Did you know that today, February 28, is the birthdate of Michel de Montaigne, the man who invented the essay? OK, I know: stop the presses, that's totally exciting, right? But I'm such a geeky kinda gal that little tidbits like this one make me stop and mark the date.

So. Michel de Montaigne was this guy who lived in France in the 1500s. After his father died, he left his career as a lawyer to care for the family estate. He discovered he loved writing letters, which was great until everyone he wrote to passed away. Then he started writing to an imaginary reader, and voila! The essay was invented.

I know the tendency is to think of an essay as one of those boring things you had to write in English class about Francis Bacon or Albert Einstein or whomever your teacher assigned you to research. But really: that is research---restating facts. An essay is something entirely different---it is a place for discussing your thoughts on just about any subject. Aldus Huxley said that the essay is "a literary device for saying almost everything about anything." It can be personal, or tell a story, or argue a certain position; you can write one about a poem or a novel or another essay, or how you feel about, say, toenails or archeology or daffodils. In essence, it is a space for writing down and discussing your ideas and opinions. (If you want to read some good essays, try The Best American Essays 2007---or any year, really---which I found at Costco a few weeks ago, much to my surprise!)

The essay is my favorite thing to write. It's what I shlep around to literary magazines, my bread-and-butter rejection-letter collection agent. I tend to think about topics in an essay structure. But here's the deal: If you are a blogger, and your blog is more than a collection of your daily itinerary---if it's a place where you put your ideas and opinions into a logical structure---then you're an essayist, too.

The blogosphere owes a hearty thank you to Michel de Montaigne, I think. Maybe even a cupcake or two, but certainly a few well-written blog entries. So, share with me: are there blogs you enjoy reading because the blogger writes well? I want to know about more of them!

(Even if it is based on the Pioneer Woman's lasagna, with Amy Modifications*** that I'll share after my insanity if you're interested.)

1. Ask DH if he'd mind getting some hamburger out of the freezer while you print out the recipe. Listen to him tickle and tease the toddler instead. Storm down the hall, get the hamburger, and put it in the microwave yourself. Make sure you slam a door or two; it'll make you feel better.
2. Discuss with DH the merits of leaving the Stouffer's lasagna in the freezer and making one from scratch. Try not to feel annoyed at his seeming lack of appreciation for your culinary efforts, because you know he'll eat almost anything you cook.
3. Tell Daughter that you'll take her to her friend's house as soon as the sauce is put together, which will take approximately ten minutes. Put up with grumpiness and long sighs for as long as you can stand it, then give in and take her to her friend's house. Some guilt trip might be involved.
4. Make an almost-perfect sauce.
5. Saute the mushrooms in a little bit of olive oil. Notice Toddler's bum is stinky; go and change diaper. Realize when you come back to the kitchen that half the mushrooms are now burnt. Sigh. Wash your hands again, scrape out the burned mushrooms, and put into the sauce. Now it's...well, not perfect, but closer. Needs more mushrooms.
6. Start boiling water for noodles. Respond to DH's need for assistance in personal grooming. Try not to be annoyed that he wants your help right in the middle of cooking dinner.
7. Break up an argument between Son 1 and Son 2. Remind them we are trying to be peacemakers. WE ARE TRYING TO BE PEACEMAKERS. Pat yourself on the back for not swearing during Peacemaker Discussion.
8. Go to pantry and search for the lasagna noodles. Realize: you don't have any lasagna noodles.
9. Ask Son 2 and Son 1 to watch Toddler while you run errands. Remind them that in addition to being peacemakers we are also trying to be helpers, and that playing with Toddler isn't the equivalent of having your toenails pulled off.
10. Run to Target for lasagna noodles. Throw in some cocoa powder because you realize already that this level of cooking stress is going to require chocolate to overcome.
11. Run to the library while you're out anyway, to pick up books on hold for Son 1.
12. Carry purchases into kitchen. Turn burner back on to bring water for noodles to boil. Turn burner back on under sauce pan. Stir sauce, then pause. Realize there is far less than when you left. March down hall to confront husband, who confesses to eating HALF THE SAUCE. Yell a little bit. Toss around words like "inconsiderate" and "rude." Don't care that they're practically the same thing. Storm back down the hall, then fret about how to accomplish normally Enormous Lasagna with only half the sauce. Think mean thoughts about DH.
13. Put noodles into boiling water; stir. Make lasagna filling: cottage cheese, ricotta cheese, eggs. Look into fridge and realize that the seemingly inexhaustible gigantic bag of Parmesan cheese from Costco does, indeed, have a bottom. And that you have reached it. Briefly consider going back to the store. Laugh hysterically. Make do with remaining 1/3 cup of Parmesan.
14. Concentrate on slicing mozzarella. When finished, look behind you and realize Toddler has smeared raspberry jam across kitchen floor and is currently hovering on his hands and knees over jam smear, licking the floor. As you're out of energy by now, just shake your head, make Toddler a PB&J, and trail some raspberry-jam footprints throughout the kitchen while cleaning it up.
15. Assemble lasagna, muttering again about the tiny little dollops of sauce you've been forced into using.
16. Tell DH that no, even though it is 8 o'freaking'clock, dinner will not be served before he leaves for his meeting. Manage to not be snarky about previous personal grooming assistance.
17. While lasagna bakes, whip up a chocolate cake. Let Toddler lick spatula and give the beaters to Son 1 and Son 2. Cake batter is a good tide-me-over.
18. Slide lasagna out of oven and cake into oven.
19. Question your intentions. Maybe DH was right and you should have just cooked the Stouffer's lasagna that's in the freezer. Taste the lasagna.
20. Try not to weep. Because even with all the stress, that lasagna is still totally worth it.

