Lighting up the dark

It snowed all afternoon and evening on Christmas eve, adding an extra deep layer to our white Christmas. The sky was bright and clear Christmas day and since Santa thought to drop off a few sleds with the other sweet surprises, we talked ourselves out of afternoon naps and walked to the nearby hill to sail down the packed runs along with others from the community. Fresh air and fun.

The best thing about Christmas is family. Besides sledding there were laughs, thoughtful gifts, fun entertainment, laughs, singing, talking on the phone, playing games, eating, more laughs.

It was only a little more than 24 hours that we shared, but it was rich.

The best thing about everything, when you think about it, is family.

Sometimes the world might be cold, sometimes it might be dark. But with family there is light, warmth and color.

And never a dull moment.

XOX to the gang.

Can she do it?

The trick about Christmas is making everybody happy. With the right gifts, the right food, the right entertainment, the right notes in the right cards, the right enthusiasm for the given gifts. And when I say everybody, I mean neighbors, kids, parents, spouse and friends.

This is an irrational feeling, I know, to imagine that something I might do or not do would have such an impact, but one that persists year after year.

The desire to make happy is one that takes every day from Thanksgiving on to accomplish, if it is accomplishable, and one that many in my situation share.

It is a labor that takes place in the mall, in the post office, in the kitchen, in the closet with the wrapping paper, in the bedroom where the lists of things to do spin in our heads when we would rather be sleeping.

Giving is something well associated with Christmas. Sacrifice is too. Making others happy is too. My work is a small, insignificant effort compared to the service done by Him whose birth we celebrate by all this temporal giving. His gifts are eternal. They bring not just happiness but peace.

A greater perspective can bring greater understanding and less stress.

But there's still a lot to do...

Torn

Sometimes it happens that there are two things you want to do and they're at the same time. And sometimes there might be a day here or there in the week when there is nothing you have to do, so it seems all the more unjust that on another day just before that day that is blank on your calendar, there are two things and they are both good things and you would very much like to do them both but it is impossible because they are in different places at the same time.

Not one to give up easily, I usually try to go to one for a time and keep a close eye on my watch and then sneak out when nobody appears to be looking and head directly for the other one, where I sneak in hoping nobody noticed I was late and try to catch up to where I would have been if I'd started out there like the others did.

But I end up missing something -- or more honestly -- somethings.

Sometimes the choice is between a meeting for a committee I'm on and a meeting for a group I head or sometimes the choice is between letting down people who'd hoped I'd attend their activity and letting down my husband who hoped someone would attend the football game with him. Sometimes the choice is between a trip and a responsibility and no matter what I choose I will feel bad about the thing that got left out and wish that that time-turner gadget Hermione used when she was overachieving was available to the common (wo)man who also likes to overachieve now and then.

So...I am happy for the days when there is one thing and one thing only at a time on my calendar and I am happy for the times I can fit two things in one evening without shortchanging either one and I am happy for the times when I chose one thing over another and knew it was the right decision and made up my mind not to let my mind feel guilty about not being everywhere all the time.

This is my attempt to write less short and snappy. What do you all think of long and whiny? And no, there is not a photograph to go with this entry.

A long list

This is the season -- if you can celebrate it without jumping ahead to the next one -- for celebrating blessings. For giving thanks.

I have a long list of things that make me grateful. I add to it most nights before I crawl into bed. Three things each night. Maybe that someone's in my life. Maybe that some convenience makes my life easier. Maybe that something happened that made me smile.

If I were adding to the list right now, I would write sunshine on a fall day, technology that gives access to the world, Fritos in the cupboard to go with lunch.

There are little things and there are big things. There are lots of them.

You just have to notice.

Sunshine on a fall day: Utah's State Capitol and its snow-capped mountains.

Answering a call for artists

When they said the theme for next year's exhibits is "Views from abroad as seen from the traveling artist," I knew I had to apply.

