I hope this is visible. It's not as amazing as it was in real life, but I hope it's kind of evident.  It's a spider's web--a really big one--that I happened to see on a neighbor's lamppost a few days ago. I don't know if I would have seen it if we hadn't passed by at just the moment we did. The sun was setting, so the light caught it just right so that I could see the details of this exquisite (and creepy) web and all the things caught in it. In fact, as I tried to get a good angle, the light dropped enough that I almost lost the chance to get the photo. 

I've been reading a book called Awe. It talks about the benefits of feeling awe, and the ways we might find it in our lives. Some interesting things are that feelings of awe actually improve mood and cognitive abilities! And in some ways, I think having the gospel seems to provide us with more opportunities to see awe--or maybe it's just that we might be more open to it? 

One of the interesting points I found was a reminder that we often are unaware of the things around us that can bring us wonder and awe. That we are lost in thought, have forgotten to look, or are distracted by concerns or devices or whatever. The author pointed out that, for children, everything is new, so they find awe in the world all the time. If we could be like children a bit--sound familiar?--we might also find awe more in our lives. I know that when I go on walks with my grandchildren, they see a million wonders in the world that I might miss. Bugs and cracks in sidewalks that look like rivers. They remind me to be aware and in awe of my surroundings. Awe can be found in human behavior, too: courage or kindness, for example. In music and art. But we have to put ourselves in the positions to find it and then we have to quiet down and look. I want that in my life. I don't want to miss what can bring awe--even if it's a creepy spider's web big enough like it could catch a bird but fragile and delicate and sparkling in the evening light, visible really for only a few moments. How cool is that? 

 It's hard to see in the photo, but I couldn't resist taking a picture: first snow of the season, and someone on campus had made a snowman. It is only a temporary one, as the weather is warming and already tilting him to the side. (In fact, the second I snapped the photo his head rolled off!). But still. It's the first snow and it's a snowman. 

I have always loved snowmen. I have quite a collection in my home--some that stay with us all year round and not just at Christmas. I love Calvin's snowmen. I just get such a kick out of how he uses them to communicate what he really thinks, creating commentary on life as he sees it. 

Once I saw a watercolor of a snowman in a mason jar with a caption: There is no snowman resurrection--Enjoy now. I refused to buy it even though I loved it because whoever had painted it had misspelled "resurrection," and I knew that it would just bother me. But my artist friend knew how much I wanted it, so she made me one. 

So, I wonder if I like snowmen for just that: they are temporary and therefore precious. But, with that thought I realize that everything--everyone--is just that, too: temporary. We are all only here for a short time. People pass through our lives and on, to another place, which means, in some cases, that we will never meet again in this life. With that thought, I realize that I should treat everyone I meet as temporary and precious, as gifts in the moment. It's a kind of grace, I think, that snowmen remind me of. Something I need to remember more often when a driver irritates me or a person in the store is rude. I need to imagine them all as snowmen. Precious. 

Birdsong

 It was quiet on my walk this morning. Peaceful. 

Until I got partway through the walk. I had been aware of the birds--they are always chirping around here. Or honking (in the fall when the geese fly in huge flocks overhead) or cawing (when the black birds harass the deer and geese). But this morning, it began in the quiet way I always pictured when I sang the primary song: 

In the leafy tree tops, the birds sing good morning.

They're first to see the sun, they must tell everyone. 

In the leafy tree tops, the birds sing good morning. 

I was thinking of that song as I walked, listening to the birds chirp and tweet and thinking that I didn't have the leafy trees of the song, but I still had the morning birdsong. Suddenly, the song became a squabble. I don't know what else to call it. The birds were squawking and squeaking. I looked up, but I couldn't see them. There had to be a lot of them, but I could only see one on a rooftop. Then, I found a few in another tree, hidden among the leaves that still clung to the branches. As I looked, I could see a few birds here and there, but nothing to account for the racket. 

In a few minutes, they quieted. Whatever the fuss was, they had, apparently resolved it. I went back to humming my childhood song again as I walked. A soothing start to the day. 

Ice Hills at the Lake

I had heard about the ice piles on Utah Lake, so I thought I would go check them out. They fascinate me! I mean, it's a lake and we aren't even that wintry yet--no snow to speak of, moderate winter temperatures. So how does this happen? How do ice sheets form and collide to build these sculptures? 

I learned on the news later that cold weather (even our mildly cold weather) can form a sheet of ice on the lake. When the wind blows, it can shift the plates of ice, forcing them to crash into each other, building up these piles of ice that look like they should be in the North Sea, not central Utah. 

I love that nature can create interesting outcomes when a particular set of circumstances come together. 

Sometimes nature's combinations can be dangerous: I'm reading a book called Under a Flaming Sky about a wildfire in  Minnesota in 1894, a horrible combination of natural events (wind, temperature, and low humidity) that trapped 2,000 people and killed 400 in 5 hours. The specific conditions combined to create hurricane-force winds and fire tornadoes, even something called gas bubbles that floated and burst over people's heads.  

Sometimes nature's combinations can be beautiful: Raised in Alaska, I was sometimes awakened in the night, bundled in a blanket, and nudged outside to watch the night sky dance with color from the Aurora Borealis. I've looked up what combination creates this beautiful sight: solar winds, charged particles and something called magnetospheric plasma, whatever that is. I don't understand the combination, but I do understand the result--beautiful sky paintings of red and green that captivated me as a child--and still do. 

The ice hills remind me that the world can be a place filled with wonder. They remind me to open my eyes and look around me for those wonderful things. 

Snow-calm

After sitting in conference sessions (good ones!) all day, I needed a walk and fresh air. So, for dinner, I got directions to some restaurants about a half mile from the hotel and headed out.