***Amy Recipe Modifications:
I feel like I am genetically incapable of following a recipe exactly. For one, I usually double most recipes, because I like having left overs. If I'm stressed out one night, making a meal, the idea of leftovers for dinner the next night takes the edge out. Plus, Kendell likes to take the leftovers to work. Second, I've always got some modification based on The Pickies. (In this case, no one will eat "tomato chunks." They only like "smooth sauce.) And finally, it gives me a little bit of satisfaction to make a recipe more me. So, even though the Divine Pioneer Woman's recipe was already perfect, here's how I make it, the lasagna that might henceforth be dubbed "crazy-making."

2 1/2 lbs meat (hamburger, sausage, or combo of both)
2 cloves garlic
1 32-ounce canned Italian tomatoes
1 14-ounce canned Italian tomatoes
2 6 ounce cans tomato paste
2 T dried parsley
2 1/2 T dried basil
1 tsp each salt and sugar
1/2 cup red cooking wine
1 package sliced mushrooms
1 ish tsp olive oil
15 lasagna noodles
3 cups cottage cheese
1 1/2 cups ricotta cheese
2 eggs
3/4 cup Parmesan
3 T parsley flakes
1 tsp salt
2 ish pounds mozzarella

Brown the meat and garlic. Puree the tomatoes and paste. Add to meat with seasonings, 1 tsp salt, sugar, and 1/2 cup red cooking wine. Saute the mushrooms in the olive oil, then add to sauce. Simmer for 45-ish minutes. Cook lasagna in salted and oiled water. Combine cottage cheese, ricotta cheese, eggs, Parmesan, parsley, and salt. Slice the cheese as thinly as you can. Assemble: 5 noodles on bottom of pan; 1/2 cottage cheese mix; 1/3 of the sliced mozzarella; a little less than 1/3 of the meat sauce. Repeat twice. (so you have three layers of noodles.) Top with more Parmesan. Bake at 350 for 30-40 mins.

