Yale Theatrical Society

fall is fleeting

2009-11-02T10:20:00.006-07:00

Dear ghosts and ghouls and girls alike,

Summoning all Halloween spirits. Do any of you have pictures from Halloween to post? I'd love to see all of you lovelies dressed in your costumes. I wasn't on Yale long Halloween night and missed all your comings and goings, as did Liv. Molly said they ran out of candy at their house, so I know you were all out and about. Liv, we'd love to see what you ended up donning down at school.

Post your pictures yourself or send them to my email: marthajane23@gmail.com and I'll do it for you (yes, it's that easy). We're reviving this little space. Yes, this is a call to action, a new year's resolution two months early. What? What's that you say? I thought I heard a chorus of "Yeses!" Hooray. Three cheers for the YTS!

Lots of love,
M

autumn day

2009-09-22T22:02:00.003-06:00

First day of fall!
Hope everyone enjoys some apple-cider,
scarfs, boots and crunching leaves beneath your feet as you walk down the lovely tree lined streets of yale.

p.s.- may i recommend starbuck's caramel apple cider. delicious. having a hard time finding a starbucks within walking distance in provo. oh well. i suppose the stuff from the creamery will have to do for now.

Steven's cabin

2009-09-22T21:45:00.007-06:00

Here are some photos from the girls night at the Steven's cabin. Such a fun night with the Yale girls, but we missed all who couldn't come! It has been too long since we updated the blog. I think we should start it back up! Anyone else in?

Annie Update

2009-03-29T22:33:00.004-06:00

I got this in the mail yesterday:

"Dear Martha & YALE!
Buongiorno tutti! I am loving life as a missionary. IT is hard and actually very busy (even in the MTC) but the rewarding - finish the race-hard every day. Each day my eyes open to a recognition of more and more blessings (I did not spy them before!) God is so loving, so merciful. I look at our childhood and realize how beautifully God weaved one-anotehr into an intricate friendship that lives now just as before!

I am so excited for Sister Rhondeau! Elizabeth will be an amazing missionary. I have no doubt in her gift with languages. Yea, INDONESIA! I am so grateful for this chance to learn and grow in such a concentrated environment and with such a magnified tie to God through my calling as a missionary. I treasure this opportunity and - although I've been gone 5 weeks - foresee the bittersweet experience it will be when I return. I love this Gospel. I love the people of Italy and Italian. And I love you all!

Vi volio Bene! Baci,
Sorella Stevens

25 Random Things

2009-03-16T21:07:00.002-06:00

I was sure I would be able to avoid the 25 random things post, but I have not. I feel better about posting 25 random things than e-mailing it. I hate mass e-mails that are sent out. I feel like I am "force feeding" unwanted information to people when I do that. Friends, co-workers, and family have asked me if or when I will post 25 random things. My answer is now.

25 Random Things

1. Instead of saying swear words out loud, I sign them. (ASL)

2. I recently started wearing jewelry. (necklaces)
3. In college, I got so frustrated with a music theory class that I threw my workbook over the cliff on Fourth North. (Dustin and Trent retrieved the book later that night)
4. I passed music theory.
5. I'm an ultimate Aggie.
6. While learning sign language, I told a guy who asked me on a date that I could not go because I had to make out all weekend. (I meant work)
7. I LOVE to cuddle. Especially on Saturday mornings.
8. My favorite game is Ticket to Ride.
9. My favorite color is red.
10. Most of the time, I like not being able to hear. It is peaceful.
11. Our mail gets stolen quite often.
12. My favorite TV show is Chuck.
13. I never received academic awards or recognition in college, but I did receive student of the
year from the Disability Resource Center (DRC).
14. I got a D in Biology. To this day I am proud of that D. I worked harder, and spent more time
in my Biology professors office trying to understand the study of life than any other class I
have ever taken.
15. I don't understand Biology.
16. My first A in college was in a stress management class.
17. I stopped biting my fingernails when Dustin was in Iraq.
18. Now I only bite my fingernails when I am really nervous.
19. I have to give myself a shot every day.
20. When people clap, it hurts my ears.
21. I have never had braces, and my teeth are really straight.
22. I love my job.
23. I love being married.
24. I love to travel.
25. Coming up with 25 random things about me was harder than I thought.
and I am adding..
26. Dustin and I are moving back to Yale Avenue while we wait (forever) to close on our house. I am really excited to be back on Yale and be around people I love and care for.

Much love, and please excuse the late post.
Libby

calling all birthday girls!

2009-03-16T15:52:00.003-06:00

21 + a day.

Happy birthday, to our Dear E. This week holds such excitement! May the post come quick and may all your dreams come true.
We heart you!

fairyland

2009-03-10T15:40:00.004-06:00

The other afternoon (a rather springish one) I spotted Rachel out on the lawn. Her hair (which I'd kill for, by the way) was in its typical long braid, twisting down her back, and she was still clad in her Carden plaid. Stooping low on the grey grass, she quickly gathered things into a pile for, what I assume, was the first Fairy House of the season. I found this on apartment therapy* today. It made me think of our Rachel. Can't wait until spring is here to stay and the Fairy Houses are out in abundance!

*There is also some dreamy turquoise bedding for you Rhondeau girls!

14

2009-03-01T21:05:00.006-07:00

happy birthday naomi!

like it's 1999

2009-02-25T16:32:00.003-07:00

Can we please discuss how much we love her? And her Silver jeans and Simple clogs?

they say white jeans are in this spring

2009-02-20T17:21:00.005-07:00

After a quick online convo with my cousin in NYC late one night this week, I ordered a pair of white jeans with her fashion-forward A-OK. They're on their way. In addition to Liv's hope for spring, is it too much to hope for a day like this one, too? Oh, J. Crew. The things you do. (p.s. Love this son g by "Let's Go Sailing.")

boat+sun+trampoline=happiness

2009-02-20T16:39:00.003-07:00

The brief glimmer of sun/hope today is making me especially anxious for spring this year! And then I found this picture on aucklanddailyphoto.com, and I am seriously ready to head out the door to the beach. Anyone with me?

"Ciao!" she numbly exclaimed

2009-02-17T13:28:00.004-07:00

Sometimes an emotional defense mechanism catalyzes this effect: the numbness number. To protect myself from the sadness, the bliss, the fear, the excitement, and the whole range of emotion...I just give myself a figurative shot of novocaine. Soon it will wear off. So, as I gingerly anticipate the deluge of feelings, I would like to calmly state "Ciao! Vi voglio bene!"

MTC address:

Sister Ann Elizabeth Stevens

Italy Milan Mission

Provo Missionary Training Center

2005 N 900 E

Provo, Ut 84604

P.S. I LOVE LOVE LOVE the Yale Commemorative Program. "Grazie Mille!"

We will miss annie

2009-02-17T11:59:00.009-07:00

Annie always makes us laugh. Sometimes she is talking about friends, boys, memories but no matter what we can all relate. She is really sweet and quite the boy magnent. She has a talent for art, athleticism, and music. And soon she will be a missionary converting the wonderfull italian people to the church. @(**)@ < that is a koala

by nell

just a shallow thought

2009-02-10T20:57:00.004-07:00

I sat glued to the television on Monday night. The nation waited to hear how to survive, what to do without a job, who to trust about the stimulus, and where to go next. I listened deeply. But, the shallow Annie won out.* The incessant thought nagged at me then and reemerged on RiteAid's makeup aisle today: "Does he wear makeup? Does he use ProActiv (watch out Jessica Simpson)? How else could it be HUMANLY possible to get such pristinely, clear skin?"

*The Warren Harding effect lives on and we might as well admit it. We all know that if he revealed the product name...we would fly to the store to buy som'that.

