tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16291466022190847552023-11-16T09:46:55.497-08:00living is my job and my artBE HERE NOWwsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.comBlogger643125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-60614184950082335872016-06-16T19:38:00.000-07:002016-06-16T19:38:07.776-07:00Papa Bush<div class="MsoNormal">
If I am able to live courageously, it is because of my
father. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But I’m already ahead of myself. Let me back up. A lot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I’ve tiptoed my way into adulthood, and a world of health
insurance, ulterior motives, broken washing machines and a very worn out
planner, I’ve become more and more aware at how glorious the humans that raised
me are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as the world has been a buzz
this week with misguided visions of masculinity that’re clawing their way
through the lives of so many people and because this Sunday is father’s day,
not mother’s day, I find myself thinking about my dad and being awash in
gratitude and honest confusion that I somehow landed in his lap 28 years ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This morning while heading to work, I started reading Brene
Brown’s book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daring Greatly</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If her name isn’t familiar to you, her 2010
Ted Talk on vulnerability probably is. Her book continues with many of the
themes she outlines in her talk. Her introduction jumps right into a discussion
of shame and fear and how those things detach us from a state of
vulnerability. And there are people who manage to live without being governed
by those feelings. There are people “who are the most resistant to shame, who
believe in their worthiness—I call these people the Wholehearted.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She then explains that her definition of
Wholeheartedness is “a way of engaging with the world from a place of
worthiness.” And there are so many things about this that I love. I love
hearts. I love what they do physically for us and I love all that they’ve come
to symbolize. I’m fascinated by the number of scriptural references to hearts
as well as the poetic descriptions found across styles and times of literature.
In Brian Doyle’s collection of essays <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Wet Engine</i>, over and over again he draws on the powers of our hearts as
well as their uncontrollability. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When young we think there will come one person
who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the
dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and
torn, repaired by time and will, patched by force of character, yet fragile and
rickety forevermore, no matter how ferocious the defense and how many bricks
you bring to the wall. You can brick up your heart as stout and tight and hard
and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and down it comes in an instant.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All this is to say, as soon as Brown used the phrase
“wholehearted,” I was sold. As I’ve collected endless thoughts on what is a
heart, what it means to change a heart or any number of other phrases we use to
describe the somewhat indescribable function of that organ, I ate up everything
Brown has to say about those who are WHOLE hearted “living a life defined by
courage, compassion and connection.” What could be better than living with and
through a whole heart?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This past
year more than ever I’ve realized how many broken people there are in the
world. To some extent we all are very broken in our own way and the accidents or
incidents that made us that way are often old and dusty. They have roots in
betrayal or powerlessness or any number of other experiences of pain and fear
and loneliness. As I watch people that I love try and heal from such
experiences I realize more and more that my parent's are far more unique than I
ever could have dreamed and while they have not only saved me from so much
heartache, they have empowered me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I grew up
in a home where there was never any shame in being mortal. No fear of being
ordinary. Because there is power in being ordinary. My Dad was the most
impressive to me when he would come back to the family and apologize for his
mistakes. When he would ask for help. And when he would take the time to know
the other beautiful ordinary people that surrounded him. All I could ever dream
to be is as spectacularly ordinary as he is. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Three weeks ago my parent came to visit me in my small East
Harlem apartment. After several days of wandering the city in the first summer
heat wave, we were all destroyed. We came home Sunday evening with plans of
doing absolutely nothing the rest of the night. Dad wanted something to drink
besides water so we sent him off to the organic market about 7 blocks from my
house. Moments after he left I began to feel anxious. While Dad can be easily
distracted there was no obvious or logical reason for me to worry about my 54
year old dad navigating his way around. I hesitated for a moment and then slipped
on my Birkenstocks and ran out the door and down the block after him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Together we walked north and came across a
man asking for money just feet away from the storefront of our destination. Dad
stopped and talked to him. He told him he didn’t have any cash but he could buy
him some food. This man, dressed in scrubs and recently released from a rehab
clinic said he would eat anything; his desperate hunger was palpable. So Dad
and I stepped into the market, grabbed the aranciata we came for and then
started shopping for Carlos’ dinner. Peanuts for some protein, fresh
strawberries because they were in season, a cold Snapple lemonade because it
was just so damn hot, some salty bean tortilla chips and a box of Newman-O’s
because everybody loves Oreos. We walked out and handed him his bag of dinner.
Dad shook his hand and introduced himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Mucho gusto Carlos.” As we walked away Dad said “I like to shake their
hands. His hands are no dirtier than a subway pole and he’s a person and
deserves to feel human, which people often forget.” I looped my arm through
Dad’s and felt so grateful for that pit in my stomach that told me to run after
him, so I could see that unadulterated moment of “courage, compassion and
connection.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Because this is the man who is my father, I have not had the
life I could have. I have been saved from so much pain and confusion. In an age
when I should have grown up riddled with insecurities I felt loved and capable.
