Remind me later:

Please help me never to forget how much I love the wild things.
I need to always know how rain smells when it kisses the prairie floor.
And what sage brush smells like in hot.
And the anxiety of not- knowing, the spirit feels ferocious.
And the pitch of a mosquito near your ear in the shade. It's its own brass section.
And that I no longer believe in"fly-over country."
And how sometimes there are stars that leave streaks in the night sky that you can feel in your bones.
And the clap sounds that aspen leaves make.
And how my hands look after touching the ground too much.
And the dark of turning over dirt again. It's almost always surprising.
And the ripples of the tall grass.
Those waves.
And how needful and demanding it feels to be loved and welcome.
And how a desert is exploding and alive.

And the subtlest contrast of that near-dead-purple and the brightest green of spring and the not-yet-spring/still-winter-grey, foreboding sky. It's almost invisible to detect.
Push me to remember this.
I can't afford to let it go.

And the unbearable glitter of fresh snow.
And the determined eyes of a scared animal. Especially a mother.
And the drunken laziness of bees after noon.
And the bitterest little fight that garden-fresh spinach gives back.
And the velutinous rub of baby maple leaves.
Their translucence and verdancy.
And that maybe God is real and evident after all.
And the silence of rocks.
And that pollen rests on the ocean in mile-long skeins.
And how the moon sometimes only whispers that it is a sphere-
And how other times it can't help itself but shout to remind you when it sits down close-by.
And the zealous wink of turned leaves on a still-green mountain.

And how it feels to see your neighbors going outside into the sunshine for the first time.
It's like we meet each other and fall back into love.

And the absolute deafening roar of thunder that bounces off your skull and tempts to shatter whatever walls you have around your self.
What is thunder, really anyways, the physics of clouds?

And how my heart sounds in my head when I walk faster or wake up scared or alone.
And how harshly the skin on my legs burns when I get out of the ocean.
Maybe one day I will stop getting out.
And the rush of sugar from Grandpa's apples.
          (mmmm, mmmm, rotten)
And how spider babies fly on spun silk that glows in sun.
Are they ever afraid of heights or of landing?
And how raw and fast I think I need to push myself when I think I might be in love a little, even thought I'm not sure I ever have really.
And how ferociously my hair will whip in the wind. It punishes my eyelids and cheeks and makes temporary tendrils, promises to give me broken, split ends. I couldn't care less or love them more.
I wear them as badges of freedom and trust.

I am the most alive when I am free.

remind me if I ever forget to tell you.

revelation

I have come to a realization.

I have been living my life life it was broken.

Some days, I really feel pretty broken...

I think I have pretty legitimate reasons for some of that business.

But in equal measure, I have legitimate reasons to feel whole.

I am starting to see that I have closed my heart and it has blocked me from a lot of good things.

So I am calling my own bluff.

My life isn't actually broken- it's human. 

And so, I am done with the broken schtick. 

It's pretty boring and like, SUPER draining.

I am done putting conditions on the way that I love and give. I am done demanding the most specific and probably impossible requirements from situations and people. Especially from people.

I'm not making any huge promises, but I am committing to be aware and to at least try. I am going to try to live with an open and full damn heart. I am going to show up and belong and be present and make mistakes and allow myself to feel loved. I block that last one the very most. It's really tiring.

I think this is probably the beginning of a very good season.

Can you help me?

rancid butter

the best class I ever took in college was called "The Cultural History of Medicinal Plants." I learned more in that over-filled auditorium than in any other classroom I have ever been in. Perhaps it was because it was almost entirely NEW information, and in so learning, I was stretched beyond my normal capacities. I remember several times noting to myself that I could actually feel myself learning. Or perhaps it was because I love the earth and things that grow from it (so many garden anecdotes could fit in here, but won't because writing is unnatural to me lately).
Occasionally information which I learned in that class reappears and makes an important streak across the sky, reminding me of what it means to know things and be educated in practical and practicable things. It's like cooking. Do you know how to cook? The question always baffles me, and a person responding "no" to that question is unfathomable to me sometimes. But I know that there are things which I don't yet (or maybe ever will) know. Anyways.
Today, I was brought back to the Widtsoe Building on BYU campus when I stepped onto a group of fruits lying in the grass. If there is one crucial element to this story, it is this: Nebraska is infiltrated by Squirrels. The concept of piles of fruits or nuts just lying around without a horde of squirrels rummaging through them is unheard of in these parts.  I was weirded out, and, retrospectively, I understand why.

