Cranberry Cookies

Last year, when I went to visit my boyfriend's grandma, he and I spent a lot of time sitting on stools at her counter watching (and occasionally helping) her cook. During all this whisking, chopping, and sifting, she asked me if I had spent a lot of time cooking with my mom.

I answered with an honest no and felt guilty about it.

My mom was a master of breakfast for dinner. No one can fry potatoes and grill pancakes like her. Her smothered enchiladas were my standard request for birthday dinner. What I am saying is: we were well fed, but we weren't a made-from-scratch, Joy of Cooking household. I did not realize that it was possible to make a cake without using a Pilsbury or Betty Crocker mix until I was 14. In second grade, on a special Mother's Day assignment where we answered questions about our moms, I wrote that my mom's favorite thing to cook was "Michelina Dinners" which are single-serving, microwave meals.

But, while we made our cakes from boxes--my mom explained to me that it was easier and tasted just as good--I have so many sweet and enduring memories tied to baking with my mom. While our day-to-day meals were whatever could be quickly cooked up, baking was an art. It was something that wasn't approached out of harried duty, but genuine excited and expectation for the finished product.

Christmastime always added an extra special element to our baking endeavors. There were two types of cookies that we only cooked during the yuletide: banana chocolate chip cookies and cranberry cookies.

Holidays have changed dramatically in adulthood, and while it takes some adjusting to, there are so many new good things to embrace even as old traditions fade. But even so, nostalgia and a unique sort of homesickness sometimes still creep in.

That's why I decided to make cranberry cookies today. I texted my grandma for the recipe. I did not want some internet knock-off that didn't taste like my Christmas. I shelled the cranberries, preheated the oven, put the soundtrack for A Charlie Brown Christmas on the turntable and got to work.

By the time I was taking the first batch out of the oven, I was almost too full from sampling the dough to really enjoy the final product. But now, as I write this with one hand, and stuff my face with the other, I can tell you the cookies taste like home.

Oh, and here's the recipe, if you want it:

Cranberry Cookies

Ingredients
1/2 cup butter
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup brown sugar
3 tbsp orange juice concentrate
1/4 cup milk
1 egg
3 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp baking soda
1 cup walnuts
2 1/2 cups halved cranberries

Instructions
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Cream together butter and sugars. Add orange juice, egg, and milk. Sift in dry ingredients. Fold in walnuts and cranberries. Use a teaspoon to drop onto baking sheet. Bake for 7-10 minutes.

Voila!

craving community

i just dropped my first ever online class.

i was excited at the prospect of learning at my own pace and on my own schedule and fantasized about being on my laptop late at night learning about things like cultural hybridity and the model minority myth.

however, the reality of my first week of being an online student was very different. the pressure to be working on tedious (yet interesting) assignments was a constant, grating anxiety gnawing away at my sanity.

maybe i can blame that i have been on a six-year hiatus from post-secondary education.

but mostly i blame craving a community. there is definitely a convenience to being able to cover all the material and post your mandatory comments and responses to the discussion fora, but there is also a lacking. while i liked my online classmates and they had interesting ideas, not being able to respond in real time stifled the conversations.

basically, i wanted to drop the class from day one. however, i tried to convince myself that it was a lack of self-discipline and fear of doing hard things that was inciting my desire to quit the class, and while it would be incorrect to say those factors had no bearing, i longed for the classroom setting. even if i was just sitting quietly listening to overly talkative blowhards spout their ideas.

i am not against online classes forever. i hear for some subjects they can be really great--like math. however, for a heavily discussion and theory-laden class like Education for Multicultural and Special Populations, i want to see my professor and classmates once a week.

voting your heart out

i'm a journalism school dropout.

at the tender age of 19, quitting the print journalism program felt incredibly freeing. i finally really understood the term "took a load of my chest" because i really did seem to have a new lightness. sure, i had some worry that the Ws--indicating that I had somewhat impulsively withdrawn from my classes--would mar by transcript, but those worries were invalidated when i got into grad school at NYU a year and a half later.

however, a fair portion of my undergrad experience was spent in introductory journalism classes, and while that hardly makes me any sort of election coverage expert (here's where i shamelessly link one of the very few articles i wrote as a budding reporter that just happens to be about an election), it makes me want to add my wee voice to the cacophony of people talking about the election.

while there will be many persons to be elected to many positions in 2016 only one election is the election. the presidential race.

with our sluggish system of checks and balances, i honestly don't have an absurd amount of faith in a united states president bringing to fruition all of his or her campaign promises. i hold out for maybe one progressive new agenda item to make it into law at a sloth's pace.

the presidential election gets a lot of media attention because it is the most powerful political position in this country, and since electors in every state have a say, its got the largest demographic pull. though, honestly, people could make a bigger difference by voting strategically for members of congress than sweating over who to make our president.

not that our president-elect isn't important. when he or she receives a clear majority, it's fair to claim he or she has a mandate. you can't gerrymander when all the lands get to vote--the masses (or rather the percentage of the masses that make it to their polling place on a certain tuesday) have their say.

still, one of the biggest issues that was covered in my intro to news reporting class in 2007 was that elections were covered like a horse race. "And here we come around the corner, and it looks like Bernard Sanders is ahead by a hair but that could just be that he didn't use as much product as the other candidates." polls are covered more than issues. in 2016, it's polls and gaffes and petty tiffs that are widely reported.

this emphasis on numbers moves us from the issues and real debate to playing a game.

in 2012, i spent a fair amount of time with my absentee ballot (i was over a thousand miles from home that election day) splitting hairs over which presidential candidate to support.

perhaps, i give my political leanings away when i admit here that in 2012 i voted for the green party candidate, Jill Stein.

she was the candidate whose brand of idealism jived most closely with my brand of idealism. i still had mulled over whether i should vote for Barack Obama to bolster his popular vote numbers. i was playing that blasted game where i put strategy over my personal conscience.

Jill Stein received 469,501 votes which is .36% of the popular vote. according to wikipedia, she is actually the most successful female presidential candidate in united states' history (actually all the facts in this paragraph are courtesy of wikipedia).

i'm not saying here that we need to elect third-party candidates. although, it would be interesting if we developed a multiparty system--democratic evolution! i just think, especially as we are in the midst of the primaries, that it is okay to be undecided, but we shouldn't be undecided because we are weighing strategy against the ideals we truly wish to be upheld.

i have my own hopes for election outcome and i graciously accept that they may be different from others. in the end, i think we all want peace, happiness and prosperity. perhaps one day we'll find the quickest route there...

