The Wasatch Report

New blog!

2011-05-17T11:59:00.001-07:00

I've moved!

Get the latest Arnie news here: http://thewasatchreport.wordpress.com/

See you there!

A letter too late

2011-05-05T11:16:00.000-07:00

Dear Allison,

I met you almost a decade ago at the Ouray Ice Festival.

In a room full of fleece and Schoeller, you stood out in tight jeans, a halter top, and glitter. Lots of glitter.

While anti-social climbers jockeyed for position at the bar and avoided eye contact with girls, you owned the dance floor, your energy and excitement feeding the band, which played long after its scheduled set, just so you'd keep dancing.

I knew a little bit about you--you ran 100-mile races, you paddled huge rivers, you climbed three Black Canyon routes in a day, you were recently divorced--but nothing could have prepared me for your joyful, loving, warm presence.

You were unlike anyone else.

Years later at the Southern Sun, you'd just returned from a ski trip to Mongolia--Mongolia of all places--and you held court with tales of approaching peaks on horseback, sleeping in dung-fired yurts, and drinking yak butter tea.

Gross, I thought, in admiration of your healthy sense of adventure. As we drank beers and split cheese fries, you told me I should join you next year; you said you couldn't wait to go back. You thought it was paradise. I couldn't imagine such suffering.

You manifested strength and drive, but you were vulnerable, too, and sensitive. Life wasn't always easy for you --in fact, you faced and cleared plenty of obstacles. But you never seemed to dwell on them--you never let them stop you from seeing that even the most painful moments could be made better with a smile, a peek on the bright side, and a dash of sparkle.

Your wardrobe remains legendary for its feather-to-fabric ratio, its sparkle, its flair. In the first yoga class we took together, you turned heads in a miniskirt, sparkly hot pants, and a tube top. A tube top. A foot taller than everyone else in the room, you turned heads, too, because you were so incredibly beautiful, and you stretched into even the toughest poses like you were born to them.

One day, in the Wasatch backcountry, we got a little lost (you being brand new to the area and me with a worthless sense of direction). A storm was rolling in, limiting our visibility on the side of a peak facing a strange drainage.

I panicked (it's just what I do), but you pulled on a warm layer (hot pink, trimmed in fake fur) and said, "We'll get a better sense of where we are from the top. I'll break trail."

And off you went, setting a skin track steep enough to make the boys proud. I tried to keep up, alternating between being impressed and wanting you to slow the hell down.

You were right. We got a visual at the top, and, confident of our location, you dropped into the bowl arcing perfect turns, hooting gleefully.

Driving back down the canyon, I was starving, freezing, and exhausted. All I could think about was a hot shower and food and the couch.

You had other plans.

"I'm gonna take Dulce for a run, then go to yoga at 5:30. You in?"

Allison, I thought you were unstoppable.

It breaks my heart that you were stopped last week by an avalanche on Split Mountain. You were with your Kip, and I'm certain you were being safe; you fostered such a healthy respect for the mountains.

It was just one of those freak things no one could have predicted, but it seems so wrong; you weren't done--you were just getting started in this life.

I saw you for the last time in Boulder. We ran into each other by chance at Illegal Pete's. Johnny had just died, and we talked about how special he was, how, when he talked to you, he made you feel like the only person in the room.

That's just it, though, Allison -- you did, too.

Even through all this heartbreak and sadness--for you and for the myriad people who loved you--I have such gratitude. I'm grateful that I knew you, that I got to laugh with you, to follow in your joyful, glittery wake on mountain adventures.

Thank you for being a role model and a friend and a constant inspiration. Thank you for teaching me that you can always go on, that you're never too tired, that a smile transforms a room, that strong is beautiful, that you can always be friendly, that love is paramount, that glitter makes everything better.

I love you, Allison. RIP.

Your friend forever,
Katie

We Do What We Can

2011-04-17T09:02:00.000-07:00

I've had this post in mind for a while, but until today, I haven't been able to get the words in the right way. Too much distraction, too many tangents.

Then, as always, the Muse found her way through the noise, delivering a poem so apt I found myself nodding from the first line to the last.

After Reading There Might Be an Infinite Number of Dimensions
by Martha Silano
I'm thinking today of how we hold it together,
arrive on time with the bottle of Zinfandel, a six-pack

of Scuttlebutt beer, how we cover our wrinkles
with Visible Lift, shove the mashed winter squash

into the baby's mouth, how we hold it all together
despite clogged rain gutters, cracked

transmissions, a new explanation for gravity's
half-hearted hold. I'm wondering how we do it,

comb the tangles from our hair, trim the unwieldy
camellia, speak to packed crowds about weight loss

or fractals. I'm wondering how we don't
fall to our knees, knowing a hardened pea,

lodged in the throat, can kill, knowing
liquids are banned on all commercial flights.

Leaves fall. The baby sucks her middle fingers.
Meanwhile, the refrigerator acquires

an unexplainable leak. Meanwhile, we call
the plumber, open wide for the dental hygienist,

check each month, with tentative circlings,
our aging breasts. Somehow, each morning,

the coffee gets made. Somehow, each evening,
the crossing guard lifts fluorescent orange flag,

and a child and her father cross the glistening street.

It reminds me of William Stafford's Yes, long a favorite for its choice to focus on the positive:

It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.

It could, you know. That's why we wake
and look out -- no guarantees
in this life.

But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.

It's easy to feel overwhelmed by the news. Everyone's reporting disaster, loss, intolerance, struggle. This winter brought such devastating events in such rapid succession that I almost forgot the pleasure of a happy surprise.

A friend's husband was diagnosed with advanced-stage cancer. This just a handful of years after she lost her fiance to a bad ski fall. Recovering from that, weathering this…it seems like too much to ask of one person, but by all accounts she is bearing the yoke with her trademark grace and strength.

Still, though, wtf?

But that's just it. We can't know wtf, because we're not in charge. We're so small, such a minor part of the structure. A month ago, the Earth shook its fist and over 13,000 people died in Japan.

We can throw our hands up and cry, "What's next, world?" Or we can look around and figure out how we can help. We can quietly take action and offer as much as possible, in whatever way we know how.

We do what we can.

A few weeks ago, in a neighborhood not far from mine, a garbage man found a puppy stuffed into a bag in a dumpster. He was with a littermate who'd been violently, horribly abused and killed.

The pup who survived was in desperate need of care. He was starving, with every rib and his spinal cord and hip bones jutting out of thinning fur (malnutrition causes fur loss, and this fellow was just about bald). He could barely walk; the little mobility he did have was hindered by a severe limp that migrated from leg to leg (the limp was linked to the malnutrition). The white of one of his eyes was bright red (blood) from being kicked or stomped.

It's a miracle he survived.

I heard about this puppy from a friend whose job involves rescuing animals and placing them in loving environments. She shared his photo and story on facebook; it moved me to act.

Well, that's not exactly true. First it moved me to anger. What is wrong with people? Who could do something so horrific? How could anyone harm a puppy? A PUPPY?

I tried to imagine harming the perpetrator. Inflicting physical pain of the "I'd-like-to-meet-that-punk-in-a-back-alley" variety, but that's just not me. I don't believe in violence, and I certainly don't believe in violence as teacher or rehabilitation.

Still, though, something had to be done. I looked at the photo, at the puppy's bald head and slight, starved body and thought, "I can help.”

We do what we can.

I can't donate enough money to save all the animals in the world, and I can't sift through forensic evidence to help figure out who hurt these particular dogs, but I can love like crazy and I can cuddle like a champion, and thought that would do for a while.

So home came the Tiny One -- all 5 pounds of him. He was so exhausted from the effort of surviving that for the first 3 days he just slept and slept and slept. There is a soft, low chair beside our woodstove, and the little guy moved right into it, snoozing hard and snuffling in his dreams. I couldn't help but wonder if he was having nightmares of his abuse, so I spent most of those first days stroking his thin fur, whispering to his slumbering body that he was safe now, that no one would ever harm him again, that he could rest here.

He woke for a few minutes at a time, just long enough for short cuddle sessions and to lap up some chicken broth. He also made best friends with Heating Pad, who became his constant napping companion. I periodically stuck a finger between the two, just to make sure we weren't baking the pup.

It's been three weeks since we brought the baby home.

He’s doubled in size.

No more skeletal body, more closely resembling Gollum than a puppy, the little guy has grown healthy, strong, curious, persistent, and playful. His fur is growing back soft and shiny, his limp is gone, and his eyes are clear and bright.

Sometimes, I’m so amazed by his transition that I whisper to Brad, “We did that.”

We do what we can.

Our dear friend Kolin has helped by shooting photos and videos of the puppy. This footage will help share his story, and find the best home possible for this sweet little fellow.

Here’s the first vid, taken when the little guy was still in recovery mode:

And here’s the most recent footage, from April 3:

The Lesson of McCarthy's Bar

2011-03-09T14:28:00.000-08:00

McCarthy's Bar, one of my favorite books, is part travelogue and part journey of self-discovery.

Written by British television presenter Pete McCarthy, it chronicles the author's trip through Ireland en route to a Christian pilgrimage in Lough Derg, once thought to be the end of the world.

This book has enjoyed pride of place on my nightstand for nearly two years. Even before I cracked its spine, I knew I'd love it, so I preserved it, saving it for lean reading times--rare days when I had no interlopers from the library or fresh New Yorkers to keep me busy. In this way, McCarthy's Bar became a companion, a story I could count on returning to over and over.

Last night I began reading the last chapter, and in panic over finishing the book, I sought out more works by the author; his lyrical descriptions of Ireland have become my lullaby and I'm not ready to change the tune.

It was a blow, then, to learn that the author passed away in 2004. He wrote one other book, a sort of follow up to McCarthy's Bar, but succumbed to cancer shortly after that.

I know it's odd to so acutely feel the death someone I never met, but after taking such a long literary journey with the author, I can't help but mourn. His book is transitional, and as his love for a mythical Ireland grows into a real sense of belonging, the reader experiences that connection alongside him. After such a shift, I couldn't help but feel suspended -- what happens next? Sadly, there is no next.

This reminded me of one day shortly after Brad's motorcycle accident. He was still in the hospital, broken and in tremendous pain, his head injury causing him confusion and agitation in turns. His mother came to visit and encouraged me to leave for a while. She was trying to be nice, to give me an opportunity to take the dogs for a walk, take a shower and change into clean clothes. I thought I'd appreciate a break from my vigil, but 20 steps outside the hospital doors, I felt an urgent, desperate need to run back in and reclaim my post in the uncomfortable chair beside Brad's bed. Even though we're used to being apart, it felt all wrong to be away from him just then.

Somewhere in our few years together, his well-being had become so important to me that I couldn't separate his pain from my own feelings; such entanglement was strange, but not totally surprising.

In college I led trips for the outdoor rec program. For each group I took climbing, backpacking, or winter camping, I honed in on the weakest person--the one who didn't really want to be there--and tried to tailor the trip to his or her skill level. It was the wrong way to lead, and I consistently got that feedback from my co-instructors. "You need to consider the forest, not the trees."

It was good advice, considering that I've always connected too quickly, sought to relate when there may have been nothing to bond over. Maybe that explains why, in athletics, I prefer to be the fastest in the group, rather than the slowest. I'd rather help than be helped. Or maybe that's just the easy way out; maybe I'd rather coast than keep up.

Meanwhile, while I've been reading (and thinking about writing, and talking about writing, and threatening to write), a new troupe of poets have charged in and written, receiving grants, winning awards, and getting published in the process.

I now have a whole new collection of poems to pin to my inspiration board, a bunch of new names to move in beside the yellowing work of Doty and Collins and Simic and Yeats.

There's nothing to do but the work. No shortcut or easy way out. So the longer we put the work off, wait for the muse or just wait until we have more time, the more likely it is that the work just won't get done.

Pete McCarthy had plans. He mentioned them more than once McCarthy's Bar. In one passage, he decided to stop reading a book with just a few pages left, choosing to save the ending for later, when he thought he'd be bored and need the distraction. Later, though, there was no power, and he lay in the dark thinking about the unread pages and how we can't know the future.

45 Words for Grace

2011-01-25T09:57:00.000-08:00

I found it in my thirties,
Bridging acceptance and joy,
In the quiet place some call balance.
It came when I discovered

The beauty in longing,
And in a moment of stillness--
my pack asleep around me--
It crept in and love came crashing through.

Certain Things

2011-01-19T08:41:00.000-08:00

We heat our home with wood, so wintertime sees us spending most of our house-hours in the room with the wood stove.

A squat, broad thing with a glass front door, it looks like a little fire-bellied Buddha, spreading enlightenment in the form of warmth.

And we flock to it--after skiing or shoveling the driveway, after work, after showers when we're dripping and wrapped in towels and hopping from foot to foot. We soak in the heat and the light of it, warming our skin and our blood and our bones, and slowly, eventually, feeling human again.

There are certain things that always make me happy, that make me smile from the inside out; sitting by a fire in our stove is one such thing.

We all have them--these little sources of unconditional joy--but they're so different from one person to the next..my own husband would surely die of boredom in my own perfectly constructed Happyland. Although, I suppose he'd like the puppies.

Sitting here with a sleepy dog at my feet, the fire-bellied Buddha warm, the storm gathering and growing outside (the newspaper actually warned against "Thundersnow"), I'm grateful for everything around me, and:

String Lights

Vanilla Frosting

Scotland

Velvet

Fabric Bunting and Garlands

In the Name of Authenticity

2011-01-08T16:59:00.000-08:00

All day, I've been thinking about authenticity. Rather than fitting into a role, I've been trying to let my freak flag fly lately -- loving what I love out loud and without apology, finding comfort in my own skin.

Then me friend sent me a link to a TED Talk -- the author of one of my favorite blogs, 1000 Awesome Things, telling his story and sharing the three As of Awesome: Attitude, Awareness, and Authenticity.

We all haves truths we seldom share--they're embarrassing, they don't fit the role were working so hard to manifest. Sometimes it gets exhausting, though, trying to live up to a hologram. Sometimes it's better to be authentic, even if it means that everyone will know #28.

1. I don't like sushi.
2. I love Myley Cyrus's "Party in the USA."
3. I prefer resort skiing to backcountry skiing.
4. I love my dogs more than I love most people.
5. Certain poems always make me happy.
6. Others always break my heart.
7. I love watching sports.
8. I also love playing sports.
9. I hate how sweaty I get when I work out.
10. I'm proud to be from Pittsburgh.
11. I prefer being at home to going out.
12. If I never go back to Yosemite, that's ok.
13. Most of the time I want to be at home in Pennsylvania.
14. Taking care of Arnie taught me how to take care of myself.
15. Passing the Therapy Dog test with Arnie was the proudest I've ever been.
16. I know I don't use my full potential most of the time.
17. I work every day to change that.
18. I prefer beer to wine.
19. I've wanted to lose weight for as long as I can remember.
20. I sometimes wonder if I should have gone to New York instead of Colorado.
21. I always crack up at silly physical comedy.
22. I can watch the same funny SNL skits 200 times and still laugh.
23. I can not bear to see people or animals in pain.
24. I don't understand the allure of watching violence in films.
25. I have no time for people who willingly bear witness to violence.
26. I'll never forgive Michael Vick
27. I don't think he deserved a second chance.
28. I'd far rather meet Andy Samberg than Barack Obama.
29. I know that last one makes me sound like a tool, but it's true.
30. I worry about my family.
31. I hate living so far away from them.
32. Sometimes I resent my husband's attachment to this area.
33. But I totally understand it.
34. I wish we had cable so I could watch football and hockey.
35. I fear that television would highlight the major differences b/w B and me.
35. I sometimes worry that our passions are too different.
36. But then I question what my passions really are, and can't always answer.
37. Someday, I want to be in charge of something.
38. The Park City scene annoys me.
39. But its mountain biking is still my favorite in the world.
40. Little makes me as giddy and happy as mountain biking.
41. First-cup-of-coffee is my favorite time of the day.
42. Arnie makes me feel happy all the time, without fail.
43. I sometimes worry that I won't be able to deal with his death.
44. I'm mortified to remember certain parts of my life.
45. I'm super proud of others.
46. I know I'm too selfish.
47. That'll do for now.

The End and the Beginning

2010-12-31T16:55:00.001-08:00

The call came and commenced an almost total overhaul. With so much happening at the end of 2010, it's easy to chalk the whole year up to something turbulent and tumultuous--not always bad, but unpredictable in the best of times.

That's not the case, though.

While the Year of the Tiger certainly brought trauma and drama in the form of a broken husband and his long recovery, it also brought a deeper calm to our pack--new roles to fill. I'm pleased to say we rose to each occasion; we thrived.

The year began with uncertainty and the feeling of treading water--reacting to life, not making things happen.

But then Brad got hurt, and suddenly life seemed too fragile to take for granted. I launched a concerted effort to fill my life with challenges and joy; after a few false starts, I'm proud to report that I ended the year with a compelling job, a strong body, a happy family, a healthy bank account, a solid partnership, and a balanced life.

It was no small effort, and there's no room for coasting as we slide into 2011. Still, though, maintaining isn't quite enough, so I've established a few goals for the coming 365:

Accompany Arnie on 22 therapy animal visits
Run two footraces
Save a big chunk of money
Travel to a new place with Brad
Take a trip with my family
Submit three pieces of writing for publication

It doesn't sound like much, but I'm trying to remember that what seems inevitable can become impossible as life delivers unexpected changes; and just as I hope to embrace those blows, I also hope to continue making things happen, taking ownership, and staying my course.

Stay tuned.

Tolle, Lege*

2010-11-03T18:04:00.000-07:00

What's hard is that the world doesn't stop while you mourn a lost opportunity. Or wait for the phone to ring while you hold out hope.

But then you realize that it's not so bad, because you remember Auden's Funeral Blues:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Because that, obviously, was a darker day. And like Auden, you, too, will face worse. And when you do, you hope to remember the words of that spitfire in sensible shoes, Eleanor Roosevelt: We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face... we must do that which we think we cannot.

We must do that which we think we cannot.

Until then, though, you will retreat to your favorite place in the world--your bed, with your husband and dogs cuddled in close, a stack of novels on your nightstand and the light soft.

*Take up and read.

You Must Be at Least This Tall to Ride the Emotional Roller Coaster

2010-10-24T15:23:00.000-07:00

Nanci Griffith sings a wonderful cover of Richard and Linda Thompson's "Wall of Death."

On the wall of death
All the world is far from me
On the wall of death
It's the nearest to being free
Let me ride on the wall of death one more time
You can waste your time on the other rides
But this is the nearest to being alive

I envy the even-keeled. I'd like to be able to weather bad news calmly--to hear it, accept it, and then get on with the business of the day. I'd have liked to do just that today, when Arnie and I failed our Therapy Dog evaluation. Don't misunderstand--Arnie performed beautifully for most of the test. The only hard part--the reason we failed--was when we had to approach and pass another dog WITHOUT REACTING.

Right.

Here's the thing: Arnie loves other dogs. LOVES THEM. All his life, other dogs have been his buddies, his playmates, his friends, his humpers, his humpees. My boy is a well-behaved beast until he spies another pup; then he completely loses his furry mind.

So, when we approached the other dog (who was completely disinterested in Arnie and me), Arnie ignored my "sit" and my "stay" and my "no," and told me in no uncertain terms (by sta-rain-ing on the end of his leash) that he wanted to say hello to the other animal.

So that was that. And I was sad. I opted to complete the test, even though I knew we wouldn't pass (neutrally meeting another dog is imperative to pass the therapy doggie test). Throughout the remaining steps (which Arnie performed effortlessly), I fought tears and worked hard to ensure that Arnie couldn't sense my sadness--he was having fun and I didn't want to stop his happy tail.

Later--after a good cry and a long talk with Arnie about how this isn't his fault, it's my fault, and I love him whether he ever becomes a therapy puppy or not--my phone rang.

It was the executive director of the therapy animal organization, calling to tell me that the other volunteers in the test room thought the evaluator was overly harsh with Arnie and me. They thought we handled the test well, and that Arnie would make a wonderful therapy animal.

Hmm.

Then she offered Arnie and I a free re-test next month.

Well.

So we have some work to do, my puppy and me. We have to visit many dog parks and crowded places, and we have to behave, even in the face of such distractions as baby Heelers (good for rolling), bigdumbLabs (good for humping), Jack Russels (good for chasing), and--the hardest test of all--other Golden Retrievers.