Supported and understood. A security so all encompassing that I have never felt
incapable of living a beautiful human life. Because that man is my father I
have always felt worthy of what is good.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I think about his childhood and how he lacked so much
of what I’ve had, I am all the more amazed. Though his father is not to be
blamed for his mental illness, it does not detract from the hurt that Dad has
had to move beyond. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly I’ve seen him
learn that he is also worthy of all that is good. And somehow I’m the one that
lucked out. I even only had to share him with one sibling.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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So for 28 years I’ve been able to live courageously because
next to me is a father who thinks the world is just as amazing as I do and
wants to see it and love it and keep it. A father who has taken time for anyone
who has ever needed it and never felt like a moment has been wasted. A father who
loves his family more than anything and a father who has hurt deeply for anyone
he knows who has suffered. A father who is quick to forgive and even quicker to
apologize. A father who is honest and real and Wholehearted and mine forever. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<img aria-label="Photo - Landscape - May 28, 2016" class="SzDcob" height="521" jsname="uLHQEd" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigYiqf3z0gLH1GHvdCzdhnfWf-77IN1xikjNVNjrrYhU7SUruiDoEICEeiBj6PaDi1EoAkxyIE2bdlTmrx_hBQXxLMd7FAI5mv3Iv710_Gu8IlBLlzJ6H3xQ4NuYW4AdzOjPtZoq3EWB8/w695-h521-no/" style="transform: translate3d(-0.5px, 0px, 0px) rotate(0deg);" width="695" /></div>
wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-61671710913204452222015-10-03T06:47:00.002-07:002015-10-03T07:31:23.005-07:00Little Gray<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nearly every Saturday I wake up mad. Not mad that it’s Saturday, but mad that my teacher brain can never sleep in. I’m lucky if I make it all the way to 7:30 before I find myself rolling back and forth in bed, trying to find a position to trick my body into going back to sleep, even for just one more hour. </span></span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-2c11f8e3-2df4-a63b-02f5-eac263c254eb" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On the first dreary Saturday of fall I rolled over and looked at my watch. 8:00. I was sleepy but thrilled I was able to make it past 7. But a moment later I saw the clock in my room and pulled my arm out from the warmth and realized ay puffy optimistic eyes had read wrong. It was 7:00. I slipped out of bed and tip toed along the cool wood floors of my NYC apartment. Walking to the bathroom I glanced at the three mouse traps I had set the night before. Empty. Empty. Empty. But wait, the third one wasn’t empty. There was a little gray mouse curled around the chocolate chips I had set in the middle of a glue trap. He seemed so much smaller now that he was still and not dashing across my kitchen floor. He was still and I hoped against all logic that he was dead. He had realized his fate and decided to give up the ghost before starvation or dehydration or heartbreak set in. I slipped into the bathroom and then back down the hall to my room. Even if I was awake I couldn’t bring myself to leave my bed so early on such a gray Saturday. Laying under a mess of blankets I reached behind me to select one of the six books I’m currently in the middle of, perched on my window sill. I guess I’ve been a little restless lately. I propped it on my pillows and picked up where I had left off a week ago. And then I heard the squeaking.</span></span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Almost the creak of my roommate's door on the opposite side of our apartment. Almost the chirp of our sometimes rogue smoke detector. It was the call of my little gray mouse. Awake. Immobile. Fully conscious but fully confused. Probably terrified. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I took dozens of classes during my undergraduate degree on mammalogy, biodiversity and wildlife behavior. The scientist in me understands just how small the brain of Little Gray is. She understands just how limited their thought processes are. How their drive is purely biological, not emotional. But the scientist in me isn’t the one that had to listen to the squeaking build as confusion turned to desperation.</span></span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Growing up going to church every Sunday we were taught that all things were created spiritually before they were created physically. All things, not just humans. Even though we happen to be running the show right now, we aren’t the sole prized creations of whatever greater being you choose to believe is real and watching and somehow connected to us all. Maybe it was these early teachings. Or maybe it was because one day when I was three my dad saved a nest of baby bunnies that looked like nothing but a pile of sleeping fluff with closed eye from being eaten by a hawk. Or maybe it was because I liked to make bread with my dad and when he told me yeast was alive I imagined a microscopic forest full of white tailed deer in the bottom of our kitchenaid. Or maybe it was the pet rat that I had that would ride in my overall pockets all day long and call him when I called. Or maybe it was because </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe it as because of all these things that everything has always felt very alive to me. Before I understood the seasons I would worry about my favorite oak trees when their confident green leaves would start to quake and begin turning brown. Little Gray still felt very alive.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So I pulled my blanket up, bunched the excess of down under my head and hoped it really was a comforter, that it could somehow block out the frantic calls now coming from Little Gray. I tried not to think about his family. Or was it her family. I tried not to put my brain capacity into the 2 cm of the skull Little Gray has. I started to think of who I could call to simply pick up the trap and put it in a trash bag because I couldn’t bring myself to face Little Gray. I couldn’t even bring myself to go and make breakfast, despite the growing rumbles of my stomach because he would be there, trapped by my feet. I tried to remind myself that I couldn’t let disease ridden rodents scamper around my kitchen. I wasn’t living in a Disney movie. It wasn’t sanitary, it wasn’t safe. </span></span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The more technology our society creates the less it seems we have to deal with moments like Little Gray. It’s easy to pretend like the traps we lay in our lives will be someone else’s mess. An anonymous hand will sweep down and brush all your messes and mistakes into a dumpster somewhere far away and you won’t have to think about the Little Gray that is stuck or confused or scared or angry or defeated. I haven’t studied the civil war in probably 15 years but I have vivid memories of watching </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Glory</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in 8th grade and feeling sympathetic trauma for the people that fought and won or lost by running their enemy through with a bayonette. I wonder how different war would be if we still had to look into the eyes of our enemy on the battlefield. I wonder how different it would be if we could all hear the sqeakings of a Little Gray early on a Saturday while we are safe and warm in a nest of blankets and morning light. I worry all the time that my students isolate themselves with their phones and fail to see that they are members of a body that is complicated and that what they do is real and always means something to someone, good or bad. And I’m not sure if that is something that can be taught, maybe just felt.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I finally shuffled from my room during a time when Little Gray was quiet and grabbed a trash bag. I sobbed when I saw him squirm, a pile of his own poop stuck to the glue behind him, his head and hind legs going in awkwardly opposite directions. I shook as I slid him into the bag and racing down to the dumpster I said a little prayer that he would die quickly. Even if I was being more inhumane not ending his life myself I couldn’t do it. I hoped that whatever family he had they wouldn’t sit and wonder if he was coming home, despite the scientist in me knowing that was far from being a possibility, the idea still haunted me. I locked him in the dark dumpster and made my way upstairs. Made breakfast and hoped that I could use my immense will power to keep any other curious mice from coming back to our kitchen. </span></span>wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-65259576439513272222014-09-03T19:19:00.001-07:002014-09-03T19:19:12.232-07:00bffOne of my best friends is 13. And lives 12 hours and 25 minutes away. Assuming I was an airplane that could just take off from my house and fly across the ocean at least. What did we do before skype/google???<br />