Back when I was living my goth-girl alter-ego thing, my fellow black-wearing, big-banged friend Jennifer (who also happened to always find the coolest boots every single time we went shopping) had this scar on her calf. Well, at first it wasn't a scar. At first it was a big, half-moon-shaped burn that she got from the tailpipe of her boyfriend's motorcycle. For a long time it was a burn underneath white gauze, and then it was just a scar. A scar I can now confess I envied just a little bit. Because it was a sort of proof that she wasn't afraid of anything, that she didn't just talk about being a wild girl. She was a wild girl. I was just teetering on the edge of Wild Girl, and while I did eventually gather my own collection of Wild Girl Scars, they don't have the kinds of stories attached to them that you'd want to tell anyone.

I've been thinking about scars lately---burn scars in particularly---because I might be the world's biggest idiot. On Friday morning, I was rushing to get the kids fed and out the door so I could make my Pilates class, and in the process of rotating the Eggos, I pressed the top of my hand right on the toaster oven's heating coil. My skin sizzled just like a piece of raw chicken dropped onto a hot skillet. I think the sound was worse that the burn pain. That's gonna leave a scar.

If you know how to read them, a person's scars can tell you some of the stories her life. Like, that scar on my forehead? I got it when I was about seven or eight, when a poorly-installed ring (the kind male gymnasts use) came loose from its ceiling screw and landed on my forehead. If I think about it hard enough, I can still remember the sound the ring made when it hit my skull. The faint (but getting darker as I get older) scar at my hairline is from the day my dad spilled burning-hot coffee on my forehead. (Poor forehead got the brunt of my facial injuries!) There are four puncture-wound scars on my knee that look like craters on the moon, courtesy of the day I tripped while I was running and went down hard (in front of a whole line of rush-hour traffic, but that's a story for another post). Many of my scars speak to my apparent clumsiness in the kitchen. And then there are stretch marks, which I think are a kind of scar---pregnancy scars.  Ankle, shin, finger, wrist: all scarred with their small stories to tell about me. Read my scars and you discover stuff about me.

I think tomorrow my Sunday afternoon project is going to be writing a catalog of my scars. Is that weird? I just want all the stories my skin can tell put down into one place. What about you---what stories do your scars tell?

I found these in my flower beds yesterday when I went outside for the paper:

Snow crocus! I planted these bulbs when I was pregnant with Haley and they've been my spring harbinger ever since. Usually, by the middle of February, I've got fifty or so little blooms in three clumps. But since we've had such a winter, these two little surprises are the first to bloom. I'm not sure how they got
here---they're all by themselves. I'm just happy to see their purple faces, because it means---even though it's supposed to snow again today---that spring is coming.

Just finished reading this article, which criticizes the movie Juno for being anti-choice and for not presenting a realistic view of teenage pregnancy. To the former I say: really? I think the character explored two separate options, abortion and adoption. She chooses adoption. Does being pro-choice mean you are anti-adoption? Or isn't the point about making a choice instead of being forced into one? Just because abortion is available doesn't mean it is always the right choice. And to the latter, I say: I agree.  Gloria Feldt (the author of the article) points out that "The narrative implies that carrying a pregnancy to term and relinquishing the baby---giving it up for adoption---is nothing. But we know that it isn't so for a pregnant woman. That's totally unrealistic." Exact point I was trying to make, only far better said. I guess that in my world---which might, of course, be la-la land---there would be some discussion between moms and daughters (the intended audience) after watching this movie. A dialogue that opens up the possibility of adoption has got to be a good thing, doesn't it?

I feel like I'm beating a dead horse here. I'm certain that author could care less about my opinion. But I couldn't help but be bothered by Ms. Feldt's seeming stance on the issue: adoption bad! More abortion! More abortion! Maybe Juno isn't a realistic portrayal of adoption. But at least it plants the seed of an idea; at least it posits the alternative view: adoption as an experience that can help not only the birth mom but everyone involved.

(OK, I promise: tomorrow I have a sweet little something to share and I promise to never discuss this movie again.)

