Filed under: Uncategorized
Every so often I find myself with an evening completely to myself. I used to spend it puttering or watching Big Bang Theory marathons, however of late I have found I crave a few hours to pamper myself.
I take a long, steamy bath with minty-rosemary epsom salts to make my skin soft and smooth. If I’m feeling particularly daring, I’ll try to simultaneously read a book, determined not to drop it or drip water on the pages. I give myself a pedicure, take care of all the callouses and rough spots and paint my toenails in somewhat riotous colors. I soak my hands, scrape down all the icky cuticles and buff my nails until they shine. The more often I do this, the less likely I am to chew off my fingernails. While I work on my own mani/pedi I’ve started watching (or re-watching) something on Masterpiece Classics (hello, Downton Abbey; hello, Great Expectations). Instead of stuffing my maw with chocolate and ice cream, I make a fruity shake and drink a lot of water. I stay away from Facebook, Pinterest, and the internet at large. Half the time I turn my phone to silent as well. I’ll wash my sheets and revel crawling into a fresh, clean bed with crisp sheets where I curl up with a good book and a hot cup of peppermint tea and just…be. It’s wonderful.
I find these little pampering sessions absolutely delightful, and the more I set aside a few hours for myself the more I crave those evenings. It’s like I’ve set up my own little spa in my apartment, it makes me feel a little like the Ladies Who Lunch crowd, but without all the snobbery. Except for my fingernails. For the first time in my life I have snobbish fingernails.
How do you pass a lazy evening? What things to do you that make you feel like a million bucks, but don’t break the bank? How do you pamper yourself? Do you go to the bookstore? To your favorite coffee shop? Do you go for a mani-pedi at an actual salon? Do you go on a walk? Please, indulge me, what do you do? I can only buff my nails so many times, you know.
{Oops}
I had great plans to try a lot of new, funky things with my camera and have lots of photographs full of mistakes but also full of potential. Um, “oops.” That didn’t happen. I didn’t pick up my camera at all this week until last night. Late last night, as is demonstrated by the not-awesome lighting from my dining room. Ah well, it was a good week for that, I suppose. (Also? I love this giant pink eraser.)
Next week’s assignment for Friday, April 20: Unusual Perspective
52 Pics Photo Challenge:
I have started my own weekly photography assignment with photo-posts every Friday. For previous posts click here, or you can download the challenge here. If you are participating, upload your photos to our Flickr group, and/or leave a link in the comments!
Filed under: Bookworm
This year I made a resolution to read at least 30 books, I’m already half done and we’re only through the first quarter! I have always posted a lengthy review post at the end of the year, but I think this year my reviews are longer, a lot more in-depth, and I have a lot more books so far that I have loved. Besides, you don’t want to wait until the end of December to get a new list of recommendations, right? Of course, right. The four and five-star books are ones I would recommend.
2-STAR READS:
Pioneer Woman: Black Heels to Tractor Wheels, Ree Drummond. Um, I really disliked this book. I read Ree’s blog occasionally and have appreciated a solid recipe or ten from her repertoire. However, I find her insipid, overly descriptive, and far too obsessed with both her own looks and her husbands looks. He’s hot, he makes your knees weak, I get it. STOP TALKING ABOUT IT! I kept hoping for her to pull out of her very selfish lifestyle and give Mr. Cigarette Man (an irksome nickname if ever I’ve heard one, even if she did smoke in college) the kind of relationship he is working so hard to make every single day. She takes, takes, takes, and then takes some more, and when Ciggy (a.k.a. Marlboro Man) has to go fight a FIRE, on the PRAIRIE, in the MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT she gets all huffy that he didn’t handle the situation for her very best, most romantically inclined, hormonally fueled interests. She just wanted to curl up in his huge, biceped arms. But no, instead of that he just tries to save his land, the ranch that is his lifeblood. So, she gets super pissy, and THEN she starts imagining this ridiculous scenario where he has fallen into the arms and bed of another woman within 24 hours. I cannot imagine functioning with that level of insecurity all the time. Ciggy clearly loves her the way she is, high maintenance and selfish and shallow, but from her writing I never felt that she loves him that way. She thinks he’s hot and can’t stop talking about his biceps, but she avoids the things that are the most important to him as much as possible. Gaaahhh, her writing made me want to poke my eye out with a spork. Dear Ree, stick to recipes and photography tips and blogging, leave the real writing–romance or otherwise–to someone else. Anyone else. Well, anyone but Stephenie Meyer.
