Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #2

My Home Tree was an accidental find. I wasn't looking for a place to settle and put down roots; I just wanted to take a pretty picture. I am forever looking for that "perfect" photo opportunity--a walk lined with trees, blue sky through vibrantly red and orange leaves, untouched snow molding itself into drifts and contours, clouds shot through with the gold and pink of sunrise. Stourhead Gardens in England (where part of the 2005 movie version of Pride and Prejudice was filmed) was one gigantic photo op. As I discovered in learning more about the history of Stourhead, the garden was actually designed to be full of breathtaking, picturesque, inspiring panoramic views. It was one of the first of many English estate gardens that were created to look wild and natural, while actually being carefully and purposely crafted. It was an odd juxtaposition of human interference and natural world.

Regardless of how it came to be, it was beautiful from every angle. I relished my stroll around the lake, taking dozens of pictures of the early morning sunlight on the water, of the rhododendron's fuschia and violet and magenta flowers, of the perfectly still back pond reflecting vivid blues and greens and dotted with lilypads. The garden infused me with a little of its calm and stillness. I was grateful, because that was not what I felt on the inside.

The day before, I had had a chance to check my email and found an email from my dad. The surgery from six weeks before hadn't caught all the cancer; there would be more drugs and probably some radiation treatment in the near future. I was glad to be kept updated, but I was on the other side of the world from my family. I didn't know when I'd be able to check my email next, or when I could call them. There was absolutely nothing I could do to help. Even if I were home, there wouldn't have been much I could do anyway, but being so physically separated from my family highlighted my helplessness.

As I reached the far end of the lake, I looked across the water at the Temple of Apollo situated on a hill and surrounded by trees. It was stunning--as I'm sure the garden's architect meant for it to be--and looked so very sturdy and settled. That was how I liked my life to be, and it was. I had my family as a support system, I had my religion to structure our lives. My father's continuing cancer felt like a break down of not only my family's solid relationships, but it felt like a betrayal of what we believed in as well. I had always been taught and believed that if I did everything I could do, and then prayed in faith, everything would work out and be taken care of. This felt like the opposite of that. I could see the Temple of Apollo reflected in the lake, the glassy surface broken by only a few ripples that managed to distort the whole image.

I continued my sojourn around the lake, thinking, feeling, pausing to take pictures every few steps, until I reached a part of the path shaded by a tall tree. There were tall green bushes with purple flowers--more rhodondendrons?--that bordered the lake. The early morning sun slanted through the leaves and branches to stripe the tree's trunk and roots with gold. It seemed sheltered somehow, and I stopped walking altogether, recognizing a beautiful picture. I snapped a few photos of the scene, then set the timer on my little digital camera and perched it on some rocks across the path and ran to get in the picture.

As soon as I settled my back into the curve of the tree trunk, leaned my head onto the mossy bark, and found natural bends in the roots for my feet, I felt something slide away from me. A release of weight, a lifting of fear. I smiled at my flashing camera, but didn't get up. I was not just comfortable, I was at ease, at rest. Somehow, the tree had absorbed my anxiety, my displacement, my doubt. Not only had something slid away from me, but I had slipped into place--my place. It was the center of the universe, the eye of the storm, my safe harbor, my refuge. The tree asked nothing of me, only that I sit and be myself. It was home in the truest sense of the word.

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #1

I grew up in the small, conservative Mormon community of Orem, Utah. Orem is one of the two cities at the heart of Utah Valley (the other is Provo, where Brigham Young University is). Utah is a desert, so the valley floor is wide and flat between the bookends of the mountains that make up its border. Half of the valley is taken up by Utah Lake, but I never thought of myself as living next to or near a lake while I was growing up; it wasn't part of my life the same way the mountains were.