2009-02-06T17:49:00.002-07:00

After getting your braces tightened you must not consume:
a) Chewy, sticky foods
b) Hard foods that can sever brackets
c) Crunchy things that get stuck in between wires
or
d) All of the above

So a few days ago my braces were tightened, making it impossible to eat anything and everything that I usually snack on each day. Eventually I figured out that you can still eat all of the forbidden foods, it just hurts a lot. Despite the hurt, I'd munch through the pain, conquering what dear Dr. Richard's had stated as impossible. This kind of pain was physically. As in-
Pain, noun.
1) Physical discomfort caused by illness or injury. 2) A feeling of marked discomfort.

After a while, I have become a master at fighting through the pain to eat the food I want.

However, today I felt a different kind of pain. That is, pain in the heart. But I wasn't crying for me, I was crying for Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams. Or, Noah Calhoun and Allie Hamilton. As I sat in the basement all alone, I watched the story of a boy and a girl who fall in love one summer, and then fall in love all over again. The Notebook had me crying so hard that after a while I was numb to the fountain of water that was flowing down my face. The story isn't sad, it's actually quite happy. But for some reason, I only felt sadness. And I am wondering how it is that we can feel for people that we haven't even met. That we can feel for a story that isn't even real. That we can feel the pain, joy or happiness that we ourselves aren't even experiencing.

(The answer is D)

yellow flag

2009-02-04T12:01:00.005-07:00

The Granola Vampire has been trying to take me to Sizzler. I refuse to go. I may take up rock climbing just to prove to him that I don't belong there. I deserve Cucina Toscana. Or OneWorld Cafe at the very least.

2009-02-03T17:30:00.006-07:00

Dear Wilbur*

Since Valentine's Day is just around the corner, I thought I'd take this time to apologize about a certain day long ago on the fourteenth of February. We were in fifth grade and you had finally summed up the courage to tell me that you liked me. After months of sacrificing your turn to give me another chance at serving the ball in P.E. volleyball, after weeks of your name appearing on my family's caller I.D., and after days of your friends confronting me and asking me who I liked, you finally told me what I already knew. As the days passed happily by, I realized that Valentine's Day was coming up, and that I didn't have a clue if I was to give you something special. My friends were of no help, and so I eventually decided that I would give you one extra chocolate than I was giving everybody else. Just one.

Arriving to school that day with my box decorated with lacy hearts, I hesitantly pulled out my homemade Valentine cards. Everybody received two chocolates, one pin, and a card saying, "You're Just My Type." But you got three chocolates, a carefully made pin, and beautifully decorated card. Deciding that I'd give you your Valentine when you were not looking, I quickly smashed the present into your box (not nearly as pretty as mine), and ran off to tell my friends what I had just done. By the time I reached my own box, your present was already there; a huge bag of sweethearts wrapped with the prettiest bow I had ever seen. I remember there was a note attached, but I can't quite recall what was written. All I remember was the wave of sadness that washed over me because I had only given you one extra chocolate in the shape of a heart. However, that feeling did not last long when I saw that you had given two other girls the same Valentine as me. I then looked on the candy with disgust, and vowed never to eat a sweetheart again (however, the promise broken that very day). Instead of eating your gift, I ate a whole pack of gum that Carter* had given to me. That would teach you never to give three girls the same Valentine, especially when you told a certain girl that you liked her.

Now comes the part I regret, and the part where I should have apologized. Because on that same day, I chose Carter to be my Valentine. Not you. And to top it all off, Carter was your best friend and I consented to being his Valentine right in front of you. Your heart was broken, and so was mine. Because really, I wanted you to be my fifth grade Valentine.

Love,
Naomi

*name has been changed

2009-01-31T02:00:00.003-07:00

“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority— of its being a degradation— of the family obstacles which judgement had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

Yes, my dear ladies of the Yale Theatrical Society, this is the site where Elizabeth Bennet first rejects the seemingly arrogant Mr. Darcy. Right here, at Stourhead where I stood a mere few days ago, is the same place where Keira Knightley stood for the new Pride and Prejudice. Even if the new movie is not the epic that the A&E version has become, walking around these large stone pillars is something I'll never forget. I know that you girls, being the literary experts you are, can appreciate the beauty of this moment.

Saltwater Sandals and Stonewashed Jeans

2009-01-27T11:01:00.011-07:00

In first grade I was in love with a boy named Trevor. Looking back, I'm pretty sure the only reason I liked him was because my best friend liked him, too, and she had pink saltwater sandals. I loved pink saltwater sandals. My mom bought me white. Sometimes she took them off under her desk, and sometimes she got in trouble for it. But, she was my best friend nonetheless. She liked Trevor and that was enough.

Trevor wore black stone washed jeans and a caramel-colored shirt with green paint splashes on it -- the kind of paint-splash shirt he could have made himself in one of those paint spinney-thingies. He was good at kick-ball, had a killer smile and a bowl cut. He was a nice boy and the teacher liked him. Sometimes, just by happenstance, I got to sit by him during spelling tests. I signed my name in my own "cursive" at the bottom of his paper when I got to correct it, resisting the urge to leave a heart at the end of Martha in red pencil. I was somewhat smarter than he, but I was OK with that. He never had to stay in from recess. That would have taken him out of the running most definitely.

We would exchange longing glances from across the room all throughout the day, and every night, I was convinced he snuck out of his house to come peek in my window while I was asleep. Much too young to take such lovelorn journeys on our own, I imagined his sister accompanied him. In anticipation of such visits, I would leave my bottom blind open just enough that he could see me sweetly slumbering, dreaming of him. To ensure such a dreamy state, I would fall asleep thinking, Trevor. Trevor. Trevor. Turning to my right side, I pulled my hair around my ear, clasped my hands as if I was praying and tucked them under my ear. I tried as hard as I could to fall asleep with a smile on my face. Trevor. Trevor. Trevor. Left leg crossed over right, I was determined not to move. I imagined what I looked like through the window. I imagined I looked oh so lady-like and demure in my Lanz flannel nightgown. He was bound to take one look at me, with my endearing (and hopefully enduring) smile and fall even more helplessly and hopelessly in love with the girl who knew "cursive" in first grade. How could he not?! I slept like an angel. Or, so I thought.

I would awake each morning to my alarm clock and find my nightgown up around my waist, hair resembling some sort of bird's nest, and a bed that looked like Max from Where the Wild Things Are "let the wild rumpus start" atop my bed in the moonlit hours of the night. I was devastated and determined; determined the remedy my nighttime ritual. So, night after night, I'd climb in bed, curl my hair around my ear, press my hands in praying position and fall fast asleep to thoughts of a boy in black stone washed jeans.

Last night I slept with my hair down. When I pulled my comforter up to my chin, it was tightly wound in a black elastic as it always is. But, in a moment of nostalgia, in some sort of gesture to the past, I slipped the elastic down my straight hair and set it on my nightstand. I pulled it all to one side, turned over to face the wall to the right, tucked my hands between my cheek and my pillow and tried not to move.

I have no idea where Trevor ended up. I was madly in love with Brad by the time Leopard's Lair soccer started in the Spring. I remember the timing so well only because Brad's dog chewed through my yellow soccer socks, and, instead of being mad, I was a bit giddy his dog picked my socks over my best friend's. (She liked Brad, too.)

Isn't it true...that fashion trends come back around? The latest J. Crew catalog has girls and guys with pegged jeans. My brother has been wearing black jeans since fall. They're not quite the stone-washed variety, but they're close. I'll keep my eyes out for the next Trevor. Until then, it's blinds closed, and hair up.

Home Sweet Home

2009-01-23T16:49:00.004-07:00

I am honored to be a part of the YTS. Unfortunately, my writing can't hold a candle to the other members, but I will give it a go. The first thing I have to let everyone know is: PARTY AT MY HOUSE IN THREE WEEKS! I truly mean house. Our offer on this house was accepted yesterday, and we will close in a few weeks. I am so excited to have my own house. Actually the house is a bonus, its the garage, and dishwasher I am most excited about.