3-STAR READS:
Nanjing Requiem, Ha Jin. In the winter of 1937-38 the Japanese Imperial Army invaded China and wreaked havoc on the city of Nanjing (also called Nanking). For 6 weeks troops massacred, raped, pillaged, burned and destroyed this city, killing 300,000-500,000 people (depending on what stats you look at). In the late 1930′s during the Rape of Nanking, this was more than half of the city’s population. The Japanese Army and government refused to admit such torture and genocide ever happened, even after being brought to a war crimes tribunal. This book is written about Jinling College, a women’s college in the center of Nanjing and tells the true story of Minnie Vautrin and the other foreigners (mostly Americans and Germans) who remained in China during the war and tried to keep the Chinese citizens safe. Jinling college was transformed to be a temporary refugee camp and housed, fed and protected more than 10,000 women and girls during the occupation. I was drawn to the story, the horrors of the war and the international cover-up of the crimes committed both by Japanese soldiers and Chinese soldiers and citizens caught in the crossfire. However, the writing at times is stiff and stale and the characters seem a bit wooden. English is Ha Jin’s second language, and there were chunks that were pages long where that was very apparent. Some adjectives were off-putting and I had a hard time making his words fit the passionate, dramatic horror story and strong-willed characters he was describing.
Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe, Bill Bryson. Apparently, I am hit and miss with Bill Bryson. I really disliked his book about Shakespeare’s life, and I absolutely loved his book about Australia. This tale of a hop-skip-and-jump across Europe was entertaining and had a few tidbits that I scribbled in a notebook or marked with sticky notes for an upcoming European vacation, but mostly I found him put out and exasperated. I realize that is part of his humor, but after 200 pages of “this isn’t the Europe I knew 20 years ago!” whine I was pretty fed up with the whole thing. There have been wars (Bosnia) and the collapse of the Iron Curtain (former USSR) and the invention of the European Union and a mass move towards globalization. How did he think that would (not) affect the bulk of the European continent? Again, he is a great writer and concocted many hilarious paragraphs, but it hardly made up for so much complaining.
Style, Kate Spade. This handbook-style book is a quick read, I finished it in one afternoon. I enjoyed Kate Spade’s thoughts and sentiment on style and pattern mixing and color. Although, while I appreciate and respect her style and what she has done for the wider world of fashion, I don’t think I got much more from this book than a happy eyeful of pretty watercolors. I suppose I don’t identify with her style much more than lusting after her handbags and shoes, and her inspirations in art, books, movies or music were mostly things I had never seen, read, listened to, or even heard of.
The Beautiful and Damned, F. Scott Fitzgerald. I had never read this book before, and at nearly 400 pages I was looking forward to a week-plus of reveling in Fitzgerald prose. I quickly got distracted by this satirical look at the rich, young society in Manhattan and the two truly unlikable main characters. In fact, I didn’t find a single character I liked in the entire book. And I kept thinking about Gossip Girl, which will ruin Fitzgerald for anyone. The basic gist is that you spend money like crazy, drink like crazy, emotionally and physically cheat on your spouse like crazy, despise your spouse because, I don’t know, you can, have multiple nervous breakdowns, and then at the end you get a heft inheritance and move to Europe. I was hoping for some kind of justice for Anthony and Gloria, but no, just like Blair and Chuck and Serena they do whatever they want without any real consequences. (I tolerate today’s “Manhattan Elite” because I love their shoes…)
4-STAR READS:
Picasso’s War, Russell Martin. This is a re-read for me, but after finishing My Name is Asher Lev which talks about art during the first half of the 1900′s where Picassso was the master and king, I decided to re-read this. Picasso’s War is a semi-biographical book about Picasso as a Spanish exile living and painting in France. The bulk of the book details the Spanish Civil War in 1937-1939, which in many ways was a testing ground for Hitler and Mussolini to flex their muscles on a compliant and cowardly Franco government. (“Franco” as in Francisco, not as in French.) In April 1937 the German army bombed the Basque town of Gernika, the first time a town had been bombed simply to create terror. The point was to kill as many unarmed civilians as possible. It was the beginning of modern warfare that has included bombings in Dresden, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Mylai, Vietnman and New York City and, most recently, Afghanistan. Immediately upon hearing the news of Gernika’s annihilation, Picasso started on a grand mural (11′ wide by 28′ tall) for the World’s Fair to be held in Paris that summer; the resulting painting was Guernica, one of the most important and historical paintings of the 20th century. I could only give this book 4 stars because Martin does not include a substantial bibliography, and with so much historical data and seemingly personal statements by Picasso and those who worked with and knew him, I feel a bibliography is required. Excellent book, however. Recommended.