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I just really want the world to know Agnese is the coolest kid ever, is that so much to ask?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKjCAVf3557ca52jPlqBvtNbI0I-xTPXChyZ0HMTMHKGToC8OCDay-Jfvs2Mt1LKwmDJUmozRQ3AxENXxCReB_tlmcwWN-dIGKKxESjCdEGYRvQpM7qHcTcqtfmfIJQ1ilat0e8BVWic/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-09-01+at+12.09.35+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKjCAVf3557ca52jPlqBvtNbI0I-xTPXChyZ0HMTMHKGToC8OCDay-Jfvs2Mt1LKwmDJUmozRQ3AxENXxCReB_tlmcwWN-dIGKKxESjCdEGYRvQpM7qHcTcqtfmfIJQ1ilat0e8BVWic/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-09-01+at+12.09.35+PM.png" height="200" width="320" /></a></div>
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You can tell I have real world responsibilities again because I'm blogging. Tomorrow I teach real students. So many of them. In a perfect world I'll finally be able to get into my apartment this weekend which means starting Monday I will be heading to work on this little baby... Bikes are cheaper than trains. It's a fact. It's a good thing I'm not living in Brooklyn. Partly because it would be crazy far to get to work, partly because I would look like I was trying to be too cool. But you wouldn't want to lug a real bike up four flights of stairs either, promise.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2O-_uf4zJxwaP7-VeqBYZzcCFf_DTFCgsOrTo8Y7RInQly0sk-wpcCXegDhj_QMN7Fn2LyNhTSgndyqjDlLEnl38UAn3eRc6ambIG9kXX0SUaxzkAj_v_ettFJ8Bf-F6uCGzIkEiNBhp8/s1600/20140903_220908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2O-_uf4zJxwaP7-VeqBYZzcCFf_DTFCgsOrTo8Y7RInQly0sk-wpcCXegDhj_QMN7Fn2LyNhTSgndyqjDlLEnl38UAn3eRc6ambIG9kXX0SUaxzkAj_v_ettFJ8Bf-F6uCGzIkEiNBhp8/s1600/20140903_220908.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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In other news, I'm now insured and I've attended my first grad class. I'm just feeling like a grown up all of a sudden. Between direct deposit, the DOE, new math curriculum, the teachers union and 8,000 other things I feel like all I do these days is make new email accounts and login names and SO many passwords. Yeah, I must really be a grown up. </div>
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And then there was this.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhabOfMpSSF64Ju0-l1n9TnsJBFofwq1S84KG6lUsf81Luk2RBRR_mgicT4O2mZAc64VbcfnmOMIWi9QNINpZnXw3X-kous9kDmm2hD_-lANBEfmB-zIV-gE6CJYeN2_bRyOuMKovBr6yU/s1600/pizza-beret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhabOfMpSSF64Ju0-l1n9TnsJBFofwq1S84KG6lUsf81Luk2RBRR_mgicT4O2mZAc64VbcfnmOMIWi9QNINpZnXw3X-kous9kDmm2hD_-lANBEfmB-zIV-gE6CJYeN2_bRyOuMKovBr6yU/s1600/pizza-beret.jpg" height="320" width="249" /></a></div>
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And with that I leave you to peruse 6th grade science lesson plans and drift off to a dreamy futon sleep.</div>
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wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-54631573983651041172014-09-01T08:49:00.000-07:002014-09-01T08:49:15.145-07:00can't stop won't stopSometimes you plan on spending the day at the beach but the meteorologist keeps playing games with your heart. So instead you listen to this song forever and eat dark chocolate almonds because you all of a sudden remember they are the best.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/EtRIz7VocNs" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<br />wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-5865321236694956562014-08-30T20:10:00.001-07:002014-08-30T20:10:23.720-07:00better slip you an ambien<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnbWVstYtWcktcdeDFqYqyJ_KV75zOSycYCNsoVa_WhaorUA_TKFBw1VfbDl9Vnz4Cwz_CO_RBzARRTFdLrtYDcvFMeHWnAc9xqibgpfkQCLA98ZdIjID8NCEM6R4PWy7Rje2qai9XOdHA/s1600/Snapchat-20140829080008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnbWVstYtWcktcdeDFqYqyJ_KV75zOSycYCNsoVa_WhaorUA_TKFBw1VfbDl9Vnz4Cwz_CO_RBzARRTFdLrtYDcvFMeHWnAc9xqibgpfkQCLA98ZdIjID8NCEM6R4PWy7Rje2qai9XOdHA/s1600/Snapchat-20140829080008.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">Hey guys,</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So I live in New York City. It’s real. For the first time in months I don’t have a plane ticket to worry about, just a new life. I know it’s stating the obvious, but let me tell you, it’s quite the adventure.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">I’m working on an essay to commemorate this drastic life change but it is full of far too many secrets to just be carelessly plopped on the internet, so instead I have a separate confession for you. I love taking pictures of strangers doing things that I think are funny.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">The other night I found myself in Time Square. Let me also confess to you that Time Square is maybe my least favorite place in all of NYC. But sometimes you just accidentally find yourself there waiting to meet people that are in the area. As I sat on a bench I realized that my bench had suddenly been filled with a vacationing hispanic family much too large for said bench. Family members filed behind and I then realized that a family picture was being taken. I just wish they had told me to smile, given me some kind of warning. Now they will probably have a mostly confused looking, super white, red headed second cousin on their Christmas card this year. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The hispanic family filed away and then this guy showed up. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdOlAE72uP_aw1uRq_xcdlQLQoo70nZDA0SZOpIlFeXM1D6K2NkJfStkV5d47NoVc-TBOQjTmgux-hIUSfrV3v5u8lvklefbJNpqkwJBEuXjXsjr9kD5FtpYJw72h92E72zId8tJTlzjQ/s1600/20140828_200233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdOlAE72uP_aw1uRq_xcdlQLQoo70nZDA0SZOpIlFeXM1D6K2NkJfStkV5d47NoVc-TBOQjTmgux-hIUSfrV3v5u8lvklefbJNpqkwJBEuXjXsjr9kD5FtpYJw72h92E72zId8tJTlzjQ/s1600/20140828_200233.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Look at that bench, there's just no way I wasn't in that family picture.)</span></div>
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<span class="s1">What I loved about him was that he could not stop yawning. He’s alone, in Time Square, the sun has just set. Hollywood would try and have us believe that such a moment is oozing with potential to be sickeningly romantic or tragic. He and I are the only people who aren’t stumbling around like a bunch of deer in the headlights. I thought to myself, this guy gets it. Sadly I have not yet mastered my art of creepily taking pictures of the people around me without them realizing, so I never got a good yawning pic. At one point I even positioned myself for the perfect picture and then started yawning, hoping it would be contagious. It was, but he stood up and turned around to continue his yawning. Oh well. I just need to keep practicing. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvfQjdBA1ImK_-y9cSY9btFkfLCYy6xJEAj-ZOmIzwDV3SW1xSt5_i-wumH2v18BCOCs-HN6MS7TCcuTABU3Hrz8f_z3hrw-dUD2UjKRWTZKJcAblVwSmrZr24c8RkrJQ-WkSkqgEYNRTw/s1600/20140828_200328(0).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvfQjdBA1ImK_-y9cSY9btFkfLCYy6xJEAj-ZOmIzwDV3SW1xSt5_i-wumH2v18BCOCs-HN6MS7TCcuTABU3Hrz8f_z3hrw-dUD2UjKRWTZKJcAblVwSmrZr24c8RkrJQ-WkSkqgEYNRTw/s1600/20140828_200328(0).jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="text-align: center;">In other news, I saw grown twins wearing matching outfits in Central Park on Thursday. I don’t know why but when I see adult twins that match I ALWAYS write it in my journal. I’ve been addressed as “Lady with the optical impairment,” had a man on the subway ask me what I would do with a transvestite student, talked to two Italians from Modena in an ancient Egyptian tomb and purchased a mattress that will be delivered, for free, to my fourth floor apartment where there is no elevator. Things are ok. </span></div>