The house is in Daybreak. It is a neighborhood in South Jordan that was modeled after the Harvard/Yale area. Most importantly, there are not a lot of stucco houses. It's mostly brick and clapboard. There are tons of parks, a swimming pool, hot tubs, a fitness center, temple, basketball courts, sand volleyball courts, and more. We have been looking for a house in the area for almost two years and are excited to move.

Yale Avenue holds so many dear and fond memories. One of my favorite's was when Romney and I were skateboarding (on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles boards) down Yale. OK, confession. When we skated down the street, we sat on the skateboards. It was way more fun than standing up. I got the bright idea to go down backwards and ended up wedged under Mr. Stirbas Toyota Camry with a broken collar bone. I later ended up purchasing said Camry that so kindly snapped my collar bone. I will never forget Gypsies, Pioneers, and Bob Ross. All of these are fine Yale Avenue memories.

Until next time

Live, Laugh, Love

2009-01-21T12:56:00.007-07:00

I have been cleaning my room. My room hasn't been cleaned since we moved into this house but I'm making progress. It has been an exhausting euphoria to organize my past 16 years...or probably 23 years, if I think about it. I save everything. Everything. Eleanor's first bandaid? check. My mom's 35th birthday present she never received? check. Every single note I have passed since 6th grade, locked in a safe in case Mr. Hatch or my mom try to read them? check. Among the credit card offers (circa. 1998) and paper towels I saved because they had recipes printed on them (just in case I ever wanted to cook...oh wait, I found my cookbook too...and it still has just one recipe in it: instant jello pudding), I discovered a gem. I found an obituary I cut out when I was eleven or twelve, just because I loved it. The faded black and white picture of an old woman laughing is captioned with three words: Lived, Laughed, Loved. In the margin was a scribbled note in my childish cursive: 'idea for obituary'. Obviously, I learned from my mother who made little notes on everything...to do lists on napkins or ideas for gifts in the margins of magazines. Random newspaper clippings still pile up on my nightstand with information and ideas relevant to me and my life: Curvy Body Types, sunscreen, and my personal favorite 'My Conversion to Eternal Marriage'. I illustrated my childish wisdom by cutting out the obituary and pausing to think about how I want to live. So now, I can't help but analyze my life progress in these three areas of living, laughing and loving. I obviously have room for improvement but I hope I've earned those words beneath my obituary. And I hope in most of my pictures I’m smiling and laughing. I keep remembering that line from Serendipity: The Greeks didn't write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died: "Did he have passion?"
Isn’t that everyone’s quest…to find their purpose? Finding what you love to do the most, searching for what gives your life meaning. Being in tune with who you really are and living a life of purpose. I used to think that I needed to find my passion or my calling in life but I don’t think passion is an end point or single extremity; it is ever evolving. It’s not always an isolated fervor, but motivated by countless people and ideas. Most often, the fulfillment of dreams is not achieved through glamorous serendipity but humble perseverance. I feel most alive during the trivial moments: playing stair-ball with Eleanor, late night chats with Annie or laughing with Richard and Romney. So at the end of my life, if my greatest contribution to the world is a completed family tree of Days of Our Lives and a recording of me singing all the wrong lyrics, I’ll still be happy.

Not trying to impose..

2009-01-11T20:49:00.003-07:00

My Dear Yale Girls--

I just want to say that I realized just barely tonight that my week of posting has passed (even before I realized it was my turn) and like Katherine, this is also my first post on a blog ever. I found Annie's post to be quite thought provoking and thought about all the little lies that I tell to myself seemingly to accept my flaws a little bit better. And though for the moment I think that I don't care, I really do, just like she said.

In closing I just want to admit that I would have not had any idea of what to post this last week so its probably good that I didn't realize it was my turn.. But next time around.. It will be a good one. :)

The Truth: Exposing our Lies

2009-01-08T10:02:00.018-07:00

After spending quite some time with a downright liar, I found myself thinking, "What a gross person! I hate liars." This was followed by, "I am such an honest person," repeated to myself over and over again. However, before long God played a humbling filmreel of my past. The Best of Annie-Lies featured a biting yet enjoyable bit of memories such as the time I announced to my boyfriend's family that "Yes," the words flowed without any cognitive or moral approval, "I have met Matt Damon. He is really down-to-earth." I have never met Matt Damon.

Of course, those types of bogus lies have an endearing childlike, "I-own-a-unicorn" innocence to them. They are the social lies. Each untruth pads our bruised egos and helps us to survive when we feel inadequate. Although still a LIE, these untruths pale in comparison to the moral lies; and those whoppers haunt us. We remember times of "No, I didn't break it," perhaps moments of cheating on a test and--hopefully not--moral lies like infidelity. We crossed the line of right and wrong but cowered at the chance to realize our step.

However, self-lies stand out as the most potent category of dishonesty. We all do it. I do not know how, but we do it. Even though we subconsciously fabricate falsehoods and then regurgitate those same lies to ourselves--the creators--we sit there as credulous victims. I would argue that some of my most spiritually deadly and emotionally paralyzing maladies grow out of self-lies. I find that I silently broadcast white lies in my personal corridors, "You look great." or "I like raw carrots." or "I want to run a marathon some day." All lies. "I don't care" is my most sneeky one. This lie reverberates hundreds of times in my heart and in my mind. I really do care. Months after the fact, I admit to myself that I did care that someone said my dress was ugly or that I did not understand a scripture or that I missed the big moment. I cared. So why do I feed those lines to myself? Why are we so afraid of our true selves? (the one who hates carrots and would rather die than run 26.2 miles) I think it is because we fail to love ourselves fully enough. So instead, it seems easier to love the pretend self. Funny thing though....in the process we lose our own self-trust and self-confidence; therefore we love ourselves less after lying.

Whether pertaining to social, moral, spiritual, emotional, etc. insecurities, the act of poking out our own eyes--by lying--not only blinds our vision of self but distorts our entire view of the world. What we believe about ourselves makes up who we actually are; and that changes how we treat others. Now I grapple with the question: How do we expose ourselves for the liars that we really are? It is the total Sunday School answer: we need to recognize our mistake. Exposing ourselves to ourselves seems a bit like a grainy Judge Judy episode. But after a couple of painful rip-off-the-bandaids it starts to hit you how self-lying is really ludicrious and how liberating it is to flay those "protections."

As I have tried to start exposing myself to myself, I feel freer and more confident. The process feels like that rare time when you glance at your buck-naked imperfections in the mirror and instead of thinking, "Eww. I hate my body," you let a laugh out saying, "I love myself."

"Everyone has a hobby, right? You're mine."

2009-01-06T13:43:00.009-07:00

Annie doesn't know this yet but, since it's her turn, I have decided to blog for her today. This is officially my first ever blog post. And it makes me want to cry. That may have something to do with the fact that I have been watching Hallmark Christmas movies for the past week (which, btw, are wonderful; very mk&a-ish). Or it may have to do with the fact that I have finally overcome my fears of inadequacy to recognize that I will never be among the caste of "Erudites" and our vast readership may never have to use a dictionary to understand my wall posts. As the famous Canadian professor Avril Lavignestein once said, and I quote: "Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?". Her eloquent thoughts mirror mine exactly. After decades of hiding behind the moonshadows of Martha Keats Fetzer, Annie Dostoevstevens and E. Forster Rhoundeau, yours truly, Kat WintourMeyerLovelace Stevens is here. And since I'm here, I'd like to suggest some topics to write about: recent time abroad in China, Italy, France, Provo, etc., the holidays, red signs hanging in windows or going out to sizzler. Can't wait!

redux.

2009-01-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

Exactly one year ago this month we met in this little corner of the internet, brought together by the beauties of modern technology and some good old-fashioned hot chocolate conversation in front of a winter fire. In the beginning, such joy! News! Laughter! Wisdom! Tears. We were eager to share, so happy to listen. At least, until about March.