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Michael Chabon. This fiction account of the creation of the great superhero comics was fascinating. Did you know that Superman and many of the other superhero characters we know and love, were created by young Jewish men who used those scenarios on the pages of comic books as their own personal war against the anti-Semitic powers in Europe? Fascinating, right? Add to that the characters of Kavalier and Clay, one an escape artist/magician and the other a brilliant but tortured business man.
5-STAR READS:
A Beautiful Mind, Sylvia Nasar. This biography of John Nash was the basis for the movie starring Russel Crowe. Nasar reconstructs Nash’s life from his blue-collar hometown in West Virginia, to his interest in engineering, and then mathematics and his amazing breakthroughs in game theory, linear algebra and complex geometry. You don’t need to be a math whiz to understand the jargon, there are only a few paragraphs with actual equations in them. Did you know that while Nash was studying for his doctorate at Princeton (which he earned at age 21) he rubbed shoulders with well-known geniuses such as Einstein and John von Neumann? In his early 30′s, Nash spiraled into a 25-year battle with schizophrenia, and this book details the disease, treatments/lack of treatment, how that affected Nash, his mind, and his family. In the 1990′s Nash made a remarkable recovery and continued to produce new, creative research and valid mathematical arguments. In 1994 he won the Nobel Prize for his work in game theory and how it helped move the field of economics forward. This is, perhaps, the best biography I have ever read. Recommended.
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer. I wanted to read this book before going to see the movie (and I wanted to see the movie before the Oscar’s in February). I loved it, I loved Oskar’s mind, the way he thought about things, the way he processed his own grief and the way he clung to the memory of his father. I didn’t cry, but I absolutely loved this book.
Infidel, Ayaan Ali Hirsi. This is not an easy book to read, it’s real and raw and full of things I never knew and now cannot imagine un-knowing. Hirsi grew up on the eastern horn of Africa–Somalia, Kenya, Ethiopia, Saudia Arabia–in a very oppressive Muslim clan/family, and her transformation from girl to woman to refugee in the Netherlands and then to a member of Parliament is poignant and will wrench on every emotional string in your heart. Her story is incredible, her drive inspirational, and her story is completely life changing. Read it. If it doesn’t profoundly move you I don’t know if we can be friends.
Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri. This Pulitzer-prize winning collection of short stories was a quick but wonderful read. I loved having little glimpses into Indian culture as I devoured story after story from multiple continents, backgrounds and experiences. Some of the stories were heartbreaking, some were more artistic, many implemented bits of Indian culture and history and I loved being able to pluck out new facts about the Civil War between Pakistan and what is now Bangladesh.
My Name is Asher Lev, Chaim Potok. I absolutely loved this book. It’s about art and religion and the bravery and courage and heartbreak that comes from breaking away from tradition to be your own person. Asher Lev is a young artist in a strict Hasidic Jewish community in Brooklyn. His parents–especially his father–do not support his art and painting, his father wants Asher to dedicate his life to the church and the cause (helping Jews escape Russia during and after the Cold War) while Asher sees his life work as creating art that may or may not directly align with his strict, Talmud-based upbringing. This was the first book for my Book Club and I wish I had recorded the 90 minute conversation we had about it, just thinking about how many people who loved and were touched by this book makes my heart happy.
The Gift of Asher Lev, Chaim Potok. This is the follow-up book to My Name is Asher Lev and focuses on Asher’s adult life as an artist. He and his family live in France and return to Brooklyn for a family obligation, and they stay. I don’t like the writing style as much as the Asher Lev, it seems Potok has a lot of really choppy sentences. However I love the character arc and the fleshing out of Asher’s adult life including the relationships he has with his parents, his wife, his children, and the Rebbe. This book deals a lot more with the conflict Asher has when God and religion bump up against each other in his Hasidic Brooklyn community.