Thanks to our good friend Paul, who volunteered to watch our kids because his wife is out of town and his kids needed some entertainment, Kendell and I went out on an actual date tonight. Generally our dates consist of picking up dinner somewhere, then eating at home and catching up on some TV show or other, so this was a welcome change. I wasn't sure we could even manage any sort of conversation without being interrupted by children, but we managed. We went to dinner at Cafe Rio (and I am already looking forward to lunch tomorrow, when I can have my left overs), took a quick turn through Target (because I am trying to find some more spiral-bound photo albums which they put on clearance a few weeks ago, and I'm fairly certain I waited too long...), then went to see Juno.

I have been dying to see this movie, ever since I saw the preview for it way back in December. For several reasons, adoption is a topic that is important to me. Did you know that out of all unplanned teenage pregnancies, only 1-2% end in adoption? That is such a startling statistic to me. I think that part of the decline comes from the way that the media portrays adoption. It's either a sickly-sweet Hallmark-esque sort of experience, or it's viewed with distaste: "Oh, I could never do that to my baby." And honestly, I'd take the Hallmark version over that last one; I hate the perspective that adoption is somehow selfish on the mother's part.

And that is why I loved this movie. It wasn't even in the same mall as Hallmark. Instead, Juno is funny and quirky and sarcastic (my sort of girl). My favorite line was when she said "I'm a junior in high school, I'm not really equipped." (Paraphrasing there!) I loved: the moment when Vanessa (the adoptive mom) is talking to Juno's belly and feels the baby move; Juno's step mom giving it to that awful ultrasound technician; her dad thinking that anything was better than her being pregnant, and of course the scene in the mini-mart where she's shaking the pregnancy test---"That ain't no etch-a-sketch. This is one doodle that can't be un-did." And I thought it was sweet that she still gave the baby up to Vanessa, even though they were getting divorced, that she thought the baby was always Vanessa's. Ironically, the one thing I liked most---the lack of Hallmark syrup---was also the thing that bugged me a bit. The saying-goodbye-to-the-baby scene is a staple of adoption movies, and this one didn't have that. It bothered me that she didn't see or hold the baby. I wanted her to have some memory of him being simply hers. Done her way---funny and sarcastic, but something to have. Because I think one of the messages the movie was trying to convey was the idea that being pregnant and teenaged and deciding to be a birth mom is hard, hard, hard---but also good, an experience riddled with laughter and little individual moments that are irreplaceable, as well as crying and confusion and heartburn that radiates to your kneecaps. It tries to say something like "you can do this," and I think it could have succeeded better only if Juno had more connection to the baby---again, in her own way---and still survived.

The audience in the movie was also interesting to me. I was surprised at how many groups of teenaged boys there were---five or six. (One of them mimicked puking when the baby was born, which almost ruined the moment for me.) Also moms with their daughters, and girlfriends together. Kendell and I were the only couple there after an older couple left, right at the beginning---I think the imagery bothered them. I left the theater feeling that good feeling an almost-perfect movie gives you: tear-streaked and yet still giggling. And also hopeful that maybe it is a vehicle for some other pregnant teenager to experience and say: Maybe I could do that, too.

I took this a couple of weeks ago, during one of those brief, strange snowfalls that happen with hardly any clouds in the sky. Maybe it's not even snow, but simply little pieces of coldness falling.

Do you see the buds on my tree?

One of my clearest memories of my college experiences happened in one of my contemporary lit classes. Someone complained about how all the discussions and the applying of literary theory, and of course all the writing, were ruining reading for her. She wanted to go back to reading just for reading's sake. We spent the entire class period discussing that topic, and it is something I still think about. As an English major, mostly what you do is read, then write about and discuss what you read, and this does have a lasting effect. It does change how you look at books. Mostly, I think this is a good thing, as you can get more out of what you read---more understanding, more knowledge, more compassion even. But sometimes you really do just want to read something, just to enjoy reading. I just don't know that you ever really can do that as you get older and more critically aware.