So, ok. It was a rough afternoon. But then it was a better afternoon. And now, Arnie and I are cuddled up against the rapidly cooling weather (just how we like it), grateful for another chance, and exhausted from the Wall of Death.

We've gone monthly

2010-10-22T11:16:00.000-07:00

It's a tough time over here. I'm struggling with motivation, with ideas. Sorry for the lack of posts--consider The Wasatch Report a monthly publication for now.

As I indicated in my last post, fall in Northern Utah offers little for wannabe hermits who long to shutter against the cold, tend the fire, work wool into scarves and hats, and turn inward. This year has been so warm that even the snakes haven't gone underground yet, which means that I am a frightful hiker, jumpy, shrieking at unsuspecting sticks and field mice.

Naturally, though, I'm choosing to blame the weather for a bigger issue--that of feeling purposeless. When I talk about this out loud, people tell me to get over it, that lots of others feel this way but simply press on, opting for fortitude over crumbling into a heap of emotions.

It's not all bad. It's not bad at all, actually. Even as I stare out the window and wonder how to get my psyche back, I don't lose sight of my good fortune and all the gifts in my life.

1. Brad's hind paw recovery is nearly complete, and he's stronger than ever.
2. My whole family is healthy and happy.
3. I just ran my 6th half-marathon.
4. Brad and I had a fun mountain biking season together.
5. I am taking and loving guitar lessons.
6. I've made a few new friends lately--fun, active, fit women.
7. I'm writing yoga articles for examiner.com (the page isn't up yet)--thanks to Alex for that great idea.
8. We're spending Thanksgiving with friends in Boulder.
9. I have a job that lets me write and occasionally work from home.
10. Arnie takes his therapy dog test this Sunday (all paws crossed).

Life is good.

Close Your Eyes and Think of Scotland

2010-09-21T16:00:00.000-07:00

Since June, I've been urging fall along, willing it to arrive.

Wind events. Rain. Complex skies. Cool temperatures. Early nights.

We're robbed of true autumn in Utah. What we get is beautiful--the maples and oaks deepen the aspen gold into an ombre of foliage that smacks of the East Coast--but it's too still, too hot. The skies are glass-eye blue--there's no strife in it.

I want whipping wind and sideways rain. Mad dashes from the driveway to the house. Muddy-pawed puppies making for vacuuming marathons.

When I close my eyes, I see a wild shoreline--Lewis or the Hebridies. I feel rain on my face, strong wind at my back. I smell wet wool. There's salt in the air, and the pungent smoke of peat fires.

But what I'm longing for isn't the discomfort. I'm too soft for that. What I want is the shelter that comes after the suffering--the comfort of feeling warm after being cold, of drying off after getting soaked though with rain.

That's what I'm looking forward to.

I could promise to write more often...

2010-08-31T12:20:00.000-07:00

...or practice my guitar everyday, or
bang on my djembe until the neighbors call the cops, or
finally make those thousand origami cranes I've been thinking about, or
really, like, really learn to knit, or
finish that kaleidoscope string quilt, or
better tend to my correspondence, or
whip up the Little Squares Scarf, or
stitch together the Schoolhouse Tunic.

But for now, I'm content to dwell in the physical world: running, biking, climbing, hiking, practicing yoga, jumping into cold lakes with the dogs, darting around empty schoolyards catching frisbees.

It's finally starting to feel like fall around here, and soon enough it'll be time to sit by the woodstove and work on subversive cross stitch projects.

But I'm avoiding a big work-related question right now, so it's easier to be outside, to sweat, to breathe hard, to get worked, and to be too tired at the end of the day to give it any thought. Too much time in my head is best avoided when important decisions are afoot.

So I'm sorry to have been such a lousy blogger lately. I'm just having trouble sitting still and facing my thoughts head on. Better to let them sneak up on me in the middle of a run, or halfway up a climb. Even though I still have to deal with them, I feel better equipped when I'm not meeting them at a desk.

I'll write more often as the weather cools and I turn more inward. I always do.

The Company of Animals

2010-07-21T11:44:00.000-07:00

Today I stopped at 7-11 for petrol for the car and fuel for me. While the car was filling up, I went inside for a bag of Smartfood popcorn and some chocolate milk (my favorite "fast food" lunch). The man behind the counter was large, jovial, and wearing a hairnet over his bald head.

"3.51," he said, smiling broadly.

I handed him four ones, and as he took them, he reached into the penny dish (this one, like many in convenience stores, sponsored by Newport Cigarettes) and said, "Out of 4.01."

"Thank you," I said. "That's very kind."

"Thoughtful," he countered politely. "If I were kind, I'd reach into my own pocket."

Indeed, I thought. There's a difference.

The words we choose matter, but are they as powerful as our actions? Arnie can't actually talk, but I always know what he's thinking, what he needs. Meanwhile, some of the most loquacious people I know say nothing, just fill space with sounds and noises.

Brad and I just celebrated our wedding anniversary by climbing the South Ridge of Mount Superior, an exposed line that overlooks the spot where we got married 4 years ago.

The doing took considerable effort on my part, being a little out of shape and a lot more cautious that I used to be. I'm no fan of exposure, and even though the climbing is easy, it takes time to do it carefully, what with the many loose rocks disguising themselves as hand or foot holds.

I was a little gripped and grumpy when we started, foreseeing all the things that could go wrong. Ever the champion of the positive, Brad usually responds to my fatalistic mutterings by pointing out that I'm being illogical, that my concerns are unfounded. It's a natural response for him; he's a practical man. It's not always a helpful response for me, though, being a mostly impractical woman.

Brad struck supportive-husband gold that night, though. While shuffling across a skinny ledge, he found a clump of goat fur and promptly placed it on his head. As I edged across to his stance, I was freaked out and about to complain, but when I looked up and saw Goatman, all I could do was laugh and laugh and laugh.

"Baaaaa." He commented.

And in the company of animals, that's all that needs to be said.

Coming Down

2010-07-13T19:12:00.000-07:00

Today was a yoga day--morning practice followed by discussion and study until mid-afternoon.

It was an excellent class, hard and sweaty--it's July in Utah after all--and the brainwork was engaging, funny, enjoyable.

Still, though, I feel restless now, agitated.

I had a fine day--after yoga school I took the dogs to the lake for an hour--they swam and fetched, I waded and threw. We were the only ones there (that never happens); I felt blessed--actually blessed--to have the clean, cold water to ourselves.

But there it is, the feeling that I've left something unfinished...

But maybe that's just bad programming....We're taught to work hard, taught that work is hard. We're told to put our heads down and plow forward, to not question what we're trading for a paycheck (time, health, youth, glow, passion, humor, love, spirit).

So I guess I feel guilty about not hating my work--guilty that I don't resent how I'm spending my time.

It's absurd. There is absolutely nothing wrong (again, I am so blessed), so I'm concocting an issue to fill the void.

It reminds me of one of my favorite poems, by William Napier:
Cosmologies

The last log on the fire
Sends a momentary galaxy
Spiraling into the night.
Of course! Before all where or when,
Hunkered around that singularity,
(nothing but eternity's harmonica)
You had to stir the coals.
Light, delight...at least relief.
If we meet at all it's in these stars,
My awe and ignorance beneath a desert sky,
Your omniscience precluding mystery.
Let us talk of need, of who and what
We've made to fill the void.

Ok, enough.

As I've been typing and thinking, I've been listening to this mantra/song, which has helped me feel more relaxed.

I have to take a step away from all this and realize something: I took a risk in doing all this. I offered a scenario to the universe, and the universe said, "Ok, give it a try." So just as we have to let go when our offerings are turned away or rejected, so do we have to let go when they are accepted.

Attachment on either side of an experience is still attachment...let it go.

The progression of things.

2010-07-01T14:00:00.000-07:00

Friday:
Red Dog wakes me up by biting my hair.

Coffee.

Feed the dogs, give Red his pills.

Run long at Round Valley with the dogs.

Take cookies to a friend who bettered my bike brakes.

Write.

Eat scrambled eggs with cheddar for lunch, consider swearing off wheat.

Write, but mostly surf the Internet.

Eat toast. Think again about cutting wheat from diet.

Study yoga books, think about who I'd like to mentor with for credit.

Head to yoga class; Kim is teaching.

Think about Kim's discussion of Ishvarapranidhana, the 5th niyama, that of surrender, of accepting what comes.

Wonder how to reconcile Ishvarapranidhana with one's athletic goals.

Saturday:
Red Dog wakes me up by biting my hair.

Coffee.

Feed the dogs, give Red his pills.

Road run while listening to Sean Kingston on Pandora...my favorite new running station.

Take the dogs to the park for a romp.

Eat yogurt and fruit while thinking again about giving up wheat.

Audit an Intro to Yoga class.

Manicure (I love this $15 indulgence) in Ballet Shoes pink.

Read some yoga texts.

Take the dogs to the lake for an evening swim.

Avoid meth addicts with scary looking dogs.

Eat Chinese food while lessening the leaning tower of unread magazines.

Watch Cashback (awesome) while researching single track for tomorrow's ride.

Feel happy about biking again.

A Kick in the Asana

2010-06-23T18:08:00.000-07:00

Groove Pants and a passable adho mukha svanasana (downward-facing dog) do not a yogini make. Well, not necessarily.

Here in the wild West, we often think of yoga as a series of asanas (poses) with a few minutes of pranayama breathing tacked on at the beginning and end of class.

But according to Patanjali, asanas are of tertiary importance. His Yoga Sutras suggest that yamas (five abstentions) and niyamas (five restraints) are the first two steps toward yoga. The five yamas are ahimsa, satya, asteya, brahmacharya, and aparigraha. The five niyamas are shaucha, santosha, tapas, svadhyaya, and Ishvarapranidhana.

At this early point in my yogic education, I've only studied the first two yamas: ahimsa (non-violence) and satya (truthfulness). They're so big, though, with such reach, that as soon as I started looking at them and thinking about how they related to me, I became so overwhelmed that my body shut down.

It was Tuesday, and I was in the studio with my fellow teachers-in-training. We were talking about ahimsa as it related to us, and I realized how infrequently I practice non-violence to myself. Most of the time, I dislike my body, am disappointed in my performance, frustrated at my skill level, and am ashamed of myself as a result.

So while I'm not especially violent toward others or with my speech (not that I'm perfect on those counts either), I doubt Patanjali would pass me on an "Are You Ready To Yoga?" test. So as we moved on to satya, I was faced with a bit more truth than I could handle.

Rather than sit with it, though, be with it and face it, my body decided to protect me from too much truth at once, and at that point, right there in the studio surrounded by people, my neck spasmed, and I spent the rest of that day and the following 36 hours in a cycle of pain, spasm, nausea, vomiting, and unconsciousness.

The logical part of me (it's small but it is there) tells me that the injury (two facets between c4 and c5 were stuck closed) and resultant spasm came from too much sitting on the floor of the studio or at my computer with my head in a compromised position. But the rest of me (flighty, intuitive, feeling-rather-than-logic-based) believes that my injury came when I needed a break. I'd seen or heard too much, just couldn't take in any more, and my body closed itself off for a couple days to regroup and recover.

Our bodies know so much, and still we ignore and discredit them.

I don't have any conclusions or final points to tie this post up neatly. The past week has been incredibly educational and humbling, and even though I'd love to wrap it up and move on, I have a feeling this theme will continue for posts to come.

They Said it Best

2010-06-16T18:36:00.000-07:00

So far, the emergent theme of yoga school is this: you're perfect.

The training is an integrated approach to Hatha yoga (physical practice, asanas), comprising elements of Ashtanga, Anusara, Bikram, Kundalini, etc. It's broad, it's open, it's inclusive, it's accepting.

That's not to say it's a free-for-all where anything goes. For example, there are safe ways and horrifying ways to move into upward facing dog (urdhva mukha svanasana), and if you take a horrifying option (crane your neck up to the ceiling, sinking into your shoulders and compressing your lower spine), you'll probably get hurt.

But to offer alternatives without authenticity is pointless...it will get everyone nowhere. It's important, I think, to illustrate, teach, and speak with equal parts compassion and knowledge--to recognize why people might be wrenching down into a heart-opener rather than letting their solar plexus move forward--maybe there's darkness there, maybe they're not ready to deal with what they've been hiding in that space. Lots of poses--even breathing exercises--take courage. You can't force courage--it has to be nurtured.

But this isn't news.

Plenty of wiser people than I have been talking about this stuff for years. Here are two exmples:

An organic structure is aligned with who we are and what we have to say. It is not disconnected from ourselves. If a form isn't organic, I think a great struggle ensues--the writer tries to stuff her being into a costume that doesn't fit.
--Natalie Goldberg

Men ask the way to Cold Mountain
Cold Mountain: there's no through trail.
In summer, ice doesn't melt
The rising sun blurs in swirling fog.
How did I make it?
My heart's not the same as yours.
If your heart was like mine,
You'd get it and be right here.
--Gary Snyder

Just When You Thought This Blog Couldn't Get Any More Selfish...

2010-06-15T19:23:00.000-07:00

My Mom decided that because it's been over a month since my last post, I can no longer claim this as a blog; The Wasatch Report has been demoted to a BLAH.

Here's where I've been:

Brad's injury shook something loose in me, and after ensuring his well-being (he's making a fantastic recovery), I checked in with my own, and found it lacking. So, I quit my job and signed up for a yoga teacher training certification.

I'm serious.

And I'm thrilled.

I also returned to PR, which I'm just loving. I'm working part-time for a boutique agency and really digging it.

And I started playing djembe again, taking lessons and accompanying a weekly African dance class.

All this good stuff in my life--good people, activities that make me smile, a supportive husband who doesn't bat an eye when I tell him I'm quitting my job to become a yoga teacher.

I'm so fortunate.

So that's where I've been, and that's why it's been kind of hard to sit down and write. There's just so much excitement and change--I'm still figuring out how to make sense of it all, still realizing that it's all happening....

As I sit in these teacher training classes, though, my mind whirls with quotes and observations I want to share. And I will, because, you see, I have to. I need to keep a journal throughout this certification process, and I hope you'll forgive me if this BLAH becomes that journal--a place for me to jot my feelings about what I'm learning, what I hear, what resonates, what I hope to avoid in my own teaching.

I mean, I say I hope you'll forgive me, but I know I've likely lost all readers by now. Except one (hi, Mom).

And obviously I can't share anything proprietary to the course work or studio.

And, of course, I'll still post photos of Arnie as needed.

Here's what I loved best about today's class:
We spent some time talking about how it's not the yoga teacher's job to impart some huge philosophical or spiritual ideology to students. The yoga teacher is simply there to remind students to breathe, to be present in their bodies, to breathe, to be present in their bodies....

And as I thought about that, I realized that the most transformational classes I've ever taken have been less "airy fairy" and more "stay in your body, stay on your mat." In fact, for the past few months, I've been setting an intention before every class to simply stay on my mat. Stay on the mat. Don't let the mind stray, don't let the eyes wander to the girl in the cool yoga top who's purse costs more than your car--nothing, nothing, nothing good can come of that. So I've been challenging myself to STAY ON THE MAT. And it's been awesome.

The other concept I've been into lately (in my yoga practice and off the mat, too) is the idea that wherever I am is ok. Whether I bend so far forward that my palms are flat to the floor, or just lean over enough to graze my kneecaps with my fingertips, I'm in a perfect pose. There is no right, no wrong, no better or worse. It's all yoga, and it's all ok, all perfect. The element that interests me there is that the concept of "perfect" is fluid, because as my postures change and develop and my "edge" deepens or backs off from day to day, my "perfect" pose changes, too.

Fluidity. Acceptance.

Those are the words for the day.

Oy to the Vey

2010-04-30T13:29:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we accidentally prepare ourselves for what’s to come. Whether by chance or intuition, we provide ourselves with and squirrel away the tools we’ll need to handle what the universe is about to rain down.

Remember all that talk about gratitude? My resolution to make thankfulness a part of every single day? About three weeks ago, my resolve was tested when Brad was involved in a motorcycle accident.

He crashed during a desert race, breaking his femur in five places and sustaining a serious concussion (not to be confused with a silly concussion).

Like any marriage, mine has high and low points. What is harmonious one moment can be a battle the next. But when I heard, shortly after the start of the race, that Brad had fallen and was injured, there was suddenly nothing in the world but him, nothing as imperative as his being ok.

As I ran to find him, I switched to autopilot, dodging kids and dogs and motorcycles without seeing them. As Brad came into focus, I felt like I was watching a film.

He was in a C-collar, his face caked with blood and dirt, grimacing from pain. It was gruesome and frightening, unfamiliar. Some skilled medics, who were racing alongside Brad, saw his wreck and acted quickly, pulling his leg into traction, loading him onto a spectator’s 4-wheeler, and getting him to a waiting ambulance. The transition from 4-wheeler to backboard and then ambulance was jerky and excruciating, and throughout the ordeal, Brad slipped in and out of consciousness.

Later, after a 40-mile ambulance ride over bumpy, curvy roads, I held Brad’s hand as an ER doc in a small-town hospital quietly told us about the femur breaks, the concussion. He was so calm it barely felt strange to hear him say that a helicopter was on its way, and that Brad needed to get into surgery within the next couple hours.

Delirious from stress, pain, and trauma, his voice hoarse with the effort of speaking, Brad then told me that his femur was broken, he had a concussion, and that he had to take a helicopter to another hospital, where he’d have surgery.

“Ok, honey,” I responded. “Thanks for keeping me updated.”

After the heli-crew loaded Brad onto the ship (see? I’m savvy with the vernacular), I jumped into the car and high-tailed it North, toward the fancy new hospital where a surgeon was awaiting Brad’s arrival. The 75-minute drive was both painfully slow and over in a heartbeat, as I alternated between wanting the whole ordeal to be behind us and dreading what was to come.

Along the way, friends and family called, having heard the news of Brad’s accident via the mysterious viral network through which bad news spreads. About 10 miles from the hospital, I got word that Brad was heading into surgery within the next 20 minutes. I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to see him before surgery, to make sure he wasn’t too scared, to tell him—and reassure myself—that everything would be ok.

I dashed into the ER just as the surgeon finished explaining the procedure to an out-of-it (but trying hard to pay attention) Brad. Before they took him to surgery, I had about five minutes to hold Brad’s hand while he told me that he felt like he was in good hands because his surgeon was a rock climber (she says wryly).

In the three weeks since that day, Brad experienced debilitating nausea, anxiety, and pain. There was sleeplessness, fear, confusion, frustration. The head injury remained mysterious and scary, and I was humbled and thankful for every calm, coherent moment Brad had.

As the effects of the concussion waned, though, things began to improve. One day, Brad woke up feeling good. His leg still ached, but his head was clear for the first time since the accident. We began to talk about how the accident exposed what we’d been taking for granted—our healthy bodies, our support of each other, our freedom to play and go and have fun whenever we wanted.

I looked at him that day and for a moment couldn’t speak or move—I never wanted to lose him. I never wanted him to feel pain or sadness.

This morning I learned that a woman in the Crossfit community died. Melanoma. I didn’t know her, but less than a year ago Brad and I watched her compete in the Crossfit games (her outrageous tattoos and rock star style made her Brad’s favorite contender). From dead-lifting over 300 pounds to dead in a year—life is so fragile.

We learn from crises. We transform pain and fear into strength and understanding. We move on with richer, deeper perspectives. Three weeks after Brad’s wreck, I’m learning to let gratitude guide me, enlighten me, choose my words when I’m too shocked or weary to come up with my own.

With this new teacher comes new lessons, new plans. I’ll tell you about them soon. In the meantime, thank you for reading. I’m grateful for you.

The Punchy Hour, brought to you by Lord Tweedmouth

2010-04-08T12:57:00.000-07:00

I've written about Lord Tweedmouth before. The father of the Golden Retriever, he's the fellow to thank for the floppy-haired, big-pawed, snuggly, wiggly, loving, compassionate, goofy beast in your life.

Thanks, LT.

Every now and again, especially during the punchy hour*, I type Golden Retriever into Google, just to see if there'sanything new (i.e. cute) online.

There always is.

Today's video features such highlights as golden puppies rolling in the dirt (no surprise there), bagpipe music (they're Scottish, after all), gratuitous smiling, nonstop wagging, more puppies rolling in the dirt, a bit of synchronized swimming, and the narrator referring to a recognized Scottish Lord as "The Tweedster." Obviously.