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald. I read this in high school, but hardly remembered a thing about it except for Gatsby’s great house and how much I thought Daisy was the perfect woman. Um, she’s not. Well, not to anyone but Gatsby. I raced through this, gobbling up Fitzgerald’s descriptions and language and characters. I love his imagery and his metaphors. But most of all, I love his writing. I was mesmerized by his writing. Adding several more Fitzgerald books to my towering “Most Important To Read” pile. (As opposed to my “Read These Next” and “Read These Later”, which are subsequent steps down from “Most Important.”)
Zeitoun, Dave Eggers. This non-fiction novel details one man’s experience in New Orleans in the days following Katrina. Zeitoun (zay-toon) own a successful home renovation and painting business, when the storm threatens New Orleans he sends his wife and four children away from New Orleans while he stays to make sure his properties are looked after. He ends up paddling his canoe around the submerged city, rescuing several elderly people and checking on both his business ventures and that of his friends. Things take a terrible turn when Zeitoun, a Syrian Muslim, is arrested without warrant, cause, or due process and ends up spending weeks in a maximum security prison without any kind of information as to why he is being held, and no phone call to let his family know where he is. He compares his treatment to that of the prisoners at Abu Ghraib, only he was in Louisiana. I started this book at about 11:30 one night, expecting to read a few pages…and I finished at 3:30 that morning. Read it, this reads part-adventure novel and part-criminal injustice/political statement.
{Pink}
This thumbnail-sized flower looks like something that Dr. Seuss invented; it’s half Truffula Tree (Blossom) and half the clover from Horton Hears A Who. Click on image to see larger size.
Next week’s assignment for Friday, April 13: Oops!
52 Pics Photo Challenge:
I have started my own weekly photography assignment with photo-posts every Friday. For previous posts click here, or you can download the challenge here. If you are participating, upload your photos to our Flickr group, and/or leave a link in the comments!
When I was 15 years old I took a world geography class where I learned the correct spelling and locations of 200-some-odd countries. I also learned that teenagers–my peers–appeared to be heartless. We were learning about the history of China and our teacher showed us a famous black-and-white news clip from the Tienanmen Square massacre where a tanker rolls right over a single student who is protesting. I distinctly remember how I felt. I could hardly grasp what had just happened, I was horrified that I had just watched someone die. There was no warning from our teacher, no release slip or consultation with a parent or guardian, just BAM!! A fully loaded army tank rolls over a Chinese student leaving nothing but a smear on the cobblestones. It was the first time I had ever seen someone be killed; I would venture to guess it was the first time most of my classmates had seen someone be killed, you know, in a format other than video games with poor graphics or movies with blood made of ketchup. With tears stinging my eyes I looked around the room, I was met with calm, unconcerned faces; within seconds I was quietly sobbing and after a few minutes had to leave the room because I was disturbing the lesson. I was shocked–am still shocked–that no one else in my class reacted that way. I mean, maybe watching people be killed is no big thing for them, maybe they assumed it was some kind of special effect, maybe they were emotionally distraught on the inside but too embarrassed/cool to show it in class, I don’t know. But I know that I will forever remember that clip, how I felt, and the disbelief and horror I felt towards my classmates for being so nonchalant about WATCHING SOMEONE DIE. (Insert your rant about violent video games/movies and their effect on young minds here.)
Last summer a good friend of mine went to his first Demolition Derby, you know, it’s usually held at the rodeo grounds and clunker cars with funky paint jobs are absolutely destroyed by crashing them into each other, running over them with trucks, and an assortment of other “entertaining” methods. Sometimes there is some sort of fundraising for a charity involved, but not always. You’ve heard of a Demo Derby, right? Well, unfortunately, one of the drivers was very critically injured in the first few minutes of my friend arriving at the Derby, the man was carted away on a stretcher and taken to the Emergency Room as the audience cheered. For his health. They cheered to show support for his return to good working order. They didn’t (I presume) cheer because he had nearly been killed. The ambulance drove away and the Demolition continued. When my friend told me this story he recounted how he had been reading about the history of the Coliseum in Rome and the to-the-death games that were played there, you know, Gladiator style. His experience that day at the Demolition Derby was not so far removed from the Romans gathering all their citizens together to watch and cheer and heckle as fellow citizens battled to the death–or at least to the seriously maimed and crippled–in the name of entertainment. After hearing that comparison, I don’t think I can go to a Demolition Derby again. (Insert my rant that just because Russell Crowe won an Oscar for being the Gladiator doesn’t make that particular form of “entertainment” okay in today’s society.) (If we all did all the things the big, fancy actors did we’d all be in rehab or jail or both.)
