Thus begins September

I can't help thinking how lovely it is that this September started on a Wednesday. It just feels so synchronistic. Of course, this may have something to do with the Personification Synesthesia I enjoy. (And I do enjoy it, make no mistake.) September and Wednesday just feel the same. I won't take it personally if you don't understand that. Or look at me like I'm a little bit crazy.

I came across this little delight earlier:

"A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness." --Robert Frost

Is that not perfect?

I write the first drafts of my poems in pencil. I think it's because I want to make sure I have the "sense of wrong" perfect. And a first draft isn't perfect. But I don't erase. I cross out, and write above, and scribble arrows, and interject. I want to see the journey. When it's right, then I put it in pen.

I contacted an old friend today, and thought of others I'd like to say hello to. Told myself I would say hello. And I will. Soon.

This Wednesday also graced me with the strength to forgive, and a dear friend made me laugh.

Not a bad start to September.

100th Post, In Which the Universe Provides a Gift...

This is officially my 100th post. One hundred should be marked by something, right? A list of some sort? Pictures? Perhaps. But I'm not feeling any of those things at the moment, so I'm going to mark it with this:

I really like dragonflies. They are delicate, lovely little things. In Japan, they represent strength, courage and happiness.

I was beginning my drive home one day last week, and it had not been a good day. It hadn't been a good week. I was exhausted, headache-y, and a little heart sore. I pulled up to the first of the many stoplights I'd have to wait through, and sighed. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of wings. I looked, and fluttering right outside my window was an absolutely massive dragonfly. It stayed there, outside my window, until I began to drive again; then, it kept pace with me, flew to the front of my car, fluttered there for a moment, and took off just as I made my turn. It helped. I was no less exhausted, and the headache lingered, but I felt decidedly lighter in heart. And I smiled.

Thank you, Universe, for the reminder that we are never alone. That there is One who knows our names, knows our needs, knows us. That we will be provided for, even in dark moments. That we are loved. That I am loved. Thank you for the dragonfly.

Sensing a Memory

There is a certain smell of plastic that reminds me of my childhood toys. Smelling it is pure nostalgia. The first poem I ever memorized was "El Dorado," by Edgar Allen Poe. It was one of my dad's favorites. I was 12, and I can still recite it. Suave hairspray, the cheapest kind in the pink bottles, reminds me of being 13 and in the throes of my first major crush. An unexpected whiff of Crush cologne is like a punch in the gut. I remember where I was when I first read "Labysheedy," and "Digging," and "What lips my lips have kissed..." I have eaten potato cheese soup at my grandma's every Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember; it tastes like Christmas now. The first word I remember actually reading, on my own, was "mountain." The first song I ever learned after starting voice lessons was "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." When I hear it now, I am swimming in emotions, if only for a moment: gratitude for my mother for allowing the voice lessons, Mrs. Sullivan for providing them, tenderness for the little girl I was, humility at the gift I was given, and even after all these years, a genuine liking for the song. (These days I'm partial to the version Iz Kamakawiwo'ole sang.) Every so often, the sight of the mountains -- this place I call home -- takes my breath away. I can always tell when someone is smoking a Camel cigarette, and for a second, I desperately miss my old friend Tyler. I remember the first time I found the Big Dipper on my own. Leather reminds me of my dad, since he always smelled like his gun belt, Doublemint gum is my mom. I don't think I have ever borrowed a tissue from her that wasn't redolent with minty sweetness. I will never forget the first time I saw "The Kiss," by Klimt. The first John Denver song I learned all the words to is "Annie's Song;" it is still my favorite one to listen to, and to sing. I still have a copy of the first poem I ever wrote. The smell of wood fire is the smell of home.

There are other, more vague sensual experiences that prompt a memory. Although I can't really define them, I know them when they come. And I'm grateful, even for those that are hard to remember. They remind me of where I've been. Of who I am. And that I'm alive.

Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known. *

I have felt vaguely unsettled the last few days; mildly restless. As if I am standing outside a door; the door is locked, and I don't have a key. On the other side is something for me; I don't know what. Something good, perhaps? Something wonderful? Simply something new? I am waiting for the key to come to me. Then I can open the door.

I know learning to trust the universe means learning to trust the timetable the universe uses, and I know that life is a series of doorways; sometimes we are outside, sometimes we are passing through, and sometimes we have found ourselves on the other side of a door. I've been waiting at this door for a while. And on this particular porch, I've found peace. But now, waiting to actually open the door is something else entirely. It's slightly disquieting...

*Quote from Carl Sagan

My Kingdom for a Pensieve*

Oh, friends, there has been too much to blog. Nothing earth-shattering, but all of it new or different, and I have found it terribly difficult to filter it into something coherent. I have some posts in the works -- they almost make sense in my head -- but for now, a quick update (because I tell myself this is relevant...):

My sister and her kids were here in Utah for much of June. Sara is pregnant with a girl and due in November! I love being an auntie.

I joined a choir. It is an all-women Celtic group run by Anne-Marie Hildebrandt. You can check out some of the music here. It has been an adventure so far, and fun to sing again.

Two weeks ago, I was called as the Primary Secretary in my ward. I'm still reeling a bit from this.

I read the first two Hunger Games books, and loved them. Big recommendation.

I jotted some notes for a poem the other day. This is the first time I have done this in months.

There are more things a-swirl in my head right now, but they will have to wait.

*P.S. Extra points for those who get my ultra-nerdy reference!

I Write Like...

So, I saw this neat little tool come through my Google reader this morning, then two of my friends posted their results on their blogs, and then I tried it. Rookie got Jane Austen and Miss Melissa got Margaret Atwood. I keep getting Stephen King... I have not read one single thing by Stephen King. Nothing. (To be fair, I tried a poem and got Oscar Wilde, and a rant and got J.D. Salinger.)

I don't know how I feel about this...

Yay! Friends!

I was able to spend Tuesday night with friends as we were celebrating the imminent arrival of Baby Boy Bryner (Hooray!), and it was absolutely marvelous!

These ladies have seen me through it all, from Joy School to High School Graduation and beyond; I don't have any memories of my teenage years without at least one of them in it. It is amazing to me that we can still meet and laugh and talk like we used to (although the conversations have matured -- somewhat...). In fact, what began Tuesday evening stretched into the wee hours of Wednesday morning, and while I'm still a wee bit tired ('cause I'm an old lady now), I am full of happy nostalgia and recharged.

Jessie, Julie, Jenn, Laura: I love you. I really do. Thank you for liking me in spite of the fact that I talk too much, in spite of my cynical attitude, and in spite of the fact that I sometimes use swears. Thank you for your recent support while I've figured some things out. Thank you for being who you are, for your examples and for your friendship. Thank you. For everything.

I'm still not going on a date with Mr. Jeff...