Yesterday I walked to my old mission companion's house along a road built on a ridge. The houses are gigantic and stand, facing out like sentinels, guarding a valley of other, equally-gigantic houses... and yet, as I walked and stared at them, the space felt so empty and void of life.

 Last week I was walking each day through the chaos of Barrio Lujan in Reconquista--barefooted, sticky-handed children climbing trees or slingshotting birds or throwing rocks at stray dogs, teenagers smoking on the corner, blasting raggaeton or playing spirited games of soccer, grandparents sitting in lawn chairs sipping mate and grumbling about the teenagers. I remember what Sister Ayala said, somewhat cynically, as she led us through all the commotion to her house: “we are never short on kids or dogs.”

 Now, I stare at these neighborhoods and I think, “where are the kids? where are the dogs? where is the dirt?” I know there are kids because my dad told me that we have at least an entire schoolbus of kindergarteners in our little housing complex alone. But why don’t I ever see them and how is it that we so successfully keep our children cooped up? Is something oppressive happening?

Moments

I cannot explain why on some days more than others the smallest moments or the most fleeting impressions will burn themselves into my mind. Then, on other days, nothing seems to stick.

I am reading Gilead. It is becoming a favorite. This quote seems to connect: "It is a strange thing, after all, to be able to return to a moment when it can hardly be said to have any reality at all, even in its passing. A moment is such a slight thing, I mean, that its abiding is a most gracious reprieve."

Last summer I went down to Moab for a few days and slept out under the stars and hiked through arches and went swimming in the colorado river. It was a nice trip from beginning to end, but for some reason I remember just a few random moments most vividly. I remember the tanned middle-aged woman crouched over by her mini-van in the parking lot by the trailhead stuffing  bright woolly blue socks into her hiking shoes. And I remember our waitress at the Pancake Haus. A tall, slender, Asian woman with just a hint of an accent. She had the most gruesome pink scar that crawled through her tank top from the bottom of her neck a good way down her shoulder and that looked like some strange Paleozoic fossil sprawled across her flesh.

Today is another one of those days. Here are a couple images that are sticking:

1. A girl in bright turquoise pants and giant sunglasses sitting on her front steps reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

2. A small crowd of people standing frozen on the sidewalk, arrested by some sight at the top of the hill. By the way they were just standing there, you might have thought someone was about to jump off of a building, or that some crazed, windblown preacher was up there shouting a sermon about hellfire or something. But I followed their eyes and finally determined that they were just watching a swarm of bees. They were hard to see at first, but it was quite a swarm-- buzzing and humming madly around their hive. I was glad that so many people were stopping to watch. It reminded me of that time--two springs ago--when I came by a young man crouched on the sidewalk observing a writhing pile of ants. insects can be fascinating.

3. All those red tulips. A sea of them. Pressed against the chain-link fence.

3. An elderly couple, crouched and ancient-looking, both wearing white nose strips for some reason, standing in their front yard surveying as an older man, perhaps a son, mows their lawn. The man mowing was not young himself, maybe 60.

Advice

When your roommate is in love, you should always read to her from The Song of Solomon when you are getting ready for bed and need to read your scriptures.

Nostalgia

I will bow and be simple,
I will bow and be free,
I will bow and be humble,
Yea, bow like the willow tree.

I will bow, this is the token,
I will wear the easy yoke,
I will bow and will be broken,
Yea, I'll fall upon the rock.

This hymn recently came back to me. I learned it while I was staying with the Quakers. Sometimes in the evening after we had finished our chores for the day, we would retire to "the chapel," which was really a big room on the second story of the barn with high windows and lots of books and musical instruments, and we would read or sing together. One night I pulled out my little pocket-sized hymnal, and Joanna pulled out a few of their own hymn books and we shared our favorites. This one is simple (fittingly) and it fills me with all sorts of nostalgia.

Speaking of nostalgia, I also came across this trailer recently and was immediately swept away, back into the high sand mountains of the Atacama, back into the never-ending gray-brown, back to Arica and to the comfortable lulling rhythms of the Spanish language. I still miss it sometimes. 