<br />wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-56779945618833301792014-06-13T15:32:00.001-07:002014-06-13T15:32:45.140-07:00one yearMy desk at work is covered in post-it notes. Some of them are actually related to work (the code for the scanner or the number of items on a particular spreadsheet) but most of them are thoughts I'm worried I'll forget if not otherwise documented. "Yesterday I saw two adult twins in matching outfits." "What is corrupt communication?" "The only book worth writing is the one that might kill you."<br />
<br />
That last one is something Terry Tempest Williams told us when I heard her speak last October. It's a phrase I think about more than I ever would have guessed when she first said it.<br />
<br />
On June 14th, 2013 I got home from serving my 18 month mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I think about leaving Milan that morning after getting two hours of sleep. I find my seat on my first flight, headed toward London next to a beautiful Italian family and we chatted about places to visit in Tuscany. Then I think about getting off the plane in Madison, Mom, Dad and Ian standing at the bottom of the escalator, we drive by Lake Mendota on our way home. Home. Home #1 I guess. It was technically the same, long day, but I still don't really know how to piece them together.<br />
<br />
I think about Italy all the time. Moments and places and people. And food. There were endless moments when I knew I was always meant to find my way to that place. Somehow the past 23 years had been leading me to that ancient icy cobblestone street where Mario's bookbinding shop was nestled. Mario and his silver tooth who told me about when he first loved book binding and about copying pages from the 13th century books housed in the Duomo library in Siena and what it means to take pride in your work. Somehow I was always supposed to end up sitting on the shore of Lago Maggiore talking to Luca about what I thought heaven would be like or what it really meant to love or how to make the world's best eggplant parmesan. I was destined to become best friends with 12 year old Agnese. So much so that when I got sent away from her and Forli' after just 6 short weeks we both burst into tears and she handed me a card she had been making with a picture of us on it.<br />
<br />
And I remember one moment walking through the train station of Milano Centrale and realizing how fragile it all seemed. The freedom I felt, the responsibility, the strength, the purpose. It would be gone so fast and then I'd have to figure out how to weave those moments in with a life back in America and skinny jeans.<br />
<br />
Thinking about Italy is like putting my cold feet under hot running water. The temperatures are too extreme to really know what I'm feeling. And that's that. That's why after a year I still don't know what to say when people ask me about it. That's Italy. The things I feel are so intense that I don't always know what they are. I guess I'm just really grateful.<br />
<br />
A grateful so encompassing that sometimes it just stings and feels like it will never fade, while simultaneously my biggest fear is that it will. Sometimes I imagine doing open heart surgery on myself, trying to get a better look at who and what has lodged itself inside the chambers of my vital organ. Colonies tucked away, representing all five cities I lived it. And after I've made that first cut and there's no going back I realize that writing about Italy just might kill me. Incision after incision. It's not like I've ever been good at guarding my heart; I've tended to keep an open door policy. And then all of a sudden I realize how heavy that feels, to be carrying bits of so many people with me, not knowing when I'll see them again. But this almost paralyzing sense of gratitude tells me it's all worth it.<br />
<br />
I think about the times when I felt like I was crumbling during that year and a half. The days when I didn't think I could walk out of the door again. Or the times people I had loved just closed up and vanished. I think about the men on the street that tried to taunt and objectify me. I think about leaving city after city and wondering how many times my heart could break before I would. I think about how small and weak and confused I felt and it's almost ironic how the emotion I keep coming back to is gratitude. Because I'm grateful that I learned how to love. That I learned how to ask for help. That I learned to use the little strength I had to be better and keep walking. Because standing still never got me anywhere. That I learned to act and not be acted upon and not settle. Even though I won't ever be a full time missionary again, I think those 18 months prepared me for every other role I will play in my life. And while I know hard things are waiting for me, in relationships and work and life, I'm not really scared or worried about any of it.<br />
<br />
Too often my natural inclination is to fall back into worrying. But then I try to let the hope that I've been cultivating for the past 26 years, which had quite the growth spurt November 2011- June 2013, take over, let it remind me of the patterns of good in the world and the security there so often is in just doing what is good and right. And when being a human just gets really hard I remember the six months I spent living in Bergamo and starting almost everyday with a run up and along the walls of the old city and I can't help but feel like life is good and right and beautiful. And even if sometimes I think it might kill me to remember, to try and weave these two lives together, the truth is that it's worth it. It's worth remembering the man who kissed my hand on the train to Genova. It reminds me of so much more than that moment. It reminds me of how happy I was to be working so hard and seeing the good in so many people. So even if Italy might kill me, especially when I'm anywhere but there, I'm ok with it.<br />
<br />
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<br />wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-90346417387680447632014-05-08T17:16:00.000-07:002014-05-08T17:16:35.399-07:00you are what you keep in your car: an inventoryA recent excursion to Costco helped me realize I need to clean out my car. Not because she's full of trash, or useless items that I've gathered since I bought her last August. Just because I seem to be too prepared. Here's what we found as Dad and I shifted to find space for enough gatorade to hydrate a small heard of elephants. <i>(Side note, I watched an animal planet special on elephants the other night and Africa is breaking my heart. If you can think of something sadder than baby elephants dying of dehydration, DON'T tell me. I could never handle something so sad.)</i><br />
Back to the inventory.<br />
<br />
1 pair of snowshoes (I should maybe tell you it was 80 degrees today)<br />
1 pair of ice skates (and really humid)<br />
1 yoga mat<br />
1 fleece blanket<br />
1 sleeping bag<br />
1 pair of running shoes<br />
1 box of tampons<br />
4 reese's peanut butter eggs<br />
1 pocket knife<br />
1 moosewood cookbook<br />
1 shovel<br />
1 pair of rain pants<br />
1 green sweater my mother knit for my father some 30 years ago (it doesn't fit him anymore, thus the appropriation)<br />
1 shovel<br />
2 frisbees<br />
1 orange patagonia coat<br />
2 roof rack straps<br />
9 books, ranging from Little Women to a history of Gettysburg<br />
2 foam pads for stacking stand up paddle boards<br />