That's what I most love to do. Travel and view abroad. And being a photographer is kinda like being an artist -- at least they could decide if I was or not.

So I applied to Bountiful/Davis Art Center's exhibit program.

Along with pictures of my work, an artist's statement was required.

Here's the latest edit of my statement:

Travel is education -- how they build cathedrals in France, how they deal with water in Belgium.

As I've traveled, I've learned -- what they eat for dinner in Japan, what they sell on street corners in Italy.

And I've photographed -- when the tulips bloom in Paris, where the laundry is hung in Venice.

Much of what I've learned of photography has been through "field work." Being there, taking those pictures, seeing what works and what doesn't.

Much of what I share is in hopes of introducing others to the beauties that fill our world -- sometimes as large and encompassing as a city view along the Mediterranean, sometimes as small as a doorknob or a light fixture along a quiet street in a quiet village of Provence.

I am blessed to have seen such incredible sights.

I hope to share them with others, to inspire and delight.

I got accepted. And you're all invited to the exhibit -- it's in January. Details forthcoming...

A tribute

Reasons why J.K. Rowling is not only an incredibly imaginative writer, but an incredibly perceptive person:

1. Dementors suck the happy memories out and it's cold around them and if they get close enough they get your soul too. It takes happy thoughts to get rid of them, plus a spell that involves a white spirit of an animal, and once you've been around dementors the best therapy is chocolate.

2. Bogarts take the form of your greatest fear when you let them out of their dark hiding places. The spell to get rid of them includes laughter and the word spelled something like: Riddikulus.

3. Love and loyalty overcome darkness and evil. Over and again.

4. Being good to different kinds of people and personalities (elves, giants, spiders, goblins, centaurs) makes the world a better and fairer place.

5. Friendship and bravery are more important than knowledge and cleverness (that might even be a direct quote from book I). Goodness is better than greatness.

6. Spirits live on after death and watch and guide those still on earth.

7. Remorse puts a bad soul back together.

8. It's not what you're born, it's what you become. Our choices, rather than our abilities, show who we really are. (Also quoting here and there.)


There's more, and it's wrapped in the delightful series of Harry Potter adventures. I commend J.K. Rowling for doing what Brothers' Grimm and Disney did not do in their story telling -- for suggesting profound truths as she wove her tales.

Harry Potter's adventures -- and more -- are found in the light and airy Salt Lake City Library. A great place to not only get a book -- but to sit down and read it!

It's good to be slow

Timing is everything.
Well, maybe not everything. Somebody said that somewhere, but maybe when they said it they were exaggerating and when I say it because it sounds familiar, I'm exaggerating too.
But timing is definitely something.
Because sometimes you have to be fast -- like when photographing fireworks. And sometimes you have to be slow -- like when photographing the moon.
Could I put a plug in for slow?
For not hurrying. For not trying to do everything. For not rushing from one thing to another.
I like slow.
Not because I don't go fast a lot.
But because I go fast often enough to appreciate going slow.

I like it when the sun shines on my lighthouses.

Yes, they're not really mine. You know that. I know that. But at the moment I capture them in my lens at just the right angle and take them into my camera to save for what I hope will be forever, I feel like something of them -- maybe only for only the tiniest moment -- is mine.

I like it when the sun shines on them. It makes everything warmer and happier and the colors brighter and more dynamic.

But I know lighthouses were made for the times that everything's gray and you can't tell the sea from the sky and you aren't sure where you're going and you know you might run into trouble in getting there. And that's perhaps more dramatic.

I'm glad for sunshine. And I'm also glad that there is still beauty -- and direction - - when there's gray.