*The Punchy Hour was coined by PN of BBM and refers to the time of day when all hell broke loose in the office. It usually involved MD and I laughing so hysterically that one or both of us would fall out of our chairs. Often PN would join in, but not before shaking his head and trying reeeeeallly hard to admonish us. The punchy hour was directly related to low blood sugar, over-caffeination, puppies (usually Arnie) misbehaving in the office, ill-advised first dates, fashion don'ts, and the retelling (and reenacting) of events that took place under the effects of much, much alcohol. It's a wonderful, silly time of day, and it's just not the same without MD and an espresso machine.

Goodness

2010-03-26T14:50:00.000-07:00

I’ve been so grateful, these past few days, for the funny people in my life.

From out-of-nowhere comments on Facebook to houseguests and old friends telling stories that have me doubled over, laughing so hard I can barely breathe, the past few days have been filled with mirth and joy.

Everything feels a little lighter, a little more relaxed. I’ve been motivated to make plans, to commit.

I just had a wonderful conversation with two friends for whom I have bucketsful of respect. We were talking about the pursuit of happiness, about how it’s so easy to say, “I’d be happier if I was doing this,” or “I’d be happier if that would happen,” but not only is that unproductive, it’s also erroneous, because you are what you are no matter where you are or what you’re doing. Your matter and being remain the same…for example, even if someone called me tomorrow and said, “Katie, I’ll pay you a billion dollars just to write a self-indulgent blog and slap together crooked a-line skirts out of cute fabric for the rest of your life,” I’d eventually return to being slightly discontent, a little bit uneasy, and curious about what else is out there.

After years of travelling to new places and trying new things to quell those feelings, I know they’re not going to go away.

There is no one thing I need to find; there is no single purpose. There is only finding peace in what’s happening now, being as content as possible with the given situation, with my own skin. Accepting what is and finding joy there instead of waiting for it, looking for it, expecting it to come to me.

Today is Jonny Copp’s birthday—Jonny who died in June. He’d have been 36, and even though I only saw him about once a year for the last 5 or so, each reunion was supercharged, those crazy eyes and medicinal energy overtaking any sadness or restraint in the room.

The people in my life—now and in the past—don’t wait for inspiration to push them out of bed. They find it themselves, on sandstone towers and granite ledges and snowy ridges leading to north-facing powder shots. And the whole time they’re laughing, enjoying the company and movement and laying down the plot of stories that will be retold—bigger and bigger—for years to come.

I'm grateful to bask in their energy, and, sometimes, to share it.

Born of Demeter, a post of renewal

2010-03-22T13:41:00.000-07:00

I’ve heard that if you do something 21 times, it becomes a habit. Or maybe 17. Or 35. Whatever.

The point is that doing something over and over makes it part of the day’s unconscious choreography, something as easy and mindless as breathing.

For me, these steps include my morning migration to the coffee maker, driving to and from work, and a daily episode of self-loathing.

Well.

No wonder I’ve felt so miserable for so long. I’ve made feeling horrible a part of every day—an act as routine as taking my anti-depressant, feeding my dogs, and telling Brad, “sweet dreams” before bed.

This weekend, I spent time with three of the most positive women I’ve ever met. Despite dealing with challenges unlike anything I’ve ever known—unfathomably tough stuff that wouldn’t be out of place in Lifetime Television for Women movies or Oprah’s favorite novels—these women remained upbeat, encouraging, and supportive.

24 hours later, back at home and thinking about the weekend, I’ve realized that I can’t continue to dwell here, in this negative place. My outlook must change.

I’ve been focusing so hard on micro-problems—small areas of my life that aren’t perfect—I’ve been blind to the many blessings in my life.

I’m so lucky; I know that. But I think it’s going to take more than just knowing to make gratitude a daily part of my life. To make it routine enough to replace the daily tirade of negative comments I direct at myself. I think it’s going to take repetition. Conscious awareness. Saying it out loud. Writing it down.

The little things—my bad haircut, the dry patch of skin on my chin, my lack of skill at any number of sports—absolutely don’t matter when compared to Brad’s well-being, my family’s good health, my dogs being able to run pain-free, living in a comfortable home.

I can stand and walk and run and jump. I have a functioning mind. I can drive myself to work. I have a job. I have reliable transportation. I get to take classes and pursue hobbies and plan vacations. I am lucky, I am fortunate, I am blessed.

So, because even though half of Persephone’s routine was dwelling in the underworld for six months every year, the other half saw her returning to the Earth to deliver growth and blossoms and promise and hope.

Now that she’s back—having brought with her the baby chickadees at the feeder outside my kitchen window—I’ll make her routine my own.

Every day, gratitude.

Every day, thankfulness.

Every day, a little bit of happiness.

Today: I am unspeakably grateful for Brad.

One thousand one…

2010-03-16T13:15:00.000-07:00

It makes me sad to hear people complain first thing in the morning.

Yesterday, at a 6 am aerobics class, I listened as the other attendees made small talk before the instructor arrived.

“I hate daylight savings time,” one woman barked.

“Why is it so cold in here?” complained another.

“I hope she does a new routine today,” grumbled a third.

As I said, it was 6:00 in the morning. How could things so bad that already, already they felt moved to gripe and whine and spread negativity?

I felt so sorry for these women. I wanted to touch their arms and tell them that everything was going to be ok. “You’re alive. You’re physically healthy enough to take an aerobics class. You’re mentally aware enough to clothe yourself, drive yourself to the gym, and make exercise a part of your day. Isn’t that enough?”

Of course, it might have been fear talking. Maybe these women felt intimidated by the class. Maybe they were nervous about looking silly or botching the dance moves—it only takes a second for a great mood to deteriorate when we’re scared.

I get edgy and curt when I’m worried about something—a big run, skiing in unfamiliar terrain, routefinding. When it’s over—when everyone’s standing at the car sweaty and safe and happy—I’m fine; the relief makes me downright giddy. But before the starting gun goes off, I’m a wreck.

I felt wonderful yesterday, though—happy and calm and able to focus on the good. Even when work felt overwhelming by 9:30 am, I was able to take deep breaths and keep things in perspective, remembering that no matter how stressful work feels, I have a wonderful family, a kind and loving husband, two dogs who delight me, and a very, very good life. I chose to remain calm and positive; I felt totally in control.

Then I got an email from a friend with some unwelcome news, and at once I felt everything spinning away from me—like I was physically losing my grip.

This took less than 30 seconds.

But yesterday, for the first time I can remember, I caught myself.

I reminded myself that my response was fear-based—fear of something that hadn’t even happened yet.

It was fear masquerading as protection—fear that saw me surrounding myself with imaginary couch cushions, keeping people out.

It was a clinging fear that, after a decade and a half of shielding me from unseen amorphous dangers, had done nothing but strip me of experiences and relationships.

It was getting me nowhere; it was time to set it free and take some chances,

This took less than 30 seconds, too.

Sometimes that’s all it takes.

A Doing Post

2010-03-05T10:06:00.001-08:00

I write two types of posts: doing posts and feeling posts. Doing posts come together quickly, usually in list form. They comprise images and surface-level thoughts; they’re track listings. Feeling posts are harder to write. They contain equal parts whining, complaining, guilt, and fear; they’re the self-indulgent liner notes (“I’d like to thank God and my fans, you know who you are…”).

This is a doing post to fill you in on what’s been happening at the compound lately.

1. Brad took top 5 racing in his new motocross class. That’s a very big deal (it's a super competitive class), and despite my discomfort with the sport (too dangerous!), I’m very happy for him.

2. We found out that Red has hip dysplasia and arthritis. Even though that news was very, very sad, we were grateful to learn that we can manage his pain and keep him happy. In fact, since putting Red on a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory (Deramaxx, which doesn’t hurt his liver or tummy), he’s shifted from a forlorn, mopey, snappy dingo to the sweet, smiley, cuddly animal we remember. We also tried acupuncture to treat his pain, but despite the very skilled efforts of the kindest vet in the world, Red just didn’t enjoy being poked with needles. In fact, he was so distraught he delivered a dose of Heeler acupuncture to Brad’s face.

If you look closely, you can see where Red acupunctured Brad. He felt very guilty and didn't want to leave the safe zone between couch and wall (where no one could get at him with a needle). It's ok, Red—no more acupuncture for you.

3. Arnold officially became a Good Dog. After six years of sweet, goofy, all-id living, Arnie and I went to Basic Dog Training (he had to learn the basics if he is to become a therapy dog). It was good for both of us—he had fun and I learned all the rules I’ve been ignoring. He even graduated first in his class! (He was the only dog there.) It was wonderful to see how proud Arnie was on graduation day. We’re proud, too. Our big golden horse will make a wonderful therapy dog.

If you look closely, you'll see that the instructor crossed out "Puppy" to write "Basic." Yes, this class is usually intended for puppies--dogs who are 6-months old, not 6-years old. I don't mind, though. We're thrilled for our little Spicolli.

See the resemblance?

4. I bought this Anna Maria Horner pattern—the Empire Evening Dress.

It reminds me of Grateful Dead hippie garb, which I love, as well as my favorite dress of all time: J. Crew’s Patchwork Talitha Dress (which debuted about 5 years ago, and cost something like $500, so I never owned it, but I adored it from afar and still look for it on eBay from time to time).

5. I also bought this Anna Maria pattern, a versatile tunic that will work in lightweight and wintry fabrics.

I really like it, but I think the sewing might be a bit over my head, so I’ll work on it here this summer.

6. My first quilt is done! We've been sleeping under it (and the dogs have been sleeping on top if it) every night. I love it, and have pictures to share, but sadly, they're on my camera, and I don't have the download cable with me. They'll show up soon. Also, my second quilt is well underway.

Since I took this photo (with the Dingo for scale), I've made about 20 more blocks, so I think I'm almost ready to sew the top together. I still need to organize the blocks properly, to get the correct color array within each diamond. I also have to choose a backing fabric...I haven't seen anything in our local shops that really wows me for this. Anyone have any suggestions?

That's all for now. Good weekends, all.

A reminder

2010-02-17T18:51:00.000-08:00

Driving home from work tonight, in rush hour on I-15, I started to change lanes, moving left while talking on the phone to my mom. Halfway across, a truck that had been in my blind spot loomed suddenly beside me, god, like, inches away. I whipped the steering wheel to the right, over correcting, and felt the back of my car swing wide into the left lane. I forced the wheel back left, and felt the car swing into the right lane.

I don't know what happened after that...my car spun out of control, fully to the right so that I came to a stop facing oncoming traffic. I managed to avoid all the other cars on the road; I hit no one. I drove the rest of the way home gripping the steering wheel and feeling nauseous, but without a scratch.

Man, I'm lucky.

Ok, universe, I get it. It's time to stop complaining and start making things happen.

Now I Talk at You

2010-02-08T18:20:00.000-08:00

Let's talk about the Superbowl commercials. As an ad writer, it's my job to find the funniest/most clever spots, and then rip them off. If my work in the next year looks like any of the stuff below, don't say I didn't warn you.

1. Officially it's known as the Budweiser "Fences" spot, but I like to call it: Why I will never eat animals again. Now I want a calf. And a foal.

2. I thought the CareerBuilder ads were all spot on. With unemployment sky high and the country treading economic water, the business of finding a job is serious enough. That's why these light-hearted 30-second spots delighted me so much. Also, they used consumer-generated content (the only ads of the bowl to do so, I believe)! Here's my favorite of the three:

3. I love this spot because it cast several members of the Guest Comedy Troupe. And because it's so like a pre-pro meeting, and in fact every meeting I've ever been to. Plus, the message within the message is a good trick--people are learning without even realizing it.

4. Monster.com also kept the job-hunting reminder light, which was well-advised. Of course I love this spot. A rags to riches storyline, furry animals, a nonsensical leap (asking the viewers to accept a fiddling beaver with no explanation)...it's all there.

5. I thought the Google spot was lovely, right down to the music. How interesting that we could all follow and maybe even identify with the story, told via tools that weren't even invented the last time the Saints played in the Superbowl.

Oh, and here's what I thought about some of the other ads:

1. Budwesier "Book Club" -- Ugh. Reverting to the typical male archetype of dumb, horny, beer swiller? Come on. You can do better.
2. Bridgestone, both spots: Meh. Too reliant on pop culture, plus grossly expensive productions with little purpose. And the "life/wife" thing? Old joke.
3. E-Trade talking babies: I thought they were creepy when they debuted a couple years ago, I think they're creepy now.

Learn your rules boys and girls.

2010-01-28T18:43:00.001-08:00

If you don't, you'll be eaten in your sleep.

A Start

2010-01-27T20:32:00.000-08:00

Sartorial satisfaction in the form of a new tunic:

Creative inspiration from Heather Ross's Far Far Away fabric line. Unicorns. Obviously.

Something to look forward to: a trip to the shore with my mom, followed by a journey here for a sewing workshop.

Enjoying the moment: Dinner with a friend. A fire in the stove. To bed at 8:30.The dogs sleeping on my feet.

Finding joy in the unexpected: Arnie in training to be a Therapy Dog. And I'm proud to say that his training is going very, very well. It's been fascinating for me to see how quickly he learns, how he wants to learn--just soaks up information and cues. It seems to make him super happy, too--he wags his tail the whole time we're training. He's going to be a wonderful therapy animal.

A new approach: I called a few schools today and asked about graphic design courses. There are no fashion design or merchandising courses in Utah, so I'll gladly settle for some graphic design coursework to learn how to use the software and some of the basic elements of color, layout, etc. I'm excited to see where it leads.

Dreamtime: I visited the Aga website today and requested a catalog. I've wanted an Aga (in midnight or robin's egg) for years and years. Someday I'll have the kitchen for one. In the meantime, I'll have inspiration.

I Interrupt the Whiny Introspection...

2010-01-26T13:33:00.001-08:00

To bring you this reminder, via Natalie Dee, to listen to your messages.

A Sense of Direction, Volume I

2010-01-24T07:13:00.000-08:00

I'm terrible at setting goals. I over or under estimate my capabilities, or give up along the way.

It's not that I don't like accomplishing things. Even the smallest action (paying AT&T the minute I get my phone bill or getting all the laundry washed, dried, folded and put away) makes me happy. We Cancerians love to feel needed and important, and achieving goals ticks both boxes.

So I recognize how important it is to accomplish goals, but I also know how awful it feels to give up on them. It’s worse than actually failing.

I recently read The Dip by Seth Godin, which told me nothing especially revolutionary, but did resonate a bit. (That’s what Godin does best, I think. He aggregates what is already swirling around in our heads and presents it in a concise, less noisy way.)

The whole idea is that we hit roadblocks (or “dips”) in everything we do. Whether learning to knit, completing a project at work, speaking a new language, or forging a new relationship—-there comes a lull. What Godin says (which is perfectly obvious), is that we need to realize when we’ve hit a dip, and then decide whether it’s worth pressing on and getting through the hard part, or if it's a waste of time, and then turn our attention elsewhere.

The key to getting through, he continues, is not being content with the Dip, but working hard to go forward. Try new tactics, keep an open mind, ask for help…just don’t get comfortable spinning your wheels, because that leads nowhere.

I’ve been dwelling in the dip for a long, long time. I like my job, but it’s just a job, not something I’m passionate about. I’m good at lots of sports and activities, but I don’t excel at any. I feel ok, but I don’t feel like I’m really psyched about anything.

This is tough, because some of the most important people in my life are professional or near-professional athletes, driven by the exact monomaniacal focus I seem to lack. Or they’ve identified the thing they want to do most in the world and have made a career out of it. They are passionate and driven and goal-oriented. While they sail ahead, I search for my flip flop in the gloppy, murky water near shore.

With leeches.

And water moccasins.

Obviously, this is another of my shortsighted, spoiled-brat complaints. I’m creating a problem where there really isn’t one (I do it all the time…just ask Brad).

Except, this is a little different. Yes, everything is ok, but I know it could be better, and I know that something within me is getting in the way of “better.”

I tend to lose momentum. I set a goal-—something totally doable-—but distraction or lack of motivation gets in the way of training or practicing or whatever I have to do to stay on track.

So what causes that lack of motivation? Maybe it coincides with the training getting hard (right around the day of the 18-miler in marathon training, for example), or maybe it has more to do with a mountain of dirty laundry, two dogs who need exercise and attention, a house that needs to be cleaned, and a marriage that needs to be nurtured.

Or maybe those are just excuses.

I’ve practiced Bikram Yoga on and off for 13 years. I’ve had dozens of instructors, but McKell was my favorite.

She offered an authentic calm that quieted the room and kept me focused on my own practice, not distracted by the leaner, stronger bodies around me. That calm belied a driven, goal-oriented woman, though, one who just opened her own Bikram studio in Kauai.

That news struck me because I don't associate "calm" with "driven." When I think of people achieving goals, I think of the chronic Facebook updaters, the people who tell you how many miles they ran that day, how hard they climbed, how accomplished they are. I don't think about the quiet strength I felt from McKell, which obviously works for her--goal achieved, studio opened.

I've said before that I don't want to talk about my goals because I don't want to have to report that I've failed or given up. It feels easier just to think about them on my own and either achieve them or not, without having to lose face if the outcome is "not."

But that's isolating, and when I think about the five years I've lived here, I can identify a pattern of isolation that's done absolutely nothing for me. I left the industry I love, which, for a while, was a good choice. I needed to learn new skills, needed to look at work from a different angle. I stopped climbing because I was tired of being average. I'd been in the Dip for a decade, and I didn't know how to push through. Training harder just injured me, and I tell you, I was tired of spending all my time doing something that made me feel bad, and feel bad about myself.

Half a decade later, I realize this: I've simply been avoiding putting in the hard work. Not just with climbing. With everything. I feel far away from Brad, from my friends, from the sports that fulfill me and the activities that make me feel good.

Rather than, "I want to improve my guitar skills," or, "I want to speak better Spanish," perhaps I should be saying, "I want to rejoin the world."

Blogging, while therapeutic at times, creates an environment of introspection that isn't always good for me. After writing an entry about what I need to improve, how I need to better myself, it's hard for me to face real people, because I feel worthless, and am sure they agree.

And much of what I've written about here, on this blog, is just filler. The "likes" and "ums" of the conversation of my life, the stuff I say when I don't want to get to the point.

The point is this: I've lost my sense of direction. While people around me are focusing on what matters to them and achieving their personal goals, I haven't had a real goal since 1998, when I decided to go to Nepal for a while.

So that's it. In 2010, I resolve to find my sense of direction.

Maybe I'm setting myself up for failure by making such a vague, non-quantifiable resolution, but without first finding out where I want to go, how can I possibly do anything else? Nothing matters much when I don't know how, or even if, it relates to the big picture. Who cares if I climb well, if climbing doesn't fit into the grand plan?

And anyway, I think it is quantifiable, if not exactly describable. I'll know when I figure it out. I'll know because I'll resemble the girl who had her sights set on Nepal, and figured out exactly what she needed to do to get there--arranging grants and housing and airfare and a thesis topic.

To find my way, I have to identify the things that I really care about--the things I can use to help me push through the Dip.

That'll be a happier post, I promise. Stay tuned for Volume II.

Sesame Street Will Save the World

2010-01-13T08:13:00.000-08:00

If I ever have children of the non-canine variety, I want to expose them to music and theatre at an early age. I was lucky enough to grow up with lots of opportunities to be creative and expressive: singing, playing the piano, acting in the local children's playhouse (well, not so much "acting," as dressing up in animal costumes and talking in funny voices).

I was encouraged to step, however tentatively and sometimes wearing a badger or flying monkey costume, into new arenas. It was a wonderful way to grow up.

That's why I can't say enough good about this interaction between Elmo and Andrea Bocelli. The original song, Con Te Partiro, is wildly popular, part of the neo-opera style that horrifies traditionalists but serves as an ideal gateway from inane lyrics and beats to proper liberetto and accompaniment. It's the marijuana of music.

But really, what a cool thing to introduce to kids. Just as Warner Brothers introduced generations of children to classics like Wagner's "Ride of the Valkeries" (Kill Da Wabbit) and "The Flying Dutchman" (really, we owe so much to Wagner), so is Sesame Street educating kids on subjects beyond the surface, subjects that will make then sensitive, perceptive, critical-thinking adults.

And maybe that's what we need: a generation of artists to silence the philistines that have garnered so much power, so much of the national voice. Imagine if, instead of footage of rednecks turning left, networks aired opera on Sunday afternoons. Or art-history programs.

I know. So absurd I sound naive and whiny just bringing it up. Plus, that's why we have PBS--so fruits like me don't complain about Nascar (news flash: I will always complain about Nascar).