The mountains the surrounded my childhood were the boundaries for my world. They made up the horizons on every side as the sky reached down between the dips and rises of their peaks. The Cascade Mountains on the east were the closest to my house, and every morning the sky lit up with a kind of backlighting as the sun peeked out over the mountain. The other side of the valley would be bathed in bright, clear light before the sun got high enough to warm those of us who were closer to its base. The mountains on the other side of the lake and the valley were the Lake Mountains, and the Oquirrh Mountain range (OH-ker) was just beyond them, layering the distance. Mt. Timpanogos was to the north, the king peak of the valley at some 11,000 feet. I always thought that it looked rather like a stately throne, somewhere I could sit and rest my back against its side as I surveyed the whole of the valley.

My relationship to the mountains was one of security. They had my back, literally. So long as I could see the mountains, I knew where I was in the valley. They were my guideposts, my guardrails, a protection from whatever lay beyond them, and I loved my mountains. I loved feeling sure of the world's dimensions, of having definite boundaries.

The Mormon religion of the valley dominated the culture as well, and it is a culture made up of boundaries and guard rails, commandment and rules, black and white. I think the valleys were originally attractive to the first Mormons because of the offered protection--the Mormons had been driven from state to state, and finally settled in Utah to escape persecution. Mormons also believe in being self-sufficient and self-sustaining, and so being enclosed and somewhat isolated from the rest of the world suited them just fine. Utah Valley is so predominantly Mormon that we call it the "Bubble," even amongst ourselves--encased, protected, able to see out but not leaving.

For me, there is a strong connection between the mountain-surrounded landscape and the straight and narrow Mormon culture. I don't know that the one necessarily influenced the other, but it's hard to imagine Orem staying so entirely Mormon in a location less isolated. I grew up to be someone who enjoys some isolation and who depends in the security of her surroundings to be secure in herself. The mountains, though ever changing in the light, the season, the weather, were always there, always stable. Secure. Sure. And it is stability that I look for and need most in my life. Though I grew up sheltered, surrounded as I was by people and mountains who guarded me from the outside world, I never felt smothered or confined. I gloried in the freedom that came with knowing I was safe.

Nature Blog—Place Entry #1

Thursday January 21, 2010 10:30 am

When I decided on Bridal Veil Falls for my chosen "place" this semester, I hadn't gone to see it yet; what I forgot to take into account is that it is winter and though the snow may be melting in the valley, it's twice as deep and frozen up the canyon where the falls are. I also forgot that the falls would be mostly frozen, though that was actually a pleasant surprise because I've never examined them closely while frozen, and it's truly incredible. I'm excited to try to capture that translucent blue ice color in words. The last thing that didn't even cross my mind is that access to the falls is closed off because of the possibility of avalanches. And while I can't imagine a more up-close-and-personal way to encounter and experience nature, I'd rather not get caught in one.

So, that being said, I may spend more time in the parks next to and across the highway from the falls since the falls themselves are somewhat dangerous right now. I'm really hoping winter doesn't last too long, but it's Utah, so you never know. Two years ago, we got snow in the valley in May, so anything is possible.

As I drive to the canyon for the first time since beginning this class and choosing my "place," the heavy clouds of a fresh winter snow are still wrapped around the mountains. The western part of the sky is clearing, blue contrasting with white wisps still moving across the sky. As I drive toward the veiled mountains, I feel like I am driving into a shroud, something mysterious and familiar at the same time. The mountain reveals itself to me a little at a time, becoming more defined through the mist as I get closer. As I come near enough to make out the mouth of Provo Canyon (the space between Mt. Timpanogos and the Cascade Mountains), everything becomes three-dimensional: instead of being surrounded by a wall of gray-white, the mountains take shape, their foothills projecting from their bases, the steep sides of the canyon opening up. I can't the number of times I have driven this road, but today, it is new.

The road is winding but clear of snow and slush, and I watch for the turnoff to Bridal Veil Park. As soon as I turn off the main highway, however, the snow is four inches deep and even my snow tires are sliding around the corners. The parking lot has been blocked off with warning signs about avalanches, but I park my car next to the sign and get out to walk. Though the snow-covered branches of scrub oak remind me of Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," the air is not silent. The sound of cars on the not-very distant highway fade in and out, and there is another rushing sound up ahead: Bridal Veil Falls. I'm not sure how far I would be able to go without snow boots, so I simply stand and look and feel the cold seeping into the fabric of my clothes, undoing the warmth of my skin.