1 set of bocci balls, they light up<br />
1 swim suit<br />
1 towel<br />
1 green mountain hardwear rain coat<br />
1 certificate of missionary service<br />
1 bag of temple clothes<br />
1 ancient green american apparel sweatshirt<br />
1 bottle of whole foods peppermint lotion, it's not even frozen anymore guys<br />
1 classic iPod<br />
1 wrench<br />
5 pens<br />
$1.28<br />
29 ml hand sanitizer<br />
1 wooden set of utensils including chopsticks<br />
1 paper crown<br />
1 melted kiss my face chap stick<br />
13 cds, ranging from marvin gaye to catching fire to coral bones<br />
1 empty glass of water<br />
<br />
And that's it. I have no witty conclusion for you, just the cold hard facts.<br />
<br />
<br />wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-58449668146077632182014-04-17T21:37:00.001-07:002014-04-17T22:00:00.366-07:00Thursdays: the night you watch music videos from 2001 and decide blogging should be a thing you do again<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">My last two years at university I lived in an old house divided into four apartments. We lived on the main floor so it still felt like a home: with arch ways between rooms, an old out of tune piano and a faded red and green plaid couch on a front porch. As a whole, the house itself should have been sad, full of too many people, too many bats in the chimney and too many badly painted rooms. But I loved it. And there are days when I miss it. Especially that faded old couch. It was my spot.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I would sit out there and watch the green mountains dry up in the hot desert summers that make you, against logic, wonder if you may be about to die. Then a crisp, round gold would set in in mid September. Soon enough there were blankets of white. And I would sit there. I would watch. I would listen. I would think. And usually I would write. Sometimes in heaps of blankets, taking breaks to go inside and run my frozen fingers under the hot tap until the feeling of needles subsided. Just because the weather wasn’t ideal didn’t mean I could just abandon my post. It was my spot.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Since I left the squeaking wooden floors and yellowed bath tubs of that old house I haven’t really found a new spot. I’ve had a few, but nothing lasting. I promise I’ve been on the hunt. There was a balcony in a small town called Forli', near the Adriatic Coast in Italy that served me well for about 6 weeks, but it just wasn’t meant to be. And then I was computer less and every time I tried to put pen to paper I felt like all 27 bones in my right hand would just explode. There were too many words, too many essays, too many things that I hadn’t been able to write down since I left my familiar couch. So I gave up. And I felt sort of dishonest doing so. I’ve never considered myself the best writer, but it’s something that I love. Something that makes me feel genuine. Something that fulfills my innate need to create. And so I’ve been a little lonely, missing all the stories that I haven’t allowed to gestate; ones that exist but I’ve just sort of abandoned, left in limbo, but I’m still acutely aware of the space they should take up. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">I guess the purpose of all this is to say “I’m back” or I guess more of me is. I’m back on the grid, with a laptop that has a battery life longer than me. And I’m on the hunt for a spot, a new spot where I can sit and piece together the stories I haven’t yet realized were connected. And I guess putting this out into the universe makes me feel like something is holding me accountable. Something will know if I don’t follow through. And I’ve got to say, I like to think I’m the kind of girl that does what she says she’ll do. So here goes nothing. </span></div>
wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-38544351618376576302013-12-27T17:57:00.001-08:002013-12-27T18:02:55.958-08:00Winning my word search<p dir="ltr">Hey blog, I seem to have a lot of words in my brain these days. I thought you might be able to help me organize a few of them, order my thoughts and connect the dots. I'm sitting here in a warmly lit kitchen with marble counter tops. My hands are sore from bouldering and my boots are wet from snowshoeing. I've a mug of tea in my hand and wool socks on my feet and I'm feeling pretty good about being human.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Lately I've had a surge or productivity, maybe because I've felt the need to act my age and make important life decisions, maybe because I got in the habit of working eight hours of manual labor, or maybe because I had just forgotten how much I love doing puzzles and knitting. Plus there's been snow to play in and old friends to reconnect with. But all the while my head has still felt a little like a word search. I've been pretty bad at clearing my mind, at having the focus and the calm to find one word at a time. Sometimes I get close at the end of yoga. But really not that close.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And then a few weeks ago I found myself sitting in a whitewater kayak in the pool of an intermediate school near Green Bay. (I've decided that must be the best way to try and fancy up the idea of middle school. But that's not important.) What is important is how much I didn't even realize I'd missed being on the water. Even if it was just an overly chlorinated pool. I paddled around a little bit, practiced my hip snap along the wall (I was too scared to try my roll, it's been so long!) and paddled around some more. I ended the night by acting my normal childish shelf and racing my friend's teenage cousin in a swamped kayak and seeing who could stand up first in their boat. But some of the best times were the in between times when I just sat and floated with my knees in my chest. I swayed a little from the ripples of Devon teaching said teenage cousin how to roll and guys, I could finally clear my mind. Since it's gotten too cold to stand up paddle or go on a midnight swim I've missed floating and thinking. And floating and not thinking. I hadn't really realized that sometimes clearing your mind is the most rejuvenating thing you can do for yourself. And then slowly I could sift through one word at a time. And then suddenly all the things that make being a human hard didn't seem quite so daunting and all the little things that make being a human beautiful seemed so naturally important. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And I guess that's all I really have to say. If I had been paying better attention I'm pretty sure my gut was telling me to find some open water. I'm also setting for fresh snow and a pair of snowshoes these days, it has a similar effect. So here's to following our guts and clearing our minds and loving being a human and living authentically, because insincerity is just too exhausting not even worth it.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lBGY58tdKlEIUKhVedR4tMDJdnVj9XJ7saZx1BVU89j1JhFZtQ3ffcrjqCQjTWaDBoHh1lXqnggC6yNv8jSPJMYOtHiG4evWBUgaNu8StKjNB0vv3BDI10qYeZ4Z0Oz0gQtxRYkjmGQ/s1600/IMG_11466729921722.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lBGY58tdKlEIUKhVedR4tMDJdnVj9XJ7saZx1BVU89j1JhFZtQ3ffcrjqCQjTWaDBoHh1lXqnggC6yNv8jSPJMYOtHiG4evWBUgaNu8StKjNB0vv3BDI10qYeZ4Z0Oz0gQtxRYkjmGQ/s640/IMG_11466729921722.jpeg"> </a> </div>wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-70399353904756693072013-11-15T06:56:00.000-08:002013-11-15T06:56:02.444-08:00Time and I, we have a strange relationshipOh hey cyber world, it's me, Whitney.<br />
<br />
Yeah I know, it's been a while. A more than two years kind of while. And yeah, I know, I've been back for awhile. Just hit five months yesterday if you're into the details. (I know I'm kind of into the details.) And five months just sounds so substantial.<br />
<br />
To be honest, it freaks me out a little bit.<br />
<br />
But then I think about how much has happened in the past 5 months and I feel pretty ok.<br />
<br />
