new pottery from old places

As the car meandered the twists and turns of the highway between Hurricane (pronounced hur-reh-kehn) and Springdale, I finally realized why I love pottery so much.  For as long as I can remember, part of our annual trek to Utah as a family was a trip to the Worthington Gallery in Springdale.  There, my parents painstakingly picked new pieces from a local potter to take home that would eventually make up the body of our everyday dishes.  No basic starter sets for us..nope.  We ate off of art.  I never knew this to be unusual until later in life, when none of my friends searched out local artisans to add spice to their day to day life.  Nope, this was purely a family thing.

My last minute trip to Utah also coincided with my birthday, a blissfully wonderful happenstance that gave me the opportunity to celebrate with my mom  for the first time in who knows how long.   Once it dawned on both of us how close we were to Springdale, a birthday plan was set.  We would drive the hour south from Cedar City to greet the little gallery as it opened so we could be in Sundance up north by lunch with my brother.   It was a long day of driving but so worth it.

I walked up to the craftsman home that is the gallery and remembered picking out a handcrafted wind chime as a girl.  (Driftwood with pink handblown chimes dangling off of it.)  I marveled at pieces of art that my younger eyes never appreciated and reverently picked out a bowl in the same pattern as my parents had collected years ago.  The early morning sun danced on the red rock canyon, beckoning us to enter Zion National Park mere moments away.  New and old coincided that morning and it was so, so wonderful.  Same artists, new artists, same Engquist, new Engquist.  My mom and I had the time of our lives, explaining to the gallery attendant that we had been shopping there longer than she had been on the earth.  This was our little piece of home and we got to share in it again together.

occupational delight

"Next on the agenda, today's storytime. The person who was going to do it has today off, any volunteers?" Blank stares engulfed the groggy morning meeting room. Everyone was considering how long until their next cup of coffee, leaving no thought for children's books. "No, really, anyone?"

"I'll do it." The words were out before she knew it. She must still be sleeping, why else would she have volunteered at the last possible moment to read to a group of toddlers.

The meeting adjourned shortly thereafter and she made a mad dash to the children's section, hoping that all of the hours she had spent reading there rather than working would finally come in handy. Rifling through the shelves, she located some of her favorites, Let's Do Nothing, Always Lots of Heinies at the Zoo, The Duchess of Whimsy, and then heaped on more for good measure.

Returning to the meeting room to use the half hour before story time to prepare, she thought of all the Scandinavian fairy tales she had forced on her roommates years ago. Toddlers can't be that bad, right?

The appointed hour came and she took her seat in the oversized chair designated for the storyteller. A handful of children sat at her feet and she grabbed her first book.

"'Help!' yelled the Page. 'King Bidgood's in the bathtub and he won't get out. Oh, who knows what to do?'" She added all the emphasis and pizazz she could think of and it must have worked, the children were all smiling. "'I do!' cried the Duke...'"

The children didn't move. They kept their eyes locked on her and the colorful illustrations waiting for the next book. Unsure of how many to read, she worked her way through the small mountain of resources she had prepared. She asked them questions, did voices where she could, and still the children smiled. Finally out of books, the story time came to an abrupt end. The children returned to their waiting mothers while she gathered the picture books and returned to work.

Did she do that right? Did the kids have fun? Did she choose the right books? Who cares, she thought, I just got to spend an hour and a half reading some of my favorite books!
"'Come in,' yelled the king, 'tonight we fish in the tub!'"

fresh out of the oven

When I was about seven or eight, my parents took us on a trip to what I still consider to be heaven, Prince Edward Island. I was at that point in the peak of my obsession with Anne of Green Gables and felt like someone had just offered me the macdaddy of prizes. My parents being as awesome as they are devoted the trip to all things Anne. We saw Green Gables, walked through the haunted wood, and visited the White Sands Hotel. When we got to Charlottetown, we completed our visit with Anne of Green Gables: the Musical.

So, I'll be honest, this trip was awhile ago and I remember little to none of it. I remember the ferry ride to the island (now there's a bridge, how lame!), walking across the lawn in front of Green Gables, and a picnic in the forest along the coast. One of the few other things my fantasy-riddled memory has stored away is one scene from the musical. A few of the characters got together and sang about eating a healthy portion of humble pie. While I had heard the idiom prior to this experience, it was the first time I ever really understood the concept. In a few words, I took it to mean, "Suck up your pride." To my eight year-old mind, nothing could be more humbling than admitting to Rachel Lynde that you had done something wrong.