...though i think in the political realm paving the route is a lot more about local involvement than one guy or gal with with the title president before his/her name.

substitution

i've been eking out a bit of a subsistence as an educational mercenary.

i feel like i learn a lot about myself stepping into a new classroom. i'm fairly often overcome by a certain awe and excitement at the colorful--and usually outdated--posters on the wall, the artwork and compositions in the hallway, the lesson plan thoughtfully drafted by the full-time (and fully credentialed) teacher.

i've been lucky enough to substitute for a lot of music classes and the thrill of waving the baton to 4/4 time as middle schoolers find the notes on their rented instruments really gets to me. i've also had those tender moments when a fifth grader writes a little note to thank me for subbing and i think i could teach for real, as a career. i could.

but between those shining moments are those gut-wrenching moments of classroom management trying get kids to simply shut up without breaking their spirits or feeling like a tyrant. i have a pretty strong belief in letting human beings do what they want and letting the natural consequences take their course. granted, i'm willing to give advice (occasionally--okay, maybe frequently--unsolicited) but i like to think i do a good job at recognizing people's agency. however, you don't want someone's errant ways distract from a whole cadre of kids getting the knowledge they deserve.

you hear all the time that discipline and classroom management are the bane of any novice teacher and that the tricks come with experience and practice. but, man, getting a whole group of children to focus on completing a string of assignments and assessments over the course of a six hour day gets exhausting. though, to the credit of kids, most of them do great, and now as an adult whose gotten used to doing what i want when i want, i'm not sure i could maintain the focus that is generally required of them for the rigors of the school day.

though i will forever applaud the valiant soldiers in our public education system, i find myself more and more inclined to investigate those alternative education methods like those montessori and waldorf folks, for example.

i've also thought that any career i might have with kinderfolk might be more small group or one-on-one. again though, mad props to the teachers of this world working with whole squadrons of students every day.

hector

a dog had long been on our to do list.

if you were to analyze our search history the past few months, you would find an inordinate amount of dog breed related searches.

"shiba inu." "best moderate energy dogs." "smartest dogs." "english mastiff." "what type of dog will love me the most." "how to tell if you are ready for a dog." "top 10 cutest dogs." "pitball dachshund mix." you get the idea.

i would gleefully point out whenever a dachshund earned a top spot on dog breed rankings--which they tend to do a lot. they are sassy yet loyal, ridiculous yet adorable, little yet fierce. despite my knowing looks and elbow nudging every time the wiener dog's virtue was expounded upon by the writers of the internet, i still thought my dachshund-loving would be forever reserved for the rascally pups of my youth, Dirk and Diva, and we'd end up with some other breed (that i'm sure would've been equally loveable.)

however, when we finally moved into a dog friendly place and began routinely scanning the local animal adoption agencies dog listings, a little dude named hector caught both (or rather all four, as we each have two) of our eyes.

hector the long-haired miniature dachshund with a grand total of seven teeth.

the process went overwhelmingly fast. in the lazy hours of a sunday morning, i decided that we should just go for it and submit the application. by sunday afternoon, i got a call that they'd already called our references and landlord, that we were approved, and that we could meet hector the next day. after about a fifteen minute greeting in which hector nonchalantly acknowledged our presence while mingling with some other dachshund, we were signing papers and taking him home.

this is where it got rough. we know relatively little about hector's past but he's six and a half years old and was surrendered to the shelter by the owner of a puppy mill because the mill wouldn't pass a health inspection with hector because his mouth was in miserable shape. within days of being becoming a ward of the shelter, he had the bulk of his teeth removed (in addition to some of his manhood.) i can only imagine all of his fears and reservations about moving to another new place.

for the first few days he was terribly afraid of us. it sort of felt like we were holding a tiny hostage. on day two, we were really overwhelmed with it and had a tearful moment where we had to assess whether we could really do this. we gave ourselves a week. however, even the next day we had to admit we were in too deep, and he was our dog.

today marks two weeks of hector in our lives. since i am rather underemployed since we moved to fort collins, i am sort of a stay-at-home dogmom and we've gotten pretty attached. he's still got some ways to go, but i really believe we'll get there.

now as he lays curled up at my feet, i am reminded of jacob, who was reminiscing over our long discussions about what type of dog to get, leaning over and saying, "this is proof you win everything."

Hibernation Aspirations

Something about the initial onset of winter catapults me into a homebody state. I want to stock up on all the foodstuffs, hot beverages, and fleece blankets on the market and never leave the cozy 400 square feet of my studio condo.

However, watching How I Met Your Mother on Netflix gets tedious after a few hours, and though I still feel adamant about not leaving home until the need to earn money through exchanging labor for a paycheck deems it necessary, I start to get aspirational. Like "what do I want to be when I grow up" aspirational. This antsiness to set goals and contemplate career paths could also be correlated to the copious amount of coffee in my bloodstream.

Nonetheless, for the first time in forever, I began seriously contemplating re-entering the grad school ring. My so-called professional life has been windy to say the least. I have experience in preschools, Italian homeless shelters, candy stores, national nonprofits, London-based charities and fondue restaurants. Two years ago, I got stoked on the idea of applying to the Jack Kerouac School for Disembodied Poetics. I got as far as writing a personal statement and creating a shrine (see below). But I may be able to get serious this go-round and get all the way to actually submitting an application.

However, slowly--and unexpectedly--a common thread has developed in much of my work: a focus on youth and community development. I sat lamenting to my boyfriend (I have one of those and I love him) about how I felt I never developed one particular passion and he thoughtfully responded that maybe my passion has been right under my nose--that I care about education and education reform that my words ring of conviction and I speak more excitedly.

Hence, while Netflix played in the background and my banana bread baked (see below for a picture of its majesty), I diligently researched graduate programs in education. Ranging from a study of Adult Education and Training to School Counselor Education to a program in Education, Culture & Society, I felt jazzed about the potential of these courses of the study and the chance to marry my odd myriad of experiences with a specific academic credential. 

So, we'll see what happens. (I'm clearly the master of strong endings.)

on september 11th and comedy

Time: 9:11pm

Location: Kitchen

Knock knock.

Who's there?

September Eleventh.

This isn't a September Eleventh joke, is it?

Just ask, “September Eleventh who?”

Okay. September Eleventh who?

You said, “Never forget!”

My cousin was actually in the Twin Towers that day.

Oh wow.

He was on the sixty-first floor. They told everyone above the sixtieth floor to go up. That they would be evacuated by helicopter from the top of the building. But the helicopters never came. If he'd been one floor lower, he may have lived.

Oh my gosh, your cousin died?

Yeah.

