Orchids through Darwin's Eyes

Yesterday A. Todd and I had visited the newly opened American History museum and found an hour on our hands before the other Smithsonian museums closed. We decided to run through the Natural History museum next door. Now this is the type of museum I don't usually choose. I think it'll be great fun one day when I have kids and we can talk about the giant whale hanging from the ceiling or the real and very scary giant squid in the case, or the humongous woolly elephant in the front lobby. Or the dinosaur bones. Or the Egyptian mummies.Well we happened upon a temporary exhibit: Orchids through Darwin's Eyes, and it was literally a breath of fresh air to these very non-scientific eyes. I could actually smell the room before we arrived, and I was in heaven.Now I haven't always loved orchids. I have always loved flowers, but I prefer more natural flowers that don't require such care. I love wild flowers and I love the mix and match of color and shape and size. I love having fresh flowers in my home, even if they are the cheap things from the grocery store (but apparently no tiger lilies for me! I had the most delightful bright orange lilies this week until my roommate informed me she is allergic. Alas!)

I honestly couldn't tell you anything about how Darwin actually used flowers in his research--I was only eyes for the color and nose for the smell in this exhibit. But I love the idea. I love the ability to manipulate and care and nurture and observe something and then watch the results--to learn and take note and try again. I love the ability to use beauty to produce beauty, the process of learning the laws of nature through careful observation and appreciation. I want to do the same. I want to live my life that way.

And I want spring. Oh how I want spring. Spring with its sun and blossom and fresh green and hope.

History, Memory, and Material Culture: An Abandoned Cause... or is it?

This is the subject of my minor field statement. I've been pouring over Freud, Halbwachs, and Nora, over public history, museums, monuments, and quilts, trying to figure out what I mean and how to say what I mean.

It is the least of my intentions to put you through the rough, ragged pieces of my semester's headaches. Instead, I want to share with you the lived embodiment of history, memory, and material culture I experienced on Saturday with Randall. On our way to a great little cafe in Adams Morgan, he pointed out the historic former LDS church on 16th St. NW, now owned by the Unification founded by Korean religious leader Sun Myung Moon, popularly known as the Moonies.

The building is itself a fascinating story. This stretch of 16th Street became the place to be for respectable American churches in the 1920s. Tall, imposing stone structures line both sides of the street in the neighborhood in an effort to claim stake to the national capital. About the same time as the National Cathedral a few blocks over, and the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception over in NE DC, this "Street of the Churches" includes St. John's, First Baptist, Foundry United Methodist, Universalist National Memorial, National City Christian Church, and on and on. So the Mormons took advantage of the property and built this beautiful structure, using the same stone used in the Manti Temple in Utah, and including stained glass unique to Mormon tradition and theology.

Unfortunately, the race riots of the 1970s proved problematic for the neighborhood, and with the suburban sprawl and the decline of inner-city membership, the Church abandoned the imposing stone edifice, focusing attention on chapels outside the District and, of course, the majestic temple on the beltway. A few years later, the Unification Church bought the property and has made heroic efforts to maintain the building. East coast humidity has not done well with the stone of dry central Utah. The baptistry and gym have been updated into office space, and the building is rented out to several different denominations to pay for upkeep.

Wow--Salt Lake or DC?

The stone and spires, reminiscent of the Salt Lake temple, remind the passersby of earlier times, of efforts not only to make the Western desert bloom as a rose, but for the fledgling American religion to stake its ground, its identity, and its culture on the streets of the national capital.

The stained glass on the top left and right have representations of Utah mountains, introducing geographical differences between the cradle of the Mormon Church in the West and the fertile East Coast. And the window in the middle is a map of North America. Each block below has flowers.

A part of me wants to see the building rescued, to prevent the danger of lost history and effort. But the realistic preservationist in me recognizes the expense. The history of demolished Mormon buildings is a touchy subject for many in Utah. While the LDS Church has certainly developed and maintained a strong presence, the history of that development is a beautiful tribute to the inner-city Mormon pioneer--not one who crossed the plains with handcarts and wagons, but one who braved the city and built a monument. Even if it's just a memory.

If you zoom in, you can see the engraving, "The Glory of God is Intelligence" under the window.

Doubt

One is off. Another is close. My toenails, I mean. (Before you faint of heart quit reading, take courage. This post is not about toenails). Last Saturday at yoga, every time I went into down dog or forward fold, the very first thing my eyes were drawn to was the missing deep red toenail. I can't bear to look at it. It just bothered me that I could not get away from the one thing that looked so different than all the rest.