These fruits, and now my boots, smelled acutely and precisely of pungent rancid butter. 

As the smell punched me in the nose, the image of my professor telling me about the scent of rancid butter couldn't be ignored. what was it? I remembered the image of a tree on the screen behind him, and I seemed to remember scribbling something down in my notebook about it. A tree... I prided myself on knowing the trees. My parents were "Master Tree Stewards", and the title was one that I decided I wanted to inherit. I had to know!
And then, I looked closer and remembered the bipedal leaves of the ancient Ginko. Ah yes, the oldest deciduous tree in the world. This old friend of mine. The fruit looks like this:

Sincerely, and with all of the pleading in my nostrils, PLEASE, avoid stepping on these babies. Rancid butter boots are not something that I would wish upon anyone, and as soon as I finish this, I will run to my car and take mine off so that they don't contaminate my car, and I will not wear them for a few weeks. So foul. So. So. So. Foul.

I am thankful for memory and the capacities for remembrance of knowledge. Knowing things is a miracle and a blessing.

Along those lines, I presented this today. It's a for chapter of my thesis.

In semi-related news, if you are looking for something to listen to, and you want to think more about memory and the implications of memory and its erasure from popular culture, you should listen to this. It might make you feel bad, as a warning, but I think it's maybe time for us to start being grown-ups about feeling bad.

Crossroads (But Not The Brittney Spears Movie)

  My mom keeps trying to get me to try online dating. The concept feels so inauthentic to me that I hardly give it a second thought. After telling her about my stresses about school, being awoken by gunshots at 4 AM, and the terror of having a human body found near my house, she wanted to know my romance-related woes. Could the demons lurking under bridges in my neighborhood and in my intellectual spaces not satiate her? She needed more. Like a soap opera to which she is addicted, She wanted me to tell her everything (about one narrow topic, hitherto only a small sliver of a [my] very rich life). 

  I told her everything there was to tell. I spare no detail with her sometimes.

  And then she (again...) asked if I thought online dating wasn't a good idea. After all, she found her last few boyfriends on various websites. My sister chimed in, for she too was an internet success story. They even offered to craft an online presence for me. While I think their concern is somewhat warranted and their offer indubitably kind, I'm just not convinced that a website will fit the bill.  Is this what we have come to as a people? Are we so replete with authentic human interactions that we are capable of boiling ourselves down to a webpage and advertising the hell out of ourselves, pimping our education and our favorite films, music and qualities about ourselves? I guess I just think some things require actual interaction. Some things must be felt.

We then got into a discussion about what was wrong with me. 

  The topic did not help me feel too nice.

  WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!??! 

  Time to say farewell to my pride. Yet again.

 Historically speaking, my family hasn't really been one to put much pressure on us for not dating or being in a relationship or being married. I have spent time being grateful for the breathing space. This was especially poignant after my parents' marriage dissolved after 27 years. I too needed to give myself time and mental hiatus. But looking back, I think I may have stopped pushing myself, stopped progressing and learning how to trust and interact appropriately with the male sex. I have installed mental blocks that are making it really, really hard to jump beyond myself. I want to jump, but those blocks are making it hard for me to see that I might land on the other side. They make it hard to see if it's worth it to try. I am not interested in blaming others for my lack. I want to feel empowered to act on my own behalf.

  And maybe now, my parents are beginning to feel the fact of the time-lease that is their daughter's female body. My body. The prospect of progeny is an enticing one for them, it seems; perhaps I do not provide them with enough charm any longer as a 26 year old child.

  I read an article about the word gals. The word, as the article's author seems to understand, is... well... stupid. But she makes a point in saying that, 

that mantle of womanhood can be too heavy—many of us who are the right age to have sympathized with Britney Spears when she sang "I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman" in 2001 are still stuck in between (I was 16 at the time that song came out) . As a 20-something female, there are moments, romantic and professional and Shania-Twain-approved, when I feel like a woman. Other times, I really do feel like a girl (though not as often as I am called one). I never feel like a lady except in announcements made also to gentlemen and I only feel like a dame when I watch old movies. What I feel like most of the time is a guy. A female guy.