One of my friends worked in an after school program with twelve-year-olds. One of their outings was to a local library where they learned about all of the research implements that have basically been made obsolete by the information dominance of the internet. You know, microfiche and the like.

The kindly librarian guide explained how they could use the library tools to help them with school research papers. The topic she chose to demonstrate how the available resources could be used was September Eleventh. To engage the youths she asked what year the September Eleventh attacks occurred. These children of the new millennium answered, “Sometime in the 1960s, right?”

To further illustrate how removed the school children of today are from the tragedy that defined mine and my peers' adolescence, one of these twelve-year-olds nearly ate pavement tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. Her response to her near-brush with scraped knees was, “Man, I almost went down like the twin towers.” The twenty-something group leaders we appalled alleging it was “too soon.”

I've always been an advocate of humor and its power to take the edge off of life. Everything is absurd an unpredictable and I guess we get to choose if we are going to laugh or cry at the chaos of it all. But maybe sometimes we have to cry before we can laugh? And we are not really allowed to laugh at the pain but is it okay to laugh at the absurd? Am I terrible person for telling a silly September Eleventh joke to someone who had to attend a funeral for someone who died that day?

Comedian Tig Notaroperformed some groundbreaking stand-up comedy after she was diagnosedwith breast cancer. She announces her diagnosis to her audience in her characteristic candid and dead-pan way. The respond with a concerned guttural sound, like they'd been gently punched in the stomach. However, as she continues to discuss the sounds emanating from the crowd turn from pained “oohs” to uncomfortable laughter to genuine amusement and a beautiful cacophony of encouragement. Interestingly, her monologue is mostly her convincing those gathered to hear her performance that it will be okay. And it is funny.

I like the idea of comedy as comfort. I also like the idea of comedy as a means of awakening sensibilities (e.g. racism exists, sexism exists, the world in many ways is not fair, etc.) However, I guess it has its limits, but I am all for gently and respectfully pushing those limits.

un[der]employment and thoughts and such

i got my hair cut today. it was out of vanity's necessity. the edges were frayed by the flames of an early spring bonfire where we roasted the carnage of the day's tree trimming ventures. those branches burn hot. hot enough to singe the tip of my pony tail, a few of my eyelashes, and a portion of arm hair.

the hair stylist kept clucking about how scraggly my ends had become as a result of this minor mishap. i bemoaned the four inches of length i parted with, though this this webcam shot has helped me to affirm that my locks can still be classified as "long."

Hello, Emo-Eye-Covering-Bang-Sweep.

these days getting a haircut marks the highlight of the day. mostly because right now, i tend to work one or two days a week tops.

i always get excited by the prospect of unemployment. while unencumbered by the responsibility to show up at a certain place at a certain time and trade my labor for dollars, i expect that i will engage in all those creative endeavors that i put off because of how much time of my day is reserved for that "the man" character referred to so often. 

but in reality, i spend an inordinate amount of time on websites like these:

eelslap.com 

and 

www.sanger.dk 

(i highly encourage you to click on them. on eelslap.com, you literally slap a man with an eel.)

i suppose productivity comes down to goal-setting, but i do not want to set artificial goals and feel an artificial sense of accomplishment, you know?

i feel there is an often overlooked precursor to setting goals and that is assessing personal values, priorities and passions. A goal that makes splendid sense to you may be completely wrong for me.

like on old parks and recreation. garry/jerry/larry gergich and leslie knope.

one particular episode in which garry/jerry/larry's retirement is celebrated, leslie tries desperately to piece together the highlights of his decades-long public service career and comes up with next to nothing. she visits his home to see that he never cared much for professional accolades. he was more of the type of guy to leave early to spend time with his family rather than put in extra hours to win a promotion or to prefer dedicating time to a painting class than climbing the career ladder (in fact, in one of my very favorite episodes garry/jerry/larry paints a scene which ignites controversy. the painting even has its own wikipedia page.) 

conversely, leslie is a community and career-minded go-getter whose focus is building a better pawnee using the mantle of power granted to her by her deputy director of parks and rec status.

however, i do feel like the family/career goal dichotomy is far too simplified. nonetheless, i hope it drives home my point that a goal is only as good as it is relevant to what brings an individual fulfillment.

i guess that is what i am working on: determining my values and assessing what life objectives (big and small) align with those values--in between eel slaps.

accidental satisfaction

These days, I essentially live inside a blanket fort, or if I am being perfectly forthcoming about my sourcing of materials, a thrift store bed sheet fort.

I still call the Foam Dome home and am beginning to earn the moniker "Summit County local."

Long-term residence in Colorado was never a part of the plan. I was to fulfill my duties as a fondue wench (which really means a young woman, especially a servant. I am not admitting to any lewdness of character here.) and take leave of the Rockies for some new adventure at the end of winter. (What sort of adventure was never really articulated in the [rather vague] plan: European backpacking? Career ladder climbing? Running away to join the circus?).

But Der Fondue Chessel closed, and I stayed. I deviated from the plan.

The grandeur of the place was a major contributing factor. However, more intensely, I became enchanted with my mountain people. I couldn't take leave of the people and place that made me feel so at home. Summit County will get at least one more seasonal change from me. I cannot imagine not being here for the summer with all of its promises of hikes and fishing and biking and watching beautiful sunsets and gazing at starry skies and kickball leagues and bonfires and campouts and hot springs and drinks with little umbrellas in them.

So, I am drinking it all in. Sometimes with my roommate's dog, TT, by my side.

I may not be putting my Italian studies degree to its full use (see Exhibit A), but I am pretty happy with the state of my life at this point in time. I feel like there is some sort of moral of the story that I could put here. Perhaps, I could craft some unique way to reiterate the sentiment that it isn't our achievements that make us happy but our connections to each other, to beauty, to the divine.

 But I'll just let Mother Teresa say something (that in my mind relates):

“I am not sure exactly what heaven will be like, but I know that when we die and it comes time for God to judge us, he will not ask, ‘How many good things have you done in your life?’ rather he will ask, ‘How much love did you put into what you did?”

I want to remember this no matter what I am doing with my life.

Exhibit A: This post comes to you from The Colorado Shop, where I am currently acting as a shopkeep to earn some of that green. Since it is mud season here in Summit County, the store is dead. So I like to try my hand (or should I say head?) at hat modelling. It passes the time.

Home Sweet Dome

Nestled on the Blue River in Silverthorne, Colorado, the Foam Dome provides residence to a ragtag bunch of human beings drawn to the mountains, an eclectic living space and cheap rent in a county that boasts an average home price of $750,000 (fact courtesy of Wikipedia.)