Not much has happened since then.

So let's try this again, shall we? There are emails in your inboxes as I type---with some Back to Basics instructions for what is sure to be one of our Best Years Yet. All that's left to do is a little magic from the rest of you. Ready?

On your marks

get set

CHRISTMAS

2008-12-05T11:24:00.002-07:00

Deck the Halls? Let us get together this Christmas Season for some YTS festivities. PLEASE!

Trick-or-Treat!

2008-11-10T23:14:00.009-07:00

Aren't they the cutest ever?!

Loved Turner's polka-dot pumpkins

My Dad sat in our entry, the door wide open, candy bowl on the floor and a 1920 edition of Sherlock Holmes on his lap, reading and waiting for all the kiddies to arrive. And yes, he really wore that hat the whole time. I love him. And yes that's Richard. Hickens went all-out as usual. I screamed and grabbed Richard when we went up to the door. As Katharine wrote on a note the other day, "Yale 4 Life. And eternity!"

2008-10-26T11:34:00.006-06:00

This will be my first official post since being added to this lovely blog. I am sorry it has taken me so long. It is hard to live up to the level of blogging done previously on this lovely page. I just wanted to say hello from Salt Lake where the leaves are crunching underfoot and the neighborhood kids are loosing sleep with anticipation over their Halloween costumes. (I did see a curious little lion running up Yale the other day, I think his name was Joey.) Anyway, I thought I would share with you some photos of the final farmers market of the year, sadly it ended last weekend at Pioneer Park meaning winter is slowly encroaching upon us...

*I have seen that lady in the picture all over Salt Lake and I don't know who she is. My mom said she used to see her at the Hotel Utah when she was a kid and she looks exactly the same. My mom thinks that she at least in her late 70s or early 80s. I guess botox really does do wonders!

Yale

2008-10-21T00:36:00.004-06:00

I will be the first to admit that I am lucky. I realize I live in the lap of luxury (as in just 10 minutes from Versailles and, yes, (drum roll please) Johnny Depp lives nearby.)

But last night I had a dream about playing night games on Yale Avenue. And I wanted to drive up our street more than I have ever wanted any patisserie or a French boyfriend.

let's celebrate.

2008-10-02T20:14:00.002-06:00

Just thought that it was necessary to post, seeing as Pam and Jim are our favorite couple. Ever.

ho provato.

2008-09-27T11:21:00.003-06:00

Today I climbed to the top of the Duomo, and it smelled like fall. I stayed there for an hour, alone, the wind teasing my hair like static electricity and the sun glowing a dusty burnt orange. And I thought, You know, this is pretty marvelous.

I love Autumn. I love waking up one morning and just knowing it's finally here. Stepping out the door and taking a long, deep breath of that crisp air, remembering that you always forget just how good it is. I like the way you suddenly feel like you've started over, like this is a new you in a new chance. Fall comes and you feel a new commitment to life, a strong will to rededicate yourself to the things you love the most. They say Spring is the time for renewal and rebirth, but I think I am partial to the more serious recalcuations of Fall.

And then an American tourist couple joined me up there on the wall above the city, talking about how they definitely needed to blog that fantastic appled pork they ate in San Gimignano.

bye-bye Babar

2008-09-26T01:43:00.001-06:00

bon voyage!

2008-08-18T00:25:00.005-06:00

Bon voyage, buon viaggio and happy trails to you, A, E, and K. Pourriez vous s'il vous plaît écrire une fois? (Post/write once, if you can -- et merci). We will actually completely and very muchly miss you! We'll keep watch here on Yale's home front. Be safe. Don't do anything I wouldn't do (K and A, pretty sure you'll toss this out the window tout de suite), take lots of pictures, and have the time of your lives!
gros bisous,
M

“Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious as to have friends at a distance; they make the latitudes and longitudes." Henry David Thoreau

O Pioneers!

2008-08-11T14:38:00.009-06:00

The King of the parade stole our hearts.

You decide who the Queen is...

Nellzie, looking Regal as ever behind Miss Annie.

24th Parade

2008-07-26T09:38:00.006-06:00

Modern Pioneers.....

Models....

And a rowdy crowd..... celebrate Utah's holiday!!!

Sweet 17

2008-06-23T10:06:00.011-06:00

Happy Birthday, Miss O!

Best wishes to this lip gloss-wearing, lyric-writing, poetry goddess of Yale Avenue. Come home soon so we can celebrate!

together we trod

2008-06-17T07:16:00.011-06:00

Emily Dickinson wrote, "My friends are my estate." Pavement, grass, and the path of Pirate's Cover underfoot, we've trodden every inch of Yale Avenue - together. We've taken turns about the R's English-style garden, stepping stones leading the way. We have climbed into what used to be a tree house big enough for three in my parent's backyard and spent time on the hill between Steven's and Robinson's, all of these estates, grounds and paths we know by heart.

As the song of summer commences, we will all embark upon paths anew: to Wales, to Italy, to Paris. To new jobs and new endeavors, whether a passport is required or not. Paths of freedom. Paths of self-discovery. Paths on the stepping stones to True Love. Let us carry with us this feeling of together; this feeling of estate. Always with Home in mind: dirt from Pirate's Cove, grass from Stevens' front lawn, and lavender from the Rhondeau's white picket fenced garden; pieces of Home forever in our pockets. Together, but apart, we will continue. Firm and constant.

"Be slow to fall into friendship; but when thou art in, continue firm and constant."

{Socrates}

K, I couldn't resist. With Europe only so many months away...it seemed all too perfect. Pack that super glue!

Humanity ROCKS...let's celebrate!!!

2008-06-09T14:44:00.000-06:00

Dear E. and All,
The timelessness of sisterly bonds and the eternity of our fleeting childhood imaginations seem both romantic and real. Striking the heartstrings in spite of age discrepancies, true friends (like on Yale Avenue) open up the layers of self. A ten-year-old's jokes heal me equal to the tearful eyes of a listening peer. Why? Because with each birthday or sunset or second we not only gain more, but we resurrect all of our yesterdays. Our souls add more sparkling rocks to our collections of being that stay in the clasped palm or the string-tied cache. Treasure the geode of a first kiss with the same velvety touch that came with the dirty, first-failed-Spelling-Bee stone because, on occasion, a child opens their clammy hand with a dirty stone in hopes of comparing and sharing. What a crime if your dirty stone has been cast aside in the name of teenage rebellion or adult "maturity"!
Volumes of books cannot explain and infinite tables of data cannot quantify the value--the universality--of human experience. For even if your small pebble of family sorrow does not look or feel like my jagged rock, they come from the Central Quarry of tears; and, more importantly, the actual act of holding out that piece of your collection for another to see and feel is immeasurable. And if you share your earthy rock or examine another's colorful gem, whether it originates in their early years or recent days, with carefully cradling hands and heart, your cluster gets heavier. You acquire more treasures, more humanness. That is why friendship and love and family and sharing make us so much better. That is why I am grateful for all of you.
Annie

PS: On that note, as summer starts to sing, my 9-year-old self can't help but crave a company of players, night-games, and innovative PET-VET rescue methods. Simultaneously, my 21-year-old self (I hope I don't sound schizophrenic) itches to plan a party. Envision this: vases of poppies (perhaps peonies), Chinese lanterns, fresh fruit, grass, skewers of steak kabobs, dresses, a bright-palette of plates, rosemary bread, fortune-telling, heels, swirling table cloths, Italian ice, poetry, and us. HOW ABOUT THIS SATURDAY EVENING OR SUNDAY???IT MUST BE SOON!!!!

sometimes it's overrated but fyi:

2008-06-07T13:25:00.003-06:00

Guys, I heart you.