Still, though. By hacking music and art programs, schools in Utah and everywhere else are sending the message that the skills one develops through those pursuits--perception, sensitivity, subtlety, awareness of space, knowing when to be bold and when to be soft--aren't important, aren't worth as much as sports and math and dissecting pickled pig fetuses. (Truly a lesson from which I learned absolutely nothing, except that my lab partner, who wrapped said pig's intestine around his neck, was seriously fucked up.)

But ENOUGH out of me. Let's let Elmo and Andrea take over, all charm, funny lyrics and kind intentions. "Lay down, here is your bear, you have had such a wonderful day, playing and counting to 20..." And oh my god, that dancing, slow-motion bear? Please!

I’d Rather Be Blogging or, Why Everyone Needs a Golden Retriever

2010-01-07T14:05:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the lack of new posts.

Work is kicking my ass.

I’m not helping matters, regularly flinging my arms about and stomping around. I should probably lay off the Diva Juice.

Anyway, I have big plans for 2010, and can’t wait to share them with you.

I’ll do that, I promise.

Soon.

In the meantime, have you heard about the Golden Retriever who protected her owner from a cougar?

Like I needed another reason to love Goldens.

Here's a sneak peak of what's to come (Arnie skiing with us in the Sierra):

A little something for everyone

2009-12-23T11:33:00.001-08:00

I'm looking forward to some time off between Christmas and the New Year. Obviously, I'm excited to ski and run and play with the dogs (that's like saying, "I'm excited to breathe and consume oxygen."), but I'm also looking forward to making progress on my new quilt top, binding my first ever quilt (!), and completing some cross-stitching projects. (Yes, the f-word is always funny. Why do you ask?)

Here's one pattern I won't be completing, though. In fact, I shall now delete my browsing history and never return to this page again.

Till I write again, enjoy this iphone shot of our tiny tree flanked with delightful treats for Brad, the animals, and, perhaps, moi!

Cousin Eddie

2009-12-23T10:06:00.000-08:00

We all have a Cousin Eddie.

A socially inappropriate, tight-pants-wearing, slicked-back-hair-having, offensive in every way relative who makes you cringe every time he (or she, I suppose) opens his mouth. Cousin Eddie is loud, embarrassing, and seemingly does things only to drive you batty.

And most of the time, he succeeds.

Not this year, though. Thanks to the helpful PSA below, we can all learn to identify Cousin Eddies before they've reached their full humiliation (of themselves and others) potential. I know I'll be paying close attention to the warning sign:

A bit much

2009-12-16T07:14:00.000-08:00

Want:

From the terribly British sounding Cox & Cox. 85 pounds is a hefty price for a pillow, though, especially considering my dogs' tendencies to drag pillows about the house so they always have a soft place to lay their furry heads.

Maybe I'll make one. I bought the pattern for this quilt a while ago:

....so perhaps I'll make both, get all my British ya-yas (yes-yesses?) out, and then be done with the Union Jack for a while.

Not (bloody) likely, though, as I am currently carrying a Union Jack wallet, wearing Wolford tights, pulling on my wellies as often as is reasonable, mainlining Earl Grey, and cyber-stalking every British blogger I come across.

I'm having flashbacks to that episode of Arrested Development where Michael starts dating Rita (the MRF) and peppers his Californian vernacular with the Queen's English. Bloody hell.

A sneak preview....

2009-12-15T10:08:00.000-08:00

We asked our friend and housemate, the extraordinary photographer Matthew Turley, to take some photos of our pack. We wanted to send our loved ones holiday cards with our photo on them because, well, isn't it obvious? I mean, it's a photo of us! Hello?! Make room on the mantle!

Some of you will receive one of the cards soon, so I'm sorry for ruining the surprise (but really, when I emailed you asking for your address, what did you think would happen?). I know other bloggers suspend the big reveal until their cards have landed, but not me. I can't wait. Patience is for punks.

And anyway, these are the out takes, not the photo we went with for the card, so you'll still be a little bit surprised.

I love this one, because it's a wonderful example of Arnie's earnestness. There's huge activity happening here--people talking, people moving around--but Arnie is saying, as he often does, "Hey, mom, do you want to talk about it? I'm right here if you need me. In the meantime, let's just hold paws." Red is, naturally, very suspicious of the whole thing.

And in this one, you get a great sense of how we spend most of our time. Talking to the animals. We're just like the Doolittles.

And just in case you started to get a little too comfortable, Red is here to remind you that you're on thin ice, pal.

She Likes to Be Different

2009-12-10T11:08:00.000-08:00

With all the Mormons here in Utah, the celebration of Christmas is just sort of assumed, and few thoughts are spared for the other celebrations that take place at the end of December.

I’m not Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, or anything at all. My beliefs are most aligned with Paganism, but as I uphold few of the rituals, I can’t really claim it. Plus, I don’t own a goat.

Despite this, I take offense when people assume that I observe Christmas (I do, but that’s not the point). From Thanksgiving on, I hear “What are you doing for Christmas?” at least once a day, and each time, I stiffen with indignation.

“Celebrating Kwanza,” I replied to my hairstylist.

“Lighting a menorah,” I told the cashier at the Nordstrom Rack. This retort was diluted, though, by my having to explain what a menorah is.

In truth, I’m doing neither. I’m planning to ski, nap by the woodstove, watch movies, and pet the dogs. I’ll send out cards, give (and happily receive) gifts, eat once-a-year treats, and drink lots of wine.

I’ll celebrate the snow and the fairy lights, the longest night of the year and the longer and longer days to come. I’ll observe—at least, according to the Gregorian calendar—the end of one year and the beginning of another.

And I’ll watch this commercial (a favorite since childhood), and congratulate Eat’nPark on its long-running, harmonious holiday greeting. God (and Allah and Kali and Buddha and the clairvoyant goat in the pasture) help me, it still makes me smile.

Oh yeah...

2009-12-09T21:25:00.000-08:00

We turned on comment moderation recently, to combat all the bot spam we've been getting. We forgot we did so, though, and all your kind and lovely comments were piling up, unpublished. Please accept our apologies, and know that the problem has been addressed and is unlikely to occur again.

Signed,
The Editorial Overlords of the Wasatch Report*

*Arnie and Red

Heaven is for Harlots

2009-12-04T13:41:00.000-08:00

Because I am in my thirties and no longer exercise upwards of 3 hours a day, I rarely shop at Forever21. Occasionally, though, when I need a dress for a specific do, a little something I’ll probably never wear again, my sartorial sense deserts me, and I find myself drawn to the sounds of pop music and teenage girls fighting with their mothers.

Yesterday was one of those times. With the annual “Dress Like a Trollop” party* on the horizon, I grew anxious, knowing that nothing in my wardrobe of cashmere sweaters, jeans, scarves, and painted clogs would do. Thus I found myself prowling through horrifically merchandised racks of cheap fabric and gauche colors, looking for something a little hipper than a turtleneck sweater dress (the option awaiting me at home).

Surprisingly, I struck gold, in the form of a classy LBD. It was stuffed behind an array of artfully torn, cropped tees declaring “I Love Nerds,” and it was perfect. With cap sleeves, a nipped waist, and a tulip skirt, it was positively Hepburn-esque. The shocking thing was not its ideal silhouette, but its fabric—decent suiting material, and lined. I can’t find it on the Forever21 website, leading me to believe that it came from a far more sophisticated place (J. Crew, Nordstrom, the strip club around the corner) and was left on the rack mistakenly.

I tried it on gingerly, a bit afraid to look in the mirror because fluorescent lighting and junior sizing are nasty critics. But it fit beautifully. I was shocked. I glanced at the price tag ($27.90), and hurried to the cash register to make it officially mine.

On the way home, I congratulated myself on finding a party dress so efficiently (it was the first—and only—one I tried on). I was thrilled, too, that the dress was suitable for work on those rare days when I make an effort to look professional. (Long gone, those halcyon days of running at lunch and not bothering to change out of shorts and trainers for the afternoon.)

After greeting my dogs for the obligatory 10 minutes (cuddle, cuddle, cuddle, snuggle, snuggle, roll over, kick legs, bite the air, repeat), I pulled the dress out of the bag and hung it on a fancy padded hanger (probably worth more than the frock).

That’s when I saw them.

Small black letters on the bottom of the plastic yellow bag: “John 3:16.”

What?

I picked up the bag, sure that I was missing something. This is a store for slappers-in-training. It is not an emporium closely associated with biblical ethics.

Despite the ubiquity of John 3:16 (think sign-holding fanatics at baseball games), I’m a heathen, so I had to Google it. God gave his son because he loved the world, and if you believe this, you’ll go to heaven. Something like that.

Sidenote: look how close heathen is to heaven!

Ok, whatever. But why is Forever21 telling me this? A trip to the store’s website revealed no overt mentions of religion, though the plus-sized line is called Faith21. Being something of a conspiracy theorist, I could probably come up with some subtle references if I cared enough to comb the site, but I don’t care that much.

I’m grateful that we live in a place where people are permitted to express their opinions and beliefs, sneakily or otherwise. It’s the connection, or lack of, that’s giving me pause. If Forever21 wants me to keep the bible in mind, why does it sell the trashiest clothing I’ve ever seen? I’m serious, my LBD aside, this is the go-to store for trampy little harlots in need of something sexy. It’s the perfect spot, actually, for ladies shopping for the annual, “Dress Like A Trollop” fete.

Oh dear. I hope no one else shows up in my dress….

*Not really, but it don’t most corporate holiday parties seem that way?

And why is the turtle in a fez?

2009-12-04T11:46:00.001-08:00

But then, if you have to ask....

They're all delightful.

Again with the Etsy

2009-12-01T10:54:00.000-08:00

I know. I've become nothing more than an Etsy advertiser. I ask you, though, when the website offers prints such as this one:

Can you blame me?

I mean, come on! He's eating his tie!

Get it here.

Diary of a Lazy Blogger

2009-11-23T12:41:00.001-08:00

We went to Boulder last weekend. It was great fun--we saw lots of good friends, ate some wonderful food, hiked (me), climbed (Brad), strolled, laughed, and stared longingly at the many hip boutiques we don't have here in SLC (me). I'll have a recap for you soon, but in the meantime, enjoy these photos.

Here we are after stuffing ourselves with pizza and ice cream. We were hanging with the Reid family, and were "color splashed" by Little I, who'd just downloaded the app for his iPhone.

I was feeling sort of nauseated in that picture, because instead of opting for an age-appropriate ice cream flavor, I had to have "Birthday Cake," which comprises vanilla ice cream, rainbow sprinkles, a swirl of vanilla icing, and cake batter.

I know. I just threw up in my mouth while typing that. I have no idea why it seemed like a good idea yesterday afternoon...maybe it was the hangover (damn you, Rio margs!), maybe my blood sugar was low. Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm diabetic now.

Despite my unfortunate taste in frozen desserts, we liked the ice cream parlor. Brad especially felt right at home; he doesn't care for those no good hippies either.

I've arrived

2009-11-13T08:10:00.001-08:00

Not only have I received my first blog heckler, I'm also getting comments from spammers, along the lines of, "viagra, viagra, viagra, viagra."

I owe you a real post, I know. Something more than lion dogs and links. Don't worry, it's turning cold and snowy outside, ideal writing conditions.

In other news, a warning:

Buy the shirt at Snorg Tees.

Arnie's next Halloween costume

2009-11-12T11:46:00.000-08:00

Wow. Not weird at all.

Best Website Ever

2009-11-12T08:14:00.001-08:00

To all my readers who are big readers, check this out:

What Should I Read Next?

It's just what it sounds like. Plus, you get the added bonus of not having the supercilious librarian look down her nose at you when you ask for Chick-lit recommendations.

Veg-e-tables!

2009-11-10T08:12:00.000-08:00

Bicycle. Me monster...me not picky.

I love him.

A Wonderful Weekend

2009-11-08T18:01:00.000-08:00

It went something like this:

Trail running with Arnie
Coffee
Skiing
Baking oatmeal, chocolate chip, peanut butter cookies
The Penn State game
New ring from Sundance
Dinner with friends
Wine
Hummus and chips
Brie and crackers
Precious sleep
Trail running with Arnie
Backyard beautification
Hike with a friend and Arnie and many, many dogs
Pasta with pesto and fresh parm
Family Guy spoof on Roadhouse
Lots and lots of Arnie-time. I think he enjoyed it, too.

At one point, I gave Arnie a butcher bone. He wasn't quite sure how to approach it....

I said, "Get it, Arnie! Get it!" But he was still unsure...

Eventually, though, he figured it out.

Tell me...no...let me tell you

2009-11-02T18:13:00.000-08:00

Why do I not own this fellow?

It's one of those dangerous nights when I think, "We need some art!" and tear through Etsy, adding things to my cart all willy nilly like.

Does anyone say that anymore? Willy nilly? Well, they should.

$83 is a lot of money for a frivelous novelty I'd probably be too embarrassed to wear most places, you know, being over the age of nine and all, but still, it's pretty damn cute.

Back to art, though. Ever since I saw an exhibit of his work at a climbing gym in Oakland, I've adored the work of this fellow. Check it out. Curious birds wearing colorful masks and sailing in and out of dreamy lands. Just lovely.

Then there's the sweet, endearing work of Creative Thursday. Again, curious animals often wearing people clothes. Ok, so I have a type.

But there's more! (I don't shop on Etsy much, so every time I do, I go a little, "Oh my god, and look at this!" I think the same thing happens to first-time H&M shoppers.

I'm not a huge black and white fan, but I do like this little guy. Ooooh, and I love the feeling here....plus, it's from an artist at "Mad River Studio," and everything from Vermont is wonderful.

Moving on....Oh, this one's very sweet. And I can't help but be charmed by this one...

And aw, I like this one. And are you kidding me with this one? Bears and cupcakes? Please! It's too cute!

I know. It's too much. Don't worry--I don't expect you to click on all these links or, especially, to experience the same delight from them as I, but oh, how entertaining Etsy can be when one has a cold and is couch-bound.

The rare and mythical Arnie-corn

2009-11-02T05:58:00.000-08:00

A furrrrocious beast.

Five

2009-10-29T10:03:00.001-07:00

I Hear
Coughs and sniffles.
Neil Diamond on Pandora Radio (Quiet, you. Neil rocks.)

I Taste
Coke Zero.

I Smell
Pacifica Spanish Amber—invigorating, earthy, woodsy.

I See
A stack of work orders I shouldn’t be ignoring.

I Feel
Anxious to go home and take Arnie for a run.
Lucky that I can.
Excited for dinner with friends tonight.

Taking My Demons for a Walk in Traffic

2009-10-23T15:17:00.000-07:00

I. Exercising My Demons:

Recently, a few people—some I know quite well, some I’ve never met—commented (here or via email or in person) on the honesty of this blog. Hearing that gave me pause, because while I think I know what they mean, I also know that nothing on the page before you is entirely straight up.

It’s edited—thoroughly read and reviewed—even after it’s posted. I think about how the words sound, not so much to impress you, but to make sure I’m happy with their rhythm and weight. That kind of thing.

I guess what I’m saying is, this isn’t me talking—this is me looking at what I have to say, observing it from the other side of the dashboard, just like you.

And while it’s not always honest, it’s at least always cathartic. Even if I don’t say exactly what I’m feeling (to protect the final wisps of anonymity I tell myself I have), I at least tap on the keyboard until I feel a shift, feel cleaner, like I’ve exorcised the demons.

Of course, writing doesn’t always work. As calming as can be, it can also rile me up more from time to time, lock me into a spiral of negative descent. And when that happens, I think of M and the dinner party.

Well, the quiet moments after the dinner party, to be more accurate. Our guests long gone, we were sitting at the table savoring the last of our wine while Brad started on the dishes and Arnie and Red hoovered smashed brownie crumbs, snuffling around like truffle pigs.

I don’t remember how it came up, but M proffered that nothing, in his opinion, beats exercise at quelling feelings of depression, anxiety and stress.

Normally I’d counter with lines from Lexapro and Effexor ads (“mental illness is still an illness,” that sort of thing), but this fellow, M, is human honey—healthy and sweet and golden and good—so when he shared his theory on exercise as a panacea for angst, I listened.

And I thought about it.

And years later, when I’m all jacked up on self-inflicted pain and writing isn’t helping, I think of M and the dinner party, and I take Arnie and Red for a walk or a run, or I go to the gym or skiing or swimming or to a yoga class or to Crossfit.

I move. And just moving—shaking and stretching and jumping and getting fatigued—snaps everything back into place, restores my perspective.

It works—exercising my demons.

II. Here’s Your F%*cking Honesty:
So, is exercise enough? If I make a conscious effort to track my mental wellness (checking in with myself, keeping an emotions journal, being honest about what I’m feeling and why I might be feeling that way), can I stop spending hundreds of dollars on my anti-depressant? Lord knows I loathe those wine-colored pills—they taste awful, and I don’t like being dependent on them, especially when I’m not sure they’re completely effective.

So readers, in the name of unveiled honesty, that’s where I am today. I’d like to be drug free. I’d like to be less numb and more engaged. I’d like to be as social as I used to, to gather my friends around me frequently instead of being so withdrawn.

But I’m afraid to go it alone, because I’ve been medicating for over a decade. I don’t know what to expect, whether I’ll even be able to get out of bed, let alone out the door for a self-improvement run. It’s scary to step into the street when you can’t see what’s coming.

An Exercise in Normalcy

2009-10-05T12:13:00.000-07:00

In one of the first traditional acts of my adult life, I demanded that we carve a pumpkin last. Brad, being kind and willing to cater to my whims, not only agreed to this rare act of domesticity, he also took control of the knife and did, well, all of the work.

Here's Brad preparing Jack's hat.

Of course we named him (and of course we named him Jack). We name everything. Our wood splitter is named, "Woody." Brad's desert motorcycle (a Yamaha) is named, "The YamaDawg." My closet is called, "The Sauna," but that's not so much a name as it is a reminder of Brad's original intention for the tiny room--until I moved in and claimed it for my collection of jeans and shoes.

Arnie and Red, suspecting Jack to be food, joined us for the family fun.

Spooky.

Voila*

2009-10-01T11:26:00.001-07:00

A few finished blocks.

Lovely English florals and pretty polka dots.

Loud Art Gallery florals and Riley stripes.

Wandering ducks (wearing bonnets, of course) paired with oxford cloth.

And Arnie, who is bored with quilting, but not opposed to snoozing on patchwork.

* I took these pictures with my phone; please pardon their quality...

iQuilt

2009-09-30T15:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve spent my whole life sneaking into fabric shops. Normally the type of person who makes her presence known, I tiptoed through the entrances, wanting to stay under the radar of the well-meaning shop ladies. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to them (in my experience, they’re almost all tooth-achingly sweet), it’s just that I didn’t know how to answer their questions, what to say when they asked what I was making…because until very recently, I wasn’t making a damn thing.

For many years, it was enough just to look at the fabric, to buy a little bit if it really spoke to me, and to stack it neatly on the bookcase in my studio (ahem, guest room). I love fabric. Love. The colors, the textures, the tiny repeated elements, the striking large-scale designs….love.

A week ago, though, I took my first quilting class, and suddenly (imagine one of those technicolor-cinematic-sunray-angel-singing moments here), I wanted—and knew how to—make stuff.

My newly acquired skills have done nothing to diminish my indecent fabric-store-lurking, but they have ensured the future integrity of my bookcase, now groaning under the weight of the fat quarters and the “two, no, make that three yards” of randomly selected textiles.

Ok…I should back up. “Skills” might be too strong a word for learning to learning to place one strip of fabric near another to create a visually pleasing display. It’s simple stuff I’m doing. Basic. Beginner. Nothing wild and crazy and Amish or anything like that.

But despite, or maybe because of, the tactile simplicity of my new hobby, I adore it. I chose a basic 16-patch quilt to start with (they’re similar to—just a little bigger than—the blocks shown here), and have made eight blocks so far. Each is different and each is so inordinately pleasing to me that I can’t believe I done it sooner.

I promise I’ll take snaps tonight, at quilting class #2. I'm so excited I've been watching the clock all day, not getting a damn thing done at work, just looking at quilting sites online. What is it with these sites, anyway? Why do so many of them look like they were designed on Commodore 64s?

West by Northeast

2009-09-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

When you fly out of the Pittsburgh International Airport, the plane sweeps over the surrounding countryside, offering postcard-worthy views of the rolling hills and farms—all idyllic green pastures and fallow fields.

Leaving it seems wrong.

When I graduated from college, I only had eyes for Colorado. With no plan beyond working at a climbing shop and being part of the community that so appealed to me, I made idle promises to my parents that after my "gap year,” I'd go to grad school.