A couple of weeks ago, I ran into the library to pick up a book for Haley. (She'd left her copy of A Hat Full of Sky in her locker and there was a long weekend ahead.) Kaleb stayed home with her, so I found myself with the delicious prospect of a few peaceful moments wandering the aisles. It's probably been at least fifteen years since I've wandered around the stacks of teen novels---since I was a teenager myself. As I wandered, I stumbled across two books that I had loved as a teenager, and I grabbed them both. Reading them, I found myself aware of reading in a way I haven't been for a long time. Not quite that simple way of reading just for pleasure---the way I read these books way back then---but at least remembering how it felt to read that way.

The first one, Lois Lowry's A Summer to Die, was recently re-released. I think this was her first published novel. Every time anyone around me gets a nosebleed, I think of this book. It's about two sisters: Molly, who's the beautiful, popular kind of girl, and the younger one---Meg, the narrator---who's quiet and artistic and not so typically pretty. They move to a house in the country so her English-professor father can finish his book, and while they're there they discover that Molly has leukemia. I so clearly remember reading this book. The cover had a golden-haired girl walking through a field of goldenrod. I took it to the dentist with me, and he asked me who died in the book. I'd not yet finished it, but I told him that no one died. (I didn't yet have the language to say this, but I think I felt that the title was a metaphor...that the old version of Meg, or even of Molly, died; I didn't want it to be literal.) I had forgotten some of the important details---the hippie couple and the old man who Meg becomes friends with, the quilt the girls' mom was making out of their old clothes, Meg's infatuation with photography, the wildflowers. What struck me on re-reading this is how well the book deals with death---not in a Lifetime movies sort of way, but not in a too-harsh way, either. Perfect for teenagers, I think. Some favorite quotes:

"It's import, I think, to have places like that in your life, secrets that you share only by choice."

"Mom smiles, and her eyes look as if they can see back into her memory, into all the things that have gone into making a person what they are."

"Time goes on, and your life is still there, and you have to live it. After a while you remember the good things more often than the bad. Then, gradually, the empty silent parts of you fill up with sounds of talking and laughter again, and the jagged edges of sadness are softened by memories."

The second book, Saturday, The Twelfth of October, by Norma Fox Mazer, is now out of print. I think I must have checked this book out from my little public library 18 or 20 times. (Looking back, I wish my mom had just bought me a copy; it's something I would love to have now, a book I read and reread as a kid.) A great adventure story with a girl character was a hard thing to come by in the 1980s. In it, 14-year-old Zan lives in a big city. She writes most of her ideas down in her journal---typical 14-year-old wonderings about the world. When her brother gets ahold of her journal and reads it to his friends, she's suddenly experiences a real-life experience based on her science teacher's lesson about Einstein's theories about time. In other words, she's whisked away to the time of cave men.

OK, that sounds strange. But it's an idea that has stayed with me. "Time, then, if it has no beginning and no ending, must curve back on itself," her teacher tells her. "Who's to say where we fit in, where the past is, where the future is? 'Past,' 'present,' 'future' are boundary terms, like 'start' and 'finish, 'born' and 'die.' They mark beginnings and endings. But what if there is no such thing as the beginning, or the end? What if there's only time, only that river on which nothing is lost? Someday we are going to find the way to step out of our tiny tiny place on this river, step across." More than Zan's adventures with The People---which are fascinating and fun to read---I've remembered that idea. If I could go back in time---not as far as Zan went, maybe, but into my own past---would I change the things I made mistakes on? Which leads to all sorts of different ideas, like who would I be now if I'd made a different decision here in my life, or here? Would I face the same challenges in a different form, or a completely different set of issues? And, if I had to time-travel outside of my own existence, which time periods would I most want to see?

Maybe, more than just that feeling of remembering what it was like to read just for reading's sake, what I enjoyed most about re-reading these two books was seeing how the ideas they presented have impacted the person I've become. I put a lot of stock in books being able to teach things, at least good books. Sometimes, you don't see it right when you read them. But later, they continue to influence you. I think Lowry's book taught me a little bit about living life as much as possible in the time you have, and Zan's adventures encouraged my imagination.

