Dear Void,

Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever looks at this blog. I think, "perhaps all of my comments just go out into that cosmic void that no one ever sees nor hears." And it made me a little sad, that perhaps no one really cared what was written here or what I really think about things.

But this morning, I realized that perhaps that is a good thing. I can write things...just for me. And it doesn't really matter what I say. I guess many people have blogs just because they like to write and it's not for anyone to read or see, but if they do, that's just great.

So, I guess that's what this blog is going to be. And I'm kind of excited about that prospect.

Working on it

So, I've started working on my essay for my application to the School of Education. It's due in...oh, like 3 weeks, and I am sooo nervous! I need to follow the prompt exactly, but I want it to be a memorable essay, not just a dime a dozen collection of words. Anyway, when I'm done, which should be within about a week, I'll post it on here and you can decide.

hmmmmmmmm..................

Time and Place

So, I have this list of places and things I want to see in my life. Moments I want to capture with my internal lens and treasure them as I do so many other experiences from my life.

For as long as I can remember, my family has watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade from the time we get up until Santa shows up on the screen a few hours later. We sit in our pajamas and watch from the comfort of our couch, cereal or toast in our hands, ooing and ahhing at the floats and bands. But you know, one day, I want to be standing on the street, shivering in the New York cold, tasting the beauty of that Thanksgiving moment.

I've been to Washington, D.C., yes. But in my dreams, I see myself walking through an immense crowd, everyone in Red, White and Blue, celebrating the Birth of our Nation. What a beautiful moment that would be, too see fireworks bursting across the National Mall, engulfing the world in celebration! Standing on the steps of the Capitol Building breathing in the moment of joy as our great Nation celebrates the moment when over two-hundred years ago, fifty-six men pledged their Lives, their Fortunes, and their Sacred Honor that we might live free.

Whether or not I am influenced because my Dad served his mission in Italy or not, I do not know. What I do know, is that I long to catch a glimpse of Carnivale in Venice. Not only would I be breathing in the air of a city so ancient and full of life that I would probably clog my lungs, but I would get to see the gay costumes of the age, detailed and spectacular masks, and soak in the moments of a life that is... Venice.

There's no way Fall could be prettier anywhere but New England. There's a magic about the way the leaves coat the ground in musical confetti and the town seems to jump into a cozy sweater of golds, reds, and chocolate browns. I'd love to spend a fall in Massachusetts or Maine, soaking in the moment as leaves topple gently to the ground, just begging to be gathered into a pile.

There isn't really a time of year that I wouldn't LOVE to be in London, but who wouldn't want to mosey through Hyde Park at Christmas? Not too many places decorate the city like London does. From Christmas trees in Trafalgar Square, to Snowflakes hanging from wires on Oxford Street, to ice skating by the Natural History Museum, this city comes alive with lights and gaiety during the Holiday Season. A million moments of breathtaking beauty can be found in London, especially during the celebration of our Savior's birth.

I know I could go on for hours, spouting off brief sketches of the moments I long to tack onto my life. But I suppose the real beauty of life, is that there are so many moments to be lived and so many to treasure. Life brings the opportunity to cherish, love, and learn from those moments, photographs of life that we hold inside us and occasionally share with those we love. I can't wait to spend even more moments in this world and add to my album of memories.

YAY!

I have to tell someone! One of the curators here at Special Collections where I work, just offered to write me a letter of recommendation for my application to the History Teaching Major. Totally of his own accord, without ANY soliciting on my part. YAY!

Pages

I was looking at my recommended reading list, and realized that I could probably go on forever. In fact, I believe I will go on forever, adding to the ranks beautiful books that inspire.
Derek and I were talking about the Pulitzer Prize yesterday as we walked home from campus. He asked what it takes to get the Pulitzer Prize. I said that it goes to an article, book, play, etc. that is "earth shattering", something that changes the way we look at some one, something, some event, because of what was written. For example, Truman, by David McCullough. It looks into the mind of a man who made a decision that, literally, shook the earth. A man who changed the lives of--well everyone. And that book...well, it did the same. Just not quite as literal of a sense.