When endeavoring to explain the structure to acquaintances I typically say, "Think Hobbit Hole."

Boot tries on his White Elephant gift at the Christmas Party

The place was built in 1971 by Stuart "Boot" Gordon, a WWII Fighter Pilot who on more than one occasion survived being shot down. He raised his children in the Foam Dome and now renting out spaces provides an additional income for the nearly 91-year-old. He also stays busy for a nonagenarian. He still goes out to chop wood and even went out ice skating with us.

He is also highly committed to raising consciousness. He keeps tabs on folks' LQs [Love Quotient]. Barack Obama's is rising, if you were curious. He's a published author of numerous writings. You can buy his tract Synergistic Capitalism on Amazon. He also just finished a new book that he is in the process of editing. He's one of the most interesting conversationalists out there.

Since I live in a Martini glass, should I change my name to Olive?

I live in the Martini Glass room. It is conveniently directly above the living room, so I can converse with my roommates without leaving the comfort of my bedroom or pajamas. Also, I very rarely wake up late and know right when the coffee is ready since I lack walls. Occasionally, I miss the privacy of four walls that reach the ceiling, but I figure this is an exercise in communal living [and did I mention cheap rent?] Also the view from my room is killer. (Speaking of that, my roommate obsessed with murder mystery shows recently saw one about the Blue River Killer, which featured a couple of scenes on our property. Don't worry, the crime occurred in the early nineties.)

My room lies beyond that window.

As with most things in life, sometimes I forget to revel in this unique and awesome living situation. Taking a walk around the property in preparation for this post caused me to rekindle the initial amazement at my luck in securing the opportunity to call the Foam Dome home. It has its quirks (read: mice) and I feel lucky to live with nine amazing people, but that number of cohabitants can pose its own challenges (read: my bladder has acquired new levels of endurance while waiting for the one bathroom to be vacant.)

I've definitely done a 180 (something I can't do on a snowboard) going from NYC to Silverthorne and am still compelled by vagabondish whims to take leave of this place when the snow melts. To where is the great mystery that will be revealed to all (most particularly myself) in due time. In the meantime, I'll try not to forget to marvel at the view of snow covered pine trees or the way I can make out what seems like every star in the universe on a clear night.

Contradictory Desires

Astrology, numerology, palm reading, tarot and the like are all pleasant enough diversions. In the past, I've written of my propensity to offer my hand to palmists in order to divine some sort of direction for my coming days (because honestly, my future seems quite shrouded in mystery--though I know "I am the master of my fate; I am the captain* of my soul" (thanks William Ernest Henley).)

So once, I simply did a google search as to what sort of characteristics someone born on the Gregorian calendar's July 13th might possess, and received the following opening sentences:

You are full of contradictions. You have deep domestic interests, but at the same time, you are really restless and you have a decided longing for travel and change.

I doubt these contradictory desires are reserved solely for the cadre of personages born on the thirteenth day of July, but they definitely resonated

Right now, I live in a foam dome [more on that, perhaps, in a later post] in the Colorado Rockies. My room is more of a giant bowl with walls that do not  reach the rounded ceiling of the dome, and actually barely reach my knee.

It is always a trip bringing people to the dome and watching them marvel at its unique design (as I did the first time.) But it is sort of a hub for the young, very transient population that passes through Summit County. Nine different living spaces are rented and I have already seen a fair amount of transition in my roughly six weeks here.

This morning however, I longed for my own little set-up with fresh flowers on an eclectic little kitchen table and only dishes from my cooking endeavors in the sink and a nice bedspread maybe with a real headboard. But all of this requires an investment in staying in one place. I've left beds and comforters and kitchen appliances many places because the freedom of being able to move was more important than being set-up.

I really deviate between wanting to be vagabondish forever and wanting establishing a hearth. I want to be able to take off at a moment's notice, but I also want a garden. I want to go places where no one has any preconceived notions of who I am, but I also want to be around people who've known me forever and understand my past.

*I used to think the line was "I am the conqueror of my soul." I've also really liked that interpretation. I little more violent, I suppose, than captain, but definitely empowers the I. But, is the I really separate from the soul? Ahhh, the deep questions of poetry interpretation.

On The Catcher in the Rye

Every so often I resist the compulsion to splatter the following quote all over the social media channels to which I subscribe: "Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."

The line comes from J.D. Salinger's masterwork, The Catcher in the Rye. I refrain from posting it because I have already shared it multiple times before and feel I ought to venture into new literary sentiment.

Because--to tell the truth--The Catcher in the Rye, while still ranking among the most loved books to have ever graced my hands and mind, doesn't hold the same all-consuming appeal it held when it first lured me in. Maybe that is because I am so familiar with it, but I also think it has a little [or maybe a lot] to do with growing up.

I can remember when Salinger first grabbed hold of my adolescent soul. I was fourteen. I was bored. I grabbed the nondescript copy of The Catcher in the Rye off of my mother's nightstand. It wasn't the ornately embellished version, but one that made ultimate use of white space. I did not honestly think it would hold my attention. My forays into my parents' respective literary realms usually ended with my abandoning the tome after fifty pages. (I just could not get into my dad's classic sci-fi collection, as much as I tried to enjoy Harry Harrison.)

But I remember so clearly being unable to put down the story of Holden Caulfield. Initially, I was fazed by the abundance of "goddamns" but I was so drawn in my the voice of the sixteen-year-old protagonist that I let unsavory language wash over me. I remember thinking I ought to have a highlighter and pen to demarcate important passages and scribble thoughts in the margin. I remember thinking that was maybe mild sacrilege, as that was the sort of thoughtful reading that I should be doing in the scriptures, and I felt guilty that I had never been as inspired by canonized text as I had by this story. I remember not being able to put it down. I remember lying on the berber carpet of my bedroom staring up at my dusty rainbow paneled ceiling fan. I remember being sad when I finished the last page, simply because it was over.

But do you want to know the line that affected me the most? The line I still think about most often? It is a bit of dialogue from Mr. Antolini, one of Holden's favorite past teachers: "I can very clearly see you dying, in some way, for some highly unworthy cause."

 That statement lodged itself in my teenage psyche like gum in the hair. Maybe it was my youthful belief that my life had to mean something, that I had to be bold and drastic as I became an adult to prove that I was worth taking up space on the planet. As a burgeoning adult, one of the things that I have grown to like most about myself is my level of idealism (I am an INFP according to Myers-Briggs), but I don't feel like I am required to prove my idealism through any sort of unnecessary flagellation. However, I especially love this line now in light of some analysis by author John Green (you know, that guy who writes all those deliciously witty and insightful, bestselling teen novels.)