It felt good to be outside. The sun was going down but it wasn't super cold. The air was refreshing, and I was glad to be outside, even if it was going-home traffic instead of the sounds of nature I enjoy in my walks at home. I walked briskly, checking out two different shopping areas, eventually found a place to eat, and then started back to the hotel after I was done.

By now, it was dark, and as I started walking, snow started falling. At first the snowfall was so light that I almost didn't notice it. A flake here and there finally caught my eye. Then, more and more fell. While I waited for an interminable light to change so that I could cross a wide, busy street, I realized that it was snowing enough that I would be snowy when I got back to the hotel--especially if the light stayed red much longer!

But the light did, eventually, change, and I was able to get to the hotel before the heavy snow came down and turned me into a snow-woman. Still, white flakes were sticking to my black coat, and, staring at them, I realized that I usually don't walk during a snowfall anymore. I have in the past, especially growing up in Alaska, but I can't remember (specifically) the last time I did it. I love to watch the snow falling while I'm warm inside my house. If I am outside, I usually hurry through the snowfall to the car or the house, trying to get out of it as fast as I can.

But tonight it felt very good to be out in the start of a snowfall. I felt like lingering. The world seems to settle and quiet when snow falls--and I felt the same quieting in my soul. The stresses and worries that we call carry around with us seem to melt away when the snow begins to fall. I wonder how the world might be better if we all walked for a few minutes in the quietly falling snow more often.

returning home

I was born and raised in Alaska. My children were all born there. In many ways, Alaska is in my bones and heart and soul. It's usually good to go home, where you feel like you can breathe in what makes you you from birth. It is good to see old friends and people who knew me as I was growing up. To drive the streets that are almost part of my DNA. There's China Garden, still. The Tastee Freeze on the corner by our old house. Still. So much sweet. But this trip was bitter, too.

I went for the funeral of my oldest friend who had died suddenly. We had spoken by phone on the day she died, and she asked me to speak. I said I would, but I struggled all week in coming to terms with her death and the task of talking about her life and the plan of salvation. I had been trying to be more present in my daily activities--and now I was divided: part of me doing what I needed to do but part of me grieving, my chest constantly aching with the pressure of holding in my sorrow.

So, I returned home to send my friend off to another home. We had agreed to attend our high school reunion this coming summer together. Neither of us wanted to go, but we agreed we could go together for mutual support. Now I will attend without her. She has a different reunion to attend.

So much was familiar. The weather was cold--but it had been colder the week before, so the trees were gorgeous, robed in thick fleecy ice, starkly beautiful against the bright blue of the sky. This was my welcome. My breath made clouds every time I breathed, and my nose tickled when I inhaled the cold air: ice crystals forming.

I was driving to visit friends when a large moose walking beside me along the road startled me. This photo of a moose in the airport has to substitute for the one I saw as I couldn't pull off the road to take a photo of the one that was much bigger than this one. No need to take a chance and risk its wrath. Or to identify myself as an outsider. When I mentioned the sighting to my friends, they nonchalantly said a large one had just been in their yard. "They are really around a lot this year with the deeper snow." Oh yeah. I remember that. 

I remember the long days of summer and the long nights of winter, but I found that my inner clock wasn't adjusted to that rhythm anymore. I attended the 9:00 meeting at our old ward building, a building where I taught seminary on early mornings, where we spoke in sacrament meetings, and where our children were blessed. It was 9:00, and this is what it looked like: pitch black as night.

I parked in the hotel lot facing south and was reminded of the sun's rotation in winter: the first shot is the sunrise (about 11:30), the sun just above the horizon in the southeast. The second photo is the sunset (about 4:00, since we are a month past solstice) with the sun just above the horizon in the southwest. The winter sun makes a short arc above the horizon for about 4-5 hours this time of year, and there is the start and end of it. My inner clock felt shaky--what time was it? I never could quite feel it. How much of that was the shifting daylight and how much was the difficult purpose of my visit? I don't know. 

I gave the talk I had to give, aching and hoping it provided comfort to my friend's parents and children, slid my way on icy roads back to the hotel and cried hard alone in my room. Grief is like that, isn't it? Coming and going like tides. Maybe like the days in Alaska--long at times and then short. Ever present and something we get used to until we aren't used to it anymore and it hits us, makes us feel like a stranger in our own home. 

I am home again now. Home to my husband and my life now. Home to remember my friend who returned to her eternal home last week. We will both be home again someday to a place that will feel familiar, I hope, and welcoming. 

snowman service

I was walking across campus yesterday and saw this little guy, looking a little worse for wear because the weather was warming, but still there. Still bringing a smile to my face.

And I needed a smile. Candy passed away over the weekend. My longest friend. And she is gone. And I am grieving and I needed a smile.

Candy was such a great example of service. I asked her once how she could know exactly what a person needed. I can take cookies or soup or bread--but all my service feels generic. Candy's felt specific to the person and to the need at the moment. How did she do that? I think she just lived really close to the spirit, but she was embarrassed, said she didn't know, and changed the subject. I was thinking about this as I walked across campus. And there was this little snowman.

And I thought: someone built this snowman, probably just for fun. They probably had no idea that, even when it was worn and fading and actually not looking so good (one eye gone, dirt sticking to its body), even then it would make someone who needed a lift to smile.

And then I thought: maybe service can be like that, too. Maybe my cookies or soup or bread, as not-so-specific as they may be to the current need, can still lift someone who needs to know they are loved. And in that thought, I felt comfort and peace.

So, the little snowman, as small and fading as he was, taught a good lesson, one I needed. Thank you, whoever made him!