On Friday night Tiffany and I caught a showing of the movie Doubt. It was fascinating--riveting, actually. I highly recommend it. Especially because I can't stop thinking about it. I even dreamed about it. There's a power in suspicion, in doubt. I was drawn to Phillip Seymour Hoffman's Father Flynn character because of his compassion and his ability to question and grapple. I was intrigued by Meryl Streep's character--Aloysius (now there's a name), and the way she dealt with her own insecurities by heaping them onto other people. And I was haunted by the contrasts among nuns and priests, among children and adults, among whites and blacks, men and women.

So why a post on doubt, suspicion, and conflict on a blog that's supposed to be about tender mercies, you may ask? Because I do NOT want to turn into this:Because that character turned out to be more motivating to me than anything else. I watched as one insecurity led to suspicion cast outside of herself to planting seeds in other people, to really solidifying doubt. And I'm intrigued by Father Flynn's observation of doubt in his opening sermon: that it can be a unifying force, much like faith. One suspicion leads to another, leading to a fragmented unity that pierces and divides much more than it can ever truly unite.

That night I dreamed about some of my own personal suspicions and doubts. It was as if I was outside myself, because I saw what I am becoming--a product of my own insecurities on several different levels. In the power of dream-land, I literally cast off that negativity, and I felt myself surrounded by light and hope. It was incredible.

So this is my tender mercy. I love how Jeffrey R. Holland says that the greatest, most hopeful word is repent. I love letting go and changing. I yearn to turn my doubts into hopes, both in myself and in the people around me. Instead of fearing my bumpy under-toenail because it's so different, I want to value it as a medal--a tribute to a marathon and to many miles. Too many miles. It sets me apart.

Duct Tape, a Rubberband, and a Screwdriver, or How to be Resourceful

The other day my hair cutter and I were joking about some guy she was seeing who fixed his broken stick shift with a screwdriver--meaning he stuck a screw driver in the hole and used it to shift gears.

It reminded me of my Grandad and how he could fix just about anything with some duct tape and a rubber band. We would come home and find all sorts of home repairs in all sorts of "creative" ways, even if the kitchen sink faucet had to turn the wrong way or the cupboard door was accidentally hung upside down. I used to wonder what it would be like to be able to afford a "real" repair or a new item.

I guess I've come to appreciate the ability to be resourceful. We've had a problem at work with cold temperatures. In the past I've had a space heater at my feet, blowing warm bliss on me all day long. Well apparently Mason has decided to go "green" (will someone please explain to me what that really means?!?), meaning no space heaters.

That's where our handy HR guy Andy has stepped up to the plate. He has all the resourcefulness of my Grandad in office bureaucracy, and I love it. He found a stipulation somewhere that says that all GMU buildings must be kept at 70 degrees. So he decided to prove our case merited the use of space heaters because we are well below the requirement. He had the admin buy a bunch of digital thermometers and spread throughout the center in various offices and labs. He included a spreadsheet and asked us all to jot down the time and the temperature. All proof that the system has failed us, freezing digital historians that we are (we joke that with the budget cuts we'll have to start building fires in the garbage cans again).

The thermometer in my wing has pretty consistently said 67 or 68 degrees. I am here with long johns, a turtleneck, a blanket, and my pashmina, my hands are freezing, and it's supposedly a balmy high 60s? Weird.

Well Monday we had enough "proof" for the facilities guy to come check out the problem. He plugged his laptop into the thermostat in the wall, which recorded a perfect 70 degrees. Then Andy figured it out. The thermostat is right next to the door, which has a swipe card entry. The door knobs are always a little warm from the mechanized security thing in the wall right there (not hot, because we all learned in elementary school to feel the door knob and if it's hot, to stop, drop, and roll, right?). This does not take into account the cold air blowing elsewhere. There was no way to explain this to the facilities guy, who simply goes by what his computer tells him. Grrrrrrr...

So Andy figured it out. He strapped those little lunch box ice packs onto each thermostat, and soon the temperature went up. We're finally feeling like we can pull our hands out of our armpits to type. Genius.

So today's message: be a thinker. Figure out how to work through the problem and find a creative solution. I love using my brain for out-of-the box answers. Now if I can just do that with my minor field statement...