That never happened. I fell into event planning and then into PR. A couple stints of copywriting for ad agencies bring us to the present, where I successfully play the role of the disoriented thirty-something.

I've made escapism a lifelong habit. I’ve always sidestepped confrontation, opting for my imagination over anything potentially hurtful. I think it’s because of this that now, five years after moving to Utah, 10 years after moving out West, I’m looking around and asking, “What the hell am I doing?”

It’s not that I don’t want to be here, it’s just that I feel like here just happened and suddenly I’m looking around and wondering how. I’d say I’ve fallen off course, but I’m beginning to realize that until now, I’ve never really had much interest in a course.

Of course, that twirling mindset has allowed me to do some amazing things, and for a long time, my faith in the universe ensured that things would just work out—and they did.

Now, though—possibly because I was just home in Pennsylvania for a week—I’m looking around and realizing that most of the people I know seem to have identified and stuck to their plans. My best friend from childhood—a sweet and kind woman I just adore—married the fellow who took her to the 9th grade Christmas dance. They dated throughout high school and college; he proposed on the day they graduated from Penn State. Married with two adorable little girls, they live in the town where we grew up, just a couple miles from their childhood homes. It’s what they always wanted, and I couldn’t be happier for them.

I just don’t understand them. Or maybe I envy them. I imagine their lives as idyllic and peaceful as those picture-perfect farms outside the plane window. I tell myself that they aren’t tormented by the sense of not being enough, doing enough, seeing enough. They don’t wonder what else is out there, because everything they need is right there.

I know I’m romanticizing, but that’s what I do. Especially this time of year, when a dash of cinnamon in a cup of milky tea is enough make me imagine an entire life for myself in, say, Keene Valley or Burlington. Wool sweaters, wellies, wood floors, old stone houses.

In the fall, I gravitate toward the known and the comfortable, just as in the spring I want open oceans and new territory. Maybe that’s why I migrated West after my June graduation from college, and why it feels wrong to leave Pennsylvania in the fall…maybe I do have a course, albeit a subtle one, and I’m just not paying enough attention to it.

Let's Laugh at Others Now

2009-09-16T07:28:00.000-07:00

Possibly because I'm from Pennsylvania, I love to hear about Amish people. I remember driving past buggies on narrow farm roads, turning to see whether the man with the reins was bearded (married) or bare-faced (swinging bachelor) and always receiving a pleasant wave and kind smile in return for my curious ogling.

They're nice people, which is why this is so funny to me (from the Onion):

Amish Woman Knew She Had Quilt Sale The Moment She Laid Eyes On Chicago Couple

LANCASTER, PA—Repeatedly referring to them as "easy money," Amish quilt shop proprietor Mary Stolzfus, 43, said Monday that as soon as she noticed Tom and Helen Foreman's matching Chicago Cubs baseball hats, she knew she'd be able to move three, possibly four quilts. "One look and it was 'Choo choo! Here comes the money train, right on schedule,'" said Stolzfus, adding that she ordered her daughters to "put on a little dog and pony show" for the easy marks by having them sing the traditional Amish song "In Der Stillen Einsamkeit." "These rubes are all the same: give 'em a little 'no electricity' this, and some 'butter churn' that, and cha-ching, you've got enough barn-raising money to last you a month."

A Bit of Everything

2009-09-08T14:04:00.001-07:00

Oh, it was a fun weekend.

First, we journeyed with a troupe of friends and dogs to Indian Creek, a climbing area outside Canyonlands National Park.

Like a couple of teenagers, when Arnie and Cortez are ready to sleep, nothing can stop them. What you don’t see in this picture is the flurry of activity—two climbers, two belayers, some hooting and hollering, a stick-gnawing Red Dog, a roast beef sandwich—that is a day at the crag. None of that matters to these sleepy canines; after a morning of their two favorite games (“Chase me!” and “Now I’ll chase you!”), these two sacked out so hard we had to keep eying their ribs for movement.

Arnie was temporarily rousted by the emergence of goat cheese from a pack, but even that wasn’t enough to make him open his eyes.

We don’t have any weekend photos of Red, because he takes his role as head of security very seriously, and spent most of his time perched on a rock, checking the perimeter for interlopers. Poor guy; he definitely gets less attention than Arnie these days, mostly because Arnie situates himself on my person as often as possible.

(Red, I owe you a post soon.)

So that was the first part of the long weekend. After a couple days of climbing, we drove home and spent a wonderful day puttering around the house. We worked in the yard, washed mountains of laundry, cleaned around the dogs (they were too tired to move, even for the vacuum). Brad, who has become our home’s official Breadster, made the perfect loaf of bread, which took less than 12 hours to eat, and I hovered over the bread machine shouting, “only 54 minutes left!” and “get the butter out, there are only 9 minutes left!”

I’m almost done with my Subversive Cross Stitch pattern (I’ll take a snap of the finished product), and started a sewing project from Heather Ross’s delightful Weekend Sewing book.

I decided to make the Yard Sale Skirt (pictured on the cover), which will take me a bit longer than a weekend to finish, but regardless, it’ll be adorable in all its swingy, hippy glory.

I used a lightweight, flower-printed corduroy fabric, because I like how the weight of it swings the skirt around. Also, we have lots of days that are sort of in between summer and fall, in between winter and spring. They’re cool days with bright sun, the kind that beg for cozy-but-not-too-cozy clothing. I anticipate wearing it with wool tights and birks, or no tights and clogs. And, of course, some sort of top, too.

I love Weekend Sewing. It’s a thoroughly delightful book, complete with little recipes and inspiring photos and suggested playlists. It offers very helpful diagrams and clear directions, and a range of projects so that even a total sewing neophyte like me can leap right in and start making things. That said, there are a couple errors in the book (no big deal, because Heather has an on-line errata linked to her website), one of which occurs in the directions for the Yard Sale Skirt. Rather than six panels, it requires the joining of 8 or more (depending on size), so I found myself short on fabric and forced to improvise with a matching broadcloth for the inside panels.

I’ll post photos as the thing starts to take shape. In the meantime, though, I’m leaving on a jet plane in a few short hours, and have yet to meet the daily quote of Arnie and Red cuddles. Better hop to it.

One more, though:

Tastes Like Home

2009-09-03T15:16:00.000-07:00

I just bit into the first Nature Valley Oats ‘n Honey granola bar I’ve eaten in years, and was at once at home in Pennsylvania, in Shingletown Gap, at the cabin maintained by Penn State’s Outing Club, on a rainy Saturday, surrounded by a dozen friends.

As an instructor for the Outing Club, I went to the cabin often—to run groups through the ropes course, facilitate teambuilding activities, or just sleep on the porch in my sleeping bag. With only a primitive kitchen, a great room, and a sleeping loft, the place was neither luxurious nor, well, comfortable, but I loved it. It removed me from my thesis and deadlines and the stress of the deciding what to do after college, and planted me in the middle of impromptu music sessions, spaghetti dinners for 60, and hours-long conversations about someday plans. It was a place to feel ok about dreaming big, unconventional dreams, like moving out west and climbing all the time.

Funny how things work out.

Today, though, following my nostalgic granola bar moment, one day stood out in my mind.

It was just before Thanksgiving, cold and drizzly. Ben, Bethany and I drove to the cabin and left Ben’s old Cavalier in the driveway. After stashing his key under the rock on the porch, we started jogging up the road toward the trail. For almost three hours we ran the ridges and valleys around State College, our four-year home. The only time we knew exactly where we were was at the trailhead. The rest of the time, we just explored. We chose our direction by feel, content to observe and wander. We were in tune and unafraid, despite carrying no food, no water, and being (at times) completely lost.

We stumbled soaked and exhausted into India Pavilion right before it closed. The proprietors, who had come to know us after years of weekly feasts, fed us anyway, refilling our tall glasses of chai and knowing, without asking, how spicy each of us liked our daal.

A week from now I’ll be back there, enjoying the rolling hills, the long early-evening light, the sweetgrass and wild onion on the air.

This morning, as Brad and I walked the dogs, I exclaimed, “I’m so excited to go home!”

“Well good,” he responded, nodding in the direction of our house. “You’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Yes,” I missed his meaning, “It feels really soon. I have a lot to do before….oh. Right. THIS is my home. I get it.”

And I do get it. I know that the house I share with Brad, in Utah, is my home. He and the boys make me feel safe and happy. Content. Comfortable. And that, more than anything else, is home.

Still, though, there’s nothing like State College in autumn (except, of course, State College in spring and summer), and I cannot wait to see it, to breathe it in, to smell that homey scent of foliage and woodsmoke and grass and leaves, and to stand in Shingletown Gap and remember eating granola bars and running like a maniac and dreaming without fear.

Hey, Look Over There!

2009-09-02T21:47:00.000-07:00

I'll have a longer post for you tomorrow, but for now, check out all the blogs over there! Some are new additions, some have been there for years. All are delightful.

Tis the Season

2009-08-31T13:06:00.000-07:00

Friday night, Brad and I wheeled our low-tech, rusty mountain bikes to the head of the Wasatch Crest Trail (a classic) and pedaled and twisted and turned from the high point of Guardsman's Pass down into Big Cottonwood Canyon. It's an easy ride with one short climb and few technical sections, so it's perfect for us--anymore, we mountain bike about once a year, though we both used to be bikers, so getting out and pedaling reminds us (well, at least, me) of being young and fit and unstoppable.

The best part of the ride was the summer’s-end temperature--it was almost COLD; it was dreamy. When we finished, I immediately pulled on a long-sleeved woolie, which made me smile so big my face hurt by the time I went to bed.

Fall and spring jockey for position as my favorite season; both seem like the best thing ever when, after the longest winter/summer in history, they finally arrive. And just as spring heralds sundresses and shell jewelry and flip-flops and beachy dreams, fall, too, has a wardrobe, made up of wool and felt and corduroy and aubergine and saffron.

I’m grateful that it’s time to bid summer adieu—it seems like it’s just getting harder and harder for me, each year feeling hotter and more stifling than the last. I’m quick to blame depression, medicine, work, body image…a thousand things that may or may not relate. More than anything, though, it’s probably just the weather.

So, with the promise of fall in the air, I’m shifting my focus from the exhaustion of summer to the excitement of fall. My blogger friends and favorite websites are on board, too, showcasing autumnal wares and creative ideas.

Some of the highlights?

These lovely embroidered pillows a la Apartment Therapy.

These websites:
Film in the Fridge
Indie Fixx
Do You Mind if I Knit?
Attic 24

Have you detected the theme of the season?

Yes. Textiles.

I just added a crochet class to the three sewing classes already on the docket. To remain logical about these hobbies, though, I’ve put a moratorium on buying any new supplies or fabrics until I actually make something from the myriad choices already crowding my craft room (that’s right, I’ve appropriated the guest bedroom. If you were thinking of coming for a visit, you might want to think again). Last night, as I sifted through piles of embroidery floss looking for branch-brown, I realized that I need some storage in that room, or it’s going to implode on me.

Because I’m cheap and loathe mass-produced baskets, I asked my friend the Internet if it had any ideas for creative, repurposed storage.

You’re welcome:
Fabric scrap baskets from the Sometimes Crafter.

Recycled magazine baskets from How About Orange.

After years of searching

2009-08-25T19:44:00.000-07:00

I've finally identified what I should be doing with my life, and it's this:

Yes. Working on the set of the "Air Bud" Movie franchise, which includes Space Buddies and Air Buddies.

And readers? I'm only a little bit kidding right now.

When renting a movie, Brad and I always point to whatever "Bud" movie is in the RedBox, and joke that it's the only movie I'd actually be able to watch, so sensitive am I to scenes of violence, death, fighting, sadness.

So tonight, my very sweet husband brought Space Buddies home in an effort to make me smile.

Of course it's completely ridiculous, but it does make me happy. My favorite part is imagining what the off-screen people are doing to affect the puppies' on-screen faces and reactions. If it were Arnie in the movie, for example, all we'd have to do is say, "Hel-lo! Hellooo! HelLO! Hello!" and Arnie would smile and wag his tail and raise his paws.

Yep, Space Buddies. I can't help it--it makes me smile. And this is probably the only post I'll ever write about that.

A Menagerie

2009-08-23T18:50:00.000-07:00

It felt almost felt like fall today, blustery with golden light--a lovely day. I did some embroidery, went for a run, had brunch and saw Julie and Julia with my friend, Amber (Hi Ber!), then made an awesome dinner of sausage and peppers and bread, but rather than serving it as the traditional Italian meal, we mixed it up with roasted hatch chiles and sundried tomatoes. Awesome.

Back to Julie and Julia. As a blogger, I feel obligated to report on it somehow, as blogging was such a theme--even in Julia's correspondence with Avis, which I thought was very sweet. I loved so many elements of the movie, Meryl Streep was deLIGHTful, Stanley Tucci a total charmer--I adored him. And as for Amy Adams? She was imminently relatable, which was, I suppose, why I loved elements of the movie, but not the whole thing: She was too relatable.

I understood all too well writing but not completing a novel, seldom finishing what one starts, feeling like one is married to too good a person. It's no secret that I've long felt like I'm spinning my wheels--taking life as it comes instead of making my dreams come true--so Julie's strife hit a little too close to home.

It was a very cute movie, though--it's so nice to be entertained by huge images of antique-strewn apartments and Parisian food markets. There's something so calming about a pleasing aesthetic. I can look for hours at sites like Design Sponge and , Apartment Therapy. Bolts of fabrics and spools of ribbon make me happy. Ironic cross stitch samplers? Please--they're my happy place.

Oh, I've learned to cross stitch since last we've spoken. I'm tangled in floss and there are dull needle pokes in each of my fingers from my efforts, but I love it. I fall asleep at night to dreams of Hungarian flower borders and embroidered textiles.

So anyway, my apologies for this slapdash, haphazard post; I'm distracted by the motocross video (not my own) filling my ears and distracting my voice (if I through a "rad!" or a "sick!" into this post, I trust you'll forgive).

Oh, and my style file? It's just that: a folder on my computer with images that move me somehow--pictures that make me think beyond the now to a place in the future, to a place as calm and colorful and cheerful as the images...

See, I like to know what’s coming. Sometimes, just to be sure a book has a happy ending, I read the last couple pages first. That way, I can either relax and enjoy the lovely story or return the bloody thing to the library before it makes me sad.

In the same way, I collect pictures of design elements I love, as much for inspiration as to comfort myself with scenes from my future--even though it's not so much the future as the idea of change that tends to make me happy....

I’ve seen lots of such images lately, and, because I know I owe you more than the frenetic contents of my distracted mind, I'll leave you with some eye-candy.

I love the "Lovely" pillow, and plan to make similar cushions for my bed. See? All my cross stitch work won't have the f-word in it.

Oh, there's that coveted card catalog cabinet again. I'll find one someday...

These next two photos feature word art, which I love. I'm always collecting favorite poems and quotes to emblazon on my walls. "For, Like, Ever," while ubiquitous, is endearing. And the words on the painting at the top of the stairs in the second photo come from Romeo and Juliet...what a sweet idea.

And finally, these pillows. I love the pieced together bolster in the first picture (and I happen to know that the needlepoint loveliness to the left of hails from IKEA), and the Suzani-like square in the second. So sweet. And, I think, easy to recreate...

Learning to Speak

2009-08-17T09:32:00.000-07:00

Sigh.

Yes, please.

2009-08-12T14:14:00.000-07:00

I’ll take a nook like that*, tucked away and tiny, filled with interesting souvenirs and keepsakes.

I’d like to have this spot for writing, thinking, researching ideas, getting inspired.

I’d probably lose the leopard pelt and beehive, but I’d keep all those bookshelves, and oh, definitely those card catalog cabinets (I’ve been prowling eBay and Craig’s List for one of those for months—if you happen to know where I could get my hands on one, please let me know).

I’d need to add a doggie bed under the desk so Arnold and Red could join me in there. I love writing when they’re around, with their deep sighs and their paws scurrying in their dreams.

A Room of One’s Own. Not a new concept of course, but so much has changed since Ms. Virginia Woolf wrote, in 1929, about Shakespeare’s Sister and the opportunities denied her…I wonder if, now, our men don’t need that room more than we do.

It’s not that our house is overly feminine or crammed with pictures of unicorns, but I definitely take elements of the home far more seriously than my husband; I prefer to eat frozen pizza off a plate rather than the cardboard round it came on…see how fancy I am?

And I certainly put my foot down when, before our wedding, Brad said, “We don’t need to register. Look, we have two forks, two spoons, and three knives. Actually, we can get rid of one of these knives….”

So yes, the room of my own is perhaps the entire domicile. But, on second thought, the garage is his domain (there are mice and bats in there. I mean, please.), and he did build the house, so the layout and design are all him. The walls, too, are Brad’s choice—white—despite the cans of Baby Boy Blue and Night Sky and Red Delicious and Canary Song teetering in my closet.

Ah, my closet….

I’ve seen several articles recently about turning a pantry or walk-in closet into a small home office. Granted, these articles were in magazines like “Real Simple” and "Martha Stewart Living,” with instructions as “simple” as "craft your desk from a single Oak tree you felled yourself with a handsaw and the help of a family of woodchucks."

Despite that, though, my closet would be a perfect little writing nook. There’s no natural light, but I prefer the warm glow of lamplight to glare on my computer screen. And it’s always the coolest room in the house, long and narrow, with floor to ceiling shelves on three sides. I could easily turn a shelf along the back wall into a desk. And I bet I could consolidate all my clothes and shoes into one area, and cover it with a pretty curtain.

One of the adorable new Joel Dewberry fabrics above would make a great curtain. This is his Deer Valley collection, which is fitting, because Deer Valley is one of my favorite places in the world. I know it seems shishi and celeb-focused, but I tell you, the skiing is surprisingly steep, and the summer activities (running, mountain biking, lawn concerts) are incredible. Plus, it’s dog friendly…Arnie’s been there many times, and as my home office-mate, I’m sure he’d concur with a curtain made from Dewberry Deer Valley fabric.

Yes, this just might do.

And honestly, after getting some heartbreaking news this morning, news that—had it gone the other way—would have signaled a fantastic change in my lifestyle, I need a project, something to pour my heart into, something pretty and cozy and nurturing and all mine.

So, because I’m trying hard to use my time deliberately, to actively make positive changes in my life rather than just let life happen, I signed up for a sewing class (that way, this curtain will be more than a hank of fabric with frayed edges).

Certainly, this nook wouldn’t be a panacea for my inability to just sit down and write already, it will be something…a step toward the goal.

*I blatantly stole the nook photo from www.ApartmentTherapy.com

Love is the Answer

2009-08-05T09:44:00.000-07:00

Heavy stuff in the news this morning. A gunman in Pittsburgh opened fire on an aerobics class, killing three (and himself) and wounding nine or ten. According to the police, the guy “couldn’t have been stopped” because he had been planning this, because he was so intent. But that’s just it—he’d been planning it. His blog detailed his plan. It even contained entries about failed attempts, about times when he’d taken the loaded guns to the gym but “chickened out.”

Interesting.

I don’t know if his blog was public, but if it was, why did no one catch this? Apparently he had few friends, seldom talked to his neighbors or socialized. Maybe no one knew he was a blogger, but even so, if his writing was in the public domain, why did no google search ever pick it up? No one ever typed, “guns, fitness, Pittsburgh” into a search engine? I know, it seems like a weird combination, but millions of people search the Internet everyday…surely his blog came up on one of those searches, surely someone noticed it, surely someone could have stopped it?

He was the licensed owner of at least one of the two guns he used to fire 50 rounds in an enclosed 20x20 foot space. Let’s imagine for a minute how things might be different this morning if he hadn’t had access to firearms. Yes, he might have stormed into the aerobics studio with a knife, but he couldn’t have caused as much harm with it, and it would likely have been easier to disarm him. He could have blown the place up, but often, when people stock on materials to manufacture explosives, they’re red-flagged and stopped. Sadly, the same is not true when outwardly normal looking white guys try to by guns. Especially in Pennsylvania, where hunting is seen as a right.

I know what my husband would say—that this is exactly why we need well-meaning vigilantes to carry concealed weapons. This is why we need to uphold our second amendment rights. But tell me, who runs on a treadmill or shoots hoops with a piece strapped to his thigh? Who could have been there in time to stop last night’s shooting? The whole ordeal took seconds—a minute at the most. No one would have had time to figure out what was going on, get to his or her weapon (likely in a locker room or, at the closest, in a nearby gym bag), and get to the aerobics room in time to get a clear shot at the shooter. Remember, there were, like, 40 women in that class, most of them running amok, trying to get the hell out of that room.