Looking back

Today I stumbled back into some old online journals that have been tucked deep away in the dusty corners of the internet. I spent too long reading over them. But instead of feeling embarrassed I felt oddly connected to the Brooke of 4, 5, 6 years ago. I liked that girl, and some of her words still resonated with me. Like this bit I wrote on religious identity almost 4 years ago now:

 Sometimes I am startled by identity. Startled that anyone has an identity. How did I get trapped (pulled? embraced?) into mine? How is this who I am? By birth I suppose. And by choice too. But how much of the choice part has to do with the birth part? I don't know the answer. It is an interesting thing.  I do not regret it or resent it. I find it rich and fascinating, if not a little strange.

Sometimes I am caught off guard by the peculiar language that surrounds me. It is so familiar, and yet at times it becomes so foreign. People say: holy ghost. the spirit. high priest. Like: salt shaker. laundromat. earmuffs.
Sometimes it makes me feel ancient. Sometimes it feels like a glorious game or an epic play I am a part of, where we all believe in the mystic and the impossible and the bizarre. And then sometimes I embrace it all, with my whole heart. not ironically. not bitterly. not partially—because in the end it is an inextricable part of me and I would feel too false to deny it.
Sometimes, though, I feel estranged.

The question remains: how to reconcile the estranged parts (of which there are many) with the core instinctively familiar all-embracing parts?

I am still working on that, and do feel like I have made some progress in the last 4 years. but life still feels like a very large exercise of reconciling, balancing out, working through impossible paradoxes... Opposition in all things I suppose.

Good night.

Scrap Paper Poetry

"Shock"

The scent of rat office equals p.
We then eat 991 tacos.
Love, aggression,
by an evening port O and P plied the rocks.

The value of land and port.
The hours worked.
Stand nations of scent!
Ours is the coffee.

----

This is what I did in relief society today.
I am particularly fond of the last two lines. I like to see it as a call to revolution.
In fact, if you read it right--that's what the entire poem is about. Very appropriate considering current events in Egypt.
Down with the rat office! 

Running

I have been running. I never had the patience for it before. But right now there is something so satisfying about working my way up through longer and longer runs, listening to the steady rhythm of sneakers hitting concrete, learning to endure a little bit of pain and discomfort. I am learning that in life sometimes you have to just sit with your pain too. There is no way around it. It doesn't just disappear. You can't pretend it away as soon as it surfaces.  So it is good to learn to endure.


Some days are warmer, and some are still biting cold. February likes to surprise you. Yesterday I went running outside and it was warm enough that after about half a mile I had to scrunch up my sleeves. Not an hour later I walked to campus in a blustering sleet storm. I had no hat or hood with me so I had to tie my scarf around my head or else I was afraid that my ears would freeze and fall off.

I still have heavy boots but they are getting lighter. I like the new Decemberists album. I've had June Hymn on repeat the last couple of days. It makes me long for springtime. There is something so lovely and constant and comforting about the seasons--about flower bulbs leaping to life and shooting through the ground after a long and frozen sleep. Flower bulbs really know something about endurance.

Snow Picnic

What's Spinning

Thank you Glen Hansard/Marketa Irglova

and Sarah Jaffe

Heavy boots.

The Christmas Story

This is, quite possibly, the cutest thing I have ever seen.
Merry Christmas everyone!

A Motion Picture

Tonight, I walked outside and the sky was the deepest most unfathomable shade of purple. A deep hazy purple with small pinpoints of starlight peeking through. and on my way home there was a cat lurking around beneath the benches and a family of deer lurking around in the foliage and sprinklers wildly spraying places that never needed to be watered. And the temperature was perfect, and I was in one of those moods where I felt positively compelled to press my hand against the bark of every tree I passed.

Another thing: as much as I love still photographs there is just something about a moving image. Something about shifting light and shadow and color and eyes blinking--a certain glancingness that can be captured in no other way. I can look at old photographs and the humans there feel flat and dead and distant somehow. But I look at even the earliest films--you know the 20 or 30 or 50 seconds of people walking out of factories or strolling through the town square--and I am suddenly caught up! These are people, real people. Where are they going? Who and what do they love? I can almost feel them breathing.