Richmond Dispatch

I love discovering new things and new places... and being pleasantly surprised. Yesterday I drove down to Richmond with Marni for a delightful day. We met up with Chad and Melissa for a tour of the John Marshall House (yes, I finagled my way into a tour over the phone on Friday... supposedly they are closed to individual tours in January and February, but when I told him I'm a descendant of Marshall and I'd only be in town for a day, he made special arrangements for us). It was a beautiful 18th-century home (although I'll be honest--I was a bit suspicious about some of the period pieces in there and some of the stories told. Did John Marshall really sit in that embroidered chair and read Jane Austen? Really?) and I am proud of my ancestors (go, go, judicial review!). And there were some very cool parts of the house--the shutters built into 8 panels to fit just perfectly into the wall, the tromp L'oeil floor canvas, the crown molding, the pompoms (18th-century!) on the baby quilt...

We had lunch at a delightful Irish pub (nothing like yummy potato soup!), then Chad and I headed to the Virginia state capitol. The building was designed by Thomas Jefferson and the U.S. Capitol was patterned after this one. It was beautiful--unfortunately all my pictures inside turned out pure black (do you think Thomas was holding his finger over the lens simply because I said I didn't love Jefferson as much as Lincoln?).

The pristine white against the blue sky was breathtaking.

Being an army officer over a bunch of Southern soldiers, Chad really wanted to go to the Museum of the Confederacy. It was interesting... all this stuff about the War of Northern Aggression and the bumper stickers around! Too bad we didn't have time to stop at the Civil War Museum at Tredegar for a nice little comparison.

Seriously seen on a black truck... I love me some Confederates in the Attic...

All in all, I must say that I really like Richmond. There was so much to do and so many great architectural delights all over the city. I loved rounding the corner as we looked for the Confederate White House to see this Egyptian-style hospital in the middle of the VCU Medical School complex. So many other Art Deco and Art Nouveau buildings. Who knew in Richmond, Virginia?

Cupcake Disaster

Lest you think I am a veritable Martha Stewart (said in jest because we all know the reason I'm not married is because I can't bake bread, wink wink!), let me present to you my latest disaster.

Because this year church doesn't start until 3:00, leaving me nearly a full day of appropriate Sabbath day activity, and because Marni and I planned a delightful Sunday dinner with Russ, Greg, Jon, and Sue after church and I was in charge of dessert, and because I've been craving summer food, I attempted the innocent-sounding tangerine cupcakes.

Looks like we really are still on for six weeks of winter, folks. I'm so sorry for my contribution to that.

I swear the only ways I swerved from the printed recipe were these:

• I used regular flour instead of cake flour (come on... does it REALLY make a difference?)
• My buttermilk had been frozen and had thawed
• I used real orange juice instead of orange juice concentrate

Does any of that merit the mess you see before you? Seriously, people. There was nothing cake about it. The dough seemed fine, it even bubbled over its allotted 2/3 filling, leaving a nice golden brown ring around the edges of each cup. But then it magically shrunk down to 1/4 of a measly inch, leaving this awful gooey lemon bar-filling-type of nastiness... nothing like the vanilla cake with tangerine peel I had envisioned. I don't get it.

At least my butter pecan ice cream turned out beautifully.

Summer Food in the Dead of Winter

Last week's ice storm and the continuing frigid temperatures have driven me to soups. This week I made chicken tortilla and Italian sausage. Delightful. And I've been downing hot chocolate and marveling in its secret warming powers.

But today is Friday. And I'm tired of winter. I'm tired of warm sweaters and flannel sheets. It's no longer January, but secretly, I'm tired of February. I'm tired of deceptive sun outside on my patio with a temperature of 34.

So I concocted a summer lunch today: toasted wheat bagel with melted provolone cheese, added cream cheese, cherry tomatoes, and avacado. I don't know why that's summer food, but it is. Avacados grow in warm places, right? And those cherry tomatoes were practically garden tomatoes compared to the dreary cheap romas I've been bringing home. It was an excellent combination. All sorts of summer now in my tummy.

Just for that, I'm going to make butter pecan ice cream for Sunday dinner. And I'm dying to try a tangerine coconut cupcake recipe tomorrow.

Toenails and Pirates, Oh My!

Every once in a while, even in the dead of winter, something really interesting happens. Like this morning I was in a rush home from the gym out of the shower bundling into my warm clothes to get to work to put in my week's hours to get home to work on my next minor field statement (phew!), as I put on my socks, I discovered that not one, not two, but yes THREE of my toenails are about to come off. Hanging on by a thread. One that I did not examine closely because it seriously freaks me out. I swear they were fine yesterday.