Green said:

This is where – if you are the kind of person that thinks that books should be read with their authors in mind – it becomes relevant that JD Salinger saw more combat during World War II than almost any other American. The ‘Great American War Novels’ of that generation (Catch 22, Slaughterhouse-Five, The Naked and The Dead) were all written by men who saw far less of war’s horror than JD Salinger did. He was on Utah Beach on D-Day, at the Battle of the Bulge and he was one of the first Americans to enter a liberated concentration camp. And yet, Salinger returned home and wrote, not about war but, about Holden Caulfield bumming around New York City. So, you can say that the stakes aren’t high in this novel, but as Salinger well knew, the cruel and phony world of adults doesn’t just treat people like Holden Caulfield poorly, it kills them.

I realize I am on the verge of rambling. I already admitted that rereadings in my middle-twenties haven't mesmerized me like my first few runs of the novel. But I have read it in English and Italian. The Catcher in the Rye doesn't quite translate so the literal title of the Italian version is The Young Holden, which I sort of like. It aligns with my notion that the book has the potential to hit its reader hardest when they are young themselves. Still, it left me with something that has lingered into maturity--the notion that I am not alone in being uncertain.

I started this entry with a quote. "Don't tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody." People take this quote a variety of ways. Some believe that it is Holden not wanting to get close to folks he hasn't yet acquainted himself yet. I take it as once you start reminiscing, you get lost in the longing for those you no longer see. I feel that. I have been a bit transient. I've moved three times in three years to different states. Once I start telling new associates of the dealings of my past lives, I miss the cohorts that occupied those past days.

I sort of miss Holden Caulfield. The one I first met when I was fourteen. I watched a documentary on Salinger once--one that came out shortly after he died. One devotee of his work managed to accost him in his isolation. That man said Salinger ranted to him that The Catcher in the Rye was "only a book!" And it is. Holden isn't real. He is forever suspended in the nebulous space of his adolescence. I wonder how he would change, if he was real. If I would have an instant bond with a twenty-something Holden expressed in ink on paper. But he's just a character. And it's just a book.

mountains make poor receptacles for dreams

the title of this post comes from a line in jon krakauer's into the wild. as he investigates and interpolates the details of the years before chris mccandless too-early death in the wilds of alaska, he weaves in some narrative from his own early adulthood. in his mid-twenties, he sought to ascend to the peak of an alaskan mountain called the devil's thumb taking a route no climber ever had. he acknowledges he recklessly took his own life in his hands as he perilously and miserably made it to the summit where he remained no more than a few minutes. sure, he had a sense of accomplishment that he was able to brag about to a handful other mountaineers who understood the significant skill and personal risk of his undertaking. however, just a few weeks after his death-defying adventure, krakauer found himself back in colorado doing the same old work he'd been doing before. it didn't transform his life. he remained the same man.

just before i read into the wild, i devoured into thin air, krakauer's personal tale of his climb to the top of mt. everest in 1996, on the towering peak's second deadliest year to date. (it would be the most deadly year, except it was just surpassed this spring when 16 nepali guides were killed in an avalanche near the khumbu icefall.) as the recounting began to describe the myriad of little mistakes that resulted in supreme disaster, i was wholly absorbed. when i reached this point, i would read roughly half a chapter and close the book as my eyes grew misty. i would pace the kitchen for minutes before resuming. as i was summarizing some of the book to a friend, my voice got oddly husky and emotional.

recently mr. jon krakauer has been my literary obsession, but reading the into thin air and into the wild were also the jumping point for my sudden consuming desire to summit everest. this desire may or may not be a sort of misguided receptacle for my romantic dream to attain what krakauer calls "something like a state of grace" (a phrase that was another potential title for this entry). (though, i recognize that summitting everest has become something of a commercial enterprise, which in seems to rob it of its purity. nonetheless, to stand at the highest point on planet earth...)

i suppose this determination to reach the top of the world's tallest peak was borne largely out of my inability to formulate any sort of trajectory for my life. i have found myself afflicted with an unfortunate sort of idealism that has compelled me to turn down two very nice well-paying jobs because i decided i wasn't suited for droll office work or was afraid that climbing the career ladder would pigeonhole me in to a destiny i didn't want. however, all of my declinings have created a sort of uncertainty as to what my next move will be in this elaborate game of life. it's like in improv. you are suppose to always "say yes" by going along with what your improv compadres come up with because if you doubt or undermine their character nothing can develop.

maybe life is a little a bit like improv. if you stop saying yes to opportunity, you suspend development.

then loomed everest. i could say yes to everest. i'd always sort of harbored fantasies of climbing it. i just assumed it was a pipe dream because a suburban girl like me would surely die if she tried it. then i started watching the discovery channel documentary everest: beyond the limit and one guy who climbed it was full of metal plates. i figured i was more fit to take on roof of the earth than him. however, i realized i was not financially fit to do so. just for a climbing license from the nepali government you pay like $10,000. then as an amateur climber who is not particularly strong (but not particularly weak either, mind you) i would surely have to go with some guided expedition which is where the bulk of the cost for the two-month journey would come in.

so, i figured, i won't be able to climb everest this year, or probably even next year, but i could work for a while to remedy my lack of savings. in the meantime, i could also train on how to climb ice. maybe tackle denali in alaska first and set the goal to reach the top of the world before my thirtieth birthday. i could definitely hone some mountain climbing skills and build up a reserve of cash over the next few years.

i excitedly told my mom this plan. it was the first thing that i had gotten truly jazzed, all-motors running excited for in quite a long time. she wasn't an exuberant fan of my new ambition, and my grandmother outright banned me from such an undertaking.

in the past weeks my fervor has lost some of its intensity, yet the flame still flickers. i do realize i am using everest as a receptacle of dreams. i can't deny that in the recesses of my soul (or my limbic cortex) i believe that somehow if i climb it, everything will make sense. even if it takes me four or five years to prepare and save up the funds to do afford the trek, it will all be part of my journey to satori. but rationally, i know this is wrong. an adventure full of risk and reward won't transform me into someone who suddenly has boundless faith in her human value and potential.

mountains are beautiful and dangerous. and i will love them forever. and i know that mr. krakauer is right. a mountain can't change your life, but at least aspiring to tackle one can give you something of a life trajectory.

even if it's just temporary.

but i still love you new york

**in order to set the appropriate tone for your reading of the following entry, it is absolutely mandatory that you play the youtube video below**

Anyone who has been subject to my rambling expositions on my ever-changing dreams and ambitions knows there has been one thing that remained semi-constant--a longing to number myself among the residents of New York City.