My challenge is twofold. First, think about a few of your favorite books from adolescence---from when you were old enough to read novels. Make a list and take it to the library; try to read a few of them. Maybe even write about how they impacted you. Second, if you have children or teenagers, make a place somewhere for them to record the titles of the books they read. (In our house, the kids have book lists in their rooms.)  I can't tell you how many books I have specific memories about---but I've forgotten the title. It takes next to no time, and how cool will it be to them in ten or fifteen years?

Honestly, I think Valentine's Day is my least-favorite holiday ever. It bugs me that valentines don't come with those little white envelopes anymore, which makes me wonder every year how to attach the candy. I always resort to tape rolled into tubes and then worry that the candy might slip its wrapper. This year, instead of candy we went with pencils in Valentine's Day colors. But the reason I really don't like Valentine's Day is that it feels so artificial. Just one day of romance? What's the point? I don't want a card or flowers or even chocolates just because Hallmark says so. I'd like chocolates on a random Thursday in April or a bouquet of spring blossoms in the middle of January. Neither of which are likely to happen, because my husband is just not a romantic. He's had a few moments throughout our marriage---one year he surprised me with an emerald ring, and another year he got me the DVD and the soundtrack to Romeo + Juliet. But generally, it's just not a big deal at our house. Anyway. In an effort to combat my anti-V-day emotions, I'm showing up at my blog with: a meme, a picture, a history lesson, a quote, and a love poem. Yay hearts!

The meme, which I stole from my friend Sophia's blog, and which I like because it is about my husband but it's not mushy (and, btw, if you want to use this on your blog or in your journal, I've posted the questions without my responses in the comments section, so it's easier to copy and paste):

Who is your man? Kendell
How long have you been together? Married for 16 years, but we dated for a year before getting married.
How old is your man? 39
Who eats more? Definitely Kendell. I grew up with all sisters, remember? The appetite of men was a huge surprise to me.
Who said "I love you" first? Kendell
Who sings better? Well, neither one of us would win any singing contests, but Kendell's voice is far better than mine. I seriously have a horrible, horrible singing voice.
Who's Older? Kendell.
Who's smarter? Depends on the topic. Kendell's mind works well on things like math and structures and spacial relationships. And of course, organization. Creative intelligence might be me.
Who's temper is worse? Kendell's, although I have a temper, too.
Who does the laundry? Me. I'm sort of particular about how things get sorted (I sort by color AND by fabric because I hate it when things shrink) and no one else really cares, so it's me.
Who does the dishes? When we first got married, we agreed that if I cooked, he would clean up. Someone tell me what happened to THAT arrangement???
Who's feet are bigger? Kendell's. He has very long, very skinny, very inflexible feet.
Who's better with the computer? Definitely Kendell. He does things that make my eyes glaze over.
Who mows the lawn? We both do, but Kendell is the weed eater.
Who pays the bills? I write out the checks and figure out the credit card statement, but Kendell balances the books. A joint effort I suppose.
Who cooks dinner? Me, unless you want a bean burrito made with cold refried beans and some left over fire sauce from Taco Bell.
Who drives when you are together? Depends. If we're in the van, Kendell. If we're in the Corolla, I do.
Who pays when you go out to dinner? Me.
Who's the most stubborn? That's almost a toss up, as we are both stubborn, but I generally give in first.
Who is the first one to admit when they're wrong? Kendell. Because I am never wrong!!! ;)
Who's parents do you see more? About the same. I wish both our parents were more involved with our kids.
Who named your dog? We don't have one (something we both agree will never happen), but I named our cat, Emily, after the poet.
Who kissed who first? Kendell asked me on our first date if he could kiss me. I said yes.
Who asked who out? Technically, Kendell's sister asked me out! She and I worked together, and he came in to meet Jennifer, the girl I sat next to, because his sister thought they'd be a great couple. (Not sure WHAT she was thinking because Jenn was not Kendell's type.) I didn't really even notice the transaction. A few minutes after he left, Cindy (my SIL) sent me an email: My dorky brother wants to take you out. Don't tell Jennifer yet. (LOL.) I still have that email printed out.
What did you do on a real date? Usually movies.
Who's more sensitive? Me, without a doubt. Kendell is anti-sensitive.
Who's taller? Kendell, by ten inches.
Who has more friends? About the same, although I have way more email friends than he does.
Who has more siblings? Kendell had five, I had three.
Who wears the pants in the relationship? Kendell likes to think he does. ;)

The picture (of Kendell and me last Easter. Thanks Becky!)

