach my son.

some pictures i found while cleaning

2011-06-28T09:35:00.000-07:00

I didn't realize how much Remy and I look alike until I found this picture below when I was three months old. The rest are pretty epic. You can see that even early on, I rocked a gnarly eyebrow.

2011-06-15T21:26:00.000-07:00

I sure love this little guy. Thanks for coming boy.

2011-06-12T23:20:00.000-07:00

2011-06-12T22:28:00.000-07:00

I've been going on a lot of walks lately, at least one a day. I suppose I could run, very slowly and painstakingly, and perhaps I'd lose weight quicker, but I don't want to run, and I'm not willing to say it is because I am unmotivated. I enjoy my walks far too much to run at this point in my life, and I don't feel a bit sorry about it. I especially love walking while we are here in Portland. I remember the first spring I lived here, I walked through winding neighborhood streets every damp morning and the colors of the trees and the flowers delighted me to no measure. I am a person who sees the world in colors. Yesterday on my walk around the neighborhoods of my in-laws, I felt romantic and swooning over the flowers I saw. I wanted to nestle the poofing pink peonies against my cheek. I wish I could have taken charming instagram photos of each one, and showed them to you here, but alas, my phone is old. Yesterday I got a text that Carl said he sent to me over two weeks ago, so while my phone clearly posses some magical powers, charming photography is not one of them. I said thank you in my head to the bright red hanging flowers on the corner, and tried to memorize the long, purple stocks near the entrance to the old-people community. There was a sign that warned about golf carts on the street in that area--pretty awesome. It got me to thinking if I would ever live in a old-person community, and I concluded that no, I wouldn't. But then I got to thinking about all of the unfamiliar streets and houses I was passing, and how to some person in the world, that house, street, bush, crack in the sidewalk, drooping set of snapdragons, view of the Portland woods, is the most familiar thing in the world to someone else. I kept thinking to myself, 'what if I lived here, what would I think when I woke up in the mornings?' I did this way too many times, thinking over and over about how strange and good it is that we all have a little space on this earth that is home to us. I thought myself into a dither as I wound up and downs roads. An hour later, I found myself at the back of my in-laws home. The house looked different to me, as if I were approaching it like all the other homes I'd just seen and wondered about. I thought to myself, 'who would I be if that were that simple, brown-slatted house in the corner of the cul-de-sac were one of my places on this earth?' and then I snapped out of my existential quandaries and realized, 'duh, that is my place.' The lights were on in living room windows, as the night was settling in. I stopped in the front yard and thought for a moment about everything that waited for me inside. Yes, of course this is my place, I thought, and then it wasn't so strange to me to understand that everyone else has a place too, that is just as familiar and perfect to them. I walked to the front door and opened it. No one noticed my return--nieces and nephews were running through the kitchen, the dog was politely trying to get to her closet hiding spot to avoid them, half a pizza was on the counter, the washer timer buzzed. I saw Carl sitting with Remy in the rocking chair and I adored the little place that's been carved out on this earth for me.

Ye Olde Northwest

2011-06-11T11:54:00.001-07:00

We do love the Northwest, and Tillamook ice cream, and sleeping babies, and babies who behave in their car seat for hours on end (though there is a definite limit to this). I know, I know, just pictures of us. Self indulgent? Perhaps. But then again, as I was taking pictures of Carl showing Remy the ocean for the first time, a lady walking by stopped and said, 'let me take a picture of all three of you together.' She did, it's a little blurry, but I keep thinking about what she said to me as she took the picture, 'you are making memories, this is such a good time in life, remember it.' Sometimes I can stand how incredible it is that I am taking pictures that Remy will someday look back at while we are all old and sitting on a couch together somewhere. I keep thinking, I know something about what I am doing/wearing/looking is totally nerdy and will be laughed about in 20 years, but I can't quite put my finger on what that is, and after all, I do laugh about pictures of my yester-year mom, but there is also part of me that is in love with her young, naive goodness, and I'd like to think becoming a mom has done something of that to me.

Poem for today

2011-06-07T11:13:00.000-07:00

Gift"

A day so happy.
Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over the honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw blue sea and sails.

Czeslaw Milosz (1911-2004)

My husband writes too.

2011-06-07T09:08:00.000-07:00

Carl has a blog. I like it very much. Today there is a fabulous little post about Remy and his octopus. Yesterday we noticed that maybe those octopus' eyes don't look like eyes to Remy, but perhaps something a little more maternal. I'm going to take his absolute delight about it as a compliment.

mormongeologist.blogspot.com

In which I talk about blogs.

2011-06-06T14:41:00.000-07:00

I've been taking some time away from this little blog to venture out into the world of blogging. I just wanted to see what was out there, and wow, I was quite taken away with what I found: hundreds of hard-working, stylish blogging queens. Witty moms. Stylish moms. Crafty moms. Smart moms. Bragging moms. Political moms. Moms with good ideas and loud voices. Obviously there are a myriad of incredible blogs written by women who are not "mom-bloggers". I read a lot of those as well, written by friends and strangers alike, they in equal proportion, are moving and inspirational. I just focused for a moment on mom blogs because I seem to notice them lately, considering my new station in life. I have been looking to them to try and figure out how to balance everything. A great many voices are speaking. A whole lot of women blogging about a whole lot of different things. There are days when I want to move completely away from the blogging scene, and there are actually days when I do just that, but I inevitably come back to it. I think just right now, in writing this, I am realizing why I, and so many other women I know, really love the blog-sphere. I think it is because for the first time in perhaps ever, women have a space and forum for loud and powerful voices that are influential across the globe. That was a pretty epic sentence I just wrote. But I mean it. I think women have always had powerful, intelligent, influential thoughts and ideas, but it seems that many times in history, we've been crowded out, either because we were in a male-dominated scene, or because we were too busy with the work of the home to go out in places where it is easy to be heard. It seems, and I could be wrong, but in the past, we had to choose to be in the home with kids at the sacrifice of losing a bit of our voice in the world (at least in some senses), or we had to sacrifice our time at home to go out and try and make ourselves heard. It seems that blogging is a marrying of the two. In taking this time away to read other blogs, I have been impressed at how many women respond with genuine concern to the needs of another woman she may have only met in writing. I think about how many mothers and fathers have their pertussis vaccination because of my cousin Natalie's blog. I think about the ideas and thoughts of women in others states and other countries than me. I've signed petitions for important causes because I felt akin to another woman blogger. I definitely think there is a point at which we should close the laptop, or walk away from the computer desk and go and live our lives, and more often than not, that point should probably happen sooner, but I do also believe that there is a power in the nexus of voices and thoughts invisibly woven through many homes, where women are working hard and effecting change in the world.