Things you learn at the beach

Some birds soar, others flap --- hard.
Sun and rain alternates and a bad day can turn into a good one.
And vice versa.
Everything's prettier in the sun.
Everybody's happier in the sun.
Some birds pick at other birds.
Big kids run, little kids scramble --- but eventually get to the same place.
Kids can find adventures for hours.
Time goes slowly.
Pelicans fly in groups, hunt alone.
Sand gets in everything.
Little girl toddlers don't like to get sand between their fingers.
Little boy toddlers get sand everywhere and don't even notice.
Big brothers watch out for smaller ones.
Treasures wash up and appear unexpectedly.
Broken shells and rounded rocks are treasures.
Kites soar effortlessly.
Sun warms the soul.
Tree harvests in view of the beach are depressing.
Lighthouses, though manmade, actually compliment nature.
Eyes follow movement.
Waves and people are always moving.
Even little houses are expensive.
It's easier to walk with the wind than against it.
Resistence of the waves agains the rocks make the most impressive splash.
Minds expand in nature's expanse.

'Didn't know there was any place like this left

It's quiet.

Even serene.

There are not many people across the small island. Mostly two-lane roads that wind between farms and past quaint houses and darling churches.

Roads that wander through fields of harvested hay and calm inland lakes and little harbors with their lobster boats to little towns so small it's a wonder they have a name.

Roads that lead pastures with horses and paddocks with sheep to sandy beaches and red cliffs and lighthouses.

Charming.

Tranquil.

Even the people:

The little man at the lobster bar and cafe who told us with delight about the bottle buildings and seaweed pie on the west side of the island and singing sands on the east.

The older gentleman who stopped to ask us where we were from and tell us how he loves living on the quiet island.

The girl with the darling lilt in her voice -- almost Scottish -- who brought us warm bread pudding and chocolate zucchini cake drowned in brown-sugar sauce.

The tired waitress who offered us a discount when we couldn't finish our seafood fettucini.

The woman in the national park concession who wanted to know where we were from and tell about the people who came yesterday.

The men on the dock who were scooping mackerel for their lobster traps and offered us some of their catch.

The lady at the lighthouse who told us about when the strait would freeze over.

There is beauty in the land and in its people.

It inspired L.M. Montgomery. It inspired us.

Prince Edward Island.

Life on the edge

It's only 300-some miles away, but we don't get there all that often. When we do go, and trek the familiar trails and drink in the familiar-but-still-incredible sights, we notice that most of the people there have come from a lot farther away.













We heard French and German and met someone from Czech Republic. We heard Brooklyn accents and Southern drawls and met people from Missouri and Texas and Maine and California.

And those with us, who had lived in Utah for years and years, wondered that it took them so long to get those 300 miles to the sights others traveled much farther to see.

If you live far away, you'll want to put Zion National Park on your list of places to visit.

If you live close by, put it on the top of your list.

What everyone needs

You can pray out loud when you're walking on the Oregon Coast. Not just because the others walking are few and far between and not just because the pounding of the waves swallows your voice, but because you feel like you're in heaven. Or at least the Garden of Eden.

You can be inspired when walking on the Oregon Coast. Not just because you are surrounded by such majesty and not just because you are breathing deeply such pristine air, but because you are not distracted by what you have to do and how fast you need to get it done.

Everybody needs their own Oregon Coast.

It might not be in Oregon. It might be in the mountains or under the stars or in the garden. It might be in the car with the radio off or in a closet when everbody else is otherwise occupied.

Everybody needs to pray out loud now and then . . . and be inspired.

Beauty on Main

We were there to create art. Main Street in Bountiful.

Almost everybody else did it the hard way -- with paint brush and paints. I did it with my camera.

And I did find beauty.

But my favorite sights weren't only the natural wonders seen close-up on a busy street, but the intense concentration of those who saw beauty and then created some of their own.

Perfection

How did every petal know to be the exactly right shape? To have the right shade of one color here and the perfect shade of another there? To have the perfect amount of fuzzy softness? The subtle scent? How did it know in what direction to grow? The distance it should be from the others?

Just one little close-up look at one of very many varied aspects of Creation. And one firm conviction that they were no accident of time or element. Accidents aren't that lucky.

I did it

So fun.

Anticipation

This is what I'm going to be doing tomorrow.

