because of Bella

Mountains, parks, roses, Swiss chocolates, the homeless, poverty, Mormons, growth, change, bringing the kingdom of God...

none of these are the reason God brought me to Utah for the summer.

I love kittens.

I have decided to become a missionary to the kitty population of Salt Lake City. Bella's coat was groomed and silky, but inside she craved love for who she is, not what she looks like. Larry was thin and scraggly, and when he opened his mouth no sound came out. It broke my heart to see him reduced to such humiliation. Especially since his name was Larry. And he might've been a girl. And we just found out a little calico is missing! What if she's lost or stolen, hungry and cold? Something needs to be done about this injustice! I sacrifice myself to love and cuddle and frolic with neglected or mistreated kitties. Especially ones that purr really loudly and bat at snails with their little white paws.

be it ever so humble

There are some things that the absence of is needed in order to make you realize how much you loved it. My cold feet at night remind me of how warm my heated mattress pad made my flannel sheets. The orange-ish red concoction on the main line makes me realize how delicious Dad's turkey soup was. Waking up to the dark and a piercing alarm reminds me of the slow, sleepy awakenings to dishes clanging in the kitchen and light peeking through the slats in my blinds. Icy pellets from the sky onto sloppy muddy earth only slightly resemble the large flakes landing softly on an already existing blanket of whiteness.

Highlights of Christmas break '08:
+ Hiking through 2 feet of snow, burrowing under fallen logs, getting pushed in the snow by Dad who thought it'd be funny to spear me with his walking pole like Moby Dick.
+ the Christmas Eve service...twice.
+ Watching Band of Brothers in my bed.
+ Shoveling snow the first five times...after that it got tiring.
+ The first 300 pages of Anna Karenina...after that it got tiring.
+ Playing the Andy of Mayberry trivia game and speed scrabble with the fam. (Dad: "Do you spell 'slut' with one 't' or two?")
+ Watching Clint Eastwood movies, war documentaries, and Valkyrie with Dad.
+ Staying in my pajamas all day.
+ Baking peanut butter cookies every time the supply ran out.
+ Venturing by foot into unknown, snowy lands in search of the post office and stumbling into it like a dazed elf sutmbling into a ginger bread house on his way to the North Pole.

I miss Bing Crosby. And this:

slice of life, a la mode

My dad handed me an article today about a hand held device where one can access the Internet and buy books online, reading them on the tiny screen. I felt my insides being wrung like a dishcloth. The day books are replaced with computers I will hang myself from the nearest library's roof. Half the enjoyment of reading a book is holding it in your hands, smelling the pages, feeling the cover fluctuate in your hands like a wave in the ocean, noticing accidental ink splotches in the margins. There's something about seeing words on paper that makes me feel as though something has just been created that didn't exist before. One can write, "There once lived a man named Joe," and all of a sudden Joe once lived, where before he didn't. A new character and personality exists, who has likes and dislikes and a family, if you write one for him. It's not just a collection of books I have on my bookshelves. I have a bookshelf of lives between bindings. Computers are the end of life as we know it.

"'What shall I do with all my books?' was the question; and the answer, 'Read them,' sobered the questioner. But if you cannot read them, at any rate handle them and, as it were, fondle them. Peer into them. Let them fall open where they will...If they cannot enter the circle of your life, do not deny them at least a nod of recognition." ~ Winston Churchill

I'm drinking coffee, and it just passed that perfect temperature where it's not hot enough anymore to singe off the flavor, but isn't cool enough to fail to warm your toes. It's reaching the latter stage and I still have half a mug left.

The cat slept with me last night for the first time since September. She jumped up on my bed without so much as a meow of inquiry, then felt around on my blankets as if she had every right, and laid down before I had a chance to protest. "Kitty," I said, lowering my Steve Kluger book (who added a homosexual character to his latest novel and therefore makes it very difficult for me to enjoy), "what are you doing?" She didn't even look at me, but if she were to answer I imagine she would've said something like, "What?" with an attitude.

I've decided to live the life of Jo March, and inherit a large estate from a cranky aunt to fill with raucous boys who give me lots of grist for the writing mill, when I'm not teaching them wise lessons and punishing them for their scrapes by tying them to the bedpost. (Actually it was Nan, a little girl, whom Jo tied to the bedpost. But still.) "I really don't know which I like best, writing or boys" (Little Men, chapter 3).