That made me think, about the extraordinary impact of words, the Power of the Press. And you know, perhaps I could put into my own words how I feel, and I think someday I will. But for now, I'll let a Prophet of the Lord say it for me.

President Gordon B. Hinckley once said,

"It is both relaxing and invigorating to occasionally set aside the worries of life, seek the company of a friendly book and mingle with the great of the earth, counsel with the wise of all time,. ..Youth will delight in the heroic figures of Homer; or more modern, will thrill to the silent courage of Florence Nightingale, on the battlefield...The power of Cicero's oratory may awaken new ambitions in the middle age, or the absurdity of Don Quixote riding mightily against a windmill may make your own pretentiousness seem ridiculous;...From the reading of "good books" there comes a richness of life that can be obtained in no other way. It is not enough to read newspapers....But to become acquainted with real nobility as it walks the pages of history and science and literature is to strengthen character and develop life in its finer meanings."

Amen.

Imagine

I cannot profess to agree with everything John Lennon did nor all that he said. But I must say, one of the most beautiful songs in rock history is Imagine. I sometimes look at our world, and feel the despair of countries where horrible things happen, simply because someone is different. Looking back through history, the horrific images in our texts all relate to this fact: someone thought they were superior to another and felt they had a right to desecrate that which they held most dear. Often times, this was the very breath in their chests.

So yes, this time I do agree with John Lennon...if only we could respect one another as children of God. And not see the differences in each others skin, in each others faith, in each others language. Just....imagine what the world would be like then.

Imagine there’s no heaven
it’s easy if you try
no hell below us
above us only sky
imagine all the people living for today

Imagine there’s no countries
it isn’t hard to do
nothing to kill or die for
no religion too
imagine all the people living life in peace

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
no need for greed or hunger
a brotherhood of man
imagine all the people sharing all the world

You may say
I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
and the world will live as one

Hello Again

So, this poor blog has been seriously neglected. Since I haven't posted anything since December, I decided I should at least write...something.

So here it is.

SOMETHING.

Dream

this is something I wrote a few years ago. thought I'd post it.

I had this crazy dream a few nights ago. I was dead, in my dream of course, and I was wandering around an absolutely gorgeous landscape. Huge mountains cut high up into the sky, drawing my eyes upward to the beauty of the fluffy white clouds. But the sweet grass beneath my toes felt so incredible; I had to look down to make sure it was real. Oh yes, it was! Beautiful rolling hills of grass, tall trees dotting the turf in an effort to clothe it in shade filled my eyes with wonder. Bright wildflowers were scattered here and there in clumps, dancing together in the breeze, enjoying the sun that coddled their petals.

But this beautiful landscape was nothing compared to the people that were walking beside me: it was my family; my brother and my sisters, my parents, my sisters with different surnames, and a few of the boys who have become my brothers in this mortal life. But there was a man holding my hand; a man who was strong and sweet, gentle and firm, the man who had stolen my heart. He smiled at me as I gazed at him and I felt peace only true love can bring. Running in front of us, were half a dozen children, all calling back to me “Mommy look at me!” “Mommy, look at how fast I can run!” I laughed at the sheer pleasure I felt at being there with them, the joy they brought in my life, now my afterlife. I felt my heart melt as the man at my side let go of my hand, and began to run ahead with the children, scooping the smallest and slowest up in his arms, racing the very breeze that encouraged their feet. He turned back and shouted my name, beckoning with his hand. I turned to my mother, who was beside me and gave her a smile. She nodded, and I took off. I left the others behind and ran to catch up with my husband and children.

As we dashed across the green, I watched my children grow up before my eyes. The dark golden locks of my girls’ hair shimmered as they flew in the breeze, their features becoming more womanly with every leap and bound. My boys, my sweet boys, began to take huge strides, their powerful muscles propelling them forward, farther and farther away from me. I watched their shoulders broaden and their hands become strong and protective, just like their father’s.

Soon more joined us, grabbing the hands of my children as we ran, gazing at them with the same joy I felt when I looked at the man who once again held my hand in his. They were beautiful girls, clinging to the hands of my sons; tall, protective men gently caressing the fingers of my daughters. They ran with us, and then my babies were running in different directions, sending their love back in sweet sentences of pure adoration, their hands clasped tightly to the one they loved.