Which seems a ridiculous way to start (or take up) a post, but there it is. I love that we exist in this little corner of the world, all of us at so fully different stages of existing but so connected all the same. I love that I learn just as much from Nell as I take from Martha; that years aren't all that important when you've got Yale at the heart of them.

What a happy thing to have.

Yale Book of Quotations

2008-06-01T16:29:00.006-06:00

Happy June. Summer is here! I can't wait for lantern-lit summer evenings on the grass, stargazing and turns about the neighborhood at dusk. Anyone up for a summer project? (In our oodles of spare time).

I believe we need to compile a Yale Book of Quotations of our own to keep track of all things Yale Sisterhood - the academic, archaic, and/or absurd. Such things as, "I am a diamond in the rough," and "their children would literally be donkeys," are two appropriate examples. It could also serve as a dictionary of sorts defining pirate's cove, red flag, and the wall. Are you with me?

{Please see here and here for more information and historical background}

Something Unmentioned

2008-05-29T15:03:00.006-06:00

After dusk, beyond the turquoise skyline
as I turn I am reminded

Without people's voices, above their whispers or
undone in their silence, I hear a history of hope

One lantern lit soiree after another
just as he turns to see her empty chair

What memories dance in the corners of twilight
I breathe carefully to keep more of

Holding all these and keeping them
to awaken me, I shiver and understand:

You make all things new

inspired by William Stafford's poem "Reminders"

word.

2008-05-28T21:40:00.005-06:00

I secretly want this shirt:

Lion House Ladies

2008-05-27T00:00:00.004-06:00

Here's a darling picture from Lindsey's wedding. Look at you lovelies!

a lantern-lit gathering

2008-05-01T08:20:00.004-06:00

With this morning's promise of warm summer days, (what the snow?! It's MAY, people!) the beginning of classes for some of you, and because it's been way too long, I'm suggesting a YTS gathering at my place. A Sunday evening perhaps? Mother's Day is out, but other than that, mi casa es su casa. If we're lucky, maybe we'll get to sit on my patio and use the paper lanterns for the first time this year. Pray for sun and get back to me.
M

"Dolla' Dolla' Bill Ya"

2008-04-16T22:52:00.003-06:00

After a long break from the blog let me just share some thoughts:
1- Hate the bipolar weather (which ironically makes me feel a need for prozac)
2- Who in the heck? Last night I was at Katharine's house and these WEIRDOS came over and wouldn't leave us alone. Amidst the hub-bub of BYU all-stars playing the ukelele and "dudes" dripping with flirtation, I found a friend. As I surfed the net/wedding websites/photography blogs, the quasi-gay and Provo "metrosexual" kindred spirit hovered over my shoulder. We talked dresses and letterpress and bouquets and tents. When the words "Have you seen Funny Face? Don't you love her dress?" floated from his lips...I knew we were MFEO (made for each other.) FINALLY his freaky friends decided to leave after a lot of not-so-subtle hints from the hostesses. Luckily, my friend (can't remember his name...just know his soul) handed me a dollar bill. He had written his email address on a dollar bill "We need to share more." Richly creative....MFEO .
3- Please look at the weddings on http://www.snippetandink.blogspot.com/
Love you,
Annie

Beauty (so beautiful) in little letters....

2008-03-17T17:57:00.001-06:00

Love Like Salt
by Lisel Mueller

It lies in our hands in crystals
too intricate to decipher

It goes into the skillet
without being given a second thought

It spills on the floor so fine
we step all over it

We carry a pinch behind each eyeball

It breaks out on our foreheads

We store it inside our bodies
in secret wineskins

At supper, we pass it around the table
talking of holidays and the sea.

let's party.

2008-03-15T15:37:00.006-06:00

happy birthday, E. may all your wishes come true!

as i lay dying

2008-03-06T11:53:00.006-07:00

Annie, you have no idea how appropriate your bow to The Sisterhood was! Your head-tip to Tibby was all too timely.

As I've sat here in bed for the past three and a half days with this dreaded cold, my sore, achy, stagnant, self has had somewhat of an epiphany, as most who lay on the edge of life and death oft times do.

The all-too wise E. Gilbert wrote, "I disappear into the person I love..." Yup. I'll nod to that. And, if that plight of self-pitty wasn't bad enough, I'll take it one step further: after the person I disappear into, disappears; when borrowed books are returned and text message conversations are terminated, why am I at the library counter with those same titles in hand? Why do I reach for the journal entries full of scribbled down text messages? When any normal individual, any person who has hope of moving on, would pick up the pieces and begin anew, I go back into the burning building. I comb the tsunami-tossed shore for tokens of the relationship, even though I know everything washed out with the tide.

In utter panic-mode, I search for a Sharpie. Scribbling out an S.O.S., I curl it up inside a bottle to send to sea along with the wild hope that it will reach that someone. That disappeared person on the other side of the world awaiting (I am sure of it) just such a bottle, ready to pull up the anchor and furl the sails, arriving at my rescue - our rescue.

Do you ever fear change so much it paralyzes you? Do you ever sit and think about how wonderful your life would be - how wonderful you know it could be and then do absolutely nothing about it? Do you ever get so falsely content watching other people up and doing, that the words "good luck," and "I'm so happy for you," spew forth from your mouth in utter obedience of this self you know could be up and doing right along with them? Of course I'm in love with the boy who is headed to Germany as I sit here, febrile and exhausted and type. Of course that kid in Colorado has a huge piece of my heart. Why? Because they are both untouchable. They are the Crush without the dreaded Curse of trying to pick myself up, dust myself off, and begin life again on my own, ready to sing The Song of Self.

While I find that movie sweet and touching and, okay, fine. I'll admit it: I cried the first time I watched that little girl (whatever her name is) die in her hospital bed, tears streaming down Tibby's face. And, while I love the idea of a package sent back and forth between best friends - sisters - I say we vow be the pant-wearers in our own lives. Pull out your favorite pair. The pair with the stains and the patches that you put there, not your best friend or your sister, or some guy, and head off into the future. Up and doing. Ready for anything.

Trust no future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
|Longfellow|

"Dedicated to You (everyone). Love, Annie"

2008-03-06T10:38:00.011-07:00

I have become one of those boring movies.

You know what I mean. (silent groan and "do we have to watch that?" type of movie) I am the Tibby who works at Walmart. Her life changes because of meeting that monochromatic girl with cancer (don't remember her name but her pale lips haunt me.) You watch and sometimes find it nice and maybe cry; but, your true self prays for the cut of Lena in Greece or Bridget on the beach. I gradually become one of those novels that you read for pages in anticipation of the dashing prince, the tragic murder, or even the discovery that "I am a wizard/queen/dragon/future president/moviestar!" Lonely grandmas and weird Shakespeare professors in Missouri would find something interesting in my monotonous novel of the moment. However, I guarantee I kindly decline as the reader to spend my time with the book. As a potential audience-member, I set it down near my bed...with all my other some-day-when-I-have-spare-time dusty covers.

Well, it does not matter: I am the main character AND the author. I have no obligation to read the book and feign entertainment. I live the book. Right now the page discusses my mind's consolidation of a variety of questions and answers and possibilities and impossibilities. Since life consists of school and work and church and family and (occassionally) friends all lined up in a row, in perfect Times New Roman, I sometimes fall into a sense of blah sentence structures. I forget the blessing and excitement of each letter's linear perfection. When my better self emerges, I wonder, "what is my life 'calling'?" or "how do I make my dreams into reality?" Occasionally I ask the best question of all: "how can I change? and become better?"

Looking back on this past year, I found my soul's stacks of books. Bright bindings with titles of romance, a few travel guides to wonderful destinations, a tattered cover of 'how to....', a couple of boring titles Art in Ecuador or The Minoan Mother Goddess, and a satire on the humor of family life all line the catalogue of my inner essence. Open the first page to any of these books and find the same dedication: it says (in some variation) "Dedicated to Me. Love, Annie." Yes, all of them. Sad and true and selfish. Selfish. Selfish. I've known of my self-centered existence as a student and hoped to tip-toe around the trap of pure evil in the slippery slope of SELF, but I tripped on my un-tied shoelaces.