I experienced quite the emotional rush as I officially changed the billing address on my credit cards to reflect my city address and brandished my monthly subway passes at the turnstile.

Last week though, I bought a one-way ticket back to Salt Lake City and officially declared I had no intention to stay in my beloved (though windowless) room in the South Bronx. 

That doesn't mean I don't harbor intentions to come back to NYC. I mean, planes run both ways, and life in the city is just another one-way ticket away.

There is something a little heart-rending about thinking about leaving the city. However, I didn't really feel the ache until I went from a 50 percent to a 95 percent certainty that I would spend some time away. Now every New York minute has to really count. Suddenly, I see everything that I love about the city and its imperfections seem more like character quirks. (Oh, it smells like someone boiled wet garbage? How adorable! Just kidding--I think the city's smell is overhyped. Most of the time the place smells just fine, even pleasant.)

I can hardly pass a bookstore, gallery, bakery, museum without feeling the sting of realizing if I don't visit in the next two weeks, I don't know when I will get the chance.

That is not to say I am not overjoyed to be returning to Salt Lake City. I have lists scrawled on the back of envelopes detailing the mountains I want to climb, food I want to eat, events I want to attend, and other places I want to go (prominent on this list is the Nickelcade.) The bit of heartache at my impending move is just proof of that adage uttered by the goddess of my soul, Joni Mitchell, "You don't know what you got til it's [almost] gone."

I've had a pretty good run this year in NYC. I may not have written any plays, songs, novels--as I hoped the city would inspire me to do, but there has been a certain fullness to these 12-months.

A synopsis of said fullness in bulleted form:

• Spent 8 hours homeless, chilling on a park bench in Brooklyn with all my worldly possessions until gloriously, the cousins of a friend offered to take me in (saving me considerably on last-minute hostel fare)
• Got kicked out of Central Park at 2am
• Received a hug from Paula Abdul
• Threw up on the Subway
• Frequented the MOMA regularly on Free Fridays
• Shook hands with Andrew Garfield
• Staved off existential crises by watching sunsets from the Brooklyn Bridge
• Saw fireflies in Central Park
• Tried unsuccessfully to run past a bouncer when I forgot my ID on a night out
• Drove a UHAUL across Manhattan
• Won the ticket lottery for a Broadway show
• Became pleasantly inebriated while sipping white wine and touring Chelsea art galleries
• Explored Soka Gakkai Buddhism at the invitation of my roommate. (It involved a lot of chanting a Japanese translation of the title of the Lotus Sutra, but it was kind of nice.)
• Saw album release shows for First Aid Kit and Conor Oberst in Brooklyn and a life-changing Josh Ritter concert
• Learned that I could subsist quite happily on deviled eggs and dollar pizza slices
• Met a fair number of young celebrities, who just seemed like regular kids, but the middle schoolers I worked with were quite impressed
• Was mistaken for Joss Stone (this is really inexplicable) 
• Became obsessed with Neo-Futurist theatre
• Yelled loudly at TV screens in bars across the city as World Cup games were shown
• Haunted bookstores
• Installed insulation on houses in Staten Island wrecked by Hurricane Sandy
• Met some of the best people ever

It has been an incredible run thus far. Personally and professionally, I've had great experiences. However, lately I have been repeating to anyone who would listen that the career ladder is an invention of the late 19th century, created to keep British clerks complacent. I hope to become brave enough to do what I really want: 

Write and create and adventure. 

I've been feeling compelled to trek around Central Asia--so let's see if that latest vagabond dream comes to fruition, post Nickelcade, of course.

Life Between Parentheses

This post could just as easily be titled: "Roni, This Is Real Life."

This is what my face looks like these days. Although, sometimes I close my mouth.

But I like slightly esoteric titles, and this one comes from a letter penned by the Italian Hermetic Poet Alfonso Gatto. He had been exiled by the Fascist regime to Tuscany (not a terrible exile, if you ask me), and wrote to a friend that he seemed to be "living between parentheses." The sentiment resonated. I read his letter as a grad student in Italy. I had friends in Italy. I had my crew of cohorts and my roommates, and we hit the town and such. I had a life and purpose. I attended classes, researched in the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze, and volunteered at a homeless shelter. However, everything felt so disconnected from what I considered my life.  

It was a parenthesis.

I'm barely in contact with the folks that filled my Florentine days. The most meaningful contact I have with my old roommates or university colleagues is writing "Tanti auguri" on their facebook wall on their birthday. I barely have the opportunity to converse in Italian and discuss the intricacies of Dante's body of work or the bombastic declarations of Italian Futurism. I went back to the world of pizza slinging post-grad and by following a windy road, found myself in the nonprofit world serving low-income families. The time I spent earning my Master's degree almost seems like an unnecessary aside in the narrative of my adulthood.

Sometimes I feel the same way about my time in New York City. Like I am living in a new parenthesis. I elaborated on this sentiment with my friend, and she said, "This is your life."

But the parallels are worth remarking about. In Italy, I arrived with two suitcases, an address to an apartment I'd never seen, and a letter that I'd been accepted into a university program--not knowing a soul. I arrived in New York City in much the same fashion, except instead of education, I'd come with the knowledge I'd have a job. Once again, I was disconnected from the world I knew.

As a result, I built a new world. I made friends, planned work events, settled into a new habitation. Everything is new, but that does not indicate it isn't meaningful.

Nonetheless, sometimes in the morning I still open my eyes and have to ask myself, "Is this my life?"

I'm trying to get better at living in the moment. I suffer terribly from an overindulgence in nostalgia. Once I learned the term saudade, I became obsessed with it. (In case you are wondering, it is an untranslatable Portuguese word which means something like a deep melancholic nostalgia with a sort of repressed understanding that the object longed for will never return. Heavy, beautiful, and kind of tragic.)

I romanticize even the recent past--which in someways I think is worth romanticizing. 2013 was a complex year with nearly every feeling in the spectrum being felt within its twelve months, but I forged amazing friendships and learned a lot about life, love, sacrifice, beauty, the transience of youth, fallibility, and so much more. I miss so much of last year, even though I was just as angsty and existential as I am now.

Anyway, I guess I am trying to break out of the parenthesis mentality and say, "Hey, this is your life now! Just live it! Don't over-analyze! It will only be a parenthesis if that is how you treat it."

And even if it is a parenthesis, sometimes those are pretty important.