This has never happened to me before. Four marathons and countless long runs, 18 months wandering the streets of southern Italy, 2 years of whisking through New York City, and I've lost nary a toenail. In fact, I've had very very few blisters. I have feet of steel. Or just tough feet. (oh that my heart were as tough!)

I hopped in to work, where my new assignment with the Papers of the War Department has me annotating documents requesting the delivery of cannon shot for certain U.S. frigates in 1797, or recommending the appointment of a nephew to a naval lieutenancy or surgeon's mate. Twenty hours a week of perusing such documents can lead to sleepy eyes and unimpressed brain cells yearning (yes yearning) to work out my minor field statement at home.

When, today, what to my wandering eyes should appear, but a letter fresh from the pen of Samuel Hodgdon, Commissioner of the Commissary, to Israel Wheaton, 21 July 1800. He was very concerned about a shipment going through the dangerous waters fraught with Mediterranean pirates. He warned Wheaton to make sure to have enough to pay off the Jews as a sort of bounty to get through, and then he enclosed a list of supplies, including fine India muslin, china with red, blue, and green flowers, red birds and cages, squirrels, mahogany, and other sundries. Sounds like a movie to me. Check it out here (click on image to see the letter).

As I read, I curl my toes in my boots and I can feel my depleted toenails. Why now, I ask? I haven't been running much lately--too cold in these parts. All I know is that when these suckers come off, they're going straight in the mail to little Kim Ethington, my greenie from our days in old Italy. It's a sort of bounty repayment for the toenail she lost after I marched her through the cobblestone streets of Foggia (while she sang "The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota" to me at the top of her lungs). She kept the toenail in a special place, and even took it with her--a badge of honor--to show her fellow MTC compadres at our district conference in Bari. There, in the Sheraton Hotel, I accidentally dropped the precious toenail. We spent hours (ok, minutes before the mission president's wife saw us) scouring the floral carpeting there in the ballroom, to no avail. And she hasn't let me forget.

Little Kim soaking her feet after a long day's work in our awesome lovely digs

Kinda makes you wonder what else is on tap for today. Lions and tigers and bears? Or just toenails and pirates?

Here is a true Italian pirate: Laura di Bari...
She's seriously wearing enough eye makeup for all 3 of us
AND she's clinging to my neck. I didn't think I was going to get away alive.

I Dare You...

Sometimes you have to do hard things. I've had some toilet issues (which is actually pretty funny because the discussion with some friends at work lately has been an invention to prevent your toilet from overflowing). I've tried to ignore it, along with ignoring my minor field statement and a growing stack of mail that I've been afraid to open.

Friends, these are things you cannot ignore.

So this morning, after pushing snooze a few times because of the beauties of working from home and having no class (see above about minor field statements), I found the courage. I grabbed my handy dandy repair book (thank you, Lisa, for the best Christmas gift a single girl can have!) and I unclogged my toilet. Then I cleaned my bathroom. It's now sparkling (not that I don't scrub it down every Saturday--it just got away from me this weekend). There's nothing like the strong smell of bleach and Swiffers before 7 am (it may or may not do a number on an empty stomach, as does the smell of a clogged toilet, but bleach is much more comforting).

All to the tunes of my Buck Up playlist (you don't even want to know what's on there. It may or may not include some James Taylor, Barry Manilow, Bob Marley, Dianna Krall, Mo-Tab, and Peter Breinholt).

Now... I dare myself to attack my minor field statement... and taxes... and bills...

Catch Up on Aprons

I've been meaning to post these pictures for a long time now. There's no time like now, when I'm procrastintaing a Sunday School lesson, a minor field statement, making more aprons, cleaning, you name it...This is for sweet Lindi... I loved the bright flowers and big, bold print!


Julie--what can I say--the most exciting Visiting Teaching companion I've had in YEARS... with new baby Bronco and all. It's like a smock. This is the back and front. I hear this apron has become a great feeding cover!

This was for my mom for her birthday. I love the bold print.

I made matching aprons for my sister Lisa and my two nieces: Sierra and Savannah.

When I was at home for Christmas, I delved through Mom's crazy fabric stash to make aprons for GranNomi and Aunt Nita. I also made one for Barbara the Favorite, but I forgot to take a picture. It was a really cool teal blue-ish color. I LOVE picking out colors and patterns that I think my recipients will like.

For a gift card exchange party, I offered an apron. Alicia was the lucky winner with this little piece.

