what to ask me when i'm old (or after we're done moving)

Storyteller genius, Donald Davis, says not to ask old people what they remember about their childhoods.

Instead, he says you should ask about their childhood home. Or their third grade classroom. Or the hard church pew they sat on every Sunday. In other words, if you want to retrieve a memory, access the location where it's stored. Open the door and go inside the space where it happened.

Since we've been married, we've gathered a whole collection of spaces.

And here we go again. Arizona. For a good job. To the place we will be when we make that final student loan payment before the end of the year. I will experience that victory in a sunny spot on the globe.

You wouldn't know it from all our gypsying, but we really hate moving. We had a sweet babysitting swap with some friends in the neighborhood. My sweetie girl has a crush on one of the boys in nursery. When we first boxed up my books last week, I cried.

And maybe I'm making too much of this, but I've been thinking about how we simultaneously live in the spaces by which we access those memories later. By leaving that space, we have to accept that another chapter in our lives has closed—those moments are now memories, and not the present. Time keeps moving and so do we. 

I know which memories happened in this familiar space, but I haven't yet seen which ones happen in the new one. We always seem to fall in love where we're living, though, so I'm hopeful and excited. Each move, we're just as reluctant to leave as the last.

So here's to fabulous memories in new spaces. And here are some of my favorite images of the one we've just left—where things have been so happy, sometimes hard, and altogether wonderful. If some young whippersnapper ever asks me about that basement apartment I lived in down the street from the bakery, I'll say it was one of my favorites.

 

bringing out the hermit in me

Last month, we pulled my desk out into our entryway to make me a tiny office amongst the bikes, the shoe rack, and our little wannabe lemon tree. It's actually a huge upgrade from my former office—which used to be the bathroom.

I'm writing in there. Finishing another draft of this novel has become a rollercoaster of panic and delight. Some days, I'm certain it won't turn into anything better than compost. Other days, I'm pretty sure I'm onto something beautiful.

My current deadline has turned me into a bit of a hermit everywhere in my life, including our little blog. (I've actually composed a few blog posts in my mind—how I worried about looking ridiculous playing peek-a-boo through my tinted car window at the gas station until I looked over at the next pump and saw a guy doing the same thing with his kid while his car was filling up—but none of them get written. Just the book. And stuff for work.)

And I realized this: I don't know how you creative people balance dream-chasing endeavors with the reality of motherhood and work and needing to shower. Thoughts? Suggestions?

Nobody's abandoned showering around here (promise), but if you come to my house, you'll see how much I've let other things slide. I like to think it's because I'm always reading books to my little girl, instead of doing chores. And while that's true some mornings, it does not entirely account for the state of my kitchen.

This has become my mantra these days: I have plenty of time to accomplish everything I need and truly want to do.

It's true. I say it if I start feeling overwhelmed, and often, I get a little clarity on what to focus on and what's not worth my time. No surprise that vacuuming often falls off the list. It never makes it into my "truly want" category. But if there's not time for it these days, does that mean I don't technically need to do it either? I'll be a hermit a bit longer, so maybe nobody will notice.

Especially not this girl, whose "truly want" list includes eating cookies on the carpet...

why i heart provo: an update

People generally have strong feelings about Provo.

I've never seen anyone shrug and say, "Provo. Meh. Whatevs." Unless, of course, it's too small a town for them to have heard of before.

There are people who grew up here with some pretty amazing Provo pride. Others moved here for college and have opinions connected to their grades or how many dates they got. Others have never lived here, but know the stereotypes and roll their eyes. And more—some love, some hate.

I can see where they're all coming from. I hated Provo the first time I lived here. And I was a little nervous to move back.

But put me down as one who loves Provo. Loves it.

• Our house? Old, kind of quirky—and absolutely made for us. We store our bikes in a cute entryway. The baby's room is the coziest, prettiest little space. And she sleeps better here than any of the 3 places we've lived since she was born.

• Neighborhood? Just seems so neighborly and adorable. And we live close to everything, but on a quiet street. So I can go anywhere with my bike and the baby trailer without getting nervous. Also, the first time I went riding, I actually thought, "Wow! The trees are greener here!" Then I realized I was wearing sunglasses that make trees look greener.

