the world is puddle-wonderful.

I just wrote an entire post about a lot of great stuff...but it got deleted...sad.

You should probably read this poem anyway. And tell me to stop stressing about the million things I have to do and just do them.

Spring makes everything lovelier and I've got some major plans in the works, so just you wait.

Coming up soon: the end of my days on BYU campus as a zoobie, my birthday (!!!), a book club, and other adventures (some pretty great ones).

If you read my blog, I just want you to know that I love you. I really do.

a new name.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

For years and years I have had this line in my head--"hope is the thing with feathers." I'm not sure why, or when, or even how it got stuck there, but stuck it is. And I quite like it that way. I thought I would share it, because...well...I kind of love it.

Hope as the thing with feathers, the thing that flies, the thing that is always there. The tune without the words. Oh, Emily Dickinson, you knew how to say stuff that's for sure.

PS happy february! possibly one of my very most favorite months.

ferry friends.

So I decided that Walt Whitman and I might have been buddies, if we lived at the same time (and we were neighbors or something). Of course, I don't actually know this. And I am basing this on one fact alone: he liked to ride ferries. All day long, in fact. He would give the ferry man a dime and stay on that boat until they forced him off.

I'm pretty sure one of my top moments in Frisco was riding the ferry to and from Alcatraz. The views! The breeze! The water! Glorious, I tell you.

Can you imagine? A ferry ride with Mr. Whitman? O captain, my captain...that would be a ride for the books.

my first attempt at a panoramic picture. (from the back side of a ferry, naturally)

"You like the poetry?"
It seemed like such a silly question for my professor to ask me.
"Yes" (said I while smiling inside).



I do not like poetry though.
I love it. I want to run away with it. I want to tell it my secrets and never let it go.

So that
is why I still said yes.

if you recite poetry to me, you'll be my hero.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

My professor always whips out poetry and quotes
by whatever author we happen to be discussing at the time.
He does it from memory.
And not only that,
but the way he says each word,
each phrase,
is like it really means something.
Something real and good and magic.
Like if I don't let the words soak into my brain
I would miss something crucial
to my humanity.

I WHISPERED, 'I am too young.'

And then, 'I am old enough';

Wherefore I threw a penny

To find out if I might love.

'Go and love, go and love, young man,

If the lady be young and fair.'

Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,

I am looped in the loops of her hair.

 

O love is the crooked thing,

There is nobody wise enough

To find out all that is in it,

For he would be thinking of love

Till the stars had run away

And the shadows eaten the moon.

Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,

One cannot begin it too soon. 

 

My friend asked me to day why I love English so much. 

I mumbled some incoherent and cheesey answer. 

It didn't really help him to understand. 

(I don't like being put on the spot)

So. Even though he won't read this...

It is moments like these (the poetic, magical ones)

that make me love English the way I do.

Because I have inspiring teachers who help me to understand real life

like it isn't real

and also like it is.

Because studying English brings beauty into my life.

And helps me to see not just the black and the white 

but all shades of gray. And purple. And blue. And red. And green. And yellow. 

Because I feel like reading a good piece of literature 

brings out the goodness in people. 

And there are so many better reasons than this,

but in simple terms, 

it is magic to me. 

 

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”

Roald Dahl 

 

 This has nothing to do with my post. But my post is long. And this picture is also kind of magical.

poems by william butler yeats

[love is more thicker than forget]

BY E. E. CUMMINGS

love is more thicker than forget

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet

more frequent than to fail

it is more mad and moonly

and less it shall unbe

than all the sea which only

is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win

less never than alive

less bigger than the least begin

less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly

and more it cannot die

than all the sky which only

is higher than the sky

via

I found this poem. 

Isn't it delightful?

I like that it stands pretty on its own.

No need to go deep, 

but you can if you want to.

I remember when Mr. Davis introduced E.E. Cummings to me my sophomore year of high school. 

That was a good year. 

My mom told me I was obsessed with love. 

I say...

Maybe just a little bit. 

Oh well. 

Because, really, what can I do about it? 

I'm a hopeless romantic. 

(Just as I've mentioned...many times before)

I'm ready for april.

April Rain Song

BY LANGSTON HUGHES

Let the rain kiss you.

Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.

Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.

The rain makes running pools in the gutter.

The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night—

And I love the rain.

the top

{flickr}

Every time I come to that point,

That spot at the top,

I feel like a superhero or something with wings.

I look down past my feet.

Tipping the seat slightly forward,

My heart immediately stops.

A quarter of a second,

Feels like falling.

A breeze of cotton candy and laughter

Tangles my hair.

The sky sighs at me,

My favorite time of day.

Just after the sun has gone down,

Hidden by the ocean.

A burnt orange,

Lit with the fire

Of reds and yellows,

Softened by the lightest of

Pinks and Lavenders, all

Overwhelm the blue sapphire water.

Almost surreal,

The beauty, the sight, the feeling and wonder.

Yes, everything feels right at the top.

Then the wheel keeps going.

*

I need California. I miss it. I miss the ferris wheel. The board walk. The beach house. and of course, The Beach.

I miss my whole family piling into the suburban; all of our stuff high on top of the car.

I miss my parents giving us $10 worth of quarters before the trip started (everytime we were bad or fought, we'd have to give them a quarter) and Zach giving his whole roll of quarters back to my parents right away.

I miss the familiar miles and miles of desert.

I miss the smell of Newport.

I miss Angels games with the yummiest ice cream on earth.

I miss reading books in my swimsuit in the sand.

I miss sleeping on the deck under the stars and hearing the waves crash.

as of late. I miss summer. although I do love winter, this winter has been colder than most. in every sense of the word.