One Fine Morning...

During the school year I tutored a girl from Sri Lanka. Her life fascinates me. At home, Ayisha lives in the world of Sri Lanka, where Tamal is spoken at the dinner table and her mother dresses in beautiful saris and the house smells of incense. At school she lives in the good old USofA where English is spoken in such rapid fire that it sometimes leaves her feeling dizzy. Ayisha doesn't speak the native tongue of her parents; she wasn't born in Sri Lanka. However, Ayisha doesn't speak English fluently, either. She stumbles on pronouns and mixes her tenses in ways that remind me of a typical ESL student. Sometimes I worry about her. She seems lost in the culture of America, yet equally lost in the culture of Sri Lanka. After three weeks in Utah, I surprised myself more than once by feeling confused, discombobulated, and even out of place here. Now wait just one darn second , I've said to myself. I was born and raised here. This is my home. This is who I am . Or is it? A...

Dear Cafe Rio, I love you. I love you. I love you. Ours is a long distance relationship. It's one sided in that I always have to come to you. Sometimes the 2000 mile journey seems long, but then I walk through your double doors and you wrap me in your warm tortilla arms, and I remember how long its been, and I love you all the more. Cafe Rio, I need to tell you what I love about you. Your salads. I like them very much. Your pork tacos. I like them, too. Your indescribably awesome house dressing. I want to do the back stroke in a swimming pool size portion of your dressing. Your friendly people; they smile as they ask me, "Black or pinto beans" and they load on the lettuce and the guac with a twinkle in their eyes; they always cheer when someone gets a free meal. Your really fresh food, instead of food-that-has-sat-in-those-stainless-steel -vats-until-it's-a-little-crusty-but-you-still-try-to-pass-it-off-as-fresh. That big bowl of peppermints that you have at the end ...

I was so nervous about the 25 minute presentation I had to give in class this morning that I didn't fall asleep until after 2:00 a.m. Clearly, I've been out of the game for awhile. But when the time came for my 8:00 a.m. class, I was ready to go, half drunk with adrenaline and anticipation. I didn't know quite what I was talking about, but no one else really did, either, since it was just the second day of class. This...intensity...maniacal, crazy intensity, is how graduate school is , I just keep reminding myself. In fact, although my brain muscles feel a bit sore from lack of this sort of intellectual exercise, it's pretty awesome to be back in this world. I feel blessed. I feel watched over. I feel grateful. And, with a baby this pretty, I also feel incredibly blessed to be a mother. AND a student. Isn't my sister the greatest photographer, ever? She captured this of Lillian in her studio in downtown SLC. She's coming to NY in July. You want her for your fami...

In my house there is a room whose walls are all filled with giant picture-book windows. We call it our sunroom. The windows look out to my back yard, which this time of year is filled to the brim (if back yards have a brim) with green leaves and Trent's carefully tended and much adored flower beds. It is a lovely room. 25 years ago (or more) someone hip and exciting (I'm sure) put fabulous mauve vertical blinds on each of these windows. Back when wedding colors, your carpet, and your outfit were all forest green and mauve, I'm guessing these blinds were awesome. Totally awesome. The problem is, 25 years have passed, and the blinds are still there. They have lost their luster. They are past their prime. They, like "Labyrinth" and parachute pants, have seen better, more glorious times. I spend about 80% of my day in this room, bathed in the sunlight and the verdant (there's that word again) green of my back yard, framed by the fantastically mauve vertical blinds...

This is a rock. This is the rock that sits in the village where we live. And these are the other rocks that surround the rock that sits in the village where we live. This a sign. This is the sign that stands over the rock that sits in the village where we live. I have a car. I have a car that is sometimes parked next to the sign that stands over the rock that sits in the village where we live. Thanks to the sign, My car is fine. It's my favorite sign. My favorite sign Posted over a rock That sits in the village Where we live.

One fine fall day back in 1994 I received my mission call. When I read the words, "You are hereby called to labor in the Japan Okayama Mission," I did what any rational, practical, deep-thinking 20 year old would do. I burst into tears. In fact, I was quite inconsolable for about two hours. Now you may be asking, Why? Where was your faith, woman? What's your deal? I know, I know. I shoulda shaped up. But I cried for all that time, truthfully, because I could read between the lines of those words in that letter. And the in-between-the-lines-stuff basically said, "the next eighteen months of your life are about to be very, very hard." I knew enough about Japan and missionary work to know the following: I would spend most of my time tracting and street contacting in hot humid weather to people whose language I couldn't speak and who really, quite frankly, were not interested even one iota in the message I wanted to share. Here's how it ended: I was right ...