• Food? Awesome. We cruised over to Bombay House with just a stroller and our feet a few weeks back. When we finally go to Communal, we'll just walk down the street. And have you ever eaten honey bran muffins from the Provo Bakery? Well, don't. Because they're always sold out by the time I get over there.

• Job? Awesome. I mean, Christopher works in a chocolate factory. Also, I got a writing gig that I do from home that I absolutely love. Our commutes rock.

• Not being students? Provo's a different place now that we don't have homework hanging over our heads. It's easy to find fun stuff to do—on the cheap. One particular outing included welcoming the first non-stop commercial flight from Denver landing at the Provo Airport, with all its accompanying small-town fanfare. 

• People? I saved the best for last. I've heard all about Provo being a hot spot for self-righteousness and poor driving. But some of the loveliest people live here. I would tell you all their names, but you don't have time to read a blog post quite that long.

Say what you will. And then come visit us.
I love this town.

the year i lived on fort street

Before baby girl was born, we painted her room yellow and hung birds from the ceiling. We arranged blankets and books and planned for her to settle in there for a couple of years. She didn't get to stay as long as we planned, but she was happy while it lasted.




We went back there yesterday to clear out the last few things and paint the walls back to their original (boring) beige. But I'll remember her room this way (even though baby girl won't remember it at all):

I kind of loved bringing her home to this space. I love even more that our new place is already feeling like home.

a change of scenery

We have news:

• A new place. Boxes are still piled in our bedroom. We can't find floss, or our phone charger, or the can opener. And the path to the coat closet is an obstacle course of unpacked books. But we already love our new apartment. It's roomier and cheaper than our last place AND somebody else shoveled the walk and washed the outside of our windows yesterday.

• A new blog. I started it a few weeks ago as an encouraging self reminder. Any of you creative (or not-so-creative) souls can visit it here.

• A new season—and I don't mean just the crazy amounts of snow that showed up two weeks after the sunny picture above was taken. But also, it's a new season for our little eight-month-old. She's discovered forward movement and she's taken to scooting around like an inchworm: up on her hands and feet, butt in the air, and then straightening out and pushing off. This certainly changes the landscape of parenthood around here.

little help?

We need to move. We thought we would stay put for a few years. But every year, we seem to contract amnesia about how much we hate packing up all our books. This time, we're looking for somewhere cheaper and closer to Christopher's work—we're gonna get these student loans paid off.

But finding an apartment is harder than I thought, especially since we're trying to do it on the cheap. Yesterday, I went to look at a promising option—tiled bathroom, lovely neighborhood. But I didn't feel good the baby being on the floor there. And it had this awkward-looking fireplace. One of the stones just below the mantel was cut in the shape of a wolf, howling at the moon.






I know you get what you pay for and this apartment was seriously cheap. But I just feel like I shouldn't live in a place where somebody thought a howling-coyote fireplace was a good idea.

So do any of you Utahn readers know of a good place to rent?

 

We're looking for a 1-bedroom (or 2) apartment or basement with a washer/dryer (or at least access to one), as well as a place to store our two bikes. Somewhere north of Draper and south of Salt Lake. Maybe Murray?

I love our place now and I'm dreading the process of gathering all our things and leaving. Kind of nice to know that this little girl will be happy wherever we end up.

someone's nesting. and it isn't me.

She's a bird. I've named her Molly. And she wants to build a nest in my dryer vent.













We hear her scratching around in there some mornings and then she leaves, which means she isn't trapped. Molly's smart: our dryer vent is the perfect place to build a nest. It's two stories up, with a little hood over it on the outside that would protect baby birdies from rain or sun. It's completely enclosed—and, I imagine, very warm.

Unfortunately, it's also our dryer vent, which means we need to clear it out.

But I feel a delusional sort of sympathy for her. I did some nesting of my own not that long ago. And I probably would have attacked anyone who barged into my little nest and destroyed my hard work. Poor Molly.

Perhaps it's a fitting tribute to her that we decorated baby girl's room in birds.

the perils of moving: in three parts

One.