The man of my dreams gently slowed our pace with the pressure in his hand, until we were strolling through the meadows, the flowers and trees our only companions in the stillness of the day.

It was incredible: the beauty, the perfection, and the absolute joy. But just as all dreams do, this one ended with the sound of my alarm. The mountains vanished; their majesty melted into the cinderblock of my walls. The grass faded into the softness of my cotton sheets and the flowers morphed into the photographs on my walls. I was alone again, my pillow and slumbering roommate my only companions. Sighing, I was determined to return to this place, this haven. But of course, it didn’t happen; the responsibility in my spirit reared its ugly head, and I swung my feet over the side of the bed, the beauty of the grass and trees dissolving completely.

My Closet and I

I went through my closet this morning, looking for something to wear. I was running a little late, and the only thing I cared about was: comfort. Bright purple looked great, and so I pulled the simple, long sleeve tee off the hanger, and tossed it onto my bed.

Five minutes later, I was pulling it on and suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a memory. The last time this purple shirt had been dropped over my head, I was on my way out the door of 27 Palace Court, headed towards Green Park and Buckingham Palace. I nearly cried, as I pressed my face into the fabric, hoping beyond all hope, that somehow the smell of London would still be there, clinging to the fibers of the fabric. I searched for any sign of the delicious smell of rain, the polished scent of the glass windows of the Victoria and Albert, the ancient smell of the British Museum, the devastatingly beautiful green of Hyde Park. Unfortunately, the only smell that soaked my nostrils, was that of Tide, the laundry detergent that washed out all the pleasant memories of a past life.

I guess clothes can do that to you, bring back a memory. I remember what I was wearing on my first date, the dress I was wearing to audition for All-State Choir, the shoes I wore when I stepped off the plane in Rome, the shirt I was wearing when I puked my guts out into my sink, the pajamas I wore when I broke up with a boyfriend.

My closet is full of more than just clothes; it's full of days in the sunshine, nights with a million stars overhead, walks along the Tiber River, wind blowing at Versailles, and the hugs I gave my nephew the first time I held him in my arms. If walls could talk, imagine what amazing stories they would tell. If clothes could talk, just think of the people they've met, the hugs they've given, the cold they've banished, the places they've been, the defining moments they've influenced.

Maybe someday, we'll sit and have a chat, my closet and I.

Rain, Rain; Please Don't Go Away.

It rained this morning. Actually, to be completely honest, it's raining right now. My window is propped open, letting the cool air circulate through my room, causing my poor heater to have a nervous breakdown.

There's something about rain though, that is amazing. I don't know if it's because of a simple song I learned as a young child, about how rain makes the earth clean and new, or if it's because rain brings on a certain level of comfort that you just can't find any other place.
It's the kind of comfort that makes you want to curl up on the couch, a fuzzy blanket wrapped around you, hot chocolate and cookies at your side, with a fantastically romantic novel in your hands.

There's a smell that accompanies the drops that scatter across the sidewalk, cling to the blades of grass, and soak your hair. It's the smell of mom baking cookies, soaking your nostrils with perfection the second you walk through the door after school. It's the exhilarating smell of running through puddles with your siblings, giggling as you splash each other and squealing with pleasure as your clothes begin to resemble wet paper bags. Rain takes you back to the city you love; the way the sidewalk smells as millions of people walk to work, the way the Thames rises up the edges of the dock. The way the Tube seems to become an incredible haven from a downpour. And the smell of rain thrusts you back to moments when you were held close by someone you loved; the way the water drips down his hair into his eyes, making them look bluer than usual, if that's even possible. The way he grins as he shakes the tree branch above you, causing a million and one droplets to suddenly cascade onto your face and neck. Rain brings the smell of wet kisses by the bell tower, hugs underneath trees, moments so completely perfect, you have to reread your journal, just to make sure they actually occurred.

What is it REALLY though, about rain that makes it wonderful? I guess I couldn't tell you in one sentence, not even five or nine.
If you think I'm crazy, just wait until the first snow.....