Of late there is quite a hubbub about The Hunger Games and how it is, allegedly, the most amazing movie of recent memory. I have not seen it, nor do I have any burning desire to see it (but I also didn’t watch Harry Potter 7.2, after having read the books and watched movies 1 through 7.1, so perhaps I am not the best barometer for movie fever). The dystopian society of The Hunger Games glories violence and starvation and exploitation and then more violence, just in case you missed it the last time..and the 47 times before that. And I get it, it’s not that I don’t get it, I just don’t want to see it. I appreciate a good dystopian novel as much as the next person, but I have very specific (read: low) levels of violence that I can handle on the big screen. When I read about violence I can imagine terrible things, but I have learned to keep my imagination to just inside the line of terror which, if crossed, generates nightmares for weeks on end. If you’ve seen it and you loved it so much you went to see it again that’s fine. We are still friends, I don’t think less of you, I hope you enjoy movies two and three as much as the first and I hope you sleep soundly each and every time. But there isn’t anything you can say that will make me change my mind. I read the book, I know the story, I even enjoyed the story (well, the story in the first book, not so much the others), but here is the thing, and it’s an important thing: the violence I imagined in my head while reading The Hunger Games or any other book, is to the exact level of gruesomeness that allows me to understand the fear and desperation of the characters and their need to act, but that also still allows me to sleep without replaying the scariest parts over and over and over in my head. I don’t need Hollywood giving me nightmares for the next two months. (Insert your rant about how I’m too much of a pansy and should just put on my big girl panties and go see it anyway.) (Then maybe have your reading comprehension checked, as the last three paragraphs have explained it’s not about whether it’s a “tastefully done” violence or not. It’s about me.)
A few days ago I was eating lunch with myself and a new book at a restaurant near my office. I have taken up reading on my lunch break and it has been one of the more rewarding decisions of my recent life. So there I was, reading Bossypants and not really paying much attention to anything else around me. A table of 6 or 7 youngish men was to my left, and other than noticing they laughed a lot and talked pretty loud, I paid them no attention. Eventually I needed to tackle my lunch with two hands, so I put my book down and, apparently, opened my ears. From what I gathered, these young men (some seemed to be in their 20′s, some in their early 30′s) were all in the military and had recently served in the Middle East. It seems they all had a great time, enjoyed the companionship with their fellow soldiers, didn’t mind the heat too much, totally shot that turbaned guy in the head, first try, no second bullet required…. What? I stopped eating and started listening. For the next several minutes I listened, slack-jawed, as these soldiers regaled each other with stories of the men they had killed. They one-upped each other on the hardest shot, the most men killed in one given day or battle, the most militant town they toppled, the number of land mines sidestepped before going in for the kill, the brutal or technical manner they executed someone in a particular town, or on a particular day. Now, I know they are soldiers who were serving their country in a war zone. I know they are trained to do exactly what they were describing. I need to believe that they bravely and honorably signed up to protect their country, protect their homeland, and to fight for the rights and interests of oppressed people everywhere. I am convinced that–if they are good soldiers–any one of them would put himself between me and a dangerous threat, acting first and asking questions later. I know there is no real way I can thank the men and women who serve our country in times of peace and times of war. I know they see and experience terrible things I cannot imagine seeing in my lifetime. I know there are serious psychological issues when a soldier returns home and tries to assimilate back into society and forget all those terrible things. I know very few are able to unsee, but some are able to cope. I know all this. What I did not know was that killing dozens of foreigners was so damn funny. I didn’t realize the levels of humor and hilarity that go on in a war zone. And I certainly did not know that those jokes and games and bragging “well, listen to this!” stories would make their way to an overdecorated Mexican restaurant on my lunch break.
I went to the bathroom and threw up.
It didn’t make me feel any better. And no, I am not bulimic nor do I make a habit of throwing up my meals.