We watched this film today and I found it beautiful and astounding.
You should watch it.
We care too much these days about propulsive plotlines, conflict, drama and adventure. Sometimes a simple moving image, or just a series of them thoughtfully and interestingly juxtaposed is more than enough.  

Watch here or just follow the link:

Grow

Do you know that I have had garden nightmares?
I dreamed that the green beans sprouted up in the cracks in the sidewalk instead of in the garden, and that I needed to transplant them into more fertile soil but I couldn't find a way to pluck them up and keep their root systems intact. And if I couldn't keep their roots systems intact then that meant there would be NO green beans. And I really really was looking forward to those green beans.

The gentlest of nightmares--true, but I still woke up feeling a little anxious.

This garden business is hard and I fear I have not been the best at attending to it. Because, try as I might, the squash bugs are still invading and the onions need top dressing or they'll never get any bigger and the waterline needs fixing and the tomatoes need some serious pruning or else they are going to take over the world and the green beans need trellises and the melons are dying and being invaded by weeds and.... it always always seems that the garden is on the verge of some small disaster.
The truth is, I am not the best gardener. And I am certainly not the best garden manager. I am not detail-oriented enough for such a large operation and, honestly, I know nothing about those plants. After all, this is only my second year trying to grow them. We are just starting to get acquainted.

But I am learning so much. And I am trying to let the anxiety go--to breathe, to relax. This garden is huge. There are so many people pitching in this year, and so many parts that need to come together in order for it to run smoothly. Managing it could be a full time job and I am terribly inexperienced and ill-equipped to tackle that job. Not to mention, there is never enough time.

But I am not intending for this post to be all self-deprecation and whining. That is not the point.
The point is that even though it sometimes feels like everything is chaotic and I am doing everything wrong and the entire garden will be unavoidably ruined-- I am frequently and lovingly reminded that the earth is forgiving. and it is abundant. and even a little effort goes a long way.

I came home from the garden tonight with more food than I know what to do with. Let me show you all of it (pardon the poor quality of the photograph--my cell phone is the only thing I have to take pictures with right now):

Here you see: A beautiful variety of purple string beans (they grew!), carrots, onions, apricots, 2 types of cucumbers, green peppers, broccoli, 4 types of squash and the first glorious blush of tomatoes.

Tonight, I am happy.

"For the earth is full, and there is enough and to spare"

The Upside

I was reminded today of why I love Provo in the summer so much.

Mona lake in the morning. Then Bike riding, gallery strolling, and some extra nice sandwich-making and restaurant promoting in the afternoon.

I don't know who reads my blog that wouldn't know about the restaurant--but some good friends of mine are looking to open up a restaurant. in Provo! I was there for the beginning stages, for some of the initial dreaming up and planning and meeting. But these guys have been working hard on it for the past four months and it was exciting just to get to help out with some of the promotional stuff this evening.

The restaurant is called The Upside. <-- Click there for the website. They also just started a kickstarter fundraising campaign, so if you feel so inclined, please donate a dollar, or two (or five!)

Sorry for the shameless plug. I am just honestly excited about it all. No location yet--but they are looking to possibly buy a double-decker bus and set up shop there. It already has all the necessary restaurant facilities too. Kitchen on the bottom level and seating up top.

And let me just say, they make some revolutionary grilled cheese sandwiches.

Photo by Christine Armbruster

Then tomorrow, there will be all sorts of celebration and revelry to cap off an already perfect summer weekend. farmers markets, community gardens, barbeques and waterslides and fireworks. I love holidays that stretch over the course of several days.

The Realm of the Unreal

I just watched this documentary. The entire concept of art brut/outsider art is fascinating. and Henry Darger was definitely a fascinating, mysterious, kind of creepy (and yet kind of sweet and innocent-seeming) man--with a very distinctive style of painting/drawing/collaging/tracing.
And what prolificness! pages upon pages upon pages! and no one knew.