When I get back into my car, I keep going up the canyon, wanting to see the waters that usually look like a wedding veil, narrow at the top but widening to a lacy pattern on the cliff face. They don't look like that now; most of the water is frozen. The water is too powerful to freeze entirely, but part of the upper level and most of the right side are icicles. The snow piled just off the road prevents me from getting a good look at how far the icicles descend down the mountain. There is something about the frozen motion, the stop of flow and rush and roar of half of the waterfall, that is the most mysterious and shrouded thing of all.

The best way to spend a holiday weekend

This past weekend, I went with my husband down to Torrey, Utah, which is just outside of Capitol Reef National Park. My family has a small cabin in Torrey and it's the perfect place to relax, which is what we did for three days. This picture is the view from the back porch--it's amazing! My photography skills don't do justice the richness of the red rock and blue sky that make the winter landscape seem alive. Torrey is a very small town, and it gets even smaller in the winter when tourism dwindles. This weekend, there were hardly any cars, hardly any people, hardly any noise beyond the cries of a few lonely birds. The absence of even the wind made the stillness complete, and though we didn't get to see any stars while we were there, the silence of the landscape gave us room to breathe, think, be.

Flash Fiction Story #6: Dancing

Dancing

    The consequence of it all was that the jeans never made it to the dryer, the sink was still full of dishes covered in spaghetti sauce, the dog's food bowl was empty, and the TV was left on. Water dripped through the open doorway and the wind blew the mismatched curtains away from the rain-spattered windows as laughter echoed through the open garage.

Flash Fiction Story #5: Empty

*Note: I did not write the original story, I only added the two middle paragraphs posted here. If you're interested in reading the whole story, it's called "Baker's Helper" by Cynthia Anderson and can be found in Flash Fiction Forward, edited by James Thomas & Robert Shapard.

Empty: Baker's Helper

    The next afternoon, the girl does not appear, which doesn't surprise you. You hate yourself, waiting, but she never shows up.

    You find yourself watching customers, examining them, weighing their smiles and frowns. You don't know what it is you are searching for, but one time you think you find it. You are crouched at the back of the display case, transferring éclairs from tray to shelf when you glance up. A pair of hungry eyes gaze at you from the other side of the glass. You stare at them, wide and unblinking. It is a minute before you realize the eyes are your own, separated from you by the bright glass barrier.

    That night, you dream about the park steps again, empty of sparrows this time.

    On the third night you're leaving Jimmy's after work when from the street you spot her inside Carducci's. The girl stands apart from the espresso drinkers, holding a basket of pizzelle. She brings the wafers to her nose, and you inhale anisette with her. You are dizzy, there on the dirty sidewalk, not knowing whose longing you are feeling, yours or hers.

Flash Fiction #4: Touching

Touching

    Their breathing was almost a tangible presence in the dark room, something separate from the two bodies lying close and warm. Their hands were touching, fingers entwined even in sleep. Their breathing was just out of synch—rising rising, falling falling. As the woman started to roll to her side, the man's hand instinctively tightened, keeping her in place. There was a pause in the breathing, like the silence after a slap.

Flash Fiction #3: Life Reduction

Life Reduction

Take some clutter in your life that is taking up space. Cut it in half. Cut it in half again. What you're left with is the essentials of the life you have lived.