I suddenly feel like I'm getting ahead of myself, or once again, getting a little to epic and melodramatic for my own good, but point is, I think blogging is a powerful tool and I'm glad for the things I've been reading over the past weeks. Granted, there are some blogs that just make me feel totally unfashionable (you mean the cut-off leggings and deep-v, cleavaging, nursing shirt I've been wearing everyday aren't at the top of the hip scale?), un-crafty and boring, but hey, maybe that's the truth, or maybe I can just choose to scroll through those posts quicker on my google reader. I'm just about done, but I'm just sayin', there's a lot of good that can come from these blogs I think. There are a lot of good women with mighty-fine voices who know how to talk about just about anything. I'm pretty sure that I started out this post to be about something else...oh yeah. My thesis! I defended my thesis (which consisted of 40 poems, 40 paintings and a big theory paper). It was a fabulous and reassuring experience in which I was able to account for a decade of working and learning. Maybe someday, if I ever stop revising, I will show it to you. I must say, I'm having a bit of an identity crisis after being a student for nearly 10 years. Perhaps that explains this post and my newfound faith in blogging.

Provo has an airport!

2011-05-29T21:28:00.000-07:00

Provo is obviously a very dear place to me. I feel like I am watching someone I love grow, and so, I am proud and excited that Provo has it's own airport that will soon be taking Provo residents all about the country. Salt Lake, we love you, but we won't be wasting all our time and gas monies trying to get to your airport anymore.

I wrote a mother's day poem

2011-05-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

A Prayer

—is how your body began.

A thought I had at the beach in Oregon,

while three children ran across damp sand.

The grey sky held a red kite,

the seagulls were particularly white.

The clouds—pillows I could turn

my head up to, and dream—

those voices, they were my children.

No, no—your body was yet begun,

spinning deep inside,

whirring,

a delicate machine,

like a butterfly, ready to take flight.

A Very Long Birth Story

2011-04-28T09:48:00.000-07:00

So, I wasn't going to write about my birth story, but then I happened to read a couple of birth stories, and realized that I love hearing about them and I love my own story, and aren't we all here to tell stories to each other. I am grateful that I have a story. I hesitate to write about Remy's birth and pregnancy because I know so many people who also want to have these stories, and for some reason or another don't have them just yet and I worry about making them feel sad. I have come to learn that we are given the right experiences for us in this life. I also have to remind myself, that all of these same people are nothing but gracious and happy for my experience, and we should share our stories. I find more and more that I not only want to share my stories with people, but also, I want to share the actual experiences. I love when a friend or a family member holds Remy and I can see that they love him already, because I am sure he will soon return the sentiment.

That being said, yippee! here it goes. This could be long, even very lengthy (both the post and as it turns out, the actual labor). The journey began on the 18th of March. I went to a lecture and a reading by Terry Tempest Williams on campus on the 17th. During the lecture, while she was talking to us about the importance of sharing our voice for things that are important to us, I had a strong contraction. I gripped the table and tried not to squeal, half out of excitement and half out shock because it felt like suddenly I was carrying the entire world in my belly. I went through the rest of that day with the understanding that our baby would be coming soon. I kept it quiet though, I don't even know that I said anything to Carl, I didn't want to jinx the vibes I was getting.

We went to dinner at my professor's house that evening and we had the loveliest of times and a lot of good laughs, and some of the best bread and butter I have ever put my paws to, and if anyone knows me, they know I love a good slice of white bread. I made a successful cheesecake, my first, and we finally left when we saw one of his kids dragging himself up the stairs about ready to put himself to bed. Fast forward to the next morning at 7 a.m.. I woke up in bed and said to myself, 'my water is about to break, I better go in the bathroom'. So I did. I sat down and my water broke. I was delighted to say the least, and also a bit nervous. I went back in bed and lay on my back for a while looking up at the ceiling and through the slats of the blinds into the morning. I woke up Carl and we both lay there. I didn't tell him for a few minutes, and when I did, he smiled and I think probably felt very happy that pregnant Ashley would soon be mom Ashley. I got up and ate some cereal and let Carl sleep for a bit longer. My sister and brother in-law and their two kids were staying with us, so I hung out with my sister-in-law Sofie for a while. After about an hour I said, 'Sofie, I think my water broke this morning'. Now, looking back, I realize I probably should have said something sooner, run about, gone straight to the hospital, especially since I was actually having contractions, but I don't like making a scene, and I felt quite calm anyway, I just wanted time to think about things. Sofie, understandably, was a little unsure of what to do for me, as it seemed I had no intention of doing anything but eating cereal for the next while. I did go take a shower, blow dry my hair (was I stalling? denying? I don't blow dry my hair even for fancy occasions), put on one of Carl's t-shirts and a ribbon in my hair. I took some pictures of myself in the mirror and felt some more contractions that seemed to be getting stronger.

Finally, as my mom was walking out the door to work (she works at the hospital on the floor where moms and babies come after labor and delivery), I told her that my water had broken. She, of course, insisted that I jump in the car and get to the hospital immediately, and I, being true to my stubborn, insistent nature, assured her that I was fine and that I would be there when I felt like I should be there. I had wanted to be at home for the majority of labor and I felt an aversion to hospital settings. So, my mom went to work and proceeded to text me frantically for the next two hours, saying that I needed to get there, now. She was probably right because risk of infection increases when the water breaks and I was also group b positive, which also compounds that possibility. I finally gave in and around 12, with contractions about 5 minutes apart, we drove to the hospital.

Once at the hospital, my contractions picked up and became rather intense rather quickly. My two dearest friends and doulas, Sara and Sam came and almost right away we all settled into a routine. We walked through the halls, used the birth ball, shower, sitting, standing, and a whole lot of breathing. Between contractions, we all laughed and talked, and I felt invigorated and ready to deal with the pain. I will say that the pain was heavier and more acute than anything I've felt before, far surpassing even the time we had to run sprints with my soccer team up the hill behind the baseball field, or the time I skied in powder all day and my legs burned like they were on fire. This pain was more intense than anything I'd ever felt, but it was different than mere physical pain, the whole time I had the sense that something special and refining was happening within me, almost like the night I lay in a canyon meadow and watched the stars run their course across the entire sky.