Even though our laptops picked up wireless internet in our new place, we shouldn't have used it—not even to tide us over until our bonafide, paid-in-full internet got set up.* We just might have been stealing it from our next-door neighbor, who is also our landlord. And the bandwidth we used for hulu just might have kicked him off the internet on his work computer. Oops.


Two.

You always lose something when you move, right? Since we expertly packed up our undie/sock drawers in a large, black, plastic garbage bag, we wondered for a week or so if the something-we-lost was our underwear, taken out with the trash.


Three.

Fortunately, our undiminished undie supply suggested that we did not throw them out after all; we might have just washed them, so they were super clean. What we DID lose was half our bed, since we failed to protect the box springs we put in storage from a cat who lived nearby and liked to mark his territory. **

We're not too worried, though. We've unpacked most of our boxes, arranged most of our books on shelves, put up some pictures, and we want you all to come visit us very soon.


* Folks, we're getting the internet shortly. Sorry if you've emailed or facebooked and your message has gone unanswered. How am I publishing this blog post, you ask? Um, it's a secret.

** If you know where to find queen-sized box springs for less than a hundred bucks, send info our way. It might sound fun to camp out on a mattress on the floor, but this third trimestered lady might disagree.

Sacralicious

Our house doesn't have art on the walls typical of Mormon homes. There's a picture of me picking my nose next to K. There's a photo of two cupie dolls crossing the street, holding hands. I've printed some melancholy poetry and excerpts from anti-war essays to tack up next to engagement pictures and a map of Hawaii. And today this joined the collection:
Feel free to print one out for your kitchen.

I've thought that since "the sabbath was made for man," it is a great time for dusting off my atrophied creativity muscles.

Though the things I create will not likely end up in the Louvre, I sure do enjoy it. I hope K soon posts some of the things she's created lately. She's incroyable.

such endless determination has got to be a superpower

Remember that one time when I waited too long to buy the rug I liked that would match my house? When it went out of stock, I searched online and spent ages on the phone with a pleasant but thoroughly unhelpful young man. Well, I sent my complaint off into the internet and someone decided to do something about it:











Meet my super cousin, who does not give up in the face of discouragement, or even downright rejection—and who whipped out some pretty superhuman perseverance to send me a rug.

She had no idea her power would be so thoroughly tested. The rug was lost twice in transit and reshipped three times. Every time it was, she had to find the same rug in a different store, which led her to call both coasts and everywhere in between. She probably should have told me to forget it—that's what I got for delayed rug-buying. But she didn't. And yesterday, the rug arrived.

Thanks, Laur. Our apartment looks super.

the law of the universe

The universe has a law that goes like this: If you leave the house looking like you just rolled out of bed, you will see someone you know—most likely someone important, someone you haven't seen for a long time.

Sometimes you look like that, but you think you are safe inside your house. You are not tempting the universe in any way. And even then, the law of the universe will sometimes come to find you. For instance, if you decide to deep clean and thoroughly rearrange your apartment, buy and assemble a new couch, throw everything you own into upheaval, and place pieces of junky, disassembled furniture just outside your door, your landlord (who has been out of the country for a year) may just drop by. You should have at least done your hair today.

cheap crap breaks

On Thursday afternoon, we shut the front door after coming inside from a walk. And our bookshelf promptly cracked and toppled over for no obvious reason, other than that it was made of crap.

At another time, I might have said "Oh no!" and rushed to try and prop it back up again. But we just looked at each other with a look that said, "Figures." We took a picture. And then we made some lunch.















We had just come home from a neighbor's house, where we had watched The Story of Stuff—a cute little animation on the process of industrial production and consumption. You can watch it HERE. While the 20-minute video oversimplifies its issues a bit, it's entertaining. And it includes this little guy, who got me thinking:













You gotta wonder if some people in the Thanksgiving stampede last year were actually performing a highly spiritual, sacrificial ceremony to make them worthy of the stuff they bought.

I looked at the article that the cartoon man wrote. I'm not sure if he's saying that's how he thinks things SHOULD work. Or if he's just observing that this is how our current system DOES work, like it or not. Either way, his quote changed my point of view long enough to prevent my otherwise-predictable freak out when the bookcase keeled over.