My husband has numerous friends who earn their livings as soldiers and security consultants. These are the kind of people I feel safe with in Tijauna, in grizzly country, anywhere. Having limited survival skills myself (I come undone when the air conditioner in my car is on the fritz), I can’t deny that I am grateful for their competence when I feel endangered. Still, though, I question whether arming up is the direction we’re supposed to be taking.

I know I sound naïve, and my husband’s friends—who know little about me other than that I’m a over-educated suburban liberal—think I oppose violence because I’ve never faced it, because I’ve never done battle, because I don’t know what it’s like on the front lines.

I’m not a soldier—that’s true. But I looked evil in the face and made the conscious decision not to fight, but to reason. And it worked.

What if someone had reasoned with last night’s shooter? They’d have probably been shot, so far gone that man’s sense of right and wrong. But what if he’d never had access to that gun? What if a firearm was never an option for him? How different would his ultimate explosion have been if it didn’t have gunpowder behind it? How much less devastating? How much more stoppable?

Just this once...

2009-08-04T11:33:00.001-07:00

I will break my rule of No Disney Movies Ever.

I will break it for this:

I cannot wait!

Three Years (and one day) Ago

2009-07-22T20:28:00.001-07:00

On the evening of July 22, 2006, Brad and I were married beneath the south face of Mount Superior.

What a blessing, to share this life with a man I love, respect, adore, learn from, teach, laugh with, and lean on.

Our wedding, a gorgeous and generous gift from my parents, was beautiful and casual; friends played banjos and guitars as I walked down the aisle, a local Mexican place catered, we drank margaritas and Two Buck Chuck.

I loved it. As you can see from this photo*, we had fun.

Our boys were in the wedding, too, with varying degrees of psyche.

Arnie couldn't wait to become a family:

Red had his doubts:

Our dear friend Bill is with us in the first photo. We asked him to marry us, and he got ordained through a “church” on the Internet for the occasion. He offered thoughtful words of advice, two of my closest friends read poems, we exchanged the vows we’d written together, and it was done—-a quick ceremony without much fanfare or fancy.

Lots of people say, "I married my best friend." I probably said it, too. From where I sit now, though, I see that what I knew of Brad when I married him was just a fraction of who he is.

I knew he was kind, but I didn't know the extent to which he'd sacrifice for the people he loves. I knew he was driven, but I'd never seen the stoic focus he can muster when he needs it. I knew he loved animals, but I didn't know how much they loved him back, how easily they let him into their worlds.

About a week ago, hiking to a climbing area in Mammoth Lakes, we noticed a disturbance in a shrub.

"It's a chipmunk," I leaned in for a closer look. "And he's caught on something!"

Brad inspected the little guy, who was still flailing desperately.

"He's caught in fishing wire!" He said, acting fast and throwing a sweatshirt over the chipmunk to calm him down (amazingly, it worked; he stopped scurrying). I ran over to some fishermen and asked to borrow their knife. By the time I'd returned, Brad had removed the sweatshirt, and was crouching low next to the chipmunk, who was calm and staring up at us. I handed Brad the knife, and he'd reached down and freed the chipmunk before the poor thing even had time to get scared.

"Problem solved," Brad said, stuffing his sweatshirt back into his pack and handing me the knife.

He's something special. Many times, like when I see the delight in Arnie's face when Brad comes home from work, or when I meet someone who knew Brad as a scrappy twenty-something who led a hard 5.10 on his first day of climbing, I am humbled that he chose me.

Three years (and one day) ago, I never would have imagined that I was marrying a man with the compassion of a Golden Retriever, the drive of a warrior, the loyalty of a Heeler, and peacefulness of a, um....sea otter? Giant tortoise? Manta ray?

Or maybe, in my heart, I did know. Maybe that's why I felt--and continue to feel--so lucky.

*All photos courtesy of our dear friend Kolin.

And Now for Something Completely Different

2009-07-21T20:17:00.000-07:00

One of things I love about poetry is how, on any given day, it can offer something different, something new.

At work today, glancing from my computer screen across my desk to my bulletin board, I caught sight of one of the many poems tacked there, a poem I know by heart.

Yes

It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.

It could, you know. That's why we wake
and look out -- no guarantees
in this life.

But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.

William Stafford

I’ve thought about this poem for many years, while running, while climbing, while falling asleep at night, while walking Arnie through the fields across the street from our house. I’ve even written about it here. But until this afternoon, I’d never seen the words “look out” as a warning or threat, I’d never read the phrase “wake and look out” with a sense of urgency or terror, as I did today.

Not that I was especially fearful today, not that this is the right interpretation of the poem…it’s just different, and I find that difference interesting.

The world of poetry, though, doesn't always translate to the real world, or, well, to my real world. I don't see things as objectively; religious differences anger me, bad fashion upsets me, even strange accents make my skin crawl.

I'm far from perfect; we all are.

After thinking about this for a little while, then surfing over to a couple other sites, I saw a reference on LibertyLondonGirl's blog that made everything click into place:

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,” said Hamlet, “Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

And likewise, mine.

Hmmm...so even as our great bard wrote "common" poetry and plays in the face of great criticism, he taught his critics to be tolerant.

Maybe one day I'll learn to be as tolerant as the British monarchy.

Ew, Ah...

2009-07-10T14:45:00.001-07:00

Things that make me sad:

Airport bars

Women who wear skinny jeans, fake tans and stripper heels well into their 40s. Or ever.

Ed Hardy apparel. I mean, come on people, really? With the graffiti and the bling?

Leaving Arnie and Red Dog for 10 days. Especially Arnie. Red appears to understand what's happening. Knows that my leaving him isn't permanent. Arnie doesn't seem to get it, and I think he thinks I've left him forever. Here's a photo illustrates their differing grasps on what's happening in the world.

Things that give me joy:

Talking to Nicole and Lizzie who are caring for Arnie like he's one of their own.

Spending the 4th with Brad and my brother, who's become a climber!

Being on VACATION for the next 10 days!

Going to Santa Cruz.

Going to the ocean.

Going to the Hulk.

Going to Tuolumne.

I'm so excited.

All Good Things...

2009-07-09T08:57:00.000-07:00

The Buddhists tell us that everything is temporary, and it’s a testament to my perspective that this idea terrified me when I first heard it, but comforts me now.

During my junior year in college, I took a class about the evolution of American Buddhism, and the idea of impermanence came up every Tuesday and Thursday, from 2:15 to 3:45. At the time, I didn’t like it one bit. My life was grand—Spring in college town? Please, how could it not be?—and I hated to think that everything I knew, and loved, would come to an end.

I took comfort in thinking that the Buddhists were probably talking about impermanence on a larger scale. Like, all human life will end someday—the Earth will explode or there’ll be another ice age (not bloody likely in Utah in July)—but my life will have ended long before that, so I didn’t need to worry about breaking up with my boyfriend (a hippie whose handle was Dingo) or not going to that evening’s drum circle.

Now, though, I take comfort in knowing that everything—even experiences exclusive to me—is impermanent. The pain I’m feeling over the loss of a friend? That will pass. Stress at work? That will pass. Passive-aggressive bullshit from people just trying to get under my skin? That will pass.

And the good stuff, too—the high I get after a hard workout, the feeling of wearing a new dress, the joy I feel when I make Brad laugh—will also come to an end. The challenge for me lies in recapturing those feelings. Yes, this particular workout is over, but I’ll have a chance to exercise again tomorrow, so I don’t need to be sad when this high fades.

I read this quote a few weeks ago:

"There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning."*

A month ago, it would have meant nothing to me. But a few weeks ago, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, Brad and I went to our neighborhood pool, and I swam a mile (off the couch), just to see if I could.

It didn’t start out that way, though. It started with a quick 500-meter swim.

“I just swam a 500,” I told Brad, who was reading on a towel in the grass.

“Go swim more,” he replied without looking up.

“But a 500 is pretty far! I haven’t swum for a year!” I wanted props, awed disbelief. I wanted to impress.

“I heard you. Good for you. But you can do more.” He remained unmoved by my athletic prowess.

Instead of getting annoyed, I thought, “I probably can do more. Maybe I should try another 500.”

So I did. And then I swam another, and after a few more laps, I’d swum a mile.

After the first 500, I thought I was finished, but it turns out, I wasn’t even halfway done. And later that night, when the high from the effort faded, I wasn’t sad; I was content and looking forward to the next day.

Maybe the impermanence didn’t scare me that night because I had gone beyond my own expectations. Maybe those self-imposed barriers—often more impenetrable than steel—are as temporary as pain, as grief, as joy, as love.

*Louis L’Amour

Summer Camp Redux

2009-06-26T14:16:00.000-07:00

(Can I really have more to say about Dave Matthews? Yes, yes I can.)

The new Dave Matthews album is amazing and vital and rich and so, so beautiful. I’ve been listening to it non-stop, not ready to settle on a favorite song, still getting to know them all.

One, though, is a frontrunner. "Dive In," with its wandering melody and strong chorus, makes me tap my foot and nod my head in time. It’s about summer, or maybe a new beginning, and it nails the season as aptly as corn-on-the-cob or a sno-cone.

I love summer, even though it turns Utah into an incinerator in a coal factory, only with dirtier air. It’s gross here from, like, mid-July through August. It’s tough on me; I get cranky in the heat. It only lasts about six weeks, though, so I’m trying not to complain.

Summer in the Laurel Mountains (hills, really), where I grew up, is another story. Cool mornings and evenings anchor hot, humid days, and a house-shaking thunderstorm rolls through at least once a week. I love it all. My skin and hair respond beautifully to the humidity, making my lizard skin and light-socket hair a distant, western memory.

This morning, though, walking into my office, I caught the scent of sweetgrass in the air. It was so home, so Pennsylvania, so rural town, so childhood and high school and college. It was every summer I’ve ever experienced, right there in one breath.

My mind hurtled back to the summer camp I attended for many years—a sports-focused but curiously Christian enterprise nestled in the rolling hills of Boswell, Pennsylvania. God-talk aside, it was the greatest place in the whole world according to the 12-17 year-old me.

There was a lake that created a sweatshirt-worthy breeze in the mornings and a refreshing respite from the heat of the afternoon. We swam and kayaked and zip-lined and sailed little sunfishes and water-skied, and it was summer, as it was, as it should be.

We lived in our bathing suits, emerging shivering from the lake onto the sun-warmed dock, making water-angels, our dripping hair forming tiny puddles in the peeling paint, before running up the hill to paint flowerpots or weave friendship bracelets.

That was where I learned to rock climb, learned to kayak, learned to jog and then, eventually run. That was where I fell in love with the woods and the earth, where I decided to be a river guide, then a climber, then a writer.

It was years later—I was probably out of college—before I realized that the camp was less than an hour from my house. Despite traveling to and from Boswell every summer for six years, it was so different, so unique that I just sort of assumed, just expected it to be hours from anything else, certainly hours from home. A few years ago, though, driving through a nearby town with my mom, I saw a sign for Boswell, and commented, “Oh that’s funny, I used to go to camp in a town called Boswell, remember?”

“Yes, sweetie, that’s the same Boswell,” my mom didn’t seem concerned by my geographical shortcomings.

“What? It can’t be! We’re like an hour from home! It took FOREVER to get to camp!”

And it did. I remember hopping up and down in the backseat of the Jeep, bored out of my mind and feeling like we’d been in the car for days. When we (finally) arrived at camp, I rolled down the window and hung out, searching for familiar faces, for signs of new activities (I almost fell out of the car the summer the zip line arrived), for new girls my age.

It’s interesting, the distance I attributed to Boswell, to camp, to my experiences there. So unlike the other 50 weeks of my life, it must have been far, really far away. Like, different planet far.

And that’s it—that’s my love of summer explained. That’s why I need sweetgrass and fireflies and evocative lyrics like Dave’s (“Summer’s here to stay, and those sweet summer girls will dance forever, go down to the shore, kick off your shoes, dive in the empty ocean.”): they’re beautiful, yes, but beyond that, they remind me that right there, just over that hill, there is peace and joy and escape and an other-worldliness that provides perspective.

And there are those things, too—like music, like lakes, like rivers, like grassy fields—that will always remind me who I am, where I came from. Even if where I came from is a lot closer than I thought.

Damn you, Conrad. DAMN YOU!

2009-06-22T20:42:00.000-07:00

I don't know Lauren Conrad, but I do know this: she's got some nerve.

Traipsing around with that long wavy hair plaited into the epitome of boho chic.

Designing (hmmm...that might be too strong a word) her own line of fab maxi dresses.

Starring in a television show wherein she alternates between staring into the middle distance and saying, "like, you know?"

And now a three-book deal. She's gone too far.

Who does she think she is, ticking off all the things on MY to-do list?

Ok, so I don't actually want to star on the Hills or the O.C. or whatever the hell her show is called. I DO want beachy hair and an ocean view and to go shopping all day--it's pretty much the same thing.

(I know my mother and Women's Studies professors are cringing at that last statement, but at least I'm being honest.)

And I suppose if I were to write a book I'd hope the most favorable reviews were more effusive than, "It's not as bad as I expected."

Golden Retriever Fridays!

2009-06-19T07:20:00.000-07:00

I found this photo on the delightful Liberty London Girl's blog. She suggests dogs as an alternative to skinny models in fashion shows. I think it's a fabulous idea--from what I've seen, most dogs are friendlier than models, prefer rawhide to cocaine, and are content with lesser champagnes.

I want one.

2009-06-16T11:55:00.001-07:00

Benchmarks

2009-06-12T13:58:00.000-07:00

I don’t observe many holidays. Christmas is stressful, the 4th of July is noisy, Easter is fattening, Halloween is fattening and slutty. I love Thanksgiving, though, because its warmth, juxtaposed with what is often the first cold weather of the year, comforts me. It’s also a benchmark holiday, one that encourages reflection and an awareness of the blessings in our lives.

Birthdays and anniversaries, which I also love, are similar: they invite perspective, a step back, an objective look at what we might otherwise ignore.

I have some friends who are almost obsessively focused on goal setting. They talk about their goals as much as I talk about Arnie. It’s exhausting, and I find that I just can’t keep up; I can’t always be moving forward. Sometimes I need to be still.

And when I do set my sights on something, I seldom tell anyone, because my ego won’t let me face people if I fail.

But, ok, everyone fails sometimes, even the toughest people I know. The difference is that they move on; I dwell. They brush themselves off and try again. I avoid eye contact, get combative, give up.

Now, though, a few weeks before my birthday (a benchmark), I’m looking at the year behind me and wondering why I do that. Why am I so ashamed? Everyone makes mistakes.

On the heels of Jonny’s death, I realize this: I get another chance. I’m still here, breathing, thinking. I can try again.

Sometimes I do try again. Sometimes I face mistakes head on and move past them, smarter the second time around.

Last year at this time, I’d just left good job at a great advertising agency to take a sales position better suited for an unpaid intern. I spent my days half-heartedly asking climbing companies for money they didn’t have, to support an endeavor I wasn’t sure I believed in. It was a mistake, but rather than admitting it, I stumbled through the summer, barely able to make eye contact with Brad because I was so ashamed at the strain my actions put on our relationship.

I woke up sad every morning. Ashamed. Guilt-ridden. Depressed.

And then I decided to change it.

I’m not sure what snapped in me, but once I realized that my path wasn’t sustainable, that if I kept going, everything around me would crumble, I immediately quit my job and started looking for a new one.

People were assholes about it; I remember one night, at dinner with friends, I mentioned to someone that I was looking for work.

“AGAIN?” She shouted so loud that everyone in the restaurant turned to see what was going on.

Barely managing not to fall apart, I whispered,” yes,” and changed the subject.

It seemed very easy to be them.

It felt very hard to be me.

The year improved. I took a new job as a writer. I made friends with Brad again. I backed off climbing because it stopped making me happy. I started running again because it makes me feel good. I reconnected with my friends. I committed myself to something—Crossfit—because I just needed to see if I could.

And now, a few weeks before I turn 32, I’ve decided to set some goals and not worry about sharing them with people. In the past, I was afraid to tell people what I wanted to do, because I was afraid that my goals would seem insignificant. It’s been that way for years: my climbing projects are other peoples’ warm-ups, my long runs are other peoples’ rest days.

But I’ve finally figured out that not being a great athlete doesn’t make me a bad person. I don’t have to feel like a hippo in a roomful of china dolls every time I go to the climbing gym. I don’t have to feel bad because I only ran (insert arbitrary number here) miles today.

So hey, maybe I’ll fail. Maybe I’ll lose interest. Maybe my goals will seem small and insignificant to you. That’s how it’ll have to be, though, because the alternative wasn’t getting me anywhere.

And hell, I know there’ll be days when all this talk becomes just that—talk—and I fall apart because I can’t do sports good.

But everyone makes mistakes.

Another post that will make Brad roll his eyes

2009-06-12T13:14:00.000-07:00

Like I needed another reason to adore Dave Matthews. Now he keeps me from getting lost.

Off the Bus

2009-06-08T08:57:00.000-07:00

I feel a little bit sick this morning, because over the weekend I learned that an old friend of mine was killed in an avalanche in Western China. He was climbing a peak with two others (one dead, one still missing) when he was struck.

Until I heard the official statement that they’d identified Jonny’s body, I was hoping (along with the hundreds, maybe thousands, of people who are also devastated by this news) that he and his partners had sidestepped the snowslide and were holed up in a cave, waiting until it was safe to move again.

I am so sad for his girlfriend, for his parents, for the many, many people he inspired in his 35 years. Yesterday, Brad and I remembered the last time we saw Jonny, at the Med in Boulder. After a big bear hug and a typically exuberant conversation, we’d returned to our table where one of our friends asked whom we’d been talking to. “Jonny Copp,” I replied, and watched our friend crane his neck to get a better look.

“That dirty guy talking with his mouth full?”

“Yeah,” we said, not needing to turn around. That was Jonny. Wild-eyed and unshowered, hanging out at a sleek Boulder hotspot just as he was—no pretention, no show, just unrestrained psyche and love and passion and fire.

Another time, after a long day climbing (and getting off route, and getting scared, and getting back on route, and still being scared) in the Black Canyon, my partner and I topped out to find Jonny and a gallon of water waiting for us at the rim. He’d climbed a much harder, much longer, much more demanding route that day, but just then, all he wanted to talk about was how our day had been—how exciting, how awesome, how cool that we’d topped out just before dark.

You know how a good veterinarian always makes you feel like yours is the most important dog in the world? That’s sort of how Jonny was. When you talked to him, he was wholly focused on what was happening with you, what was important to you. In the nine years I knew him, I never saw him unhappy or angry. He gave such good energy; it was impossible not to feel good in his presence, not to want to try harder at life.

I’m done asking why. Too many of my friends have died too young to keep asking that. The list will only continue to grow. I’m not saying that I accept any of this, though, because I am fully enraged at the universe for taking another good one.

I suppose I could turn to pre-determination and take comfort in the belief that Jonny (and Chris and Zack and Jeff, etc.) was here exactly as long as he was supposed to be here, that his work was done, that it was time for him to go. But I just can’t believe that, not when so many people are mourning, are confused, angry. Not when he was in love, not when he still had so many plans.

No. Rather than pre-determination, it just feels like the world is spiraling out of control. Nothing seems quite right.

RIP my friend.

Uh Oh

2009-06-03T08:07:00.000-07:00

Arnie wet the bed last night.

He's five and a half, and has never had an accident in the house (since being potty trained as a puppy). This morning, I woke up to find a huge wet spot at the foot of our bed (he always sleeps with us). Arnie seemed fine--maybe a little more cuddly than usual, but no major change in behavior....

Anyone know why he might have suddenly wet himself? Brad thinks he was caught up in a dream, but the Internet tells me it's a bladder infection or UTI.

I'm taking him to the vet tomorrow (soonest I could get him in, as I'm not sure this qualifies as an emergency...).

My poor boy.

How much can you stand?

2009-06-01T14:06:00.000-07:00

I listen to Pandora radio all day. I love it, even though otherwise excellent stations (Dave Matthews radio, for example), still play some duds. You’d think it’d be no problem to just skip the bad songs, but Pandora is tricky, and only lets you skip six songs per day. With each workday lasting eight hours or more, one has to plan her skips accordingly. Say a Coldplay song queues up first thing in the morning. I don’t want to slit my wrists, so it’d be wise to skip The Message or Clocks or anything else by the bloody downers, but what if three John Mayer* songs follow this one? I have to skip John Mayer songs, because his music makes me want to throw things at people, but that’d make four skips in one fell swoop, leaving me with only two for the rest of the day….