I also loved that each person in the room played an entirely unique and integral part of the process. Carl was of course, kind as ever. His words surrounded me, and I could hear little else. Sara had the most comforting movements and touch, I leaned on her and her breathing and confidence kept me calm. I listened for Sam to help me breath deep and slow, and at one point I remember reaching my hand out with my eyes closed during a contraction and looking specifically for Sam's small hand to hold mine. It was interesting that during each contraction I felt like I absolutely needed each of them to be touching me. I have read a hundred times about how having a doula or a support group of women makes the birth experience so much more calm and positive, and I obviously had faith in what I had read because I asked not just one doula, but two to be there, but I can attest that it is entirely true. Women should help women. Carl also grew dearer to me by the minute during everything.

Around 8 p.m. that night a nurse checked my progress and I was only dilated to a one. Rather disappointing after feeling like I was really going somewhere. Contractions continued to come about every minute and I was getting so tired, so I decided to get an epidural. Sidetrack: Before I was pregnant, I was sure I would do everything entirely natural, then as I was pregnant, I got more and more worried about giving birth and didn't want to be screaming or yelling (I'm very particular, perhaps too much, about things like that) and I didn't want my birth experience to be a traumatic memory, and so I said to myself that I would honestly play it by ear and see if I needed/wanted an epidural or not. I tried to go into the birth process with an open mind and an attitude that it would be beautiful and good no matter if it played out exactly how I had imagined. I have learned that every person's experience is unique, and also valid. This is also not to say that unmedicated births equal screaming and yelling and trauma. I know so many people who have had wonderful, positive experiences with natural births, even when there was screaming and yelling. I just knew that for me, I was the one who would ultimately have to deal with the experience, and I didn't want to set myself up for doing things a certain way before I actually knew what would be best for me in the time of the actual birth.

So, at that point, I was tired and hungry and foreseeing a lot more labor (I was over 12 hours in and only dilated to a one), so I got an epidural. I could still feel contractions, and not just the pressure, but the pain of them, though it was quite dulled. I missed the energy and movement of the first hours of labor. I missed feeling like we were all working through something together. I missed the difficulty of each contraction and the happiness that comes from the hardest things. It was relieving to have the pain subside, but had I not been looking at such a long labor, I would have liked to have gone without pain medication (easier to say now though right?). Because I could still feel contractions, it was totally necessary (for me, at least) to have Sam and Sara still there.

By midnight I still wasn't dilating and contractions had subsided, so Pitocin started, and Carl ordered a delivery pizza. We were all genuinely having a good time, it was a Friday night sleepover, and I even made Carl sneak me a few bites of pizza and chocolate pretzels. By three a.m. there was still little progress and Remy's little heart beat seemed to be getting tired on Pitocin, so we stopped. The events from this point until about 11 a.m. the next morning are a little blurred, but they went something like this: pitocin; no pitocin; pitocin; no pitocin; fever for me; everyone sleeps; i don't sleep but listen to babies heartbeat on the monitor; carl isn't a actually sleeping either, but rubs my forehead for hours, and we pray together; Sam and Sara rub my hands and say nice things; babies heartbeat beats very fast; we are nervous; blessing; doctor comes in an out trying to figure out what is best; I get my blood drawn at the lowest point of the whole experience, I stick my arm out to the nurse and sob loudly, perhaps dramatically into Carl's hands; I get tired; I drift off to sleep around 8 a.m. and honestly think I might be dying and should wake up to tell everyone goodbye (exhaustion and medication?); my mom brings in donuts; after nearly 30 hours of labor, I have not progressed; after much talk with the doctors, we decide that a c-section is the best option.

Now, I am no unecessary-c-section advocate. In fact, it was not what I wanted, nor had planned, but I will also say that contrary to many books and tales, I was in no way pressured into it by my doctors or a bunch of males that just wanted to do some surgery so they could get home quicker. My doctor came in on his vacation day to stay up with me all night at the hospital, he was out researching possible issues I could be having while I was in labor. He was as hesitant about the c-section as I was, but he said he honestly felt like it was the best thing for this particular scenario. So, around noon, I went in for the c-section. It wasn't the most pleasant experience, but it also wasn't un-pleasnt. Carl was right by me wearing a fantastic baker-like cap and white astronaut suit, and most importantly, our tiny baby was about to come meet us. Within ten minutes of starting the surgery, I heard tiny Remy give a yell and the doctor held him up for me to see. Two things I found out later: 1. The doctor said that when they finally opened up the uterus, Remy, who was posterior, was ready with his eyes wide open and looking right out into the world. He also had the cord wrapped tightly twice around his neck, which was why I never dilated (it was as if he was suspended at the top of the uterus and couldn't move down without his breath being cut off) 2. Carl said that my doctor stopped the other surgeons before they cut the cord and said that I had wanted to let the cord pulse for a few minutes before it was cut (to get the last of the good, nutrient rich blood in Remy). I thought it was so respectful that he stopped everything, in the middle of an intense procedure, to fulfill something I had requested, even though I probably would never know if he had done otherwise.

So, baby Remy was born and I looked up to see Carl running around in his white outfit with a camera, and a very big smile. I was so happy, and tired. And so, our baby was born. I loved the experience. Almost immediately after it was over, I, in some ways felt nostalgic for it. I don't know that anyone could have prepared me for how good it would be, and also hard. My doctor told me in one of my last appointments, that I was entering the field of anecdotal medicine, and I have just proven him correct, but I think that is one of the more beautiful elements of birth. So there it is, perhaps, long, and I know, lacking details (or sharing too many?). I think the story may fade deeper into myth and magic as the months go on, and in many ways, I'm just fine with that. I learned that our stories do not have to be perfect, or expected, to be our own, and they do not have to win an award to be told. We like to listen to each other, and imagine, and talk and remember together. I also learned that despite a whole lot of books that told me otherwise, I very much loved my baby immediately and without guile the moment I met him, even if I had a c-section.