Guys, life is really good. Even on days when I ache to be surrounded by people speaking Italian or to hop on a train going anywhere or to eat fresh mozzarella or to buy roasted chestnuts on the street, life is still good. Italy was so good to me. I mean, she did break me down into little pieces but I got on my flight home last June a better person then when I stumbled into Milano in January of 2011. And I'm happy about that. I'm happy that I'll have her with me always and that by leaving bits of my heart scattered all over that country I get to bring all those people that have those bits with me too. Talk about being the luckiest.<br />
<br />
Even though time sometimes tries to stress me out and tell me that I should really have my life figured out by now, when I ignore that unsettling feeling and work on just one piece at a time, it totally works. For example, news flash: I want to be a high school science teacher. And even though I need to work on the points in between here and there, at least I know where there is, right? Right.<br />
<br />
So here I am, blogging again, because I've realized that if I could do anything in the world for the rest of my life, I would want to write. I miss is. And I've felt pretty dumb since I came home from my mission. There is a very real haze in my brain that I've been working on clearing out that separates my life pre and post November 16th, 2011. So here I am trying to clear it out some more, trying to figure out how to remember all the words and things I used to know.<br />
<br />
But now I've got to go. Matt is here and I've got to drive to Chicago and look at art and walk by the lake and eat deep dish pizza. Because life is so good.<br />
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wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-7972810019759533782011-11-11T14:53:00.001-08:002011-11-11T15:00:43.054-08:00unfaithfulGuys, right now I am Rihanna, singing out to my blog that I don't want to cheat, but I just can't help it!<br />
<br />
The time is coming. Wednesday I go into the MTC. We are so close that I even got an e-mail today with my new address in great detail.<br />
<br />
I still love you blog I promise, and I still want to tell the world that I am grateful for an evening of class and refinement where the bush clan will be feasting on sushi and going to the symphony, as soon as I throw on my dress, but I can no longer be exclusive; <a href="http://sorellabush.blogspot.com/">sorellabush.blogspot.com</a> is real and is part of my life, I hope you understand. <br />
<br />
See I have pretty tech savvy parents, especially ye olde XY, so they'll be posting my family e-mails to the previously mentioned blog. Follow it! Follow my adventures! Love me! Write me letters! You wont regret it. I promise to throw in some good italian jokes now and then.<br />
<br />
xoxo,<br />
sorella whitney sara bushwsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-3832882831508844742011-11-10T19:30:00.001-08:002011-11-10T19:46:18.213-08:00indoor plumbing, it's gonna be bigI am grateful for the many modern conveniences that fill by days. A few examples:<br />
-washing machine<br />
-dishwasher<br />
-head lamp<br />
-online banking<br />
-hot water heater<br />
-invisible fence<br />
-blu ray player that streams the internet<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/i2bfYw1B_Ww" width="560"></iframe><br />
<i>(I was hoping for one of Maggie Smith's nice quips about electricity or the telephone, but youtube failed me, and I settled with the swivel chair)</i>wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-40238267532477913012011-11-09T20:59:00.000-08:002011-11-09T20:59:32.816-08:00home is where the hearth isI am grateful for fireplaces all aflame. Especially when you get a sneak snow attack.<br />
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Nothing really makes a place feel lived in and friendly and warm and perfect like a fire in the fireplace. Since my days spent in a real home are winding down, it's nice to spend them as homey as they can be.<br />
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Also, I just started <i>Wildwood </i>and the sketches in it are fabulous and I'm pretty sure if I were to ever get a tattoo I'm pretty positive it would have to be this:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Just a colander helmeted rabbit with a pitchfork and a pipe smoking fox in overalls. What a cliche. </i></span></div>wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-29860290803904053322011-11-08T20:37:00.000-08:002011-11-08T20:40:03.154-08:00shortiesTitle refers to the post, not the subjects, for right now I am grateful for Alice and Lauren. Both of whom are actually quite tall.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Oh man, Alice as totally grown since this late July snapshot. </i></span></div>
<br />
For those uninformed, Alice is my fluffy puppy. We spend a lot of time together sitting and reading in the front yard or chasing each other around our house. She is hilarious and now quite clean since I bathed her last week. It's just so lovely having an affectionate pup around again. She waggles her butt enthusiastically when you come home and wants to be wherever her people are. I'm really going to miss her something fierce.<br />
<br />
Also for the benefit of the uninformed, Lauren is just my bff, nbd. She's been really great at calling me lately and she's always a delight on the phone as we talk about adventures from our roommate days or adventures that will be picked up again in 2013. We still don't talk about how I'm missing her wedding this December, although we have decided a cardboard cutout will need to make an appearance. I'm really going to miss her something fierce.<br />
<br />
I could go on in much greater depth, especially in the case of LAT, soon to be LAB, but I promised a shorty and I'm nearing my slumbers.<br />
<br />
Here's to loyal and true friends, of any species.<br />
<br />
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<br />wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-68866751179611039512011-11-07T21:03:00.000-08:002011-11-07T21:03:15.719-08:00hibernationJudge me if you truly feel the need, but I am grateful for mindless television. Just finished the first three (and only) episodes of<i> Once Upon a Time</i>.<br />
My brain, as well as every last bit of me, is preparing to be overused in the coming months by lying low. Very low. In the basement.wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-12568249995520946972011-11-06T20:34:00.000-08:002011-11-06T21:33:46.611-08:00what a foolGuys, I have a serious question for you. Why have I ever made frosting that wasn't actually chocolate ganache? I feel my life has had little to no meaning up until this birthday cake. (Happy Birthday Momma B.)<br /><br />Also, who wants to buy me <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005Q1W0ZQ/ref=asc_df_B005Q1W0ZQ1769610?smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER&tag=hyprod-20&linkCode=asn&creative=395093&creativeASIN=B005Q1W0ZQ">this</a>? 2 day shipping should do I would say, if you act promptly. I just finished season one on Netflix and I need closure! Seriously. I may have to settle with finishing Firefly and count that as good. But I don't want to! I'm a child!<br /><br />In other news it was a good Sunday. It was nearly derailed by a splitting headache, but the good news is, we live in the 21st century. Hip hip for modern medicine!<br /><br />I'm grateful for Excedrin.<br />I'm grateful for British television.<br />I'm grateful for letters in the post. (here's looking at you RG, BK, RG, CAL/SS and ER featured in my mailbox this past week)<br />I'm grateful for toe nail polish. (I'm currently rocking the mint apple, which if you think about too much, may make you want to vomit)<br />I'm grateful for Neil Young's album <i>Harvest Moon</i>.<br />I'm grateful for my Madison peeps. In this moment especially SS, EF and JN.<br />I'm grateful for my testimony of the gospel.<br />I'm grateful for those times when you ask someone how they're doing and they don't say "good."<br />I'm grateful I'm finally going to learn to really speak Italian.<br /><br />And in conclusion, maybe if we all wish real hard, this guy will be transferred to Milan and become my bff.<br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tAheGUPJI8Y" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-45848977309464896652011-11-05T21:51:00.001-07:002011-11-05T21:51:45.492-07:00pretty much why I'm going to Italy for the next 18 monthsExcluding the fact that I'm not a Jamaican man.<br />