I made this one for Marni... very similar to one I made for my friends' annual white elephant exchange in Salt Lake City. I love the pompoms and the ric rac and the loop for a dish towel.

Stay tuned for more creations...

Inaugural

Yeah--this is what I get from being SHORT. I held my camera up and stood on my tiptoes for this shot. Tells you something about my view. Thank goodness for the jumbo tron nearby--although I had to constantly shift because all the tall people moved into my little window.

I just learned this from the OED:

inaugural: adjective OR noun--having to do with an inauguration
inaugurate: verb--to admit or induct a person to an office or dignity by a formal ceremony; to consecrate, install, invest. To invest a thing with a sacred or supposed sacred character.

Pretty cool, huh?

Before we even got to security we waited in a line that stretched all the way to the Air & Space Museum. Crowd control was a minor issue--although the news reported no problems, I had friends who couldn't get in with their tickets as other spectators crashed through barriers. Mostly there was a lot of respect and kindness in the air. And a LOT of garbage. I've never seen so much in my life.

I trekked in with the masses to the 44th Presidential Inaugural yesterday and I reveled in the excitement. The air was invigorating.

King Street metro at 6:30 am... while the train wasn't too bad going into the District (other than the woman who actually threw up on Jenette & Deidre!), the L'Enfant station was jammed full and it took forever to get out onto the street above.

And secretly, I hoped to become an Obama convert. Don't get me wrong--I think he's a pretty cool cat. I think he has some valuable ideas and great skill at organizing the masses and getting things done on a local level. I love his family and I'm super excited to have kids in the White House. But to be completely honest, I wasn't entirely convinced. Some of his ideas hit me in a negative way.

After the ceremony we stopped by the Utah Delegation Reception to warm up and snag some fruit and cookies. We watched the Bush family leave via helicopter and realized that walking helped us to stay warm.

BUT... I was there. I wonder if part of inauguration means to sustain and support. While I realize I have some fundamental ideological differences of opinion, I sustain and support President Obama as my nation's leader. I believe in his push for sacrifice and service (although for the life of me I do NOT understand why these are supposedly new concepts at this time?!?). I felt the exciement and the renewed vigor of the masses as they cheered and cried, as they waved their flags and bowed their heads in prayer.

I was dressed in so many layers I felt like a giant ball of stuff--handwarmers everywhere, thermals, sweaters, sock liners, glove liners, hats, scarves. All the extra weight made my back and shoulders hurt! And my pockets were full of snacks and water because supposedly we couldn't bring bags into the area--although we saw tons of people with big bags.

It was magical. One day I'll tell my kids I was there.

Rather than brave the crazy ridiculous crowds at the metro on the way home, Yvette and I walked all the way from Eastern Market, down past the parade, to the 14th Street bridge, then on the George Washington trail to Crystal City. Long walk, but it felt great to move. And it took us just a little bit longer than the rest of our group's metro trip. I fell asleep last night at 9:30. Dog tired.

Anticipation!

You must know... the air in this neck of the woods is dancing with anticipation. Tomorrow is a big day! Regardless of your political leanings (and you may have noticed that I tend to refrain from posting my political leanings. I have them. I just hesitate to display them. I watch the political junky news shows and I listen to others and develop my own ideas and I really don't like it when others assume I believe the same as they do!), it's a big day for the country. And no greater place to understand that then here in the nation's capital.

And guess what?!? I have tickets! A friend of a friend... it's so delightful to have Washington connections coming out of my ears around here. They're not great... silver, standing room, behind the capitol reflection pool, but they're inaugural tickets... I get to go through security... and attend a reception after... (although don't you think the Utah reception will just have brownies and punch? How much would you laugh if they had jello? or BYU sparkle? At least let's hope they are those mint brownies! You know exactly which ones I'm talking about...)

It's been all over the news for weeks now. Road closures, bridge closures, weather reports, maps, crowd control. In fact, electric signs started appearing on the freeways a week ago, stating "DC event Jan. 20." My university finally decided to cancel their scheduled first day of class for Tuesday (which makes me ask myself, when did they realize that 20 January 2009 would be inauguration? I mean, it's been that way for over 50 years, people! The 4 March inauguration hasn't happened in decades!). And flags everywhere. The big gorgeous banners lining the capitol. Flags all along Pennsylvania Avenue for the parade route. All the metro buses have flags rippling in the wind.