The Circle of Life (in Provo)

2011-04-26T10:47:00.000-07:00

I think Provo a glorious place. Not too long ago Carl and I had a long discussion in which he laughed a little at my insistence that Provo is a big city, nigh unto other big cities, that people know about and want to come to. I've grown up here, all my life. This fact has recently become strangely clear to me because Carl and I are moving to California in the fall, and when I tell people, I say, 'yeah, this will be my first time living outside of Provo.' What?! In my head I feel like a very diverse girl, and I suppose that I have lived in over 15 different houses in Provo, but it's true, I am a Provo girl through and through. Carl's parents and little brother came down from Portland this weekend for Remy's baby blessing and I felt a great sense of pride and eagerness to show them my city and where I've spent the last decade going to school.

Somehow, however, we ended up at the Bean Museum and Cafe Rio. For anyone not from Provo, the Bean museum is a special place where BYU's motto, The World is Our Campus, is really captured. And by captured, I mean, literally, then stuffed and displayed in all sorts of glass cases and groupings in the big museum room. There are hundreds of animals, birds, insects, and reptiles, real ones, mind you, all staring down at you. I think that every Provo kid grew up going to the Bean Museum, and I think all those same kids still honestly believe the boa constrictor that the lady brings out for the reptile show is the same one we petted back when we were in the first grade. My thoughts on the Bean Museum have changed a bit since I was wee and it was strictly a place of magic, it now seems a little strange/sad to me that all of these animals were killed by one man and then shipped from their home into a 70's looking building in the middle of Provo, Utah. But then I think about all the kids that know of/love/learn about animals because of this place. Anyway, regardless, I found myself telling Carl's brother and parents how cool the museum is, and how they were going to love it, and at the same time in my head I was thinking that maybe Provo isn't such a big time city as I thought.

We happened to be at the museum with two bus-loads of alzheimer's senior citizens. It was awesome. I felt like the circle of life was being completed before my very eyes as we toted Remy around the displays of once-frolicking animals, and dodged wheelchairs and walkers at the same time. The old people were adorable, and it made me want to work with older people again. One man with the wispiest white hair said about every two minutes, "so you're telling me that BYU put all this together? The foresight they must have had, this is wonderful." I remember at one point on the top floor, near the Elk and dik-dik display, we got stuck behind a long and slow-moving line of oldies. I didn't mind a bit. What a proud moment for me to show my in-laws the city that raised me.

Perhaps though, my favorite thing of the whole venture was when i was sitting near the stick bug case nursing Remy on a bench and an older lady, (I don't think she was with the alzheimer's crowd) came up to Carl and said in a loud whisper, "Good for you for letting her do that in public and for getting out of the house with such a little baby." She seemed genuinely very happy for us that we were out on the town, and nursing in public to boot. She told Carl that it was so nice of him to take me out of the house. She said it was refreshing and encouraging because in her day, women who had babies, just didn't get out of the house. Hooray for husbands and a culture that wants new moms to not hide out in their houses and nurse in bedrooms by themselves. Also, hooray for Provo and the awesomeness it provided for me and my in-laws.

2011-04-24T22:08:00.001-07:00

Some days I just can't help myself. Hi baby!

Remy bird, a month later

2011-04-21T23:35:00.001-07:00

So, I clearly haven't written too much since little Remy bird has come to us. I've written a thousand little essays in my head while I sit at the foot of the bed at 2 a.m. and nurse. I've even actually typed out blog posts that I never posted, relating all the details of his beloved birth and the darling things he does every hour. I haven't not posted for lack of time, or motivation, or even because I've been stuck in a fog of new motherhood. I think I haven't posted because I fear the inability of language to do any justice of expression to the way I feel when I wake up in the morning and see a tiny, flawless body squirming next to me. I am about to defend a thesis, which is a collection of my own poetry, in a month or two, and so the abilities, and perhaps more appropriate, the inabilities of language have been ripe on the brain. I am afraid that I will ruin this magic time if I try to express it in words, especially if I, and I inevitably will, use words like 'cute' and 'perfect'. Those words are fine, I employ them often, but they are not working to attempt to describe what it is to have a tiny human being who makes sighing noises in his sleep, and opens and closes his eyes as slowly as a butterfly, breathing next to you all the time.

What I will say about the whole thing right now, is this: it is incredible to me that people have been having kids (and I don't just mean physically having them, but that older people have been helping to raise younger people) for millions of years. It is so much work, and they seem so fragile. It is the work of so many repetitious hours, it is the work of many unaddressed acts of service, it is the work of so much quiet joy that perhaps is never expressed to anyone. Yet, even more amazing to me than any of this, is the way that one person's face, expressions, movements, voice, become your entire world, and yet, that is entirely different for everyone. It always has been, and it always will be. That face may be a spouse, a niece or nephew, a son or daughter, brother or sister, a friend, and in most cases, it is a collaboration of all of them. It seems that Remy's face, with his big, round eyes, and upturned Christensen nose, is the most familiar, and still exhilarating little thing I've ever known. I also think about how me and Carl will become like the comfort of coming home from a foreign country to Remy. I wonder if my body, my voice, the way I move through the house are already comfortable to him. He seems pretty content with life here. All this being said, I do plan to write more on here about him, and about other things, because, after all, the ever-surprising truth that I am still who I am, even as a mother, continues to be the case.

Some pictures of Remy baby.

2011-04-03T12:13:00.000-07:00

We've been busy with this little guy. We love him more than we thought we could and feel so lucky to have him around. We'll get back to writing and posting again soon, in the meantime, here are some pictures!

Remy Kent Hoiland

2011-03-20T13:47:00.000-07:00

Name: Remy Kent Hoiland

Weight: 7 lbs 11 ounces

Height: 19 inches

Labor: 28 good hours

Status: Healthy, Happy & Grateful

Demeanor: Super-chill

2011-03-15T09:38:00.001-07:00

I wish I had something cooler to say, like "I had a baby!", but I don't. This is about how I feel right now.

Rumbly-Tumbly Pair of Owls

2011-03-14T14:14:00.001-07:00

No baby yet. I think he is far too comfortable in there. In the meantime...

2011-02-24T21:06:00.001-08:00

Body

2011-02-24T18:49:00.000-08:00

Being pregnant makes me feel pretty. For the first time in a long time I don't feel self-conscious about my body. It's not that I didn't like my body before, it's just that I felt very aware of its imperfections and inability to be tiny and slim. I wear pants now, heck, I even wore just leggings to teach my class today. I sometimes feel like my classroom full of 20 something year-old, mostly male, unmarried students are totally unsure of how to approach the fact that I everyday I come to class a little bit rounder. I think sometimes it makes them nervous, but there are also days like today when they seemed excited and curious and as supportive as students are allowed to be. Teaching is such a funny thing because I feel like mutually, teacher and student, we care a lot about each other and want the other to succeed, but at the same time, we know almost nothing about each other's personal lives and only see each other for such a brief period in our lives.

