Yellow Wallpaper

Yesterday was Little Dude's birthday and I think he had a great time. As usual, I spent several days preparing for the party. And, as usual, I think it was worth it. It is a lot of work to make food, clean things, and decorate a cake. But, it's the kind of work I like spending my time on because I cherish being able to spend time with people I love, and the way I show them I care about them is by doing things for them. I also spent a lot of time trying to convince Little Dude that he didn't need an Angry Birds cake. Then I got over myself and made him a round cake that looked like a red Angry Bird. For his birthday he got a lot of presents that had either Batman or Angry Birds on them. He was so happy that I realized that it really doesn't matter that much in the end that he likes so many commercial products. We still don't watch a lot of TV and he's not obsessed with any one thing over others. I think I'm just a bit of a snob. This weekend my parents ca...

I've been working at my new job for two weeks and I've been meaning to write about it for at least a week. The truth is, I've had the time, I just haven't taken it. I've been trying to readjust my thinking and speaking to reflect the fact that most of the time when we say "I don't have the time for that", what we're really meaning is "I haven't made it a priority." Apparently wasting at least an hour each evening on reading internet articles is a priority of mine. I think I need to make some adjustments, because other things really should be on the top of my list. People keep asking how my new job is going, and the truth is that at this point it's hard to tell. I always have a hard time getting used to new things and new situations. It's not that I dislike my new job, not at all (and things like this are why I hesitate to write about my employment on the internet). In fact, the people I work with are great and I love my new ...

Rearview Mirror by Stephanie Black I think I might have liked this book more if I had not been reading it in the middle of the Whitney crunch. I was trying to read it too quickly and I should have slowed down a bit. It was well-written and deserving of the Whitney award that it won, but it didn't make me want to read anything else by Black. Gifted by Karey White I kept putting this book down for a while and then coming back to it. The way it was written made it hard to read; it felt like reading someone's personal journal, but in a boring way and not one that brought out any sense of personality. It was a first-person narrative, but rather than reading like a novel unfolding as the protagonist tells us the story, it read like a rather boring chronology or life history. I also think that I am not the target audience for this book, because I felt like I was missing something. I wasn't entirely sure what the point of the book was or what message the author was trying to...

 There aren't any kids in these pictures so I can put them on my blog. I don't think I've put pictures on here for years. This year I decided to go on a trip for my birthday. I got some extra money from my tax return, and I just wanted to go do something different. I went up to Oregon because my sister lives in Portland. I flew up Tuesday night and spent the night at her apartment. The next morning (after a stop at Voodoo Donuts for a maple bacon bar) we drove out to the coast and spent a few days there. It was a lot of fun. Our first stop on Wednesday was Cannon Beach. I love Cannon Beach; the town is small and beautiful and the beach is gorgeous. I had originally thought of staying there, but even off-season it was more expensive than I would have liked. We walked down the beach and enjoyed the scenery. It was fairly cold most of the time I was in Oregon; I knew it probably would be when I scheduled the trip, but I like the beach even when it's cold. After Cannon...

Suddenly, it's the end of the month. It feels like April went by in a flash, yet when  I try to remember the beginning of the month it seems like light years away. Today was my penultimate day of work; they threw a little party for me and gave me a lovely card and parting gift. I wasn't expecting any of that. Tomorrow night I'm flying to Oregon to spend some time with my sister for my birthday. We're going to eat lots of yummy food and stare at the ocean. Should be fun. This morning I hired a babysitter who can start next week; I felt like I didn't really know what I was doing in my little 'interview', but she seems like she'll do a good job. I think May is going to be a good month. One last poem, in Spanish because I don't feel like I've done enough of these: Meciendo by Gabriela Mistral El mar sus millares de olas mece, divino. Oyendo a los mares amantes, mezo a mi niño. El viento errabundo en la noche mece los trigos. Oyendo a los ...

Last night I shut my computer at 10 in order to get some much-needed sleep. Then I realized that I had not yet posted a poem. Oh well. Yesterday was a full day and I think it helped. I went to the library in the morning to teach a computer class. I felt kind of grouchy about it, but after spending an hour showing 5 people how to create a basic budget with Excel, I felt better. They thought it was amazing; formulas are magic. Then I went to the temple, took Little Dude to his soccer game and out for frozen yogurt, and brought everyone home for dinner and Finding Nemo before bed. I actually didn't like that movie the first time I watched it, but it's growing on me. I just need to keep swimming; at least I'm at the top of the food chain and not the bottom. Here's a funny poem from Fire in the Pasture that's sort of Sunday-appropriate. The Short Books by Danny Nelson Now, Micah lives near Nahum in the Bible's closing pages. Micah is an optimist, while Nahu...

I think I forgot about posting yesterday. In other news, this is post number 1000 on my blog. It seems like we should have some kind of celebration but I just don't feel like it. I've been pretty cranky for the last week or so. Change is hard--I feel like I'm throwing a bit of a tantrum. I don't want a new job. I don't want to have to hire a babysitter. I don't want to spend this summer working while my kids play with someone else all day. I don't want to have to do that each summer for the rest of their lives. I don't want my life anymore; I want someone else's. I know that this is the right step for me and for my family. I have had a clear answer that this is where I need to go. And yet, it is still so hard. But I know I'll keep surviving; I have in the past and I can keep going. My mantra lately is "the only way out is through." After a bit of time on Google I found out that this line actually comes from a Robert Frost poem; that one...

Today Kellie posted on Segullah about ANZAC day ; it's not a holiday here in the US, and unfortunately tends to go a bit unnoticed. But I appreciated her post as a reminder that the world is a big place, and as a reminder of a time in history that seems to become the distant past even more each year. Whenever I read this poem to myself I can hear it in Thomas S. Monson's voice; I think that General Conference is when I first remember hearing it. In Flanders Fields by John McCrae In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place: and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In ...