It's the buzz in conversation everywhere. Everyone knows the schedule: yesterday was the inaugural concert at the Lincoln. Swearing-in at 11:30 (security gates open at 8; plan to be through security by 9); parade at 2:30 (impossible to attend both events because of the crowds; choose one and get there early!). Balls all the night long.

And the next question: how are you getting there? Walking across Memorial Bridge? Taking the metro? Bike valet at the Jefferson?Handwarmers are sold out in the metro area. Every unused porta-potty in the adjoining five states has found its way to the National Mall (please oh please let there be a few inside the ticketed area!). No bags bigger than 8" x 6" x 4" (is that the size of a sandwich bag?). No glass containers or coolers or umbrellas. Bring a newspaper to stand on--it prevents the cold ground from seeping up your feet.

But greater than all these little details that will fill my dreams tonight in order for me to be up and out my door by 6:15 tomorrow morning is the anticipation of our future. What will happen? No matter your political affiliation, what kind of change will we see? My favorite part is the renewed vigor and patriotism. Hope in a strong future. I support that. I support the teamwork. I'm a believer.

A Room Full of Warriors

This morning at my *frozen* yoga class (you try doing shavasana in like 50 degrees, covering your body with every available layer!), while in the midst of Warrior 2, my teacher said, "Wow! We have a room full of warriors!"

My mind started wandering out of my pose. What does it mean to be strong?

A year ago this weekend I had a particular conversation with a dear loved one which sort of changed the whole direction of my life. As I reflect on that conversation and on the subsequent year, I am flooded with memories of extreme emotions.

But in a very strange underlying vein, I am also reminded me of what it means to be strong. I certainly haven't felt very strong. But I've realized the need to reorient myself--to redefine. Now I can say that strength comes from recognizing a weakness and building it up. I trained for a marathon this year, and I re-learned the importance of discipline, of constant exercise, of pushing and fueling and resting appropriately. Sometimes the lesson comes in learning that appropriateness. I certainly didn't PR on this marathon--I felt tired and slow and my stomach didn't take too well to my energy gel. But I finished, and I was strong.

I also took my oral exams. I realized there was a LOT about American history that I didn't know. So I made a plan and tackled my weak areas--and bolstered my strengths. The exercise required mental and emotional energy and focus. I certainly didn't answer every question exactly correctly, but it was sufficient. I was strong.

I think my deepest source of strength, however, came from completely outside of myself. Sure, I can study and run and I can work through tough issues. I can do hard things. But in all reality, so much of this is beyond me. Yet it is in my very weakness that I recognize my need and my need to draw upon a true source of strength. And suddenly I realize that it is actually my weakness--my vulnerability--that I become strong. And that kind of exercise requires mental and emotional energy and focus. Mostly faith. And mostly turning things over to a higher source, making His strength mine. That's what I think being strong is. Doing all that I can in my own power, then letting go. Releasing. Watching the Lord reveal His mighty arm.

I love the Chinese terracotta warriors. Ever since I learned about them in an Asian humanities class at BYU, I have wanted to see them. I am amazed at their endurance. I love their firmness, their constancy. They are completely vulnerable to erosion and weather. Some of them have been worn smooth. Their rough places are softer after all these years. And yet they endure. They continue. Their presence whispers of strength.

Now I'd rather be a lover than a warrior (after all, Virginia is for lovers!), but sometimes I think we have our own battle grounds to conquer. And I think sometimes it takes a battle of strength to learn how to forgive and to suffer long and be kind and not easily provoked, not puffed up and endure long and well. But mostly it takes that sense of weakness and reliance upon a much mightier form of strength. Exposure and vulnerability and patience. It then becomes ours.

Brrrrrrrr....

It's 16 degrees. With a windchill of something like -20. Not really, but it sure feels like it. This morning it was 10 when I went to the gym.

When I lived in Arizona, I came to the understanding of extreme temperatures. You don't feel much difference between 75 and 80. But there's a HUGE difference between 100 and 105.

I learned that again living in New York City in the winter. Holy cow. That wind can knock the bejeezus off you. Or diminish you to a pile of gloves, scarves, and hats and it takes you 10 minutes to get ready to go outside.

So today I am thankful for a couple of things:

• Thermals. Boy, howdy, do they make a HUGE difference. Even inside my house while I'm FINALLY working on my minor field statement.
  