Being pregnant is so interesting. I simultaneously can't wait for it to end and also wish that I could be in this state always. I will be the first to say that I am terribly uncomfortable most of the time, but I also, like I said above, feel more comfortable with and in my own body than I have in a long time. I get worried about how I will feel when the roundness in my belly is gone. Maybe I feel so delighted in my body shape right now because I have always loved roundness and circles. My artwork is always full of round shapes and brushstrokes, I like round words, I would much prefer a circle to a triangle or a square. I think there is a lot of comfort in the way that a circle never requires you to define a beginning or ending. There is a softness and a kindness to the way that a circle just lets you in without being abrupt or loud, you just sort of move your way into the shape. I feel like my round belly also completes the fact that I have a perfectly round, charlie brown head, and my eyes, instead of being olive-shaped, are round like the pit of a fruit. A friend once told me, before I was pregnant, that my body reminded them of a snowman. That made me secretly very self-conscious for a long time, however well-meaning the compliment/declaration was. I now see her point though, except I feel like a snowman with legs. I didn't mean for this whole post to be about my body, but it is. Sorry if that is awkward. My body though is much on my mind as of late and I am quite impressed by the whole affair. I will leave you with a picture and a poem.

Venus of Willendorf

Who carved the first taut stomach? Sharp tool held between deft fingers, shaping limestone round as sunrise. So small I could hold it in the palm of my hand, or in secret. Was the statue an attempt to capture the supple hills of a body that moves like an ocean under the surface? Was it hope for child, was it praise?

Now, I am wild with new heaviness. Peonies, full moon, cup my hands together and look inside. A subtle movement outward into the world, and still thoughts move ever inward. I am searching the veins around my heart. I touch my stomach often, rub my hand across the underside. Surely everyone must notice the way I round, the blood in my cheeks.

Maybe it was Eve who made the Venus and painted it a soft earthen red.

I hiked through the hills at the top of a canyon where the air was thin. I wanted to lie down among the fallen granite and blooming wildflowers. I thought about the tiny stone woman with no face. I wanted to hold her up, just to make sure she really does look like me.

side note: The Venus of Willendorf is the oldest accounted for piece of sculpture or artwork that we know of today. It dates back to about 22,000 BC. Little is known about the sculpture or its purpose, but many call it the first Venus, which seems rather appropriate.

An exercise of the body

2011-02-17T11:11:00.001-08:00

This morning as I was painting on a painting, I looked down and noticed that my belly was nearly wiping out everything I was doing as I moved along the canvas. I don't mind this. There is a phrase that returns to my head almost as often as "how did pioneer women do this?!". This new phrase is one that came to me one night as I was making my way down a dark hallway to the bathroom for the third time in five hours. I was rather sore and uncomfortable and even feeling a little trapped in the state of my body. "This is an exercise of the body," was the phrase that came from somewhere, either kind and revealed, or halfway between dreams. Either way, at the time it came to me, it seemed brilliant. It also seemed comforting, which is perhaps far more important than brilliancy at times. In my head I thought, 'you know, like an exercise of the mind, except right now, in this pregnant state, I am experiencing an exercise of the body.' As the phrase has permeated my life over the last weeks however, I have begun to question, the original phrase, 'an exercise of the mind'. Have I been engaged in an exercise of the mind for so long that I forgot about all that can happen within the body? Is it all the writing poetry, and about poetry, and typing on a computer that has caused me to Is there such a phrase? I haven't wanted to look it up or ask anyone, because I don't want to the answer to be no.

So, I find myself repeating to myself, several times a day, 'this is an exercise of the body.' I think what I mean by that is that there are times in our lives, pregnant or not, when we are acutely aware that we are living in a body and that within that body, we are experiencing things that we literally have never experienced before. About a week ago, Carl and I took a small hike up Rock Canyon. Before we left the house, we weren't planning to go hiking and there was a storm watch up on the news, but somehow we ended up at Rock Canyon anyway. I was in a skirt and trusty moccasins and Carl didn't have his coat. The way up was bitter cold. The clouds were moving down the canyon like the glacier that once carved it. The sandstone was vibrant and stark and there was no movement but our icy footsteps on the trail. Remember when the spirits jumped into swine bodies and then jumped off a cliff? I thought of them as we hiked upward. They were so elated and overwhelmed at the opportunity to experience something powerful within the body that they over-zealously ended their mortal probation with a leap off a cliff into a swashing ocean far below. I had no desires to jump off any cliffs, but it suddenly seemed quite marvelous that my cheeks were biting with cold, and I couldn't feel my calves, and my body was cumbersome with the baby moving inside. It seemed pretty great that for the first time in my life I am aware of my own body in ways I couldn't expect.

I was not aware at how uncomfortable, or sleepless, or even at times painful, the last trimester of pregnancy would be. I think I may be feeling even more dramatic because the pain of surgery at 5 months has led into different pains that might not be there otherwise, but then again, maybe everyone experiences this and are just a lot more graceful than I. The point I guess I have been thinking about though, is this idea that right now, I am taking part in an exercise of the body, which simultaneously makes this time an exercise of the mind and spirit. I think that is pretty great. It is fascinating that physical pain, in whatever type or sort, can be a catalyst for happiness. And I guess I mean happiness in the way that those spirits wanted so badly to be a part of this joining of body and spirit that they jumped into a herd of swine. We get to be a part of that, not only for a moment, but for a seemingly long and short time.

Little dream

2011-02-03T08:18:00.000-08:00

I've read that in the third trimester of pregnancy, dreams begin to be quite vivid. I am a pretty intense dreamer anyway, so right now, between the hourly hefting of my belly from one side of the bed to the other, those dreams are colorful and involved. Early this morning, as I bumbled around trying to get to the bathroom and back without waking up Carl again, I remembered all of my dream and it seemed to make sense to me.