(295 Words)

The piles of Liz's stuff were everywhere: a lanyard with a Jefferson High School logo, blue and gold Mardi Gras beads, a pencil holder that used to be a soup can, a coin purse in the shape of Big Ben, two decks of cards with pictures of Yellowstone on the back, a bouquet of fake roses, a dozen half-burned candles, Trader Joe's receipts from four years ago, plane ticket stubs from all of her flights in the last ten years (New York City to São Paulo, London to Prague, Venice to Madrid), a teddy bear from her father, photo albums for each trip she had taken, a box of more recent wedding photos, books that were falling apart from age and use—Nancy Drew, Black Beauty, Alice in Wonderland, Treasure Island—and paper of every size and color and shape: bookmarks, quotes, magazine articles, maps, journals, shopping lists, museum pamphlets, calendars. All of it surrounding a cross-legged Liz sitting on the living room floor.

George watched Liz rediscover each long-lost and utterly useless treasure with his arms folded from the edge of the room. "So, you planning on opening an antique shop?" he said, tempering his sarcasm with a half-smile. "Or maybe a junk yard." He eyed a pile of homemade Christmas ornaments. "You could sell some of this, maybe online. We could use the money. Save it up for later. If you don't, we're going to need a room just for stuff we don't need."

He was always talking about later, planning their future, worrying, watching. "I can't get rid of my memories," Liz said. She looked up from a box of dried leaves, brittle and breaking with age. Their eyes met briefly before George walked away, avoiding the piles of stuff between them.

(145 Words)

Liz's stuff was everywhere: gold Mardi Gras beads, Big Ben coin purse, decks of cards from Yellowstone, half-burned candles, plane tickets from the last ten years (New York to São Paulo, London to Prague, Venice to Madrid), teddy bear from her father, photo albums for each trip, Black Beauty, Alice in Wonderland, Treasure Island, maps, journals, museum pamphlets, calendars. And Liz. All on the living room floor.

George stood with his arms folded. "You planning on opening an antique shop?" he asked. "Or maybe a junk yard." He eyed the Christmas ornaments. "We could sell some of this. Save up the money for later."

He was always talking about later, planning their future. "I can't get rid of my memories," Liz said. She looked up from the box of their wedding photos. Their eyes met briefly before George walked away, avoiding the stuff between them.

(74 Words)

Liz's stuff was everywhere: gold beads, Big Ben coin purse, Yellowstone playing cards, plane tickets (New York, São Paulo, London, Prague, Venice, Madrid), teddy bear, photo albums, Treasure Island, maps, journals.

"You opening an antique shop?" George asked. "You could sell some of this. Save the money for later."

Liz looked up from their wedding photos. "I can't get rid of my memories." Their eyes met. George walked away, avoiding what was between them.

Flash Fiction Story #2: Missed Messages

Missed Messages

He said: Where have you been?

She said: Do you like my new shirt?

He said: You should have called. I was starting to get worried.

She said: Forty percent off.

He said: I've been waiting for you to get home to start dinner.

She said: New pillows, too.

He said: I was going to make candied chicken.

She said: The colors reminded me of that little B&B we stayed in on our honeymoon—remember?

He said: Your favorite.

She said: And the most adorable throw rug.

He said: What rug? You wanted to eat at six.

She said: Or was it a blanket?

He said: You always do this.

She said: I never buy pillows.
I'll go back tomorrow. I think we need one more.

He said: Can you return them? They look like the pillows in your mother's guest room.

She said: I always go shopping on Thursday, you know that. Except today I went to JC Penny and Dillard's instead of just Sears.

He said: Can we at least talk about it?

She said: What do you think?

He said:

She said: I didn't say six.

He said: I'm tired.

She said: You're not going to make the chicken?

He said: You know, we're still paying off that vacation to Hawaii.

She said: So?

He said: It's too late for chicken.

She said: Maybe I'll get my hair cut while I'm out tomorrow.

He said: I'm not even hungry any more.

She said: What about me?

Flash Fiction Story #1: Hit and Run

Hit and Run

    None of it would have mattered if the dog hadn't died. Not the soured milk left out all night or the missing sweater. Not the broken sink faucet or the fight over breakfast. Not the fact that Rob had lost his car keys and took Cindy's without asking, or the fact that Cindy had left the gate open when she rushed to catch the bus. But after they found Max on the road in front of their house, it all seemed to matter very much.