In tying my shoelaces and escaping the trap, I have become a boring movie. Not because I truly have to or not because I truly want to, just because the best question:"how can I change?" requires me to. Like a schizophrenic, I respond, "You can change by changing your dedication from 'me' to 'you'" You can change by taking the shelves of novels into account in revising the unwritten pages; write something different. What use is learning to love--to expand yourself, lose yourself, and find yourself in another--if you tuck the lesson away (like a bookmark) for the next one who captures your heart? What use is adversity and the refining fire if you blow it out after you feel "done"? So, yesterday I had breakfast and dinner with B-Money (the Provo icon who soemtimes needs a true friend.) My first self-aware attempt in my venture to actually apply life's lessons--God's lessons--from the books.

Totally Tibby (minus the bad taste.) Honestly, I do not care how much you enjoy the upcoming words. In fact, unless you like those weird stories of facing reality in the fields of Idaho or you teach college in Missouri you will not enjoy yourself. And I myself would not to read it.

But, I need to write it.

pearls and a pencil

2008-03-03T00:40:00.013-07:00

The plate had finally reached me. There was one left. I grabbed for it. I popped open the fortune cookie, which read: Travel and romance go together now. After reading it aloud, I tucked it away with the other five golden fortunes I hope will turn out to be fate.
* * *
I put my pearls back in, brushed my teeth, wiped the mascara from under my eyes and stepped back to evaluate. Taking a pencil from the drawer, I spiraled my hair upward, using the pencil to fasten it in place. Pearls and a pencil. Classy-casual. Red coat over blue button-up shirt, I stepped out. Ready. Confident. I tucked a 1965 German dictionary under-arm. Making sure the pencil cleared my up-and-under, I ducked my head and slid myself into the car.
* * *
Wearing funky earrings, a sporty skirt and faux-sheered calf-length boots with laces, she's the epitome of fashion-cool. She's got a FREE TIBET shirt and classic black flats, and, somehow, deep down she could make them work in the same outfit. Her A-line bob polishes everything off. And, even though it looks as though she'd never be able to pull it back, leaving her with only one hairstyle option, she'll prove you wrong. Two ponytails or one, it works and it's absolutely darling. Throwing a scarf over her Sunday outfit, she's out the door, cool earrings bobbing as she hops along the front walk.

He loves her. She's a power tool to his soft and hidden self, drilling information into him, relentless in her attempt to stop him from revealing more about his life. She's made of concrete walls; tough to the touch. He is open pastures and green vistas; very don't-fence-me-in, if only she'd ask. He loves even the harsh sides of her in his sweet style of devotion. You can sense it in the way he looks at her when she talks; in the way he looks at her when anyone is talking. And yet, I still feel there is hope.
* * *
We're sitting on the couch looking up cars. High-end. European-made. We talk the ups and downs, the fasts and slows of A6's and 300 series. He lets me go off about streamlined trunk and tail light design. One hour later, we joined the rest of the crowd for cupcakes. I think I'm a little bit in love with him. The thought popped into my head as I sunk my teeth into a pink-frosted cupcake and smiled at him from across the room.

He loves her. And yet, I still feel there is hope. Not as in love-hope. Just hope. Hope after a few evenings at our table, a map at our fingertips, tracing European trails with our fingers. Why Florence? His eyes lit up as my mouth rounded and pronounced Duomo. It was one of those moments. One of those connections. He just understood. There was a pause. And then he traced both hands over Greece. If you're talking architecture, why not start here? I looked up at him, his darling eyes as blue as the Aegean. We can start anywhere you want to. I raised my eyebrows suggesting an up-for-anything attitude.
* * *
I parked the car on the downward slope, staring into the Salt Lake Valley. I secured the pencil in my hair and walked in, feeling good in my red coat. The house was filled with family; sisters with dark hair and eyes, and flawless olive skin; a mother happy to hug upon meeting. He was in the dining room, a map directly behind him. He traced the border of Germany and the Netherlands as I've seen him do a dozen times, showing an aunt and uncle where he'll make his new home. This time, however, it was final. He looked up with wide eyes. I handed him the dictionary and explained I had pulled it from my Dad's collection from his German Lit. college days. He wowed at the sight of it, grateful for the sentiment. He immediately scooted the ribbon off to look inside. The note read, See you there. And I signed my name.

He loves her. I think he always will. And yet, I've found new life in this new person; this connection; this charming too-good-to-be-true guy who will board a plane in 48 hours. As guests shuffled out, he watched as I folded up his pocket-size Eurorail map and tucked it inside the dictionary. I'll put it in my back pocket, he said, smiling. I looked up at him and smiled back, well-aware of the book's anything-but-convenient size. We lingered at the door for quite awhile. Each scuffing our feet on the slate, eyes down. Then I finally spoke up. Well...I wasn't sure what to follow it up with. See you there, he said, nodding, like that's what I should be thinking, too. He gave me a hug, opened the door and watched as I walked down the steps. I turned around at the sound of his voice. Hey. Thanks for coming. He paused. Thanks...a lot. I gave a shy, sure and turned towards my car. I pulled the pencil from my hair and drove slowly down the road, hand rotating my pearl earring with my fingers.

I am here

2008-02-23T23:20:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time, my Creative Writing class was assigned to write a sestina. And it was hard. I didn't get past the first stanza, and that stanza wasn't even completely finished, either. Far from it.

So why I can finish one off two years later is a complete mystery, but in one mad fit of words, I did. And, seeing as it's about love, I figured it might live well enough here among the YTS.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

Hope hovers in the sky today,
Spring measured in teaspoons
like the love I so delicately hold in cupped hands.
Kept close, it hums its own song
of prayer and promise in new light---
but I cannot match it to words.

Trembling now, it could break with words.
This dawn is yet too fragile today,
and almost too bright the light
might shatter this heart that beats in the spoon
of my palms, its rhythm-song
directed by your hands.

A whole world---what a handful!
We exchange ourselves in chance words,
a close chorus that sings
tomorrow is today.
Together they fit like stacked spoons,
collection of our combined light.

Perhaps too much, this light?
A flame too readily lit by my hands?
And yet we've tested this slowly by the spoonful:
a word, a laugh, another word . . .
No, I do not think today
is too much to ask of your singing.

For I am confident in my song---
it is the only one big enough to fill love's light.
Walking surely today,
a torch in one steady hand,
I balance (in the other) your words
as an egg on a spoon.

With every step I take, spooning
new notes from internal song,
I give you my word:
Love held transparent to the light.
Tomorrow is at hand;
you hold it in your today.

My heart, spooned from me with every word,
sings testament to your light
and hammers against my hand: we are today!

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

A word from M now, yes? I miss you.

Bless his soul...

2008-02-18T13:01:00.001-07:00

In rendezvous delight, my heart collides your smile
a grateful summer set of sunlight bursting across our sky
To say hello from now till now again a circle complete
Of yesterdays of hopes and dreams and fortitude's of life
Dearest darling, cutest woman beautiful prim rose of breath itself
to own the trails of reminiscences before they even just begin
is holding your hand upon my bellows of my soul within
Besought my love belong my sweetness folded across this voice
Belong my Somerset of sunlight as dreams attain reality
In joyous rendezvous your smile collides my heart

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

2008-02-15T15:12:00.009-07:00

Annie's last line has me thinking Whitman---goodly, glorious Whitman. So often his words echo my thoughts, and (through the silly-sad realization that I've never actually had an original idea) I revel in them. I celebrate myself, and sing myself. Early morning hours awake and alive have no comparison. I am satisfied---I see, dance, laugh, sing. The air bites but the sun shines; the world is open and humming. I believe in you my soul. I can handle it.