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Today I took notes on a power point print out for the first time in ages. Jotted down things like why we dye cheeses, why calf stomach is the most popular rennet used in Switzerland, that Parmesan must be aged at least 10 months before it can legally be called and sold as Parmesan, and the name of the amino acid that causes the crystals that form in really good Parmesan. I not only left the Monona Terrace with superior dinner party conversation topics, I also received a book entitled <i>Creating Dairyland, </i>and 8 cheese samples in my belly. Luckily at my cheese maker dinner a few weeks ago I learned the proper way to taste cheese.<br />
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This morning momma b and I hit up the last outdoor farmer's market of the year. Let's have a moment of silence. Luckily I only have one Saturday left in this place so my mourning is limited, and I'm distracted by the three kinds of apples we came home with, two from an antique apple orchard. Isn't it amazing those two words aren't paired up more often? They sound great together.<br />
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I am grateful for local food. For good food. For food that makes my body happy/healthy.<br />
I am grateful for the people that grow my food. (Including a group of "Gentleman Farmers" as a scrawled piece of card board labeled their booth today.)<br />
I am grateful for broccoli.<br />
I am grateful for my built in book shelf in my room.<br />
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I am grateful that my life has always been filed with such excellent people. The cream of the crop, if you will. These ladies were the most recent to hit up out four star accommodations at Chateau Bush. I love them like whoa.<br />
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INTERJECTION:<br />
I feel I should paint a picture for you here. Besides the all gray, this moment is comprised of a puppy lying in the middle of my bed, rolling onto her back, and Ian walking by my room to say "good night whit: you are the worst POW ever!!" The mtc is going to be a little boring/take some getting used to after my months at the Chateau.<br />
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Similar tangent: Ian and Mom and I can't help but laugh at this ad EVERY time this pops up in the middle of our Bones watching on Hulu.<br />
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And with that I'm off to enjoy my extra hour of sleep tonight. Boo yeah sons!wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-47577044217309769192011-11-04T11:34:00.000-07:002011-11-06T21:43:50.639-08:00epic birthday squirrelWho doesn't love Friday? I mean, I know they don't show Sabrina the Teenage Witch anymore, biggest tv mistake, but it's still one of the more popular days I would say. I personally get the joy of babysitting the cutest triplets Friday mornings. I live just houses away from George, Isaac and Noah who are honestly the cutest things I've ever seen. They'll be two in January and they love books, trucks and me. This particular babysitting gig is not for all three of them together. Usually there are two, but because one of them went to a wedding in Utah with their dad, it was just me and Isaac.<br />
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We crashed into the bean bag for awhile, played with a few different trucks and an elephant and then found our selves in the rocking chair with a stack of cardboard books. One of our favorites featured a blue truck who had a crew of barn yard friends, including a winking toad. Anyway, another book featured a mirror in the cover which I sneakily used to watch the progression of Isaac's droopy eyes. It wasn't long before I had a sleepy baby in my arms. I was definitely not mad about it. Isaac loves to be held and is a cuddle pro, but being a triplet he doesn't get many chances to sleep in someones lap. I decided to help a brother out, for almost an hour.<br />
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It was pretty much the best morning. Then I came home, ate a scone and watched the new Bones. Can I just say I am going to seriously miss that show. I love it.<br />
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TRANSITION<br />
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I am grateful for Isaac and his brothers and how much joy they get out of everything.<br />
I am grateful for my new dino pencil case.<br />
I'm grateful for flannel.<br />
I'm grateful for prayer.<br />
I'm grateful for pictures and the way the preserve memories.<br />
I'm grateful for bon iver.<br />
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Happy Friday err'body.wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-80501858456285482382011-11-03T08:26:00.000-07:002011-11-03T08:26:39.402-07:00I've always liked Thursdays<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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I slept in. (Ian and I stayed up too late watching Firefly) I feel asleep last night with a white dog on my bed, but woke up with a black dog. Old black dog has things pretty figured out though and had her head on a pillow. She may be neurotic but she is still pretty cute. Ian and I have a batch of whole wheat lemon cranberry scones in the oven. (Life is pretty great when you have an in with the fresh cranberry biz) Netflix has just shipped the last disc from season two of glee and 127 hours. <a href="http://www.wildwoodchronicles.com/">This </a>book is on it's way to me. (It's been too long since I lost myself in a bit of teen fantasy) And I'm wearing the previously mentioned leggings that I never want to take off my body.<br />
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In the world of gratitude, I just have to say, I am grateful for my super awesome new sharpie pens. In a couple weeks you can even write me a letter and I will write you one back with said pens and prove to you just how cool they are.<br />
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Also grateful that smitten kitchen seems to have collected any recipe I could ever want and put it on one great website.<br />
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Also also grateful for my futon and for all things down, enabling me to sleep like a baby.wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-48523925667513202682011-11-02T18:32:00.000-07:002011-11-06T21:44:10.279-08:00puppy baths and first snowsToday's been a lazy rainy fall day.<br />
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I am grateful for my health. I had my clean bill of he;ath handed to me in June, giving me the ok to go on a mission, but felt the need to follow up on a mystery this week. But once again, I have been told all shall be well. Being healthy is the best. The nurse was playing 20 questions with me, and when I told her I wasn't on any daily medications, she was shocked and pleased "there aren't very many people like that anymore." Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty great at swallowing pills, I just don't exercise that right daily.<br />
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Also grateful I have a few more days to be a bad influence on lil big bro. He's actually trying to pay attention to the institute class we're in right now. He is also wearing real pants.</div>
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Also, also grateful for trader joe's pb cups. Yum.</div>
<br />wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-79301654329789856982011-11-01T20:21:00.000-07:002011-11-01T20:21:10.697-07:00welcome to november (sung to the tune of welcome to miami)Hey guys and gals. For those of you who have been around whitney's blog world for a year (or maybs even two) you know what November is all about. No I'm not growing a mustache. I just talk the chance to be overly sentimental and talk about either singular or multiple things I am grateful for everyday. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and I hate that it kind of gets the shaft (since there are already Christmas decorations and commercials scattered around our daily existence, I don't feel the need to prove that point in any depth.) The thing is that this November is going to be different than any other because the Missionary Training Center will be my life in a mere 15 days. But I'm going to get in what I can in the next two weeks.<br />