From an Atlas of the Difficult World by Adrienne Rich I know you are reading this poem late, before leaving your office of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven across the plains' enormous spaces around you. I know you are reading this poem in a room where too much has happened for you to bear where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed and the open valise speaks of flight but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem as the underground train loses momentum and before running up the stairs toward a new kind of love your life has never allowed. I know you are reading this poem by the light of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide while you wait for the newscast from the intifada. I know you are reading this poem in a wait...

The cherry tree in my front yard finally bloomed, so I'm going to celebrate with this favorite poem of mine: Lovliest of Trees by A.E. Housman Lovliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten,          Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room,   About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

Another poem from Fire in the Pasture that I heard yesterday. Blessing the Baby by Susan Elizabeth Howe We are low church--a plain chapel, unadorned pews and pulpit, dahlias on the organ the only image of God. Come today to give my brother's infant daughter a name and a blessing. "The purpose of life," says the bishop, "is to gain a tabernacle of flesh and bone," and I wonder what my granddaughter imagines, having visited the great hall on Temple Square but not the house of metaphor. "He's explaining our bodies," I tell her. "Why we love them." But it is a tabernacle, a tabernacle of men held by the priesthood as planets are held by the sun who take this infant in their arms. Too many to form a circle around the child, they make an ellipse. In the name of Jesus Christ, says my brother, and gives his baby his great grandmother's name, Julia Brooke Howe. She sleeps through her blessing, a white bow honeyed to t...

I spent most of the day at the annual AML meeting and had a great time listening to people talk about literature. During the afternoon I spent several hours at a poetry reading from poets featured in the anthology Fire in the Pasture . I loved meeting the poets and I love listening to people read poetry. It was delightful. I enjoyed all the poetry today, but thought I'd share this one with you: Kinetic Sculpture by Elaine M. Craig Perhaps my first experience with kinetic sculpture as at a recital (violin and piano) when marcato or accented notes broke, from the violinist's bow, several strands of horsehair in the middle or near the frog and the passage went on so furiously that she must ignore them and let them dance wildly, caught bright in the light, whipping a sinuous halo around instrument and player, jouncing and squiggling-- not quite in time with the music, just behind-- until there was enough of a moment in the music to stop, hold the instrument w...

I'd never read this poem or heard of Jack Gilbert before a friend posted this the other day. I think it is a wonderful poem and so full of things to ponder. A Brief for the Defense by Jack Gilbert Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies are not starving someplace, they are starving somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils. But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants. Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women at the fountain are laughing together between the suffering they have known and the awfulness in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody in the village is very sick. There is laughter every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta, and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay. If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction, we lessen the importance of their deprivation. We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure, but...

...for an important announcement. It's been fun posting poetry and I have more posts planned for the rest of the month. However, I haven't been writing about my life at all. I'm not sure if anyone cares too much at this point and I'm certainly not as eloquent as most poets out there. But I finally had some happy news on Tuesday and I wanted to share. About six weeks ago I saw a job listing for a full-time library job at the university where I currently teach as an adjunct. I went ahead and applied, but then didn't hear back within a few weeks like I have for other jobs. I was a little perplexed that I didn't even get an interview; thankfully they were just slower than I had expected in interviewing. I interviewed last Friday morning and I actually did not think I had done that well. It was a longer interview than I had expected and I felt like I didn't answer things as well as I could have. However, I still kept having a feeling l...

Piano by D.H. Lawrence Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

On His Blindness by John Milton When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide, "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts: who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."      

The Author to Her Book by Anne Bradstreet Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth did'st by my side remain, Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad exposed to public view, Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judge). At thy return my blushing was not small, My rambling brat (in print) should mother call. I cast thee by as one unfit for light, The visage was so irksome in my sight, Yet being mine own, at length affection would Thy blemishes amend, if so I could. I washed thy face, but more defects I saw, And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw. I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet. In better dress to trim thee was my mind, But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find. In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam. In critic's hands, beware thou dost not come, And ...

I've heard the line from this poem about picking blackberries numerous times, but I had never sought it out in context until I was writing a talk about parables a few weeks ago. This section is from a much larger poem called "Aurora Leigh" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee, But finds some coupling with the spinning stars; No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere; No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim: And, — glancing on my own thin, veined wrist, — In such a little tremour of the blood The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul Doth utter itself distinct. Earth's crammed with heaven And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees, takes off his shoes, The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries, And daub their natural faces unaware More and more, from the first similitude.   

One of the best poems about lost love that has ever been written. Rima LIII by Gustavo Adolfo Becquer Volverán las oscuras golondrinas en tu balcón sus nidos a colgar, y otra vez con el ala a sus cristales jugando llamarán. Pero aquellas que el vuelo refrenaban tu hermosura y mi dicha a contemplar, aquellas que aprendieron nuestros nombres... ¡esas... no volverán!. Volverán las tupidas madreselvas de tu jardín las tapias a escalar, y otra vez a la tarde aún más hermosas sus flores se abrirán. Pero aquellas, cuajadas de rocío cuyas gotas mirábamos temblar y caer como lágrimas del día... ¡esas... no volverán! Volverán del amor en tus oíd os las palabras ardientes a sonar; tu corazón de su profundo sueño tal vez despertará. Pero mudo y absorto y de rodillas como se adora a Dios ante su altar, como yo te he querido...; desengáñate, ¡así... no te querrán! ( English version here )

I totally forgot to post a poem yesterday. Oops! I first read this one on Jana's blog . One Art by Elizabeth Bishop The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three beloved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. – Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.