Today hasn't been much of an adventure as far as happenings go, but I feel excited about very nearly everything. The way my hair swept up into an easy French twist. How my heels click on the frozen concrete. When Professor Matthews shouted "yes!" at my comment this morning. Sincerity from one of my students, thanking me for showing him the light in Heart of Darkness. Chatting with coworkers, eyes alight in the fire of conversation. Coming to a conclusion without really thinking anything through: Waiting be damned. I am going to live. He'll catch up. Because I am amazing and lovely and every sort of color and I am brilliant and confident and I am true.

Yes, today I sing a Song of Myself, but to sing such is really praises for the masses. Because Leaves of Grass is just another way to shout Humanity! Because just as individual spears of grass make the green hill, so are we interconnected. Our differences point to our commonality. I am not alone. I am not the only one to ever have felt this way. I celebrate the part because I am part of something greater, something eternal.The epic is all I, I, I---but I think there's something to be said that it ends in you.

{Listening to the YTS Love Mix. Wondering how we got it so good.
Hoping everyone holds a piece of this happiness in their hearts.}

Why I eat gummy bears..

2008-02-13T11:57:00.011-07:00

Tommorrow let's celebrate! Passion. Emotion. Love.
Right now I am at my internship at the Springville Museum of Art, eating gummy bears. Sharlene Stule and I listen to classical music up in the library attic. I hear the clock tick and catch reflections of my dark hair ("Is that really me?") in the rows of alphabetically-arranged metallic cabinets. I don't even like gummy bears.

You know, I often overflow with tears. My eyes brim--like that game you play as a second-grader when you try and make your classmate laugh so hard that milk shoots out from her nose--and tears fall in spite of my consistent efforts to miraculously grow retracting muscles near my tear ducts. Call it a curse or a blessing, either way it is me. And lately I have thought: BLESSING. Truth be told--I love that I cry.
Sometimes you just feel a nearly spiritual inclination to look into the mirror and fall in love with yourself and to find all of those facets of yourself (like crying) somehow endearing. Odd? Maybe. Healthy? Definitely. When I try this trick I sometimes think, "I hate mirrors. I will be so sick of looking at myself by the time I reach age 30." or simply, "Ewww." Looking at your reflection becomes more about the act of seeing yourself than surveying surface elements. Replace "I like my mouth" or "My nose curves upward in a bizarre beak-like fashion" with "My mind scintillated and shone with brillance as I just wrote that beautiful essay" Today--for some reason-- when I gazed at myself, I took a voyeuristic approach. A skeptical and strangely removed look at ME. After self-criticisms up the wahzoo, I suddenly went back to Hawaii.
I didn't know what to think. What do you tell yourself when you realize that you will leave your tropical paradise? That soon you will run smack into the rough brick wall of reality? My roommates and I had woken up at literally 4 am to go to the Hukilau Beach (across the street) and watch the sunrise. Sitting in the sand, bundling up (cold is SUCH a relative sensation), and absorbing the pure rays for the last time, I felt too sleepy to feel grateful. After laughing and talking and snapping some photos, my friends went home. I stayed by myself. I ran up and down the beach barefoot. Normal joggers in normal clothes passed me by. After a little bit of hesitation, I stripped down. Yes, you better believe it. I walked into the waves with my green underwear and white bra. A couple of kids watched me from a distance. I dove in. Swim. Swim! Laughing underwater kind of destroys the perfect breaststroke. I had always wanted to do this. I did it. I walked out of the water--my tan body contrasted against my yellow-blonde mess of hair and my embarassingly paste-white stomach--with a sense of self that I will never forget. Who cares if I was going home? I sure didn't. I just loved that moment when I felt like my own novelist in my real-life novel.
So, basically, I hope that everyday--not just on Valentine's Day--that I experience that head-over-heels, butterflies-in-the-tummy, take-my-breath-away emotion. The emotion that inevitably comes when I venture into sincere self-appreciation. Like right now: I still swallow those somewhat stale, sugary beasts. I still don't like them. Honestly, I think they are perfectly STUPID waste of calories. Yet, I do it in honor of my mother. She loves gummy bears and so does Grammy. Haribo Heaven at Grammy's house every Sunday. My self-awareness of all of these factors makes me sigh. Oh. I LOVE myself.

it's good to be in love (it really does suit you)

2008-02-12T13:20:00.000-07:00

When it's unrequited, or even just unsure, love dances dangerously from ironic to the veritably insane. Every day begins in a hope, most usually dashed by twilight. You walk to class with only one name on your mind; you anticipate chance meetings with heart racing and blood pounding. Doodling betrays your secret, too-long emails to confidant confirm it. For what it does to us, the very thought of falling in like should be banished. "Curse it!" I cry, on those darker nights, fully given to the romanticised view of heartbreak: all grey thunder and the rain lashing at the windows. But the truth is, we wouldn't have it any other way.

It is so much happier to be in love than without it. Without it, those long lulls of no one and no thing are more bleak than ever before. A crush, no matter how small, makes bright the darkest hour---and though it's somewhat ridiculous (if they only knew the power they possess!), simply your name said out loud may be cause for dancing. That name becomes a rhythm, soon becomes a song. Doodles chronicle mood in joyful spins or patient dots. The emails tell the story, detail to detail. And that chance meeting sets your heart on fire, bright and burning: you are invincible. The heartache will come, and the occasional grey day might stand in your way, but the end is forever worth it all. Being in love is simply a version of being in hope: a mood struck through with blue sky and summer sun.

Basics with Brooke

2008-02-05T10:45:00.000-07:00

I apologize for posting twice in a row. AND for my jumbled/depressing previous post.

Yesterday I spent a good 30 (actually more like 40...I epitomize procrastination) minutes making a new playlist with a number of velvety voices guiding me on the journey of love. The ups and downs of life's greatest rollercoaster following the slight shifts in tone or pitch or tempo or crescendo and the poem in every girl's heart expressed in the lovely lyrics. After listening to my latest theme songs for the umpteenth time, "The Thief" (Brooke Fraser) or "Realize" (Colbie), I adopted a more forgiving, optimistic theme song, "Love is Waiting" (Brooke again.) I pronounced my playlist "BASICS WITH BROOKE."
On that same theme...Here are a couple of the requested quotes (Martha, I hope these are what you wanted) on love:

“There is no risk-free way to love. The possibility of being devastated is always there, but the possibility of joy exists only when you put your battered heart right on the table by trusting that you’re lovable.” Martha Beck

"We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit." ee cummings

And finally...(drumroll)..for some reason this one always unearths a (predictable) small spring of tears in my eye. Perhaps it is because I often play the role in romance of a useless armored-knight tightly bound up in duct tape and sheltered by a barbed-wire or electric fence (depends on the day) rather than the cliche--yet enviable--role of the brave warrior saving another's soul or even the princess swooning in vulnerablity.

“She would give him all the armour she had hitherto used to keep herself safe…She loved him.” Peter Carey

Reflections on diving in: JUMP

2008-01-29T13:10:00.000-07:00

Mary Oliver
"Listen, are you breathing just a little,
and calling it a life?…
For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!"

You know, sometimes I think I am brave…like when I read this poem. After heeding those instinctual "Fall in!" feelings, I think: YOU ARE BRAVE. But then I realize that sometimes biting your tongue and doing the hard thing isn’t enough....Like the first time you jump off the high dive at the public swimming pool. Tiny, wet, raisin toes climbing up the all-too-slick ladder. The only comfort in that moment lies in the fact that the lifeguard (even if it is your 14-year-old neighbor) sits on his authoritative perch a couple of hundred feet away. After looking around at the smiling sister and the proud parent, you see the boy below. Half his normal size because...whoa, you are high up. "Okay. I can do this." You walk, slip those goggles down—they are your only armor—and jump. FALL IN. Hitting the water actually didn't hurt as bad as you thought it might. You tell yourself (as you finally reach the water’s surface): YOU ARE BRAVE. You walk out of that chlorine void with a little more bounce in your step, with your chin raised a little. You look up at the silver mountain you climbed…the Goliath. YES.