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Today was a pretty good day, so I'm going to give you a gratitude list. I like lists.<br />
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<li>I'm grateful for Jenn. When I moved home and was all "woe is me! my friends live in utah, I live with my parents, I have no purpose!" Jenn made me feel like I had friends again. And, among other things, we talked about good food and good music. Today we had a Milwaukee adventure that included many good things including art and a pistachio rosewater cupcake. Yes, you read that right. It needs to be recreated asap.</li>
<li>I'm grateful for ups and usps. For letters and postcards from friends and for patagonia raincoat and leggings that came in the mail today and I never want to take off my body.</li>
<li>I'm grateful for good books and the ability to read and the love of reading. </li>
<li>I'm grateful for wool socks.</li>
<li>I'm grateful for sonicare toothbrushes.</li>
<li>I'm grateful for hulu.</li>
<li>I'm grateful for old school kanye.</li>
<li>I'm grateful for sufjan's come on and feel the illionoise.</li>
<li>I'm grateful for homemade sweaters.</li>
<li>I'm grateful for Wisconsin fall colors and weather.</li>
<li>I'm grateful for gchat and friends that are far away but still like to talk to me. </li>
<li>I'm grateful for art museums and how they always have wood floors, tall ceilings and great colored walls.</li>
<li>I'm grateful for my dino robot shirt I made last week.</li>
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I think that's a good jump start on the month. (But I am still BAFFLED that it is already November. Sheeoot.)</div>wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-41159125898913614072011-10-31T08:30:00.000-07:002011-10-31T08:30:13.694-07:00a little boo radley is good for the soul<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I'm not one for rereading books. It's not that I don't love to read or that I am often </span>disappointed<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> by the books I read, it's just that there are so many books that I haven't read once that I feel have a right to be looked at first. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That being said I just reread To Kill A Mockingbird, and I am beyond glad that I did. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I don't want this to turn into a book report. I just have loved the past few days that I've been sucked into Maycomb, Alabama. I was severely attached to Scout, Jem, Dill, Atticus and Tom and found myself on the edge of crying several times. But I also decided that Scout and I have remarkably similar brains. (Or maybe this is just an example of how people always try and over identify with characters they love.) But I really don't know how I could/would have lived my life in the south back in then. I felt the same way reading The Help this summer (a book you probably weren't assigned to read in high school so I say to you now, go and read!) </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Towards the end of the book Scout talks about how confused she is that her teacher can hate Hitler so much for what he is doing to the Jews, yet she heard that same teacher upon leaving the trial of Tom Robinson that it was time the blacks were put back in their place and Scout asks Jem "how can you hate Hitler so bad an' then turn around and be ugly to folks right at home?" and I wonder that still. How, or maybe why, do we find reasons to separate ourselves from each other? To decide who is deserving of good? At Stake Conference Saturday night someone said that we can never know or understand someone's complete situation, so giving people the benefit of the doubt is a kindness we can and should do for everyone. Assuming we are trying to do our best, why can't the same be said for those around us.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This reminds me of when Charles Dickens explains that Christmas is the time of the year when<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"> "men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-travelers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys." And I think I would say that we were fellow travelers to life. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">I think that sometimes we get to know people just enough that we suddenly feel we have enough information to judge them, to decide if they're being wise or foolish and to see all the places they could improve. I know I can be guilty of that. But in the spirit of Halloween, I think we should get over ourselves, lest people like the Ewells try and accuse good people like Tom and no one but Atticus and a handful of kids are willing to look past convention and see truth and justice as they should be. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Now stepping off my (maybe slightly incoherent) soap box.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Go eat some candy corn.</span></span>wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-70915017631893817322011-10-31T07:31:00.000-07:002011-10-31T07:31:49.753-07:00happy day before the great pumpkin comes<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1629146602219084755.post-86688474375010282572011-10-28T07:17:00.000-07:002011-10-28T07:17:08.665-07:0017 dazeI think about things to blog every day.<br />
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I could write about how perfect fall is as a season, siting a combination of the way it looks, smells and feels and the food you eat. (cue pumpkin bars with maple cream cheese frosting, or chicken corn chowder with butternut squash)<br />
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I could write about the old man that has been sitting on midvale blv a block from my grandparents old house in his wheelchair for years just watching cars drive by. (Yesterday he was sporting a hunter safety orange winter cap with ear flaps and only in recent years has he made the jump from lawn chair to wheelchair)<br />
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I could write about how I keep forgetting halloween is happening because for me, it sort of isn't and I cope by dancing in my kitchen by myself to glee's mash up of head's will roll and thriller.<br />
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I could write about my 7000th trip to milwaukee this tuesday to get my visa squared away and how I got to see my two long lost cousins and their children (both born and in utero) and then went to the most beautiful old house on the lake and talked to the classiest middle ages italian woman and drooled over the old windows and violins on her walls.<br />
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I could write about the shirt I screen printed myself that was supposed to be a dino but the head didn't show so I added a robot head from another screen, thus creating my new motto: when life gives you a headless dino, make it a robot head, or something like that.<br />
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I could write about my dear friends that drove across the country to see me. (insert cute pics of us at an apple orchard or short anecdote about how much curry we ate in those short hours)<br />
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But instead I go to movies with little bro and get shots in my arms and talk my dog on walks and call old friends and make the previously mentioned pumpkin bars and reread to kill a mocking bird and start packing my suitcases for ye olde mission.<br />
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I've got a lot to fit in the next 17 days.wsbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136345815033593733noreply@blogger.com0