Saturday, April 19, 2008

grains glorious grains

ok ok i know i've not been a good blogger as of late, but who ever said i was a good blogger? its been hectic hectic finals time around here. i arose at 6 am this saturday morning and was at school by 7 am to give my class their final. poor dears. that is just too early. evil byu for scheduling it. boo. then i spent the rest of the day grading all said finals, plus lots of papers. my brain and eyeballs are fried. on tuesday i leave for dc/nyc for a little r&r. but in the meantime EVERYONE should buy THIS book. seriously. i found it when i was looking online for quinoa recipes. . . read some reviews and immediately ordered it. since it came i read it all the time (its on my bedside table) have cooked numerous delectable dishes (quinoa and chinese vegetable stir fry, breakfast quinoa cooked in orange juice, quinoa & corn muffins, coconut corn curried soup, buckwheat polenta with green olives and tomatoe, buckwheat and millet waffles. . . endless deliciousness). its like the word of wisdom cookbook to the max. all different kinds of whole grains, the history of them, storing/cooking/flour info on each and amazing, simple, delicious and so good for you recipes. sigh. trust me there will be more posts about this, but for now i've got to hit the hay! xoxo oh ps this pic is from critical mass here in provo a few weeks ago! we commandeered the streets of provo on friday afternoon during rush our! it was so awesome! thanks to all who showed up, and for those who want to join we'll have one the first friday of every month.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

it's national poetry month

and i'm celebrating with one of my all time favorites by the lovely mary oliver.
Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.

It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;

it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;

it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,

or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;

it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.

You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your
great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once,
and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and
talked in the house.
It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor,
and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was
a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing
a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild,
binocular eyes.
Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of
animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air,
a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.
Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high
up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.
You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner,
on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed
empty, but wasn't.
Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was
noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back
to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you
on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.

Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,

I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.

Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.

Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.

Not in this world.

My mother
was the blue wisteria,
my mother
was the mossy stream out behind the house,
my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,
oh, unforgettable!

I bury her
in a box
in the earth
and turn away.
My father
was a demon of frustrated dreams,
was a breaker of trust,
was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
He followed God, there being no one else
he could talk to;
he swaggered before God, there being no one else
who would listen.
this was his life.
I bury it in the earth.
I sweep the closets.
I leave the house.

I mention them now,
I will not mention them again.

It is not lack of love
nor lack of sorrow.
But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.

I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks,
of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.

But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them the responsibility for my life.

Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?

Did you know that?

The poem is not the world.
It isn't even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.

It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.

The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the
grown woman
is a misery and a disappointment.
The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded,
muscular man
is a misery, and a terror.

Therefore, tell me:
what will engage you?
What will open the dark fields of your mind,
like a lover
at first touching?

there was no barn.
No child in the barn.

No uncle no table no kitchen.

Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.

Wednesday, April 02, 2008


lately i am trying to have more motivation. more motivation for a lot of things. i've been trying to run and work out more, work on my thesis more, cook more, pray more, serve more, and trying to figure out my life more. two nice little things have helped with that motivation (well, there have been lots but here are two i'm highlighting) first are these great alternative motivational posters. . .seriously its about time someone did something like this! my awesome friend hailey sent them my way this morning. i really love the integrity one. . .anyone want to go in on an order and split shipping?
second last night pack and i finally got around to watching our netflix that came last week and boy howdy was it a gem! it was this darling short little documentary called 'the hobart shakespeareans' and i'll admit i cried several time just because of the sheer beauty and humanity of one teacher who really gets it and really cares. it is pretty incredible. he has his 5th grade students in a rough neighborhood of LA put on a shakespeare play every year, and they've garnered the attentions of the likes of ian mckellen who said: "You can’t watch the little actors without wanting to cry. Why do you cry? I suppose it's happiness, really, and a regret that not all the children in the world could have a Rafe Esquith for a teacher."