Like how would you know the definition of saudade without my parenthetical aside (besides google)?

ambition

yesterday, i searched flights from new york to damascus.

there are none.

i had just read a summary of the UN report on the atrocities syrian children have been subjected to in the ongoing syrian civil war and felt so tormented how easily it is to sit idly by that i had a brief flashing moment of being some intrepid bleeding-heart throwing herself at the mercy of a war-ravaged land in hopes of doing some good.

i wrote a lengthy blog post--that is sitting in my drafts folder--titled "the age of impotent advocacy" where i wrote out many sentences in ALL CAPS and composed a lot of damning rhetorical questions. it was not exactly scathing, but it was sort of hopeless. it was cathartic.

today, i've been thinking a lot about ambition.

i don't know if i have any in particular. i used to. i wanted to be a politician. i wanted to be a journalist. for a brief moment, i wanted to be a video game programmer.

my dad told me once that he imagined me in some high level executive job.

these days i am a little aimless, because i cannot put a title to my ambition.

i think i just want to do things that are worth doing. things that mean something. caring about syrian children means something, but writing a poem can mean something too. and hey, i can do both.

i had a lengthy talk with a fellow who studied cello performance at nyu. however, before his senior recital, he got a career ending case of tendonitis. he told me that when he learned he would not be able to make cello performance his career, he felt a flood of relief.

our conversation segued into a discussion about how our professions do not make us who we are. we are defined by much more than the tasks we complete to earn money.

i don't love my job. if somehow, the funding for my position was cancelled, i would be relieved.

i would miss my coworkers and the inside jokes that cause us to laugh so hard we cry, but i would feel a huge weight of obligation lifted off my shoulders.

the work end of my job isn't pure drudgery. it has shining moments, but my daily stress, anxiety and bouts of existentialism brought on by the seeming futility of my efforts does not get anywhere close to being paid off in fulfillment. (here's where i start thinking, 'oh, maybe i just don't work hard enough. i could be better.' which is true, i could always be better. i feel like better is an exponential curve that will infinitely be approaching, but never reaching, best. sometimes, i think it is okay to accept that your work is hard and can sometimes feel like you are pushing a boulder up a hill to frequently see it simply roll back down again.)

i think there is something powerful about dissatisfaction, because when we recognize we are not happy in our current pursuits, we have the opportunity to change. i'll grant that "happiness is a journey not a destination" malarkey, but--to continue the metaphor--sometimes you are detoured from a more enjoyable, meaningful journey and you shouldn't be afraid to change your route.

does my current state of employment meet my ambition's criterion of doing something worth doing?

eh, difficult question.

we'll leave it at that.

hey, sean. i'm living in new york.

in september of 2012, a boy i knew named sean died.

we'd worked together for about three years, starting as bussers--the lowly training ground for future servers--at one of the finest mexican food dives in the suburban sprawl of utah county, joe bandido's.

i earned mantle of server before sean, mostly because i was a year and a half older, and could therefore legally pour those margaritas eighteen months before he could.

i have a lot of memories working with him in different capacities. i remember the days we were peons doing the servers' bidding. most fondly, i remember slow sundays where he and i were serving and my little sister was hostessing. since it was the least popular shift, we could get away with minor slacking in the form of nonstop chatting.

i used to tell him that he was hybrid of the personalities of my brother and sister. as he mirrored traits of the people i love most in the world, it was impossible not to like him.

not that i ever was in love with him. although, once he told me i had pretty eyes, and it felt like the most sincere, guileless compliment i had ever been offered.

he was simply a golden boy. it was impossible not to be drawn to his charisma and genuine kindness.

we never hung out outside of work, despite laboring alongside each other week after week for years; however, he did once invite me to a party where psychedelic mushrooms were on the menu, and as a well-known wet-blanket and goody-two-shoes, i was so flattered i had been invited to an "edgy" party. i feel like he just didn't divide people into dichotomies, and there was no judgement or teasing when i declined the invitation.

after a five year tenure, through college and a little beyond, i quit joe bandido's to spend a summer in london. i never donned the black shirt and apron again, and i hadn't seen sean for over a year when i learned he died in an accident riding his vespa on a wet tuesday night.

my sister and i attended the funeral. we were almost late and slipped into the last row of a crowded church. after the eulogies given by his closest family, they opened the podium to invite those gathered to speak. randi and i remained in our seats, but later we talked about how we wanted to go up to the microphone to lend our voices to the memory of sean, even though compared to many of those gathered, we did not know him well; however, what we did know of him was worth speaking out about.

i think of him sometimes when i get a little lonely in new york. once, during one of our less demanding shifts, i told sean of how i had been perusing new york's craigslist fantasizing about moving to the city. i told him how i had seen an ad for a room in an apartment with a cohabitant that was a german jazz pianist with a penchant for ice cream. soon we began devising a joint move to new york city. a few weeks later, when i found out i'd been selected to go to london, he said, seemingly very, very sincerely, "i though we were moving to new york?!"  i've always wondered would we have had more sunday evening planning sessions and worked up the gumption moved to new york that summer if i hadn't taken a different route? probably not, we weren't the closest of friends and had our own individual circles of people and commitments. but maybe.

and, sometimes, when i am homesick, i think, "hey, sean. i'm living in new york."

house mouse and other tales of the order rodentia

my roommate recently returned to our bronx apartment, and her first inquiry pertaining to the status of our abode was "how's the mouse situation?"

i responded, "well, i haven't seen it."

which is true. but had she asked, "have you intuited the presence of the mouse using any of your other senses?" it would have been a lie not to say yes.

she is petrified of the mouse. when it first made its presence known, she didn't use the kitchen for a week. i didn't want to hinder her eating habits, but i am pretty sure house mouse is still living in the space between our oven and wall.

several days ago, i surrendered my bed to my visiting sister and got cozy on the couch. while lying under my fleece blanket contemplating the complications of human existence before sleep overtook me, i heard a bizarre skittering noise. i couldn't place the sound. was someone gently scratching the front door with metallic nails? was someone lightly throwing coins in rapid succession against our windows? then it became obvious.

the mouse was still among us.

i mustered the courage to rise from the couch to try to catch the mouse in the act of emerging from its home behind the oven, but it was no where to be seen. so i settled back into the comfort of couch cushions. after the passage of several moments, the patter of tiny clawed feet happened again. i rose again. saw nothing, but i tried to make as much noise as i felt i could responsibly make at 2 am to intimidate the mouse. but minutes after laying down once more, house mouse defiantly rose from the chasm to the counters a third time. so i ran over and made even more noise, forsaking all obligations of being a respectful roommate.