• Hot chocolate, hot tea (raspberry zinger!), hot food. Bring it on. Inside my body. Yum.
• My giant down coat with the fake fur collar. I don't know why the fake fur makes me feel warmer, but it does. Oh I love me a good warm coat that makes me 12 sizes bigger.
• My down comforter. Plus two quilts. Plus flannel sheets and flannel pajamas, and one of those little bag-things with lavender that you warm up in the microwave. The other night I woke up a couple of hours after I had gone to bed, and the magical pillow was still warm! Magic, I tell you!
• Warm car heaters. I can't tell you how much colder it is when you don't have a car and you walk to the subway or wait for the bus. Thanks, Golda.
• And, last but not least, a chocolate milkshake. I know, I know, a bit counter-intuitive, but even on cold days you need a little chocolate deliciousness. Especially.
  

And more good news: the weather report for Inauguration Day calls for a balmy 37 degrees. That's practically 40! That's suntan weather! Can't wait!

Honesty and Bangkok 54

It's so comforting to me... this concept of what goes around comes around. It's been a week fraught with strange encounters all around. On Monday I recognized a grave error I had made with my work responsibilities and tried to be honest and settle up, and was completely shamed for my mistake. I came to grips with some car troubles that will cost me $550. I discovered news of the unexpected death of a friend's father and have wanted desperately to do something to ease that, but I simply cannot. I had the opportunity to be completely honest about a well-meaning friend's good intentions--and I struggled to be graceful and kind at the same time I expressed my own different intentions. You know. One of those weeks.

Last night Josh and I went to the symphony. We had dinner at Bangkok 54 with some of his friends before. Delightful food and interesting conversation. Then we rushed to find parking at the Kennedy Center and pick up our tickets and find our seats safely before the downbeat. Enter Prokofiev, a breathtaking Schumann cello concerto, and Beethoven's Symphony No. 4, with a very entertaining German guest conductor. Ahhhh...

On my way home, I received a text from my roommate that I had left my purse at the restaurant. A bit confusing, since I had my purse with me. I quickly realized it was my wallet I had left back on Columbia Pike. Apparently the busboy had found it had fallen on the floor when we scurried out of there. He actually found my address on my driver's license and brought it to my house, but since I wasn't there, he didn't want to leave it with my very dishonest-looking roommate (just a joke--she's probably the most honest person I know!). This morning I headed over to Bangkok 54 as soon as they opened and found my wallet, safely deposited in a tied-up grocery bag in their locked office.

What goes around comes around. My efforts to be honest this week were paid off in a very small way with some great Thai food and Thai efforts to be honest. It reminds me of the law of compensation. Things don't always compensate immediately, but they do compensate. I'm a believer. And if you're ever on Columbia Pike and need some Thai food, I highly recommend this place. The Thai-style sweet and sour chicken was amazing. So was Josh's Pad Prik. YUM.

A New Frame of Reference

My dad and I march to different drummers. I sort of figured that out early on in my life. And it's been a challenge for me in my heart of hearts.

Recently, in my efforts to do something NEW, I've tried to sort of re-evaluate and re-reference and re-frame my dad. I'm trying to figure him out--and in the process, figure myself out.

For Christmas Dad gave me and each of my siblings three framed photographs. He gave me one last year, too. He's a talented nature photographer--a talent I've always sort of overlooked in an unfair way. But this year I was struck by the beauty of the fall leaves his camera found at the summit of Rock Canyon. The lighting, the color, the angle--all beautiful.

Except. Well, the frame. He framed them in some cheap light oak frames, the pictures spilling out and looking all wrong. Just another reason why my siblings and I always joke about Dad. He just doesn't quite get it.

I recently re-read an amazing book by James Ferrill: The Peacegiver. The stories, the concepts, the ideas all spoke to me in very strong, reverberating ways. I realized some of the changes I need to make and how to make them. Immediately. The book pierced me to my core. I think everyone should read it. Over and over.

Last night I went to Michael's and found the delight of half-price frames and nice double mats. It is amazing what a difference a frame and mat can make on Dad's pictures. Suddenly they are works of art--they are beautiful. They pop out on my wall, and I want to display them with pride. I want to tell people my dad took those pictures. What a difference a NEW frame makes. A NEW me.
P.S. I also picked up these black beauties for $7 and was finally able to frame some old vintage Italian posters. My walls feel loved!

The Dangers of Drinking Dirty Water, or The Importance of a Good Breakfast

One time, many many many years ago, we went on a family camping trip to Yellowstone. A particularly grouchy ranger at one of the entrance booths made an indelible impression on my cousin Zak, who asked Grandma if that man had had dirty water for breakfast. It's a phrase we use often in my family--a very powerful phrase describing someone who must have had a really bad morning.