In my dream I was walking about all sorts of familiar places in Provo and I was spending time with people I know and love. In this dream however, I was acutely aware of how much more apt, motivated and successful other people were from me. I don't think my feelings stemmed from any sort of jealousy, just feeling not up to the task on my own part. Here are just a few of the things that went down during my day of wandering Provo: I ran into Charla and Leland in a printmaking studio where they were working on projects, I remember thinking how successful they both are. Charla is just pretty, motivated and hardworking in general and Leland was churning out fabulous projects on his letterpress and talking to everyone as he worked. He also had a very strong penchant for speaking Japanese, which I'm pretty sure he doesn't actually do in real life. Then I made my way through a neighborhood near my elementary school, one of the houses had a tree that grew balloons and although the balloons were droopy and not very brightly colored, I admired their creative ability to grow something like balloons, and then the next house even out did that and had balloons twisted into shapes, like you get at carnivals, growing up and out of their trees. I think I remembered my somewhat failed garden of last spring. I passed on to my kindergarten classroom and suddenly felt quite embarrassed that I wasn't doing volunteer work there, or even more, that I wasn't a kindergarten teacher working hard for those little kiddies. I was going to walk to my high school, but realized I had driven my car, so along the way, I looked out and saw so many people who were better at exercising than me. They were out jogging, and they seemed to be rather enjoying it. Finally I made it back to my high school where a group of dear friends were having a gathering. Lisa always makes the perfect party dish and somehow, when I tried to help, I ended up getting dishwater in the pasta salad. I hate it when that happens. Darcie, of course, had brought a beautiful cake. We all sat down to watch a movie and I somehow was missing the point entirely. I couldn't understand why everyone was laughing so hard about all these aliens on an airplane. I felt silly for not understanding. The last thing I remember however, was while everyone was involved in the movie, and I was busy eating candy on the couch, my cousin's little boy Ollie came over, I think because he also likes candy, and sat down with me. He asked me why my belly was so big, and I told him I was growing him a cousin, and then I think, for the first time in the dream, I felt proud and calm and then I woke up.

I don't mean to go on and on here, but I think this dream taught me, or reminded me of some important things. I've been spending lots of quiet time growing this little boy, and all the while, worrying quite a bit about not being productive enough, or not making a difference in the world. I don't mean this to say that I don't think those things aren't important, or that I should set them by the wayside, but I also want to love just what I am doing right now and recognize the value and importance of seemingly small tasks and moments. I don't think this is applicable to just pregnant people, or moms. I think we all have a tendency to tell ourselves that we are not doing enough, and that we are not good enough. I am realizing now that for the next few years, I may not be a PhD scholar, or teaching schools of orphans or even going to awesome parties where everyone knows me. I may spend a lot of time at home, with this little boy that is coming soon, and while I still feel strongly about a woman's ability and capability to do many things in the world, even while she is in the throes of motherhood, I want to spend some time just being happy for what and who I am right now. I still want to be a part of the world, and I want to work hard to make a difference, but I also want to re-evalute, or hone in the ways in which I will make that difference. The ways may be quieter, and less flashy than I was originally thinking. And I think that's okay too, because already, I sure am proud of this little boy. I may even secretly believe that he moves and kicks with more grace than any other baby I've seen at this stage.

2011-01-31T16:20:00.001-08:00

This is possibly quite embarrassing to admit, but Carl and I have been laughing all afternoon. So, there is an essay contest put on by BYU, it is only two pages and if you win, you get 500 dollars. The only problem is that you have to be an undergrad to submit. So I told Carl, in all seriousness, if only for just a minute, why don't I just write one and you can turn it in. I mean, really, we could do a lot of good things with 500 dollars, and Carl and I are pretty much the same person right? I wouldn't actually in good consciousness submit an essay that wasn't mine, but it seems a novel idea for a second. It only got funny when Carl asked what the theme of the essay was and I had to stop for a minute to think, and then told him, "Honor." Excuse me, how embarrassing.

In honor of the upcoming Valentine's Day

2011-01-24T20:59:00.000-08:00

I am making paintings that come in series of two. We'll start with these cats because they seem rather content and speculative about what future years together might bring them. I've decided also that there will be some lovely single images, because many beautiful things come in packages of one, and I don't like exclusive holidays.

2011-01-22T11:44:00.000-08:00

Ye olde collesseum.
A very important Roman gate that I studied in Art History 7 years ago and can no longer recall the exact importance of.
A very old bathtub circa 79 a.d. in Herculaneum. Pretty incredible.
Carl has never been happier. Pizza everyday.
Dance party on New year's eve with a family we were staying with. We were also dancing, just not right here.

2011-01-22T11:40:00.000-08:00

Hands down, worst photo of the trip. I don't know what was going on, nor can I account for the pyramids of spheres behind me.
On the border of slovenia.
Two statue robot men at a castle roasting really big marshmellows.
Cutie family from Carl's mission. When he left five years ago they only had one little girl!
Cutie Carl

What I learned in Naples

2011-01-20T09:36:00.000-08:00

(this picture actually doesn't have tons to do with this post, except the fact that there are a bunch of kind, faithful people here. This is one of Carl's branches from his mission. He taught and baptized the guy in the back on the left. He is strong in the church now and gave an excellent lesson in Sunday school.)

Naples was the dirtiest place I have ever been, and I've been to some dirty cities. We spent only a couple of days navigating through the trash and street vendors and made our way out to mount Vesuvius and some important geological sites for Carl. I don't know that I will ever return to Naples, the city was heavy with hopelessness and garbage, but something I learned in that place I cannot so easily leave behind. At a bus stop at the end of the day, we got to talking with a kid from Morocco. Actually, Carl really spoke to him because he speaks Italian and while I could understand most of what they were saying, my Italian was too weak to respond. In the course of the conversation the boy told us that he had immigrated from Morocco to Portugal because there was no work in his native country. He had a girlfriend and a decent job in Portugal, but was kicked out of the country because of Visa issues and had ended up in Naples as a street vendor. He carried a white paper shopping bag full of odd items to sell and he had a pocketful of cheap watches. Carl told him that he was 25 years old, and the boy said, 'me too!'. The boy, I wish we'd at least known his name, looked over to me and my round belly and told Carl that he was lucky. He slept on the streets, along with the majority of street vendors in Naples. He said he did his best to sell things, but the profit was little and the possibility of an out was slim. I was surprised that he didn't seem to tell us his story with a reaction of pity in mind, rather, he was upbeat and friendly.