This early experience in a Canadian theater has been bubbling to the surface of my pensieve lately. Almost daily I find myself pulling another pie out of the oven and taking a heaping mouthful. I never realized what a challenge it was to ask for help. Sticking my needs on the back burner to be a friend to someone else. Admitting I'm doing alright. Striking up a conversation. Showing up at certain events. Making a phone call. Not making a phone call. Dealing with the mockery of buckeyes. Laughing. Crying. Painting. Cleaning. Make social engagements. Praying. Listening. Lately, all of these things require me to humble myself a bit further.

I don't remember any of the words to the song sung, nor the faces of the actors. I have a faint recollection of the sparse set. But more significantly to me today, I remember that feeling, of "sucking it up" and doing something. And Anne of Green Gables and how much I want to be her when I grow up. So rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub. Dish me up another slice of humble pie, and a date with Gilbert Blythe. Amen.

what Charlie Brown always wished his tree looked like

The Christmas season is optimal for mulling in childhood fantasies. Just before Thanksgiving, a friend and I took advantage of the crisp, almost-winter air, and the courtesy of the Columbus Zoo and steeped ourselves in an illuminated smörgåsbord of Christmas delight.

intro to world cultures 102: religion and music

When I moved into my ward here in Columbus one thing was made abundantly clear to me: I was a misfit in a sea of medical and dental students. I would be asked if I painted or something of the like, as that obviously had to be what I meant when I said I came here to study Arts Policy and Administration.

It was then that I decided to become a cultural liaison for these poor, overworked, scientific leaders of the future.

With that in mind, three of my new friends joined me last night at Trinity Lutheran Seminary on the southeast side of Columbus. One these friends had never heard of a seminary outside of an LDS context (early morning religious study for high school aged members). Attending a school where people were taught to be clergy was an experience in and of itself.

The Seminary Choir and Chamber Orchestra lured us there with Haydn's Mass in D Minor. It has been ages since I've attended a concert of such a classical repertoire and I was more than anxious for it. What I did not realize was that there was also a worship service bookending the Mass. Stand up, sit down, call and answering. It was all there. We even got to sing several hymns of praise with the choir and orchestra, making this wayward musician feel like she was a part of grand ensemble for a change.

The Mass was absolutely beautiful. The soprano handled the melismas exquisitely and the bass painfully reminded me that my lifelong ambition of sharing his vocal timbre will never come to fruition. The acoustics were sublime, resonating the well-honed abilities of the amateur musicians through the intimate space.

For my friends, it was the first time they had been to a Lutheran worship service of any kind. I was extremely proud of the way they participated in the impromptu service with great respect and reverence. Not everyone can do that when being exposed to a new kind of worship.

The whole event reminded me of how fortunate I was in my upbringing. Due to the nature of my family and my childhood in Detroit, it was never really an option to not know of multiple faiths and to worship with them on occasion. Though we may not all believe the same things, we show one another love and respect by worshiping together, learning of what one another holds dear. As much as I enjoyed Haydn's music last night, I think I enjoyed the overall experience even more.

memory lane

How do you compensate for plans falling through every two minutes leaving you with little clue as to where you will sleep that night?

Easy. An entire day with your sixteen year-old cousin, grandmother, and a house that breathes through every memory of your childhood. It helped that this nostalgic reverie was infused with treasure hunting in nooks, corners, closets, attics, and crevices. Then there was the storytelling, the giggling, frolicking, dress-up, creative inspiration, smiles, and all around general bits of happiness.

Plans imploded again after this, but it was totally worth those three hours in the middle of nowhere with nothing but family and memory-making in the works.

Julie Anne-drews

When I read books, I get sucked into their world and I have a hard time escaping. This becomes problematic with science fiction and fantasy novels where the stories aren't even set on this planet. Jane Austen gives me grief because I'm not British, and I begin speaking like I'm from the early nineteenth century. Anything by Lucy Maud Montgomery takes me a lifetime to get over. No really, I've never escaped. Ever. And I don't want to.

Today I found this place, and what did I instantly think?

I have my own Lake of Shining Waters!

Then I began frolicking around the small pond, dancing in the rain like I was Maria von Trapp.

It was a really good day.