After a matter of minutes, days, weeks, or even years you realize: it wasn't that high. In all actuality, the fear you felt ended up dissolving by conquering the giant. Good. Great. The lessons of life from Eleanor Roosevelt, "I gain confidence…" But, what happens when you look back and the fear is gone because you have conquered it. You have FALLEN. But, somehow you feel broken. Immobilized. You THOUGHT you were brave. In fact, as you whisked through the air on your way down, you KNEW you were brave. Nevertheless, in the light of the day, with your goggles thrown away, the high-dive seems a bit lower. Somehow that thought doesn't make you feel taller and your step feels less bouncy. You realize that the paralyzing—the real quadriplegic—fears don't come with what you can and cannot do. Can I really fall in love? Can I actually move away from home and become an “adult”? Can I be a good example to my rebellious little brother? Of course you can. You can do enough, give enough gifts, say enough, work hard enough, make enough clever quips, and love enough. BUT the real fears come when being brave doesn't quite cut it. The doing—the falling—helps you realize that despite your best efforts, you don’t have control of the outcome. Fears start to stem from who you are—your actual essence and true capacities as a person—and not from holes in your resume of friendship, academics, love, or just life. Now, THAT is fear of the worst kind. I've fallen in. I've done my part...but it doesn't seem to even matter. Jumping off a high-dive never equaled an Olympic gold-medalist; the judges appreciate your efforts but don’t hold up a “10.” Its reality: sometimes you are not enough.
That said…
I thank God for the beauty of this depressing breakdown: you don’t have to be “enough.” Falling and failing and crying and attempting to communicate is enough. As I’ve come to find out (I’m a little slow on the uptake), perfection doesn’t exist in the outcome. Perfection exists in those moments—however fleeting they may be—when, in spite of your wedgie from the hot-pink swimsuit, you look through your messy strings of hair and think, "YES." And your friends scream “Was it scary?” and your mom takes a picture. You were perfect in your falling. ENOUGH.

as thick as cement

2008-01-24T02:15:00.000-07:00

This is from the beloved marta writes. It is another example of why I adore her - because her words really reach out and speak to me. (I like the line below about not knowing - in her childhood days - what it would feel like to be madly in love) Reading this just now made me think of us, The YTS, the memories, the sisterhood, our bond that is thicker than cement. We could fill in our own words - E, if you feel so inclined. I absolutely love marta because she is one of us, though she doesn't know it! Let's get going on that Valentine!
Love to all,
M.
p.s. I feel like a blog hog! Someone else post, pretty please! Or else I'll write more about how much I adore us! (There are worse things, I suppose).

"your childhood friends somehow cement in your mind the time you two were sitting under the slide, hanging on the monkey bars, or chatting on the curb at recess. i can always remember my chalky hands after playing in the gravel outside. she and i grew up together and i have memories of being twelve at girls camp or going to the mall at fifteen, slumber parties and painting our nails, and jumping up and down once we found out we both made it in the musical Grease in high school. all these things are cemented in my life. but for whatever reason, allison at age nine is what sticks.

"back then life was so simple and we didn't even realize it. we didn't know time would fly so fast. we did not know that circumstances could someday pull us apart. we couldn't picture how else to spend a saturday other than walking to Arctic Circle for a corndog, playing barbies and making up dances in spandex. we didn't know what it feels like to grow up and be grown ups. we didn't know that our secret code names wouldn't last forever. or that we would forget our important handshake. we didn't know that fifth grade really wasn't that hard and mrs. roberts wasn't that terrible. we didn't even realize that thirty wasn't that old. we didn't know what things were to come. we didn't know that people close to us could pass away. we didn't know how that felt yet. we didn't know what it meant to be so devastated that all you can feel is helpless. and all you can do is hug. we didn't know how it felt to be hurt or sad or madly in love. we didn't know how important our memories would be. we didn't realize how important our friendship would be either. we were just two girls playing. every day, at one house or the other.

"i told dan when we drove home from her house on sunday evening that i will always and forever be tied to her, no matter what. because of the things we've been through together. because i've seen her grow up and i know we know each other so well. what would life be without friendships as thick as cement?

"she is another of my beloved paperdolls that i cling to."

in the name of love

2008-01-23T13:13:00.000-07:00

Is there any way, dear Annie, that you would post some of the quotes you read to us last Sunday? They were oh so thought-provoking and I feel that we'd all benefit from them. When you've got a moment...
M.

REUNION...its been so long

2008-01-17T11:06:00.000-07:00

(I know that this isn't merely a scratching post for future meetings BUT) how does a trip to the Stevens cabin this weekend sound? Sunday night? or even tommorrow night?

divinity must live within

2008-01-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

It is the woman in us
That makes us write
Let us acknowledge it
Men would be silent
We are not men.
|William Carlos Williams|

Yale. Four letters. Four houses. Four doors. Yet we are one; lives shuffled together as feet have shuffled from house to house, season after season, year after year; a permanent trajectory; physical evidence of memories kept only in our minds.

This indwelling idea of unity, this inherent Sisterhood, as we discussed, cannot be defined nor replicated. There is no blueprint, no formula. Only one word (four letters) which can come close to describing what exists between 1944 and 1920: Home.

Although Yale only physically exists between 19th and 20th east, its extensions are far-reaching. New Zealand, BYU, BU, Italy, St. Mary's, 900 east or Bryan Ave. Letters, packages, emails and voice mails sent across cities and seas. Yet, no matter where we roam, we always return, instantly blissful at the site of cars alongside curbs and lights on in bedroom windows.

What I cherish most about you girls is your divinity. Long ago, when I would watch over E and O, (seems silly now, doesn't it?) after children were slumbering, I would walk down the stairs and pause to stare at the cross stitch which daintily reads "Divinity Must Live Within." I thought if I stared at it long enough, perhaps divinity would take up residence within me. Divinity existed in that house, and in the house of the maker (ELS) and I wanted it to exist in me so badly. I see it now in you: the way you look after one another; the constant outstretched arm; the unlocked back door; the barefoot summer walk at nightfall; the spot under shaded tree or starry night sky. An ever-present place to lean my heart at times when it needs to be steadied. For those times, I thank you. For your divinity, I thank you.

I find myself wanting to take upon parts of each of you. To bottle you up and carry you away with me. To places, to people, to situations and first-salutations. You are me. In me. Part of me. Who I've become. Who I wish to be. My ideals. My Yale Girls. Constant. Beautiful. Dramatic and True!
M.

perfect peace?

2008-01-14T22:59:00.001-07:00

Ohhh....the Yale girls finally unite on a darling blog and in the most appropriate manner: words. We always have had a flair for the dramatic (sorry, that just seemed to flow) and for talking, writing, and reading!
Excuse my verbose and often times rash rantings the other night at our petite reunion.Thank you dear Martha for the inspiring snippet of your discourse on love. The inspiration served as an impetus for my own--not quite so eloquent--email. Nothing has changed in my outside circumstance. However, my inner state seems a bit... liberated combined with "finito"...(What is that word? Someone should create a word for that sense of surrender found in complete emotional exhaustion.) My romantic self who softly steps from daydream to daydream has taken any inherent reason and slashed it with a machete (sp?). Although I personally believe logic to be overrated, some call it the most distinguished aspect of humanity. Reason saves us all from flying to India at this very minute in a desperate attempt to re-enact Sara Crew's life. (Perhaps Plato was on to something when he venerated our ability to see the irrational parts of life) In my new resolve to listen to my mind for more than a minor moment, I look forward to my future with a practical optimism and realistic sense that....dangit....I have so much homework to do.