It has been 14 years since that geography class where I sat and watched someone be killed on a grainy Chinese news clip played on a 32″ box bolted to the wall. I still remember every detail of the clip and my reaction. There is this part of me is relieved that after nearly a decade and a half I am still so disturbed, so moved by real violence that I need to excuse myself and be sick. It is that part of me that refuses to allow the rest of me to go to another Demolition Derby, or to watch The Hunger Games. I see no reason to desensitize my little heart to real violence with a bunch of fake violence (i.e. Hollywood and special effects). When I see a grainy news clip of someone ACTUALLY BEING KILLED, I want it to move me tremendously, I want to be able to feel that emotion, I want it to hurt. When I overhear the method, timing and details of how one human being killed another, I want it to upset me, even if it means I can’t finish my lunch. I don’t ever want to be the kind of person who can shrug off the death of another human being because I’m just too cool to care about such trivial matters. I don’t want to be the kind of person who would ever think “Yeah, sucks for that guy, but did you see that awesome movie about the teenagers killing each other on national TV? Now that shit was crazy.”
A few weeks ago J-Mo and I traveled to his hometown on the border of eastern Montana and North Dakota. I showed you a little from our driving around the countryside and told you a lot about my troubles with United Airlines. What I didn’t really talk about much was the reason for such a last-minute trip, mostly because I was unable to really sort out how I felt about the whole thing, and partly because it was all so fresh and raw my eyes will fill with tears every time I started typing and I couldn’t see my screen (or the keys, or my fingers) clearly enough to continue.
A few days prior to our trip J-Mo’s childhood best friend, R, and R’s 3-year old son died together under terrible, tragic circumstances. Their small hometown community was shaken, hundreds of phone calls and texts went out from this tight-knit group to all those who had moved away. Over the next several days friends and family traveled hundreds of miles from all over the country to attend the funerals, offer desperately needed support to each other, and grieve for the double-loss of their son, grandson, nephew, brother and friend.
When your grandparent or great-aunt passes away it is sad, your heart wrenches open, you deal with loss and grief, but on some level you knew that, eventually, this would happen. Several years ago my maternal grandma passed away after a several-years-long battle with a myriad of diseases. In her final days her family gathered to support each other, celebrate her life, and say their last goodbyes. A few years later my other grandmother, Bub, passed away with absolutely no warning. She didn’t feel well one Sunday and decided to take a nap instead of go to church, an hour later my grandpa came home to check on her and she was gone. Of course, I was heartbroken both times, but for me the feelings associated with grief are very different when you have had several weeks, months, or years to mentally and emotionally prepare yourself for the loss as opposed to receiving a phone call one Sunday afternoon. For the first I was sad, but functioning; for the second my knees buckled and I literally collapsed to the floor in tears. Does that make one harder than the other? In some ways yes, but in most ways no, it doesn’t. Grief is grief and loss is loss and the heart must go through a very painful process to come to terms and deal with both.
R and his son’s death came with absolutely no warning; there was no way to prepare for the loss. There was no chance for his family or friends to mentally steel themselves for the emotional turmoil ahead. J-Mo was out-of-town for work, I can’t imagine anything worse than hearing such terrible news all alone and hundreds of miles from any loved ones, trying to understand what happened in an empty, desolate, impersonal place. The only thing comparable is, perhaps, being the girl on the other end of the phone, listening to his heart-break in half and not being able to do or say a damn thing to make it better. I couldn’t offer soothing stories about the good times or the old days, I couldn’t talk about R because I had never met him. I couldn’t give J-Mo a hug and tell him it would be okay, all I could do was cry with him, frustrated that there was nothing more I could say, nothing more I could give to somehow alleviate his hurt.
Over the next few days as we all collected in his hometown, J-Mo was able to see and talk to family and friends who knew and loved R and that little boy. They were able to talk about their hurts and frustrations on the circumstances of their deaths, and to remember so many good times from growing up together. This is part of the grieving process, and I felt so privileged to be able to sit on the fringes of this community as an outsider and still feel the healing power of friends and loved ones being together during their hardest times. I also was able to learn more about R, as he will be remembered by his closest friends. There were good stories, crazy stories, and mountains of memories about R’s humor, his teenage antics, and the various levels of trouble this group of boys got into and out of in the small, rural town where they became men. Through their conversations I came to know a man who I would have been lucky to meet, I would have laughed at his jokes, cringed at his daredevil stunts, and thanked him repeatedly for the good deeds and kind words that came straight from his enormous heart.