this time as i lay under the blanket, i began to feel the creeping wave of mouse fear. i'd thought my roommate's terror was unjustified, but in the early hours of the morning, i was also afflicted. i tried to reason myself out of being scared: mice are tiny! they are even kind of cute! stuart little! ratatouille! mickey! i once caught one with my friends while playing near an abandoned railroad track and named him rufus humperdink, iii! i could snap its back with one finger--maybe not my pinky, but definitely my pointer! why i am i terrified?

none of my attempts to minimize the mouse's potential to incite fear were working, so to conquer this mouse anxiety, i counter-intuitively began to think of all the ways mice are horrifying: they have no bones! the can squeeze through holes the size of a dime! they leave a trail of urine everywhere they go so they can find their way back!

then i began to consider the worst possible thing house mouse could do to me.

i figured the very most horrific thing the mouse could do was jump into my mouth and furiously begin biting my tongue, cheeks, tonsils, uvula, etc. and then jump down my throat while carrying hantavirus.

somehow, considering the worst made me feel better. because i really didn't think the mouse had quite the audacity to enter my mouth, and if i got hantavirus i wouldn't have to go to work for a while, at least.

and that was that. morning came. i had no puncture wounds on my mouth and i went on to live my life.

but last night, i heard the familiar skittering again. i turned on the kitchen light and ran to the oven. i didn't clearly see the mouse, but i think i got a fleeting glimpse. there was definite essence of mouse existence.

and then, this morning, i was stoked to eat a scrambled egg sandwich for breakfast, but as a laid the pieces of chia seed bread on my plate, i realized both slices appeared to have bite marks. i looked at the bag, and saw that all of the remaining loaf seemed to have a chunk missing and--the clincher--there was a small hole in the plastic bag. did you know the order name rodentia comes from the latin verb rodere which means "to gnaw"?

house mouse!

i refused to let house mouse ruin the breakfast that had given me the inspiration to get out of bed. so i just cut off the bit around the bite mark. (really, food prices have skyrocketed over the past few years, and i wanted the sandwich real bad.)

i want to catch house mouse and preserve the sanctity of any future bread loaves that i may leave on the counter. but i don't want house mouse to die. i may invest in a humane trap, and capture my nemesis and let him free somewhere far beyond alexander avenue.

in my teen years, i was a notorious mouse killer. not that i killed a lot of mice. i only killed one, but i did so with really purposeful intensity. i was at a church girls' camp. one of our leaders had been afraid of mice roaming the floors and rafters of the cabin and had placed traps throughout the place. one of these traps snapped late in the night. but after the snapping there was a gentle thrashing. the mouse had not died. it would suffer through night, unless someone stepped up. it was a mercy killing, really. of the roughly dozen girls in the cabin, i got out of bed and located a shovel propped against the wall and began beating the spade against the bouncing mouse trap and its fighting captive. soon the captive was fighting no more.

for years, people would bring up how i killed a mouse in the middle of the night with a shovel. and i always interject, "it was a compassionate killing!"

so, i don't want house mouse to die. it has been a formidable foe. it deserves to live.

just not behind my oven.

an abundance of lists (okay, just two)

I love birthdays and the dawning of the new year. They serve as these symbolic points of self-reflection and analysis. I am fortunate enough to have great spacing between the two. I assess my accomplishments and future goals every January and July. (Although, let's be honest, I am basically constantly evaluating my life and its direction and purpose. However, on New Year's Eve and my birthday it feels intentional and everything feels a little more possible as I put up a new calendar or have a new age to call myself.)

Anyway, in an attempt to review the year and prepare for the next I have created some lists.

List #1: A summary of the highlights of 2013, in no particular order
1. Moved to New York
2. Held three jobs (Fat Jack's, Neighborhood House, and generationOn)
3. Went on trips to New York City, Las Vegas, Moab, Atlanta and Washington D.C.
4. Hiked a couple mountains (although, not Timpanogos)
5. Saw Bob Dylan in the flesh (from quite a healthy distance)
6. In many ways,both general and specific, I learned about about love, forgiveness, life, sacrifice and that I am clearly not a sociopath because I care about things a lot.

List #2: Objectives for the New Year
1. Visit the Grand Canyon
2. Turn 26 with grace and glory
3. Have more fun
4. Learn more things
5. Love everything more recklessly
6. Hike Mt. Timp

As I marvel that I have made it from 1988 to 2014, I can't help but think of a Bob Dylan line (and he's already made one appearance in this post): "I was so much older then. I'm younger than that now." That feels so true. When I was younger, I naively thought I had answers to any question that could be posed and that I would blaze through life with as though it were a game of Candyland. I'm glad life isn't like Candyland, though, because that game is actually sort of boring. I feel younger now, in the fact that I realize how daunting--and frankly, scary--life can be. But I just want to keep turning corners and pressing forward enjoying each step.

Perfect Memory

I've been waxing nostalgic lately, and my go-to memory for a sort of satori, or to just remember complete intoxication with the joys and possibilities of life is seven and a half years old.

It was a July night. I could tell you the exact date because it was my friend Amanda's 18th birthday. I missed her party because I had just started a new job and was terrified about asking time off (I worked my own 18th birthday ten days later). By the time I made it to her house, the party that had been held was over, and only the Joshes remained (coincidentally, two of our best friends were christened with the same name. Josh must have been top of the baby name list in 1988.)

The moment I recall is the four of us laying on Amanda's front lawn in the heart of Utah Valley suburbia. We were not under the influence of any substance other than the exhilaration that comes from being the the precipice of adulthood. We were laying on the grass trying to feel the earth move. A science teacher we had had in ninth grade, who was that special combination of crazy, knowledgeable and inspiring, had said that he laid on the ground sometimes in an attempt to feel the earth rotating on its axis. And really, since the earth spins at a rate of 1,038 miles per hour, it really isn't too crazy to think that maybe if we were truly focusing on on our position in space that we could possibly feel the movement of our planet.

So there we were, all four of us, lying on the freshly cut green grass dimly lit by the pale light of the moon and stars and the glow of nearby streetlights envisioning ourselves as specks on the curved face of our spherical home as it spun madly around an invisible axis. We were so intent on our experiment, despite varying levels of skepticism existed among us regarding the plausibility of feeling anything. Nonetheless, in looking back, I feel so connected to the world and to my significant insignificance and now, in reflecting in the moment, realize the absolute necessity of good friends for the most whole, rich and fulfilling life.

Josh G. swears he felt the earth move.

After an indeterminate time, we drove to a nearby town to a Taco Bell where I forced Josh S. to donate $2 to whatever charity the business was supporting at the time in addition to buying his chalupas or whatever. Then we saw some midnight movie featuring Denzel Washington.

Now three of the four of us are married. At least one baby is on its way.

The earth has definitely kept moving.