The bus came and in the crowd of people getting on, we lost sight of him as he went to the back. We stood as we jostled through the city maze and Carl said that he kept looking back to see the kid, to at least smile or wave to him before we got off at our stop. We never saw him though, until we had gotten off the bus and were walking toward our hostel. He ran up behind us and placed one of his watches in Carl's hand. It was plastic and blue. He said, "a gift for you." and then as quickly as he had shown up behind us, he was gone into the crowd of street vendors and hurrying people. We wanted to chase him down and give him something, but we had only a couple euros, and to give money after such a kindness had been shown us seemed insignificant and even pitiful. I don't think I give credence to the moment, as words are often insufficient markers for recreation of experience, but I'd like to think that something changed for me that night. We walked the few blocks to the hostel without saying anything because we honestly couldn't speak; our throats were stopped up. When we got back to our miniature room, we set our bags down and had a good cry.

This post however, and the experience, are not sad to me. Of course we cried because we felt humbled and taught a great lesson by someone with so much less than us, so much less in terms of material things and ease of situation, but I think also we cried because something changed in us, or at least we wanted change. Because we could not stop him to thank him or give anything in return, we prayed for him. And we prayed for ourselves. We prayed that we wouldn't forget how to be kind in the way that boy had shown us. He could have easily written us off as wealthy American tourists who had everything (in terms of stable jobs, a baby and a marriage, ability to travel, etc...) that he wanted and did not have, but instead he showed us a great kindness with what little he had. I want to be that way, and I don't think I am. For all my schooling, churching, praying, living, I don't know that my reaction would match his still. I am working on it. I have been thinking a lot about kindness. When I began writing this, I had a lot more to say, but I think I just want to end with two quotes that have been in my vernacular as of late:

"God's children need to be loved, and to have someone to love..." Marion G. Romney.

and a piece of a poem by Laura Fargas,

"And the heart wants something to be kind to,

even if only a fish to sprinkle

crumbs on the water for once or twice a day."

I think the world is full of suffering that we do not comprehend, and that used to make me terribly sad. It still does, but not necessarily in the way that completely halts me because I don't know what to do about it. That boy, and the watch that Carl wears now reminds me that regardless of my situation, I am part of the solution, or can be. I am, however, muchly in the stage of trying to figure out how to better do this.

2011-01-14T14:56:00.000-08:00

He he. This goat felt like the king of the manger scene here. The other animals are clearly not as impressed as we were with his sweet climbing skills and confidence as he let's everyone know how austere he is.
Famous Rialto Bridge in Venice. We spent our Christmas Eve in a small restaurant right by here. We ended up hanging out with two guys from New Zealand, a table of Italians and two girls from Guatemala. Carl was translating for everyone and it was getting out of control. It was so fun and it reminded us that what we need most is human connection to be happy.
We learned that abandoning turtles at lovely pond spots in Italy is punishable by law and will get you six months in prison. Luckily there is turtle club italia that takes in all unwanted turtles.

Christmas eve after a beautiful mass in San Marcos Cathedral. So much water flooding the whole city. Apparently this only happens a couple days a year, so glad we got to see it! Fewer things I love more than tromping around in rain boots and water. We missed our families this night, but it was a special Christmas nonetheless and I don't think we'll be away for many more Christmas' in this life.

Our Trip to Italy/Denmark

2011-01-14T14:32:00.000-08:00

Baby boy went with us and behaved very well. We walked and walked and walked, even in 2 feet of water in Venice when the canals flooded.
We saw lots of Carl's old friends. They fed us most delicious pastas and cheeses. Spending so much time with people Carl loves and cares for was perhaps the most wonderful part of our month away. We grew to love these good people even more. Once you are someone's missionary, it seems that will be the case for our whole lives.
My pregnant self was very happy about all the treats, though I remained totally calm and didn't eat too much. It sure was a beautiful sight though.
The duomo in Milan. Such a beautiful place. We went to a very nice week-before-christmas mass here. So much fashion, so few pregnant people in Milan. I was quite foreign to them, especially the day I wore overalls.
We saw awesome things like this wooly (real wool) rocking sheep. Hello! I want one. I mean baby boy told me he wants one.

And also

2010-11-06T12:47:00.001-07:00

Reindeer and mouse plan Christmas dinner.

In the spirit of Christmas beginnings, and in celebration of my move off the couch

2010-11-06T12:41:00.001-07:00

Two tortoises unsure of how to respond to the mistletoe.

Surgery update

2010-10-25T17:35:00.000-07:00

I am writing this from my official station of the last five days: a comfy recliner in my living room. It has been a whole week since the surgery, and I have to say that the last little while has been a rather special time for me. The doctors took out a tumor that was roughly the size of a softball (what on earth was that doing in there!), and left me with a six inch incision on my belly. Although the tumor showed signs of progressing towards malignancy, it was in a benign state, and because they were able to take everything out in one piece, there is very little chance of it reappearing or coming back in any form. I spent about five days in the hospital, and now I am at home. I say this has been a special time because through everything, though some things have been less than pleasant, I have felt incredibly watched over and cared for. I have felt buoyed up and prayed for by the people around me, and I have felt that Heavenly Father has been close and kind. I don't think I will look back on the experience with sadness. In terms of timing, everything could not have worked better. Surgery of this kind can usually only be done between 18-22ish weeks of being pregnant, and had things not worked out this way, I would have been having the same surgery a month after the baby is born, which would have been sad. I am recovering quite well, though still in a good deal of pain. It's been nice to recognize my body so vividly. I want to give a long shout out/sermon about Carl here, though I know it's not the place. I will suffice it to say that he has hardly left my side, slept on a poorly reclining chair for five nights in the hospital, and wakes up every four hours to give me my medicine. Baby boy is also doing excellent, he wasn't affected at all, and I get the sense that he is just as patient as his dad. I am hoping that he doesn't start to kick and move too much, for another week at least. All in all, this is an update for anyone who hasn't heard from us. Thank you, thank you for your kindness and prayers. This has been a blessed time for us. For the next couple of weeks, if you are bored or need a place to go, I can almost guarantee that I will be right here, and I love visitors.

2010-10-13T09:37:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a dream that I owned a store. In the store there were all sorts of paintings, toys, books and candy. Lots and lots of kids were coming in and I felt like a queen as I handed them all things off the shelves and sent them away without paying. It was fabulous. It was so fabulous that it woke me up and I couldn't sleep for a couple more hours as I was thinking about it.