I actually like it quite a bit. The colors and composition are so bright and inventive and fantastical.

museum of natural history

can't sleep.

walrus ostrich narwhal

Even though the weather has turned I am feeling happy and blessed.
I don't mind bringing out the jackets and the scarves again. This year I feel much less misdirected rage towards the sudden cold snaps--I am rolling with the punches.

What is rain but some moisture for the spring garden? Another week where we don't need to water?

I also noticed that the cold makes the tulips close up a little.
When the sun is beating hot they begin to throw their petals open wide and it feels like they are indecently exposed and a little flamboyantly erotic: "HELLO stamen!"
I have to say, I prefer the neatly closed petals. Skirts untwirled. I hope that doesn't make me a prude. I just want a little decency.

Question.
Is there anything more wonderfully magical than sea animals with tusks/horns?











Another question. Is there anything better than going to a friend's house and being served fresh homemade ostrich egg quiche? And then some strawberry napoleons and chocolate pasta with white chocolate raspberry sauce drizzled on top for dessert?

These days my life is just FILLED with horned sea animals and ostrich egg quiches--so, it is not an exaggeration when I say that things couldn't get much better.

"The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."
-A Child's Garden of Verses

I know that these thoughts and that quote run the risk of sounding a little obtusely optimistic or annoyingly sunny (in an always-grinning-no-matter-what sunday-school sort of way). But I don't mean it like that. I am just feeling truly grateful for small things these days, and I think it is good to make a note, start a list, count your blessings.
Then, during the hard times, I can look back and remember that somewhere out there in the vast oceans of our planet there is a herd of narwhal swimming.

Let me continue the list:

-free old huge heavy television sets to put in my bedroom and decorate with collages and watch old VHS tapes on
-friends who go to DI and surprise you with a working VCR
-camping in the great wide wilderness of southern utah
-hiking in the great wide wilderness of southern utah
-neighbors with baby chickens and a newly-built chicken coop
-anticipating the fresh eggs that said chickens will be producing by the end of the summer
-starting a restaurant
-riding bikes
-gardening, gardening meetings, plant stewardships
-bollywood market opening just down the street
-little brother Aaron coming to Provo oh so soon
-hanging out with that brother and sharing thoughts, books, music, movies
-lovely Elisa coming to Provo tomorrow!!!
-road trip to Santa Fe with mom and Jade
-talking to dad on the phone
-new jobs
-new classes
-making movies
-all the trees in Provo bursting with flowers
-compost piles
-having time to read

L'Epine dans le Coeur

I am always so comforted by the small constants in life.

The sun rising. The seasons changing.
The Jehovah's Witness man in his long dark coat and fedora handing out Watchtower and Awake! magazines at the end of 200 East.

He is always there. Every Friday morning without fail. And I always accept his magazine with a smile and a word of thanks.
Partly because I find them fascinating and have a habit of collecting religious pamphlets and tracts of all kinds* And partly because what's the point of rudely averting your gaze? Or swerving around him? Or making a show of turning him down because you have a religion thankyouverymuch?

In other news, I really do love the seasons changing. It's spring! The weather is fickle. We had a white Easter. But now it is 60 degrees and there is popcorn popping on our apricot tree outside (we really do have an apricot tree in our backyard, and it really has broken out into the most beautiful pink-white blossoms this week)! and we are planting lettuce and spinach and peas and onions and carrots in the garden. and sprouting tomatoes and peppers and eggplants and melons under our grow lights indoors.
And it might snow again next week--but that's alright. That's just mother nature trying to make us appreciate the warm days more. And we do.

*Last time I went sacred harp singing at the local Episcopal church I raided their pamphlet section. I think I took one of every single kind. And I read them all too. I like the episcopal church.
Also, when I worked at Foodland I used to gather all the little evangelical tracts that people seemed to strategically leave in the shopping carts and take them home with me-- not to thwart the missionary efforts but because they were always so interesting and full of passion and zeal and they usually had great cartoons of people burning in hellfire!