A few years ago when I had had a somewhat negative encounter with a professor, my Uncle Steve encouraged me to give her a box of Cheerios, assuming that she must have not had a very good breakfast because of the way she treated me.

I love that--the assumption that people treat each other poorly because of some personal difficulty. Not only did Uncle Steve teach me to open my perspective beyond a sour discussion to a larger life behind that conversation, but he also encouraged me to find a way to lighten someone else's heavy load.

Yesterday I had one of those sour encounters--a 45-minute phone conversation with an irate woman who must have had dirty water for breakfast. It's true--I had made a mistake and I was trying to make things right with her. But through my sincere apology and expression of respect for her work, she continued to ring me up and down. I was so grateful that I had had a nice breakfast--that I was able to have the presence of mind to recognize that there was more to her life than the small problem I had caused. I was able to listen and to not become defensive--I tried to reiterate her frustration and to find ways to make things right. Although we did not end seeing eye to eye (and yes, I got off the phone and had a quick "therapy" session with a dear friend who helped me see my own insecurities in the process), now I do want to give this woman a box of cheerios. Do you think I can send one to Knoxville?After all, no one deserves dirty water.

A New Year's Funny

Right before I left for Christmas in Utah, my sweet friend Vanessa left me a Christmas surprise on my doorstep with a kind note. To be totally honest, I wasn't quite sure what it was. It looked like baking chocolate, but wasn't cut into squares. I asked Michael and Ben what they thought--they said fudge. It was even marbled--and looked delicious.I saved it for a New Year's treat. Then one day this week while working from home, I suddenly remembered the chocolatey surprise and I hopped up from my laptop and cut off a slice. It smelled surprisingly like cinnamon. Neat. I popped it into my mouth.

Nope. Not cinnamon. Not fudge OR baking chocolate. Nothing of the sort.

Soap. It was a bar of beautiful homemade soap, the kind that makes you really really clean. And you generally enjoy the cleaning process with that stuff.

Needless to say I grabbed everything I could think of to get the taste out of my mouth--lots and lots of chips. I settled on a lunch of chicken noodle soup, broccoli and garlic (my new favorite use of garlic!), and cheese toasted bagels.
Rob and Matthew seemed to think that I just got a whole year of free cussing for EATING soap, not just washing my mouth out with it. I can't figure out if that means 2008 or 2009?

Thanks, Vanessa--for the great soap AND the great story! Love you and MISS you!

Come Let Us Anew

There is nothing like a fresh start. I hung my new 2009 calendar a couple of days ago (couldn't wait to replace my 2008 American folk art with 2009 antique maps), and I finally got a new journal today (last week I still had a bunch of pages left but I just could not wait to close the cover on 2008! No more!). Ever since I got back home after Christmas, I've just wanted to clean and organize and throw things away.

A new calendar (January 2009 is 1945 Manhattan!). A new planner (black moleskin with an elastic band). A new journal (embossed leather with gilded gold on the binding and a magnetic flap and a red ribbon bookmark). A new start. A clean slate.

A few of my friends have annual themes--Stayin' Alive in 2005, Almost Heaven in 2007, Looking Great in '08, Lose weight in '08, Looking Fine in '09, Divine '09, No Limits in '09 (although that was on ESPN last night and was somehow associated with the daredevil motorcycle jumps in Las Vegas that my friends were completely enthralled with). The only theme I can think of for me this year has to do with new. It's the New Me. A New Start. New Adventures. A New Heart. Come Let Me Anew.

And one of my most favorite random hymns has been running through my head (why is that I've been all about music lately?!)

Come let us anew our journey pursue
Roll round with the year,
And never stand still till the Master appear.
His adorable will let us gladly fulfill,
And our talents improve
By the patience of hope and the labor of love.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not shutting the door. 2008 made me. It was tough and it tore me up a bit and left a little road rash. Marathons and doctoral exams and family weddings and new baby nephews and broken hearts will do that. I've stretched and I've pulled, I've twisted and turned, I've grown and I've run and I've sat and I've thought and I've cried and laughed and slept and not slept. I've soaked in the sun and I've shivered in the wind. I've talked and read and studied and performed. I've smiled and hugged and kissed and loved. I've expanded beyond myself. I've felt magnified and sustained and guided. I've seen tender mercies all around me.

I wouldn't trade that for the world. Not for anything.

But the New 2009 Me is building on the 2008 Me. And by the patience of hope and the labor of love, I can't wait to see what happens.