Nope. Too risky. I’ll save my skips and listen to Coldplay. I can stand it.

But that conscious weighing—stick with bad or risk worse?—isn’t necessarily beneficial, I’m learning, when it comes to other things. Say I have a long run or an especially hard work out planned. If I know what’s coming, I immediately start calculating (unconsciously, I’m sure, because god knows I’d need to grab a calculator otherwise) how much to give, how hard to work, when to push it, when to coast. Some might say that’s a good thing, that pacing is healthy. But from what I can tell (for me, of course, not for everyone), pacing equals stasis, precludes improvement, keeps me down.

Sure, if I run like hell up the first big hill, I might not be able to make it up the next one, but who knows? Maybe I would. Maybe I’d discover an untapped energy resource.

The thing is, I only get to play (run or crossfit or climb or ski or bike or ride my skateboard or play in the lake with the dogs…) for about an hour or so a day. That’s not a lot of time, so why leave anything in the tank? Why not go for it when I can?

I think we all know what’s inside us, though, and I know that I just can’t. It’s not in my constitution. Not everything I have, not every time, even though when I do take the leap and try without imposing boundaries (I can’t climb that, I can’t lift that, I can’t run that fast…I will fail, so why should I try?), I usually surprise myself.

Moving from that place of known fear to unfamiliar ground is hard, but often, the abstract is far worse than the actual. To that end, I’ve been giving it a little lately, learning that I can stand far more than I give myself credit for.

And while the superstitious part of me is fighting to shout, “But I’m sure I’m setting myself up for a fall by saying something so bold,” the present, confident part of me is stifling her more than usual, responding with a calm, “Well if that happens, I’ll just have to pick myself up.”

*John Mayer has no business being on Dave Matthews radio IMO. It's akin to likening Vanilla Ice (bad) to Eminem (good).

Another important story from my favorite news source

2009-05-29T08:06:00.000-07:00

Thank dog for the Onion.

Here''s my current fave:

Mildfires Amble Through California

OJAI, CA—A series of mildfires ambled casually through California this week, lazily threatening nearby homes, warming helpless wildlife, and cozying up to almost everything in its path. "We barely evacuated our home in time," said resident Paul Krempel, whose backyard has been threatened by the loitering fire for days. "First, the boxes we ordered arrived a day late, and then there was a mix-up at the van rental place, which took forever. Plus, Margaret had to go pick up the kids from soccer practice before we could really start packing. It was definitely a close call." Firefighters have rushed to the scene of the mellow inferno and are currently sitting around it in lawn chairs, exchanging old stories and telling jokes.

Consider yourself warned.

2009-05-28T12:21:00.001-07:00

I just learned what a polyvore is, and suddenly I feel like an artist.

You'll be seeing lots of pretty soon....

I've Got the Fever

2009-05-15T14:04:00.000-07:00

When my mom was in high school, she moved with her family from blue-collar Scranton, Pennsylvania to a sprawling rambler on a quiet, wooded lot in Memphis, Tennessee. Johnny Cash, then a rising star on the country music scene, lived across the street; it was a new world for my mom and her three younger siblings. While my aunt and uncles took to the South, adopting the drawl and traditions like they were born to them, my mom loathed the Southern culture of the 1960s, the prevalent racism and bigotry, the lack of opportunities for women. In search of progress, feminism and open-minds, she followed a well-worn path to freedom and scampered North as soon as she turned 18.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the concept of home and all that it implies, and it’s interesting to me that my mom and my aunt, who are exactly one year to the day apart, who were raised with the same opportunities and experiences, grew up to find their homes in such vastly different places, among such different traditions and beliefs and ideas about right and wrong.

I grew up in the mid-Atlantic, which I love deeply and consider my home. I’m proud to say that I’m from Pittsburgh, with its history of hard work and ability to keep generations of families living in the same neighborhood. It’s the only place I lived as a child, so I have no context for whether it’s better or worse than anywhere else, but I can say this for sure: I had the opportunity to grow up exactly where my parents wanted to raise their family. They chose their home, and there’s something to that for me, something to knowing where you belong, to understanding that you’re at home in one culture and an alien in another.

Still, though, there’s a bit of the South in me, as much as my leftist politics and feminist tendencies make it seem otherwise. But we absorb our parents’ beliefs—what they love as well as all they resist. And though I grew up hearing horror stories about the injustice of Memphis in the 60s, I also saw pictures of oak and chestnut-lined avenues, of flowers so verdant you could almost feel that dripping, sweet humidity right through the Polaroid.

I love that humidity, that lushness, that sweetness, and it’s springtime—when the mid-Atlantic takes on those Southern characteristics—that I think of home the most.

Or else, it could be all that spring recalls for me: State College, Pennsylvania; runoff feeding Spring Creek; muddy trails in Rothrock State Forest; Dave Matthews; West Virginia; the smell of grass; and the first warm evening of the year, when my friends and I flocked to the patio of Café 210 West to drink long island iced teas around small glass tables and watch people walk down College Avenue. Even when graduation was within easy reach—just one paper or exam away—those evenings were sacred enough to render us, usually so focused on the future, fully present.

Indeed, similar languid evenings in my backyard now seem the only antidote to my constant need to be somewhere else.

But it’s all relative, and a few years ago the Café was torn down in favor of, I don’t know, an Abercrombie and Fitch or something. It’s not that big a deal, of course; it’s happening all over the country—soulful, single-owner places being razed in favor of chain stores, diversity yielding to homogeneity.

Still, though, this illustrates how so much—music, home, seasons—is so intimate, so specific to a person, place or time. My association with, say, Crush, is different than anyone else’s; it means something different to me, because while yes, it’s just a song, it’s also the spring of 1999, Ben and Sean and Bethany, long trail runs, long bike rides, drumming sessions with my friend Melissa, handmade patchwork halters, pot-lucks, trampolines, sweat lodges, wonder, possibility, that nervous and sickening feeling you get when everything is about to change.

It’s all those things, you see, so poignant that even now, 10 years later, they are my springtime traditions. I’ve been listening to Dave Matthews in a near continuous stream, all the while enjoying ridiculously strong cocktails and making plans to visit Pennsylvania, trail run with friends, play music, dance, go to concerts, smell grass and flowers and close my eyes and want to be nowhere else.

At no other time of year am I this grounded, this certain about what I want to be doing. I love spring.

While I've been away...

2009-05-15T07:58:00.001-07:00

Sorry for the lack of posts lately. Truth is, I've been on the plains of Africa, working for a very important cause: Save the Antelopes. Here's a short video of some of the vital work this organization does:

The Love Post

2009-04-25T15:16:00.000-07:00

Little Cottonwood Canyon on spring evenings, when the final traces of sun illuminate the granite, the cool air smells like earth and we are all alone.

Arnie asleep in Brad’s arms, sighing and dreaming and stretching his paws.

Wedding anniversaries spent surfing in Mexico.

Summer road trips to California, for surfing and running and swimming and catching up with friends and people watching and thrift store shopping and emigration market eating and teaching the boys to ride big waves.

The recent discovery of an Indian restaurant in my neighborhood.

Board shorts.

An open back door, a green back yard, my dogs snoozing in the grass, daylight till 9:00 pm.

Hardwood Burns Slowly

2009-04-14T18:22:00.000-07:00

I love my home, perched between Big and Little Cottonwood, with its shady yard and vegetable garden and birdfeeders and Paolo Soleri bells, which are so sweet and soothing that I always wake up smiling on breezy mornings. Waking up in Boulder this weekend, the first thing I noticed was the absence of their song, though I'm so used to them here at home that I don't even notice them anymore.

Interesting. Even the best things grow routine or boring. We stop paying attention to - or find fault in - what we once found so breathtaking.

And eventually, while we sit still looking out, we become such a part of our surroundings that we become our surroundings, the way temples have become banyan trees, and vice versa, in the jungles of Thailand and Cambodia.

So even though - as I said - I love my home and husband and this community, the stasis and finality of here seems to oppose my nature. I almost always feel like I should be elsewhere, traveling or exploring new places, new people, new opportunities. I'm not good at settling, even when the place and people and opportunities I'm "settling" for are so wonderful, are so sacred.

But some dear friends of mine just went to Vietnam for a few weeks, and before they left, I suggested sites and inns and restaurants and, well, Thailand, because I like it better, and as I talked, I thought about some of the things I've been lucky enough to experience: fabric shops in hard-to-find alleys and stooped old women who run guest houses and tend terraced gardens in the Himalayas and the way the centuries-old pubs in Gammla Stan stay open all night, even for a group of kids nursing Carlsbergs and being way too loud.

For years, I focused on going climbing as frequently as possible. That meant making it happen after work and on weekends, leaving little time for much else. Now that I've backed off a bit, I have more time to think. I feel like I'm finding my direction by remembering where I've been, and while that might seem like I'm navigating by way of the rearview mirror, I just can't fight this nostalgia; it's like I lost my way somewhere back there and am retracing my steps until I figure everything out.

Some friends and I went out for sushi in Boulder on Saturday night, and as we cracked each other up with stories about our lives now - so different than when we all lived in the same small mountain town five years ago - we watched a group of kids at a nearby table celebrate the 21st birthday of one of their own.

To me, they looked no older than 16, and I couldn't believe the waitresses weren't running their ids under black lights. "How can they be of age?" I thought, as we watched them tie on paper Samurai headbands - the Japanese equivalent of lobster bibs, I suppose. Then I realized that my context was off; I was still thinking of myself as 21 - young and rowdy and fighting for the spotlight - when, actually, I'm a decade beyond.

Maybe that's what this is all about. I don't know. Usually I just keep writing until I run across some sort of resolution; I never force it, I just seem to find one. Tonight, though, I'm writing in waves, taking breaks to play with Arnie and read the new issue of Surfer .

This month's "Last Wave" essay deals with the author's uncertainty about traveling to a spot in Baja based on the violence that area has experienced lately. He suggests that these world changes - unimaginable a few years ago - will affect surfing, will change how people can access and experience it. I paid close attention to the article, because Brad and I have spent time in that very place. When I think now about how safe we felt there, about how we - or at least I - felt then like I was in a haven of good energy and possibility, I'm almost embarrassed by my lack of foresight, by my inability to predict the warzone the place would become.

But maybe that's just it. Maybe, as we age and as the world changes in once unimaginable ways, we need to remember what it was like before, what we were like before. Maybe that's what gets us back on track and makes things better.

Good night, all.

They Know Too Much

2009-04-08T19:06:00.000-07:00

Those hawk-eyed soothsayers over at Stuff White People Like are really starting to annoy me. I like to think of myself as a little avant-garde, a little outrageous, but the culture vultures have cut me down to average yet again.

Back when I thought I was cool because I still listened to the Roots, I stumbled - dismayed – upon this site, and since then, I haven't been able to tear myself away.

Damn them and their intimate knowledge of my tendencies.

Bangs? Check.

Mad Men? Love it.

Scarves? I'm not exaggerating when I say I wear one every day. Every Day. Today it’s white and orange gingham, yesterday it was white silk with bold chartreuse streaks, tomorrow it’ll be purple Pashmina, Friday something big and wrappy to wear on the plane. Dammit.

Moleskine "legendary notebooks"? Actually, I hate those pretentious little books. Carrying one is like wearing a sign that says, "I'm a sucker who hates my money and fancies my every thought so important that its needs writing down.”

Taking a year off? HA! They're wrong again! I didn't take one year off - I took three!

Coffee? Come on, EVERYBODY likes coffee. Just look at the Turks!

Facebook? Over 600 friends!

Self-aware hiphop references? Ok, this I do not do.

Grammar? Don’t get me started.

Free healthcare? If I had a nickel for every time I’ve proposed socialism, I’d be rich enough to buy non-generic meds.

David Sedaris, Not Having a TV, Arrested Development, Dogs, Juno, Living By The Water (I don’t, but I’d love to)…the list goes on and on.

But really, that's ok, because it's that transparency that enables you (and strangers who run an eerily accurate website) to know me so well, and to know how to help me out of a blue time.

Thank you for your insightful comments, phone calls and emails after my sad post a week or so ago. Such a tremendous outpouring of love—I feel so lucky.

And just like that, everything feels ok again. As soon as I took an honest look at what makes me happy (now - what makes me happy now, not what made me happy 5 years ago or 3 years ago or last year), all the stress—of climbing or not climbing, of skiing or not skiing—melted away. Instead of feeling directionless and overwhelmed, I was able to approach the world with some perspective.

So where do I go from here? I probably won’t revisit the therapist I saw a couple weeks ago, the woman who, after listening to me for a while, asked, “Why don’t you and your husband take up snowshoeing*? That might be a nice way to spend time together in the winter!”

I stared at her, unable to speak, because she just didn’t get it, and with 45 minutes left in my session – a fucking eternity – I suddenly felt exhausted. I missed the therapist I saw in college, Patti, who knew how to say, “try something new” without making me want to scratch my eyeballs out.

The thing is, though, I’ve been trying new things my whole life, preferring the novelty of change to the head-down-dedication of perfecting one sport or hobby. Yes, that spontaneity has allowed me to do myriad wonderful things, but I often wonder where I’d be if I'd ever truly stuck to something.

Oh. Wait ...

There's Arnie, all sprawled out with his paw flung across my foot.

I stuck to him.

When I got him five years ago, my life was at its most frenetic. I was barely hanging on financially and my emotions were completely unmanageable. So, naturally, because I couldn't deal with myself, I decided to throw another living thing into the mix. (WTF?)

But somehow - even with my roommate admonishing me for being so irresponsible - I knew it would work. I could fail myself - continually - without it mattering enough to change my behavior, but after smacking eyes on Arnie for the first time, I knew I could never, ever fail the fuzzy golden baby animal who was depending on me for food and love and shelter and walks and pets and companionship. He deserved all the compassion in the world, and in caring for him, I started to address the matters in my own life.

Hm. I never thought about that before. No wonder I love Arnie so much.

No wonder I didn't meet Brad until after I got Arnie. I wasn't ready to meet him any sooner.

Obviously, I have bad memories of high school. I had a lovely childhood, so it goes without saying that I spent my teen years looking for an enemy to battle, finding no one but myself, and taking it out on my parents.

I grew up with the sense of entitlement that comes from living in a house where the TV is turned off for dinner and my main chores were finishing my homework, writing thank you notes and practicing the piano. Chores finished, I spent most Friday and Saturday nights like the rest of my suburban American generation - at the local mall.

Juggling Aunt Annie’s pretzels and sugar-free lemonades, my friends and I trolled the sale racks at The Gap and pretended to ignore any classmates we saw. It's mostly a blur now, the drama and dialogue that seemed so paramount, the standing around that I used to beg an extra hour of curfew for. But one moment remains clear. My friend Janice and I were looking at purses at Kauffmanns, a regional department store now part of the Macy's family. Rather than fawning over the Liz Clairborne "Triangle Bag," which most of our peers paraded up and down the halls at school, Janice pointed to a locked glass case that held what looked to me like boring but expensive "Mom" purses.

"Someday I'm going to buy myself a Coach bag," she said.

I know, I know. These are the words of spoiled brats and little girls with no ambition. But Janice didn't say, "I want that," or "My dad is buying me that bag," or even, "I'm going to ask my parents for one of those." She said that she was going to buy one for herself, and that's what stuck with me, even after 15 years and numerous fancy bags (though no Coach...still not my style).

Figuring it out for yourself, whatever it is, matters.

Yes, plenty of people told me that I was on a path of destruction, but until I saw for myself how my actions could negatively affect little Arnie, I ignored all the static and ground noise and continued digging my own grave. Just as Janice, whose parents probably would have given her a Coach bag for her birthday or graduation or whatever, realized that earning it on her own would make carrying it feel all the better.

Just like my figuring out, over these past few weeks, what my priorities are right now, validates them - makes them mine.

* Snowshoeing? Just, NO.

It's weird now.

2009-04-06T18:32:00.000-07:00

I know I've said this before, but it feels a bit like the wheels are coming off the bus. Today, the Earthquake in Italy. Yesterday a huge avalanche in-bounds at Brighton ski resort. On Saturday, a man in Pittsburgh mowed down three cops because he was afraid Barack Obama was going to take his guns away. On Friday (or what it Thursday?), the shooting spree and hostage situation in Binghamton.

Destruction and despair everywhere, it seems, which makes me think of William Stafford's beautiful Yes:

It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.

It could, you know. That’s why we wake
and look out – no guarantees
in this life.

But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.

And oh, he's so right. A wonderful weekend with Brad and the boys, Arnie warming my feet right now. Food growing outside, the sun still above the mountains even though it's nearly eight o'clock.

There's so much to be thankful for.

This One's for Anonymous

2009-04-04T18:19:00.001-07:00

It's nice to know that the dynamic duo of Beeker and Animal have another fan.

I promise a real post next, but for now, one of my favorites:

Don't Be Nervous

2009-04-03T20:46:00.000-07:00

They won't all be depressing rants and raves from now on. I promise.

Tonight, for example, a classic Muppet video - reminds me of the old days of TWR, back when it was all furry animals and funny videos.

And now, Master of Muppets.

Because one can only eat so many tomatillos.

2009-03-27T17:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been inspired by landscape.

Of course, most writers are.

For John Updike it was the industrial mid-Atlantic and, later, the buttoned-up coastal towns of New England. For Gary Snyder it was the Cascades and the High Sierra, for Faulkner the humid, dripping South.

As we all know, WBY had County Sligo, and James Joyce, of course, was inseparable – in prose if not geography – from his beloved Dublin.

Ed Abbey and many like him had the desert of Southern Utah, and for years, I did, too.

In college, in my cold bedroom on Buckhout Street, I stayed up all night reading about red rock country through the words of Abbey and Terry Tempest Williams. At that point, I’d seen the desert only once, on a winter trip to Indian Creek. Back home in the sad Pennsylvania spring, I felt Utah calling me back.

In the years since, I’ve moved west and traveled to the desert dozens of times. Until now, I’ve maintained that the desert is my soul’s home, that its filagree of sage and tamarack inspires and sustains me.

But they don't, and neither do the improbable sandstone towers or stoic buttresses. The place has lost its enigma; it’s come to mean too much – a venue climbing successes and failures, a place to feel clumsy and awkward, a stage for letting Brad down.

And that’s the problem.

Brad loves the desert more than anyone I’ve ever seen. Normally reserved and calculated, he goes a little bit crazy as soon as Moab’s in the rearview and we’re barreling toward the highway 211 turn-off.

As I sit in the passenger seat, growing increasingly intimidated by my surroundings, Brad opens the windows and howls and calls the dogs to the front of the van to do the same. If they spot a rabbit, Brad brakes so hard the vehicle fishtails on the gravel. They clamor outside to where they last saw poor thumper, and I sit there praying for that rabbit’s deliverance from Arnie’s teeth.

You must understand: none of them – Arnie, Brad or Red – would ever purposely inflict pain on another creature (sure, Red gets a little bossy sometimes, but he’s mostly bark). They just get excited when they’re in the middle of nowhere—sans leashes and rules and schedules and pretense.

The desert is Brad’s Grateful Dead tour, his frat party, his drum circle, his dance club. It is the one place I’ve ever seen him drop his guard, throw his head back and relax completely.

So I feel guilty for not feeling the same.

Oh, I’ll still go there, of course. And I’ll have a wonderful time. But when we met, we connected over our shared love of climbing on sandstone. Years later, I’m more interested in rolling waves and rolling hills than I am desert sunsets, so where does that leave us?

I crave change – new sights and people and activities and experiences. Doing the same thing over and over causes me to compare one experience to the previous, causes me to compare myself to who I used to be, and somehow I keep falling short of my own expectations.

What was I saying about letting Brad down in the desert? Yeah, that's probably projection.

I guess I just need to remember that my life really isn't all that hard. I'm so lucky, so blessed - why create drama and stamp my feet and throw fits when, christ, I'm in the desert with the man and dogs I love; who cares how I'm climbing? Why not just have fun?

But that's what I do - I make a big deal out of things that aren't. Part of it, of course, is guilt. My life is so easy, if I were to only worry about huge problems, I'd never worry at all...I'd be just like Arnie. Sure, that'd probably be healthier, and god knows it'd be easier for my family and friends (and blog readers, because oh my god, believe me, even I'm getting tired of this love-hate-but-mostly-hate-lately affair I have with climbing; I can't imagine how you feel when you open up TWR and see yet another climbing post), but I'm not sure it's possible.