There are a lot of good things on my mind as of late. We found out on Monday that we are having a tiny baby boy. All my life I had imagined having a boy first, but then during the past couple months I felt like it would be a girl. As soon as the ultrasound lady said boy though, it seemed so wonderful. We would have been delighted either way, but I have to admit, I feel a little more at ease knowing that I will not have a first daughter who was as stubborn and strong-willed as I was as a little kid. I'm hoping he inherits Carl's calmness. Carl is already talking about taking him on hikes and I hope the little guy is absorbing all of the science and math facts and procedures that Carl explains to me everyday. I love the idea of Carl having an ever-attentive audience and someone to teach things to.

On a more subdued note, if I disappear for 6 weeks starting on Monday, know it is not because I don't like you, etc... I am actually going in for surgery to have a large ovarian cyst removed. We are positive everything will be just fine, and the doctors just want to take extra pre-caution while the baby is still small enough to actually do the surgery. We feel lucky to have good surgeons who are not only skilled in what they do, but also have a wonderful, caring spirit about them. We are confident that this is for the best. In the mean time, and by that I mean after Monday, I will be spending a good deal of time in my bed should you like to visit.

2010-10-02T22:47:00.000-07:00

Today I threw three handful of pebbles, one at a time, into a stream at the end of my in-laws property. I didn't do it alone, my niece and nephew were with me. When we ran out of pebbles, we threw in handfuls of dirt, just to hear the sound, and when we got tired of that, we built a boat out of a stick and some leaves. We also found a lady bug under a very prickly leaf and spent a good deal of time letting it crawl from hand to hand, until we left it in a new home we made for it: an a corn husk that was left in the lawn that afternoon. We also took a hike into the woods with the next door neighbors. We walked above Carl's parents new house and property and found a scattering of pasty orange mushrooms which I can't remember the name of now, but which are safe to eat. The air was cold enough to pick pumpkins and feel excited about fall. It was worth a 13 hour drive and sleeping in the car to be in a house full of people we love for a day. It seems then that this post is turning rather sentimental. I didn't mean it that way, but I guess I don't know what I expected when I started out by throwing pebbles into a serene stream in a beautiful place with some adorable children. I guess this is to say, I think we will always find ourselves happy in ways we least expected.

A poem

2010-09-14T20:45:00.000-07:00

A dozen dirty white pelicans, beaks raised to the rain

Before the storm, I swam in a still pond. One fish, startled, brushed my calf with his small, strange body. The water was clear and silent. I am often the only one making a sound. The reeds slow-danced all afternoon. Later, I hiked for miles along the shore. Fish head, dying and crooked tree, rusted metal hook, small tent, red flowers. Then the storm rumbled—thunder swelled across the lake. Again and again. This is our earth, I wanted to shout. Like the pelicans callooing out on the flat, grey rock—I felt a shining out, brief as the lightning, when I first knew you were coming to the world.

2010-09-12T09:06:00.000-07:00

I am ever becoming rounder, and Carl is ever becoming more angular.
Today is our very first anniversary! We still talk about how much we loved our wedding day. I wish there were a reason to have another gathering of the sort where I could wear a dress I love. We are happy! Also, we are pregnant! Tiny baby will be born in March, and we couldn't be more delighted. I think I will write more about it later.
This is an owl we saw on a hike in northern California. It was hooting for a friend for a long time. One flew over and sat on the branch next to it not long after we took this photo.
When I asked Carl why he took this picture he confessed that he thought maybe we would think these people were us when we saw it later. We were in fact on this beach, but these people are clearly not us.

2010-08-21T16:05:00.000-07:00

Inside my house, I often feel like everything is making a sound, except me. Carl has been camping for a class, which leaves me rather quiet. I don't mind this, I know it won't be this way for much longer, and I do value solitude and time with books. On Wednesday I went up Little Cottonwood Canyon to bring Carl some things and to visit for the night. He was staying at the top of the canyon in a basin where a glacier used to be. It rained and I watched the water fall in long drops while I stood beneath a gathering of pine trees. When the rain stopped, we hiked out into the meadows. The flowers faded in the colors like a sunset. The clouds were still heavy and grey. If I were tall enough, I would have laid my head on them and taken a little nap. We found a limestone boulder where the top layer had not been fully crushed or dissolved and instead of the normal dark slate color of limestone, we could make out each little shell and crustacean. I bent down close and ran my fingers across and around as many as I could. I've said this to Carl quite a few times now: I love learning about evolution. My heart stirs when I learn something new about the way our earth and we have come to be. I am grateful that God has left us evidences on the tops of mountains that tell us we are so young, and a part of something much bigger than we now know. On the way back to camp, we stopped and looked down into another meadow. A sturdy moose, black and anterlered, was sitting in the tall, green grass. He seemed content and unaware of anything but looking down the canyon. He must have been thinking about something though. Ten minutes later he stood up and lumbered toward the trees. A mom moose and two babies came out of the forest and followed him. It is funny that at home I should worry about my solitude because in that deep, green basin, I found that I was embarrassed to be the only one making a sound.

Creative Writing Final Reading, Tuesday @ 7:30

2010-08-16T21:39:00.001-07:00

I'm sorry that the only thing I do on this blog lately is invite you to things. I'm going to do it once more, but only because I feel like these things are worth it. One of the highlights of this summer has been teaching a creative writing class to ten smart, capable teen girls. We have done so many things: papermaking, letterpressing, learning about the history of the book, a geology tour of Rock Canyon, made writing journals, learned from Utah's 2008 poet of the year, and all the while, we've been writing and working hard. Tomorrow we are having a final reading in my backyard. If you are around, I promise a lovely evening of thoughtful, surprising writing, refreshments and good company. The reading starts at 7:30 and will go for about an hour.

portraits

2010-08-13T22:30:00.000-07:00

I've been making lots of portraits for people lately. This is very lucky because I love painting and drawing people, and they have all been so very nice.

Hump Day Market!

2010-08-04T10:41:00.000-07:00

Come to the HUMP DAY MARKET tonight from 6-9. It's a new little Provo treasure that happens every Wednesday night in the courtyard just behind Los Hermanos and the flower basket. Roughly 100 west and 100 north. There are are vendors, brown bag dinners from all the local restaurants, music, kids things, and a movie after. Hello! Provo is so fun! I'll be there peddling my wares from the grass!

2010-07-27T12:30:00.000-07:00