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Saturday, September 27, 2014

Indescribable Season

(Millcreek Canyon, Utah)

Splashing on the pavement,
Pitter-patter through the leaves.
Gentle drumming I can hear
As things begin to transition.

Then comes the muffled wind.
Brewing with pumpkin spice,
Painting with red and yellow,
While darkness sneaks in early.

Yesterday we were sunning
Today I woke up cuddling,
Throwing on scarfs and warm knits
As the steady rhythm trills.

Tomorrow the sun will rise,
But shorts I’ll wear no more.
For crisp air will have set,
Along with my cashmere.

A season indescribable
Fleeing as fast as it comes.
As soon as orange leaves blossom
They'll soon crunch 'neath my boots.

Indescribable season, and yet
All make the endeavor to identify
 The beauty that is impalpable,
And the feelings ever mystical.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

God Bless America

9/11, a day when every American shudders as they remember what happened thirteen years ago. Though I was only seven years old, that day is forever imprinted in my memory. This day each and every year causes me to stop and count my blessings. This day paints a bold stroke of red on my canvas.

I was in second grade. My mom worked as a teacher forty minutes away from our house and so I went to daycare and school out there too. I was sitting at my babysitter’s watching “Arthur” when the phone rang. ‘Liza, my dear babysitter, picked up the phone while I remained in a trance staring up at the TV.  Suddenly, Arthur was gone and all I saw was a plane on the TV crashing into a building that stood next to a building that was on fire.

The thought to complain that the channel had changed didn’t even cross my mind. I still couldn’t understand what was happening. I looked behind to see my babysitter still on the phone, her gazed fixated on the screen. Little did I know these two towers were in New York City, or that thousands of people worked there, and were now fleeing the building or suffocating as the smoke grasped life from their lungs.

At school I remember every TV was turned to the news and the two burning towers were shown over and over again. My teacher tried to continue teaching, but she too was distracted by the images flashing across the screen.

As the week continued to unfold my seven-year-old brain began to grasp what happened I couldn’t believe people would do that. As the years continued on and the time came when my brother signed up for the army, and 9/11 touched my family again as he went overseas.

Today I give thanks to all those who fight for our country. I commemorate the work that has been done to remember 9/11. A day that will live on in infamy. A stroke of paint on my canvas. God bless America and the families that lost loved ones that day.

Sunday, September 7, 2014

The Beginning

Watercolor paintings occur when paint is watered down and then combined to create a picture with multiple colors. My grandfather was an amazing watercolor artist before dementia took over his creative abilities. However, some of my favorite memories with my grandfather are sitting at his art table watching him sketch a bird that sat outside the window, then patiently, my grandpa taught me how to use his watercolors to create beauty.

The Canvas: A blank slate. A foundation. We all have a foundation in which we build our lives. Mine is in three parts, my religion, my family, and my mission where I learned to speak Chinese and taught people about Christ's love in the Australia, Brisbane Mission.

The Paint: Each of us brings different colors to the world. We are meant to mingle and learn from each other. Like a watercolor we blend together to create the beautiful picture of life. Stephen Schwartz, composer and lyricist of the broadway musical Wicked, wrote, "People come into our lives for a reason bringing something we must learn. And we are led to those who help us most to grow if we let them. And we help them in return."

This Blog: I have my canvas. Now this is my journey with the world and the people in it. I believe life's fuller when we let people enter in, and change us for the better. This is my story.