These are, in fact, my daughter's fast-moving piano hands. I was coordinating things from behind the tri-pod.

But tomorrow I'll be sitting at a similar keyboard in an incredible setting, and hoping my hands move as fast and as competently. I'll be at a big black grand piano in an old building with a huge lobby, a tall, glassed ceiling, marble pilars and balconies all around, with people walking here and there for this occasion and that discovery.

Some of them might be listening as I do my best at Chopin and Debussy and Bizet and hymn arrangements. Some, in my experience, will only notice there is music if they hear a wrong note.

Which just might happen.

For a brief moment, I thought that in such a heavenly setting, I would get heavenly help as I interpretted each song. But then I recognized that it would be unfair of me to expect help without doing what is required at my end.

So I practiced. More than I've practiced for a long time, but probably not as much as many would have nor, perhaps, I should have. No excuses. I practiced as much as I could manage.

My dress is ironed. My nails are clipped. My music is laid out. My prayers are being said.

I'm planning to enjoy the experience, no matter how much my hands shake. When nerves take over, I remind myself that the audience is not the enemy. We, in fact, need each other. And they are plugging for my success as much as I am.

I hope we will both end happy.

Thinking about Blossoms

In Japan (above), when the cherry blossoms come out, everybody else comes out too. To celebrate.

In America (below), or at least the small part of American where I live, blossoms come out at almost the same time, but get nothing near the reaction.

I won't comment on why this might be, in fear of offending one culture or both.

I will recommend that if anyone is ever anywhere near something that's blossoming, they stop to celebrate.

Making an impact ... temporarily

They were up at 6 a.m., in the cold and the rain, getting sand in shoes and on pants and up shirts and everywhere in between.

They dug, they poured, they stomped, they carved, they blew through straws, they patted, they sprayed.

It was team work in adverse conditions.

Nobody got paid. Nobody won anything of value.

And when it was all said and done, six hours of work went out with the tide.

That's building sand castles for you.

You don't do it for money. You don't do it to make a permanent mark on the world. You don't do it because there's nothing better to do at 6 a.m.

You do it for love. And for fun. And to say you did it. And because things don't have to be permanent to be beautiful.

Like a sunset.

Like a rainbow.

Like a kiss.

Like a finished load of laundry.

Like a freshly ironed shirt.

Like a newly finished book.

Like a well-spent day.

Like life.

Things you learn when you travel:

Not everyone speaks English. Especially in Japan.

Not everyone wears walking shoes when walking. Especially in France.

Different cultures create different art.

And have different driving styles.

And different temperaments.

In Japan, if you say, "Hmmm, it looks like rain," someone will give you an umbrella.

In Hawaii, if you do something stupid in traffic, someone will flip you the "hang loose" sign.

In Italy, if you go to dinner at 7 p.m., you will be at the restaurant when they turn the lights on.

In France, if you eat a croissant while you're walking along a river bank and stopping to take pictures now and then, someone will shake their head at you and say, with a touch of cynicism, "Bon appetite" (because in France, you're not supposed to eat while walking, you're supposed to sit down somewhere and enjoy a rich, delicious, slow, sociable meal).

In Mexico, if you walk along a beach, someone will try to sell you something. Probably a timeshare.

In Europe, when you talk about something being new, you're talking about something from the 1700s.

In New Zealand, if you do something worth congratulations, somebody will say, "Good-on-ya."

I count it a great gift to be able to travel.

And a great education.

N'est ce pas?

Remembering summertime

School's out this week and all of the sudden there are kids in the roads, kids in the stores, kids on the playgrounds and mothers in full tilt.

It's been two years now since the end of school meant a whole new routine around my house too. When all of the sudden somebody or somebodies were home all day every day.

I loved summer. It was my chance to show my kids the world. As I wrote in my first book, "they can read about it" in books during the school year, but "in the summertime, I get to let them see it, feel it, taste it and touch it."