The History Lesson (from The Writer's Almanac):

Today is Valentine's Day, the day on which we celebrate love and especially romantic love. This day is linked to Greco-Roman February holidays devoted to fertility, in particular, the festival of Lupercalia. The romantic overtone of the holiday is in commemoration of St. Valentine, a Roman priest who was martyred on February 14 in 269 A.D. It's worth noting that there are many different Christian martyrs named "Valentine," and until 1969, the Catholic Church recognized 11 different Valentine's days.

Thousands of couples will exchange gifts signifying their affection for one another, including chocolate, flowers, and of course, greeting cards. One hundred eighty-eight million Valentine's Day cards will be given today, making February 14 the second most popular card-giving day of the calendar year, finishing right behind Christmas.

The tradition of exchanging love notes on Valentine's Day originates from the martyr Valentine himself. The legend maintains that due to a shortage of enlistments, Emperor Claudius II forbade single men to get married in an effort to bolster his struggling army. Seeing this act as a grave injustice, Valentine performed clandestine wedding rituals in defiance of the emperor. Valentine was discovered, imprisoned, and sentenced to death by beheading. While awaiting his fate in his cell, it is believed that Valentine fell in love with the daughter of a prison guard, who would come and visit him. On the day of his death, Valentine left a note for the young woman professing his undying devotion signed "Love from your Valentine."

The quote, from Story People:

Quiet Prayer

As long as the sun shall rise goes the old lovers vow. But we are children of a scientific age & have no time for poetry. Still, I offer a quiet prayer of thanks for the sunlight each time I see your face.

(I love this because I do have time for poetry)

The poem, my favorite love poem, even though I've posted it before:

"Himalayan Balsam"
            ~Anne Stevenson

Orchard-lipped, loose-jointed, purplish, indolent flowers,
with a ripe smell of peaches, like a girl’s breath through lipstick,
delicate and coarse in the weedlap of late summer rivers,
disheveled, weak-stemmed, common as brambles, as love which
subtracts us from seasons, their courtships and murders,
(Meta segemtata in her web, and the male waiting,
between blossom and violent blossom, meticulous spiders
repeated in gossamer, and the slim males waiting).
Fragrance too rich for keeping, too light to remember,
like grief for the cat’s sparrow and the wild gull’s
beach-hatched embryo. (She ran from the reaching water
with the broken egg in her hand, but the clamped bill
refused brandy and grubs, a shred too naked and perilous for
life, offered freely in cardboard boxes, little windowsill
coffins for bird death, kitten death, squirrel death, summer
repeated and ended in heartbreak, in sad small funerals.)
Sometimes, shaping bread or scraping potatoes for supper,
I have stood in the kitchen, transfixed by what I’d call love,
if love were a whiff, a wanting for no particular lover,
no child, or baby, or creature. ‘Love, dear love,’
I could cry to these scent-spilling ragged flowers,
and mean nothing but ‘no,’ in that word’s breath,
to their evident going, their important descent through red towering
stalks to the riverbed. It’s not, as I thought, that death
creates love. More that love knows death. Therefore
tears, therefore poems, therefore long stone sobs of cathedrals
that speak to no ferret or fox, that prevent no massacre.
(I am combing abundant leaves from these icy shallows.)
Love, it was you who said, ‘Murder the killer
we have to call life and we’d be a bare planet under a dead sun.’
Then I loved you with the usual soft lust of October
that says ‘yes’ to the coming winter and a summoning odour of balsam.