As I sat back and listened I also learned how important it is to filter the information we receive. By that I do not mean that we need to simplify or water-down the information, I mean we need to look at it in a broader, more whole perspective. Instead of making snap-judgments on the character of someone from this news bulletin or that headline, we need to remember that we do not know the entire story. A major news outlet very rarely will share the whole story or heart-breaking circumstances when a bullet point blurb and 30 seconds of the grisly details will bump their ratings. We have so much aggregate information at our fingertips, we must learn to be careful with how we process and respond to it. That person in the grim or shocking headline is someone’s son, someone’s grandson, nephew, brother and friend. If you knew him as they knew him, if you understood his circumstances as they have tried to, you would feel more compassion, more sympathy, and your heart would break for the hurts of strangers. Be not so quick to pour out your condemnation, remember that he (or she) could very easily be your son, your brother, or your friend.
Several years ago the Utah State Capitol Building and surrounding grounds were given a massive overhaul and refresher to celebrate 100 years of statehood. As part of that project the gravel walkway/running path that surrounds the Capitol and it’s surrounding buildings was lined with hundreds of flowering cherry trees. Rocky Mountain spring is tenuous at best with snow and rain storms interspersed with sunshine, bright blue skies, and t-shirt weather. Last year I missed the blossoms due to a huge windstorm that destroyed them a day or two after they exploded in fluffy pink-ish white wonder. This year J-Mo and I timed it exactly right. The day after taking these shots the combination of wind and rain left the blossoms in tatters.
Click any image to see full size version, or check out the rest of the Flickr set.
{Eyes}
It only took me 32 tries to get this shot. It’s much easier to take a self-shot with a little point-and-shoot than with a heavier camera which requires two hands to operate in the first place. Low F-stop (5.9), lens zoomed in as far as it would go, arms stretch waaaay out to get the right focus spot, repeat over and over until you are satisfied with photo, go ahead and crop out the pimple on your forehead.
Next week’s assignment for Friday, April 6: Pink
52 Pics Photo Challenge:
I have started my own weekly photography assignment with photo-posts every Friday. For previous posts click here, or you can download the challenge here. If you are participating, upload your photos to our Flickr group, and/or leave a link in the comments!
The Festival of Colors is a Hindu celebration of the beginning of spring. Traditionally, there is a bonfire, a lot of music, food, and thousands of people throwing colored powder on each other. In Spanish Fork, a small town south of Provo, is the Utah Krishna temple and over the last several years their Holi Festival has grown from a few thousand people to more than 50,000 people celebrating over two days. In fact, it is the largest Holi festival in the western hemisphere. Chew on that for a minute.
Yeah. I was shocked too. But hey, if Utahans are coming out by the tens of thousands to celebrate spring, Bollywood style, then I was not going to miss it. I was not disappointed. Every two hours there is a count down and then the air is full of powdered color. It takes about 3 minutes before you can properly inhale. I opted to watch the first throw, not willing to take my fancy-pants camera into the fray. I am quite pleased with this decision.
In 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…
J-Mo and I went through 15 bags of colored maize powder, throwing it at each other and perfect strangers. It was awesome. Also? It took more than a wink and a smile to get that green and blue out of my eyebrows.
Happy Spring! You can check out an awesome video from last year here, or the rest of my Flickr set here.
{Sunlight}
Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota. Did you know Teddy Roosevelt loved North Dakota, he is often quoted as having said that the Dakota’s made him a man. I was surprised at how beautiful this country is, and I thought that without the blanket of spring with green grass and new leaves everywhere. This tiny snapshot does not do this view justice, even though I was at my widest angle with my largest lens. The way the golden morning sun and a few purpley shadows danced around all those curvy butte’s was magical. I wished I’d had more time to go wandering and exploring in T. Roosevelt NP, alas, I had a flight to catch.
Next week’s assignment for Friday, March 30: Eyes
Check out all the photos on our Flickr group, 52 Pics, and share your own! You are also welcome to post a link to your blog in the comments (no crazy, spammy links, please. They’ll get gobbled up by my spam monster).
What is the 52 Pics Photo Challenge?
I have started my own weekly photography assignment with photo-posts every Friday, to try and learn how to use my camera settings and functions. For previous posts click here, or you can download the challenge here. If you are participating, upload your photos to our Flickr group, and/or leave a link in the comments!