We went to parks most every day. On hot days, parks with creeks or ponds or rivers or wading pools. We'd meet Dad for lunch some days, we'd get memberships at the Children's Museum some years or at the zoo others. We'd head to the Coast if we needed a change in weather or to spend a day or several days with friends, no entertainment but a shovel and the water and sand already there.

Stay-at-home days were filled with adventures at the creek or at the common lot. Rainy ones were spent jumping on pillows from the couch, listening to music from M.C. Hammer to Pyotre Ilyich Tzaikovsky.

There was always a trip to Utah for family gatherings, and a chance to explore a national park or camp along the Coast. There were hikes in places cold and wet in the Pacific Northwest, and hot and dry in southern Utah.

It was adventure. It was discovery. It was summertime.

I loved it.

A favorite

One week and 1,200 pictures later it's hard to pick a favorite, but this one gets my vote this time.

There is something incredible about a sunset. No two are alike. Just as no days leading up to them are the same as the ones before.

Lots of sunsets this trip. Lots of quiet evenings in beautiful places. Lots of different ways to frame, different clouds in the sky, different angles to explore.

I love it when I can watch a sunset. I love it when I can capture it in a photograph and see it again and again.

I love it when a full day adds a new memory and ends in peace.

Simplify

I'm always carrying too much when I go to the beach. Snorkel gear, snacks, drinks, books, journal, towel, cameras, etc. etc.

Yes, beaching is gear intensive, and much is necessary. This week, however, I'll lighten a few things due to a recent discovery:

I am incapable of reading or writing at the beach. I can only swim or photograph or sit and stare.

And sitting and staring takes by far the majority of time. There is so much to see. The waves, the clouds, the breeze moving the trees, the people, the designs in the sand. And sitting and staring allows thinking as well. That's what I do best a the beach. Think. And it takes no gear at all for that.

Little round treasure

I just got a special glass bowl for my rocks. So now they look pretty. Even the black ones.

Actually the black ones always looked pretty to me. That's why they're in my room and not on the beach.

I know you're supposed to collect shells on beaches, but sometimes rocks are pretty too. I have green rocks and maroonish-purple rocks and white with black speck rocks from the Puget Sound beaches in Washington. I have littler rocks about the same colors from the Mediterranean Sea. They did have bigger rocks there, but I had to carry them home in a suitcase on an airplane instead of in a pile in the back of my car, so I only collected the little pretty rocks from the Mediterranean Sea.

I collected the black rocks the day I was at a beach in Oregon with a heavy load on my mind. I was very sad. I felt like I'd been pounded with wave after wave of hard things.

And then I saw the rocks. I knew they weren't always so round and smooth. They got round and smooth from being pounded with wave after wave of hard things. So me and the rocks shared something. And it occurred to me that one day I might be round and smooth if I survived the pounding. I collected a few of them. And they're beautiful to me.

Come see them in their little glass bowl sometime, and you'll see what I mean.

In the yard

I've been spending a lot of time with weeds lately.

It's that time of year.

And when you spend a lot of time with weeds, you have a lot of time to think.

Maybe if I'd hung onto that iPod my husband was so good as to buy me, I wouldn't be thinking about anything but the lyrics to the songs sung by Bonnie Raitt and Don Henley and other favorites as I dig my weeds.

But because I was so good as to pass along the iPod to someone who liked to think about lyrics (though not those by BR and DH and others), I just plain old think about weeds when I'm spending time with weeds.

About why they're weeds even though some of them are kinda pretty (see photo). About why they have such deep roots that no matter how deep you go you leave a little bit behind. About why they grow so fast and with such abandon when the flowers next to them need such nurturing. About why if you don't dig one up the first week there are dozens the next week.

I bet Benjamin Franklin had a saying about weeds. A dandelion in time saves nine? The early gardener catches.... sorry, not a game I can capably play.

Weeds are kinda like life.

I'll let you figure out how.

And then tell me.