I love moving water more than anything else in nature. Its constant state of flux is calming to me because I, too, change moment to moment. I'm soothed by surf reports - even hundreds of miles from the nearest break - because they remind me that nothing is static, everything is a little bit different than it just was, and that's ok - it's natural. Exhausted and empty, I'm often a different person at 5 pm than I was at 5 am, when I hopped out of bed feeling happy. Like rivers and oceans, my moods surge and drain throughout the day.

The desert is different. Steadfast and still, its change is visible - just look at the arches - but slow. It ebbs and flows over decades, not hours, and while not always safe, it at least warns you when a storm is coming, when the calm is about to be rocked. My storms are far more sudden and unpredictable.

My friend, Kate, has recently begun to experiment with raw eating, and it sounds like it's working very well for her. Part of me wonders if a change in diet wouldn't help me regulate my energy and mood levels, but I'm so stubborn that as soon as I establish a rule for myself, I go out of my way to break it, just to prove that I can.

Maybe a better diet would help, but I'm so tired by the time I leave work and drive home that all my healthy, wholesome plans for the evening get trumped by eating chips and salsa for dinner and watching reruns of 30 Rock online. Since when am I so damn lazy?

I need to figure this out, though, because where I once ran 6 miles in the morning and did yoga and hiked with Arnie for two hours after work, I'm lucky now if I get out for a short jog or dog walk. I suppose I'm comparing myself to myself of fitness past again, but the thing is, I don't know where this new slothy version of myself is coming from. I don't like it, though - it's affecting my marriage, my happiness, my dog (I'm not the only one who could use more exercise...)...Where is this coming from? How do I fix it?

What do you expect from a country whose treasury secretary resembles Frodo Baggins?

2009-03-23T15:24:00.001-07:00

Don’t you think?

A little unnerving. Me thinks he might blow the whole $350 large buying rounds of mead for his short-statured buddies at the Prancing Pony.

Of course, he also resembles a leprechaun, which might indicate that he’s fiercely guarding our hard won pot of gold.

Another “I should have gone to grad school but I didn’t so I’m taking it out on you” Post.

2009-03-20T09:18:00.000-07:00

In my recent Yeats-reading fervor, I’ve been doing some external research (ahem, Wikipedia*, or Wikipaedia if you want to be fancy) on the man’s life. I know, I know, skimming a wiki page doesn’t count as “research,” but for all its shortcomings (lies, inaccuracies, completely made-up bullshit), it still provides a good lot of information, especially when it comes to lists of works – or oeuvres, if you want to be fancy**.

So I was reading Yeats’ list of works last night, deciding which of his poems or stories to tackle next, and I noticed an interesting statement in his bio.

“In 1997, (Yeats’) biographer R. F. Foster observed that Napoleon's dictum that to understand the man you have to know what was happening in the world when he was twenty ‘is manifestly true of W.B.Y.’”

I’d never heard that dictum, as I haven’t made a study of Napoleon’s quotes part of my oeuvre (ok, ok, I’ll stop). But I’m amazed at how true it seems. It brings to mind something I’m always yammering about – authenticity*** in writing. I recently accosted a new friend on the same subject, when he innocently asked who some of my favorite writers are. I’m sure he expected a list of four or five, not a three-page email explaining why, exactly, I adore Kay Boyle’s Death of a Man (because it is so tethered to its cultural and physical landscape, because it couldn’t have existed in any other time or place, because without the events of the world at the time of its writing, I wouldn’t have a highlighted, dog-eared copy of it on my bookshelf today).

And what I love about Yeats’ work (the little I’ve read) is sort of the same. He writes in the language of Ireland – his work firmly rooted in the landscape. But even so, he integrates mysticism and magic and possibility, which, in Ireland in the 1900s, one might truly have needed. Those weren’t the years of the Celtic Tiger, after all.

So it’s that. It’s that he can be authentic while spinning tales.

But good lord, no one asked. Next post? Back to pictures of dogs and climbing. I promise.

*Want to learn more about Wikiality? Check this out.

** I’ve been thinking about pretentious language lately, about how we use all-dolled-up words when a word in sweatpants would do. Part of it, I think, stems from cultural colloquialisms – the English of New England and the English of SoCal are vastly different. Same with the English of North America and that of the UK, especially in the way we hedge, or stall for time, or avoid saying what we want to say. Here, we’re prone to long “uummms,” and lots of “like, I means.” There, they say far cuter and more charming things, like, “so it would."

***I have no idea where my obsession with authenticity in writing came from. It’s especially weird because I read almost exclusively fiction…of course, I also frequently say, “there’s no such thing as fiction…it all comes from somewhere.”

Wisdom - now playing on a tea bag tag near you.

2009-03-19T08:27:00.000-07:00

“Your greatest strength is love,” said the tag on my tea bag this morning.

And for some reason, it stopped me. I read my tea bag tags every morning and afternoon, and usually I just nod in agreement – the adages are always pleasant enough – and move right on.

But today was different. As I flipped the tag over on my way up the stairs to my office, I stopped abruptly, the words hitting me hard.

“Of course it is,” I thought. “Why don’t I use it more?”

I think about my physical strengths constantly. In yoga class, pulling hard on my heels in pada-mustasana, I think about my engaging biceps and locking my knees. Climbing, I think about my core, core, core. Running, I think about my quads. Even at work, sitting on my ball at my desk, I think about straightening my spine, sitting tall, dropping my shoulders….it’s never-ending.

But all those things are limited. I only have so much physical strength, and when it’s tapped, that’s it. I can’t give any more.

But love and compassion? Those wells run so deep I don’t believe I’ve ever touched the bottom. This morning, cleaning Arnie’s ears (he is getting over a nasty ear infection), I thought, “I would do this every day – ten times a day – if that’s what it took to keep Arnie healthy and happy.”

And kissing Brad goodbye, I said, “Call me if you need anything today.” And now, remembering that, I realize that I’d stop everything to help him, to make sure he’s as happy as possible….

And that’s totally true, though, I suppose I don’t always show it. I don’t allow my love to be stronger than all the other, weaker emotions I’m feeling.

And sure, “we’re always hardest on those we love,” or whatever that expression is…but what a lame thing to say—and an even lamer to practice. I’m guilty of it, of course. Poor Brad withstands my wrath when it’s 11pm and I have to get up at 4:30 to fit a run in before yoga and I can’t sleep and “why is it so goddamn hot in this room?” Or when were climbing and he makes a minor suggestion that will only help me but I get defensive and angry and storm off and leave him there, partner-less.

Christ, I’m hard on him. The poor guy. There are times when he’d be justified in doubting my bottomless well of love.

I’ve always been strong. Strong muscles, strong back, strong will (to an extent). Even at my least fit I can do a dozen pull-ups and the Lord of the Dance pose.

So if love is my GREATEST strength – stronger than my shoulders and my quads and my arm-wrestling prowess – imagine what I could do with it.

…If I put it to use; if I let it beat all the other bullshit that clouds my judgment.

Of course, well sure, so there you go.

2009-03-18T20:19:00.000-07:00

I’ve mentioned this before, but my current travel obsession is the UK, and lately it’s expanded to include Ireland. Aside from my mild obsession with Celtic Thunder, I adore the work of William Butler Yeats – his belief in the possibility of the supernatural so strong one can’t help but agree with him, one can’t help but think that, perchance, the finches flocking to her backyard are there because they know how happy they make her husband, and did that small one just wink at her?

So there’s Yeats, of course, himself having grown up in County Sligo, near Strandhill and surfing and the Warrior’s Run, which I’d like to do if I ever happen to find myself on the coast of Ireland in late August.

But there’s more. There’s the lushness, the saturation of color and Earth and culture. It seems one can’t escape Ireland in Ireland, whereas one can barely find American culture in parts of this country. Christ, I grew up in a place where half the population handles snakes and speaks in tongues.

Ok, not really.

But that’s about it. Other than petting the dogs, climbing a little bit and doing some yoga, I’ve mostly been reading about Northern Ireland (fantastic Smithsonian article about the same) and the tenuous peace there…thinking about how lucky I am that I’ve never been targeted because of my beliefs or my last name or the street on which I live. It’s so far out of my realm of understanding – the unyielding tension that must come with such strife. And yet, for decades, the violent, tireless terrorism that has plagued Northern Ireland has been called, simply, "the troubles." Like, the guy at the petrol station in Derry should ask, "Well, having a bit of trouble with your car, so you are?" Or the guy in the surf shop in Strandhill should comment, "Having a wee bit of trouble on the white horses, aye?" But nothing, it seems, it too horrifying for the Irish to make quaint. I love that. I guess that's how they sleep at night. Like Julie, my favrite yoga teacher, mentioned recently: "Yeah, it's hot in this room, but you can't do anything about it, so why waste energy thinking about it?"

All this makes me think of a recent Onion headline, “Vacation to Israel Cancelled due to History of Israel.” That of course, reminds me of others, including one from Ireland, “Bar Fight Entering Third Year.”

Ah, I know I’m failing you, readers. I haven’t been keeping up with this blog, and when I do, it’s not really to impart anything super worthy or recall a cool trip; it’s just sort of, well, blahheresalltheboringstuffonmymindblah.

The truth? I’m actually writing a ton—for work, of course, but also personal stuff: poems, essays, spec articles. I’m not sharing that work here, though, because I’m not totally comfortable with it yet. I don’t know quite why. And as for the lack of trip reports, well, I’ve been a homebody lately, choosing to pore over maps and guidebooks that will lead to future big trips rather than driving 6 hours to climb for a day and a half before driving 6 hours back home. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a phase.

On another note? My garden is growing! I'll post pictures soon.

The Word "Whom" Deserves a Defender*

2009-02-27T17:46:00.000-08:00

I often face questions of grammatical style in my day job; medical writing rivals the deepest Southern dialects for “most made up words.” When people come to my cubicle to ask if “flowability” is hyphenated, my first response is, “I don’t know. Is flowability a word?”

With no grammatical style guide to reference, I’m free to make up my own rules. I get to decide, for example, that a comma before the “or” or “and” in a series is superfluous. Why? Because I think they’re stupid, and with no concrete rule telling me otherwise, I’m the boss on this one!

So is flowability hyphenated? No! Why? Because I said so!

Perhaps all this power has gone to my head. What was it Lord Acton said about absolute power? That it corrupts absol…oh who cares. He should have diversified his adjective and adverb.

But now a secret: I don’t know everything. At least ~~three~~ eleven times a week I’m stumped by a grammatical question, and because I don’t trust printed language manuals that are out of date before they’re fully printed (after all, “ours is a living language,” as one of my colleagues eloquently pointed out yesterday), I usually turn to that source of all that is true and good, the Internet.

Many of you may know Grammar Girl from her popular podcasts. For me, podcasts are kind of “meh,” because I can’t sing along to them at the top of my lungs while imagining myself in old jeans and a western shirt playing a beat-up Gibson in a Nashville studio alongside Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons (I know, he’s dead, but this is my fantasy and I can resurrect whomever I please). I just have to sit there and listen, and is it any surprise that I’m not very good at that?

But Grammar Girl also maintains a delightful website, where she posts transcripts of her podcasts for pod-non-believers like me. I visit her site ~~hourly~~ to check usage or recall a rule. The other day, I noticed her post on style guides.

It’s another in a string of great resources from Grammar Girl. She links to the Economist’s style guide, my favourite for its snooty disdain of "Americanisms" (it’s hilarious; I imagine it being read aloud from a parliamentary bench by a powdered-wig-wearing John Cleese-type sillyman). She also links to a map of language from the MLA, which I imagined as a map of colloquial language, of regional dialects. In fact, it's just a map of who speaks what language where, and isn't quite as detailed as I'd like it to be. Imagine, though, a map of the United States with the dialects in place. So, for example, Western PA would be listed as a place where people pronouce the "ow" sound like "ah." So it's "dahntahn," not "downtown." And Utah would be noted for its peoples' love of the past perfect and past future tenses. "She had gone with me. Were you going to come with us?" What? That doesn't even make sense! Here's another example, frequently used by receptionists, "What was your name?" No! No! My name IS what it is, was and will be! It hasn't changed, it won't be different tomorrow!

Good lord, I feel like one of these guys:

Well, anyway, you get my point. That's all I have for you tonight. Tomorrow will be a big day, so I'm off to bed.

* Many thanks to Liz Lemon for her dedication to good grammar.

What Updike Taught Me

2009-02-26T09:28:00.000-08:00

Over the weekend, I spent some quality time with The New Yorker.

The February 9th & 16th issue was largely Updike focused, in the wake of the great man’s death, and included two obituary tributes as well as several pages of snippets from the writing he’d done for the magazine over the years.

One of the snippets, from an early short story, “The Happiest I’ve Been,” hit me so squarely that I gasped – actually audibly, right there in the salon chair, prompting the woman applying my foils to drop the whole lot to the floor – in comprehension. Once again, as I have so many times before, I felt like the tall skinny man with the big nose was speaking directly to me.

It’s partially my huge ego, partially the Pennsylvania connection.

In the story, the main character, a younger Updike, according to popular opinion, says this of his – and my – homeland:

“There was the quality of the 10 a.m. sunlight as it existed in the air ahead of the windshield, filtered by the thin overcast, blessing irresponsibility—you felt you could slice forever through such a cool pure element—and springing, by implying how high these hills had become, a widespreading pride: Pennsylvania, your state—as if you had made your life.”

This is not a sentence oft critiqued by scholars reviewing “The Happiest I’ve Been.” This is not a sentence overly quoted by college freshmen, idealistic and hopeful in the development of their own writing styles. This is nothing, really, just another Updike sentence—but to me, it is poetry.

I know that 10:00 a.m. sunlight; I know those high hills. I love Pennsylvania with a ferocity otherwise reserved for my family and furry animals, so for me, that sentence makes the piece.

In a New York Times review of The Same Door, the book in which “The Happiest I’ve Been” appeared, William H. Pritchard comments on how Updike “taps the rich vein of nostalgic, guilty affection.” And it’s true. So poignant, the memories of home, but so small now, the buildings, the distances, the dreams. Where do you go once you’ve achieved everything you hoped for – staring out the window above your desk, bored by the familiar landscape – when you were 17?

A couple nights ago, climbing with a friend, I got on a new route rated near the limit of my redpoint ability. Whether it was softly graded or just my style, I climbed the first 25 feet with unusual grace. It felt easy. As I clipped the 5th bolt, I thought, “Oh shit, now I have to keep going.”

And isn’t that telling? I mean, suddenly it was so obvious to me why I haven’t climbed anything hard for years, why I can’t seem to improve. In that rare moment of unguarded thinking, when honesty trumped expectation, I said it all: I’m terrified of success, because I don’t know what the other side looks like. I don’t know how it feels to try something, not knowing the outcome.

I used to. I spent entire years floating from one thing to the next – mountain bike racing to African drumming to rock climbing to third world travel. I didn’t know what was coming next, and I didn’t care. I embarked on a year-long solo journey to Southeast Asia without even glancing at a guidebook. My mom knew more about Nepal than I did, and even as my parents sat with me at the airport gate (pre-9/11, they probably could have walked me right onto the plane if they’d wanted to), she was telling me about the climate, the currency, the cultural mores.

But, it’s scary now. Planes seem to be falling out of the sky with increased frequency. Our snow season has been, pardon the pun, unsettling. With several in-bounds avalanches early in the season, the mountains feel like a place far wilder and more unpredictable than the Wasatch. Every day there are more job cuts and bankruptcies; industries that built this country are collapsing around us.

How can we plan for the future when we don’t know what the future will look like?

So I’ve become a planner. My to do lists include such obvious reminders as, “play with dogs,” and “vacuum.” It’s compulsive, but it keeps me calm.

Of course, it also stops me from going too far, from trying too hard, from seeing what will happen. I don’t let the day unfold as it will; I force the day to fit my needs. I say, “Take!” while climbing, because if I don’t, I don’t know whether I’ll fail or succeed, and I don’t like not knowing.

(Is it any wonder I always have hamstring pain? Look how I constantly hamstring myself.)

Maybe this spring, as I plant my first garden and learn to accept growth as it comes – or doesn’t – in its own time, I’ll also learn to release the white-knuckled grip I feel like I need to have on every single aspect of my life. Maybe I’ll decide to try – really try – to climb a route, and not worry about falling off. Maybe in letting go, I’ll learn to hold on.

The only cure is a sundress

2009-02-20T18:44:00.001-08:00

It was 50 degrees today, sunny and clear. I bolted out of work at 3:00 pm and sped home to fetch the dogs; we made it to the trailhead by 3:27.

My old New Balance sneaks left deep prints on the soft ground. The boys splashed in the mud and sniffed the air - grass and earth and freshness and promise.

I love this time of year. All I can think about is going south to climb for the weekend, camping in the desert and heading home again on Sunday night dirty and tired and happy.

We have lots of plans for the next couple months. There's gardening, of course, but there's also Red Rocks and the Red River Gorge and Santa Barbara and Mexico and Elephant's Perch and the City of Rocks and, obviously, Indian Creek. Oh, and Zion.

Oh dear. Hard to fit it all in, but fun to try. Arnold and Red are game, too, and will be our constant companions, looking up and wagging their tails at us as we try and try and try to climb our projects before our strength fails, before dark, before the weekend is over and we have to drive home to shower up for work on Monday.

I'm looking forward to wearing sundresses and flip flops and being tan and having a sock line from running and approaches.

I never liked spring when I was younger. I always wanted to keep skiing. I still love to ski - it makes me really happy - but something about spring, about newness, growth, possibility, the ease of warm weather (ahem, not HOT weather, mind you...I'll be bitching about Utah temps come July), the desire to hightail it out of town, swimming with the dogs in the resovoir at the base of Big Cottonwood Canyon, daylight till 9 pm....

It feels right for me right now.

Well then. No excuses but laziness.

2009-02-17T18:09:00.000-08:00

Before I do anything else, there’s this:

Thank you, Jen.

This talented, generous woman, whom I adore despite having never even met her in person (we’ll remedy that soon), sent me a gorgeous scarf, intricately knitted in regal, deep purples. Here it is, up close so you can see the beautiful quality of the knit. Jen, I’ve asked this before, but seriously – is there anything you can’t do?

Here's the beautiful new addition to my wardrobe (shown on me as model, because I have not removed it for days):

I feel so lucky. Everyone should have a Jen in their lives.

Now then, as to what I’ve been doing that’s taken all my focus away from blogging:

I've been admiring this print,

And this artist,

And this artist,

And this blog.

My goodness. Donkeys and sheep and dogs, oh my!

I also just finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, by Barbara Kingsolver. Please read it; it’s beautiful.

A memoir of her family’s year growing most of its own food and committing to eating as locally as possible, Kingsolver’s book was never preachy or judgmental. In fact, it was hopeful and eye-opening. I am not a gardener; I do not like manual labor. That said, after reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I’ve decided that it’s time to start “voting with my dollars” in terms of our nation’s food industry. For the record, I’ll be voting with Brad’s dollars, too.

So I’m going to grow fruits and vegetables (we already have absurdly prolific peach and apricot trees). I’m going to till and plant and tend and harvest. Then I’m going to dry and blanche and freeze and can. In doing so, I hope that we can convey to the food industry that we do not approve of the excessive petroleum required to ship us bananas in Utah in February, of the minimal wages paid to the farmer, of the majority of our food dollars going to the shipment of the food, rather than the farmer.) We’ve bought a share of a grass-fed cow (the noshing fellow was raised just a few miles away from our house), so that, from our own little kitchen, we can tell world that we do not approve of the way that feedlots raise animals and our corn production.

So there.

Hhhmph.

That's all I have for you tonight.

When the News Makes Me Smile

2009-02-10T07:15:00.000-08:00

Ah, another delightful story in the morning’s news – this one about the origins of some of the Muppets.

We all know how much I adore the Muppets – the combination of furry animals and silly nonsense completely delights my inner child. And my outer adult.

My favorite take-aways from this story are the “other” Oscars the grouch – “In Pakistan, his name is Akhtar and he lives in an oil barrel. In Turkey, he is Kirpik and lives in a basket. And in Israel, it's not Oscar at all -- it's his cousin, Moishe Oofnik, who lives in an old car” – and the knowledge that the Count was quite the ladies’ man, having been romantically “linked to Countess von Backward, who loves to count backward; Countess Dahling von Dahling and Lady Two.”

What a nice way to start the day.