Hope your Valentine's Day brings you something special!

I've been working off and on for the past three days on a book note, but it is just not flowing. So instead, since it's our anniversary today (16 years), and I've been thinking about my wedding day this morning, I'm writing thirteen things about that day (13 because we were married on the 13th!).

1. We were married in the Salt Lake City LDS temple. Kendell didn't really care which temple we were married in, so I picked this one to fulfill a sort of hope I'd had, years ago. When I was 15 or 16, my parents and Becky and I went to the temple grounds during Christmas. (The grounds are lit for the season, with nearly every tree draped in lights and dozens of creches.) This was during my angry, rebellious, dark days, but I remember looking up and watching the snow fall through the lights on the temple, and knowing, for a few certain seconds, that I wouldn't always feel the way I did then. That moment was a little peaceful place for me, a memory that often gave me solace. Getting married in the Salt Lake temple was like fulfilling a promise to myself I didn't know I'd made.
2. I was late to my own wedding. (If you know me at all, this shouldn't surprise you.) Honestly, though, it wasn't really my fault. My dad wasn't active in our church, and he hadn't yet been through the temple, so the plan was for him to drive himself up a little bit later so he didn't have to sit around waiting as long. At the last minute, he decided he wanted to drive up with us, but we had to wait while he got ready. This is one of my biggest regrets about my wedding day: that once I got to the temple, I had to rush through everything, and I didn't  get a peaceful moment to sit in my wedding gown in the beautiful bride's room in the temple and just be there.
3. We were going to get married in April, but then decided to move it up. There were something like 25 weddings on Valentine's Day, but only us and two other couples on the 13th.
4. It snowed on our wedding day, and that was the only snow storm we received during that February. Made for some cold pictures on the temple grounds!
5. Kendell's grandma Leola was in a car accident driving from the temple to the wedding breakfast.
6. We had our wedding breakfast at Chuck-a-Rama. Even though the food was really good, and the service was great, I'm still embarrassed about it.
7. The colors at our reception were burgundy and forest green.
8. My mom sewed the dresses for my flower girls (my sister Becky and Kendell's sister Melissa) and my maid of honor (my best friend Chris). They were made out of a floral tapestry sort of fabric, and the cut was very plain.
9. We had our reception at a place called the Whitney House. It's an historical building in downtown Provo that used to be a reception center. (Now I think it's just empty...I couldn't find it anywhere on line. I think next time I'm down that way, I will take some pictures of it.) I wanted my reception there because of the beautiful circular staircase. How sad I was that they wouldn't let us actually use the staircase, not even for pictures.
10. We had chicken salad and shrimp salad croissant sandwiches, vegetables, and little individual cheesecakes at the reception. Plus those little individual cakes that were so delicious. White and chocolate ones.
11. My mom and sisters did the food. (I still feel guilty about this.)
12. My wedding cake was chocolate with white frosting, burgundy roses, and raspberry filling. During my wedding preparations, my parents desperately needed a new kitchen table. One leg would just randomly fall off every once in awhile. (They got a new table soon after my wedding, and I'd imagine that it was the wedding expenses that kept them from getting a new one sooner.) On the day after the wedding, my dad accidentally knocked that leg on the table, and all the leftover cake---the little ones and the big one---crashed to the floor. Kendell and I stopped by my parent's house on our way to Las Vegas (honeymoon) just because I wanted to get some of those little cakes to take with us. I was sad to discover them all smashed on the floor! This is why we didn't have the top of the cake for our first anniversary.
13. I know you're supposed to feel like your wedding day was one of the happiest days of your life. And while I was happy, what I remember most clearly was feeling rushed and full of anxiety over the reception. (When my children get married, I hope I can help arrange things so they don't feel that.) I wanted it to go smoothly, and at the same time I was terrified of having to talk to so many people. (If you've not noticed by now, being in the spotlight is just not my thing.) Looking back, though, I know that it did go well, and it was a happy day.