  This comes, appropriately, on the heel of hearing a lecture last week entitled "Guyland" at a gender studies conference at which I was a (grown-ass-woman) panelist. The lecture was largely casually written off as pop-sociology. But to some extent, my attention was caught in the idea of extended adolescence and the allure of irresponsibility, ad infinitum. The prospect of being a "forever-dude" is certainly an entertaining one that smacks of fountains of youth and promises eternal springtime filled with "going to shows, bro", and staying up until three AM eight nights in a row. Filled with the stuff of college and flexing your wings for the first time, rather than learning that wings were meant for long-distance, stamina- requiring flight. Wings are meant for adult things like paying bills on time and regularly brushing your teeth before going to bed. Wings that are meant to bear and teach babies.The guyland appeal fights with my determination to age honestly and gracefully into a wise, wizened, and self- actualized old woman one day. I can see myself as that: I'm old and wonderful and kind.

  But for now I am 26 years old.

  Today.

  And today I wrote a professor from my undergrad to see if there would be a teaching position for me in the summer. That's right. That's me today: actualizing real, grown ass-woman, careersy aspirations. I don't know if I will get the job. I will keep you posted on that, but I am making strides.  This is one of those "Shania-Twain-approved" occasions. My mom never asked about it. I didn't push the topic.

  I understand that my zeal for education and a career might seem antithetical to the accepted roles outlined here. I don't know to what extent I am prepared to submit to those fully just yet, but I think that I want a family. I sometimes see babies and want to cry at how much I want to touch them. I think I would be a good mom. I think I have the capacity to love small things and make real food for real small humans. I am good at comforting babies and helping them feel loved. I am good at teaching them about the world, how wonderful and full it can be; I am good at inspiring wonderment and imagination. I am good at playing with them and helping them laugh. I want to make real promises to a real man human and make real things happen with him. I want to do that in a certain sacred place, wherein we will incur the permission of Heaven. I really do want that.  I feel it very deeply and feel powerful in writing that down.

  But I also can admit and embrace that my career-related aspirations might be somewhat intimidating to real human men/potential marriage prospects (this isn't the appropriate place to discuss my opinions about men who are intimidated by successful women, but know that I have a few). And my object in clinging so desperately to the hope of career opportunities is not grown from subversion, rebellion or even in doubt or fear. It's rooted in the feeling of ability and control (it is somewhat vulnerable-making to explain this here). 

  My career is the only thing in which I feel validated to satisfactorily control. It is the one thing in which I feel a degree of autonomy based on my own abilities and skills; the arena in which I can thrive at being ambitious and definite in pursuing the thing that I want. I do not feel this validation in my relationships with men, nor in my friendships with human beings of either gender. I frequently take the role of passive acceptor. This role often leads to being alone, and sometimes (not always, but sometimes) being alone leads to being lonely. I am learning that I cannot be antonymous on a project which inherently requires the contribution of two. There is certainly pride tied up in the focus on education and career. Pride, of which I am leery, as I know the dangers and pitfalls of pride intimately well. I read stories about it every day from this book that I'm kind of in to. I need to move and be moved, see and be seen. Perhaps that is the key to finding a successful relationship; admission that I cannot control things/others/fate?

  It's time to say farewell to my pride again. 

  How do you submit to waiting?

  Is there a better location than Guy/Gal Land? My lease here might be up; rent certainly is cheap, but there are too many dead bodies showing up in ravines and shooters lurking in the neighborhood.

 

a list of (20.5.5) things i don't know

1.how the brain works.
2.how men think.
      2.5.how women think.
3.how the atonement works.
4.what/why insulin works/ what it does.
5.how people fall in love.
6.injustice.
7.the internet. What?
8.what to do with my life.
9.how to make definite plans.
10.how to leave gracefully.
11.how to help people.
12.how to fix other people's problems.
     12.5.how to stop thinking I should.
13.how to be consistent. that was my goal this year.
14.how to be fearless (i want this).
15.how to establish proper boundaries. with everyone.
16.how to harness talent. others' and my own.
17.my family.
18.how to be vulnerable. and be okay.
19.if i can do the things i ought.
20.how to be myself better.


(these are not in order of importance.)