Sunday, July 1, 2012

moonlight also leaks

dinner with baby sister

i just returned, under a nearly full moon, from a great early birthday dinner with my baby sis and her husband, both uber-cool human beings.  we ate at my favorite provo restaurant, you know, communal.  
highlights of communal's dinner for me were the cheese platter with honeycomb and cherry preserves and the kale spinach salad.  the butterscotch pudding in the mason jar was so festive and celebratory. kyle and christian went nuts over the corn with queso and christian was trying to drink the remains of the whiskey brown sugar sauce that the carrots were cooked with from the ramekin.

my baby sister valorie had arrived in the middle of the night from arizona after passing by a huge fire in fillmore, utah, the original capital of utah.  the air is heavy with ash and smoke in provo, a couple hours north of fillmore, blowing in from the six wildfires all around us.  our eyes and lungs are burning, and there's an unsettling feeling in the valley.

valorie said at dinner, "kyle was driving and i was sleeping when i woke up in fillmore at  2 a.m. and saw the fire.  if it wasn't so terrible, it would have been really beautiful."

then i came home to read izumi shikibu's poem "although the wind." valorie's statement and izumi's poem were synchronous.  or maybe valorie's poem and izumi's statement?

both utterances point to what, on the eve of our blog's six month anniversary, has been so beneficial about writing down daily observances.  there is terrible and there is beautiful.  

sometimes they co-exist.  

i've gotten markedly better, even since january, at understanding this, and realizing that you have to let them happen together if they need to.  it's been really good for me to consciously look for the beautiful in every day.  

or whatever you want to call it.  

the significant.  

the observance.  

bloggers and poets both get accused of sometimes picking experiences to have because they will make good fodder for writing.  this can be a danger, the danger of not being able to live the poem and write it, both, as thoreau said.  

but so far the daily writing and observing has made me more grateful, more observant, and more deliberate about the experiences i have every day.  i know it's a little self-indulgent (a lot?), but maybe it's not so bad to live well so you can write about it?

at any rate, thank you for indulging me.  

and thank you for the moon tonight.

“Although the wind ...”

Although the wind
blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roof planks
of this ruined house.


  1. Life is nothing if not an indulgence.

    Howling winds and leaks of light are gorgeous experiences, not to mention better than what we could be doing, and my brain isn't big enough to hold the idle nothingness of that alternative. (Now there's a sentence that sounds pretentious, but I don't care.)

    I'm glad to get to eavesdrop here. I appreciate this post, and this project of yours and Julie's. Happy anniversary.

    1. "life is nothing if not an indulgence" is seriously my new mantra. that's a beautiful idea, georgia. i love it!

    2. Mine too, actually! Thanks for helping me find it.

  2. I love how you both live and write. I love hearing your life in your writing. You sanctify the painful and the normal and the terrifying things as you write them Lara.