a feeling i could be someone.

[Joan of Arc, by Jules Bastien-Lepage]

"Dear God, please let me make something this beautiful--something that speaks of my time and place." --J. Kirk Richards, about this painting.

Isn't that the artist's prayer? Every artist's prayer?

We each have a wish to create something that will allow those after us to taste what it meant to live in our time and place.

Because, as Sappho wrote: "I declare that later on, even in an age unlike our own, someone will remember who we are."

And perhaps, just perhaps, that is why I keep writing. Imperfect as I am in this craft. But that someday, somewhere, I will create something that will speak of what it means to be a young, striving, ambitious Mormon woman in the early twenty-first century.

More particularly, what it means to be me in the early twenty-first century.

I might not have control over who tells my story once I'm gone. But at least I can leave conclusive evidence that I lived. 

For the future to remember. 

And that will have to be enough. 

Now and in England.

Once upon a time, Briana and I decided to take a trip to Dartmoor National Park, which is located close to Exeter (it's about a 3-hour train ride from Oxford, close to the west coast of England).

Dartmoor National Park is Hound of the Baskerville territory.

Case in point. 

The trip was incredibly exhausting (we were hiking up and down actual hills for miles), but also incredibly rewarding. We hiked through quintessential England--like, what you think of when you think of England: rolling green hills, a brilliant British sky, and farmhouses dotting the fields. 

[The hills are alive, baby.]

[Love this woman.]

[Also, there were ponies. PONIES!]

[Did I mention that we had lunch on a bench in an idyllic English churchyard?]

We stayed the night at a English farmhouse (in Dartmoor) in the middle of nowhere. Seriously. It was the dead. middle. of. nowhere. Which meant that we lived for the wood-burning stove. And our dreams were filled with visions of full English breakfasts dancing through our heads. It also meant that I ended up curled up in my bed in a fetal position since I was so cold. 

[The English farm house. Perfection.]

[Chai time.]

[Yeah. Yeah, that is what I look like after miles of hiking and then coming home to a cold bed. "Can we be life-flighted out of here?"]

[Now this is a breakfast.]

Briana and I also had a chance to walk through moonlit fields on our way to find dinner at a cosy pub. Words don't do justice to how beautifully eerie and hauntingly sublime that walk was, as an orange moon rose about the hilly moors of Dartmoor, illuminating the path in front of us. It was just--wow. It was beautiful. It reminded me of something out of a mystery novel. As Briana said, "I am living every book about England I have ever read." 

We found the pub, where we met a friend. There was a cat sleeping on the seat next to us. The bartender said her name was Mittens, but we knew better. Her name is really Lady Henrietta of the Moors. She pretends to be a dog and is all friendly, but in reality, all she wants is the cream from your ice cream. 

[The pub.]

[Briana and Lady Henrietta.]

[Lady Henrietta is not amused.]

[Staring down that cream.]

All in all, amazing trip. One that I am really glad that I went on (so thanks for inviting me, Miss Briana). 

And, like all good trips, it reminded me of literature. Not only Sherlock Holmes, but of a favorite poem of mine by T.S. Eliot called "Little Gidding," particularly the first part: 

Midwinter spring is its own season

Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,

Suspended in time, between pole and tropic. 

When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire, 

The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches, 

In windless cold that is the heart's heat, 

Reflecting in a watery mirror

A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon. 

And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier, 

Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire

In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing 

The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell 

Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time 

But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow 

Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom 

Of snow, a bloom more sudden 

Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading, 

Not in the scheme of generation. 

Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer? 

If you came this way, 

Taking the route you would be likely to take

From the place you would be likely to come from, 

If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges

White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness. 

It would be the same at the end of the journey, 

If you came at night like a broken king, 

If you came by day not knowing what you came for, 

It would be the same, when you leave the rough road 

And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade

And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for

Is only a shell, a husk of meaning

From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled

If at all. Either you had no purpose

Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured

And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places 

Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws, 

Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city--

But this is the nearest, in place and time, 

Now and in England. 

If you came this way, 

Taking any route, starting from anywhere, 

At any time or at any season, 

It would always be the same: you would have to put off

Sense and notion. You are not here to verify, 

Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity 

Or carry report. You are here to kneel

Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more

Than an order of words, the conscious occupation 

Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying. 

And what the dead had no speech for, when living, 

They can tell you, being dead: the communication 

Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living. 

Here, the intersection of the timeless moment

Is England and nowhere. Never and always. 

Honestly, I haven't been able to find another poem yet to match how I feel about midwinter spring in England. And for the trip to Dartmoor? This poem describes the feelings of that trip perfectly. 

. . . this is the spring time, but not in time's covenant . . . 

. . . and what you thought you came for is only a shell, a husk of meaning from which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled if at all . . . 

. . . You are here to kneel where prayer has been valid . . . 

. . . there are other places which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws, or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city--but this is the nearest, in place and time, now and in England . . . here the intersection of the timeless moment is England and nowhere. Never and always. 

at a loss.

. . . for words, that is.

the title of this blog post is a lot more melodramatic than its actual contents.

sorry to disappoint. 

i feel like i have so much to say, but don't know how to say it. 

i'm going to blame it on the fact that i've spent the entire week poring over primary sources. 

#dissertationofdoom 

(as an aside: part of me feels a bit guilty for snooping into people's private diaries from 200 years ago. another part of me says, "nope, don't need to feel guilty. it was the adams family, for crying out loud. they wanted people to look at their diaries." but heavens, they sure wrote a lot.) 

but i guess the point is, i'm feeling a bit brain dead and i'm looking forward to general conference this weekend for a much-needed spiritual energy boost. 

in other news, after-easter candy sales certainly don't disappoint in england: 

"a dozen quail egglets." EGGLETS. the cutest thing ever. and this chocolate is amazing. almost the best thing that happened this week. not quite the best. but almost. 

because other great things about this week included lunches and dinners with friends, late-night walks and talks, voice lessons (which is a blog post for another day--suffice it to say that i love them and have discovered an unknown love for opera), and daffodils on my kitchen table. 

and finishing (at least for this week) looking at all of the primary sources i gathered from boston. that's definitely worth a sigh of relief. 

and a dark chocolate egglet for the road. 

Easter Weekend Adventures

Last weekend, the wonderful Lee family came down from up North to visit me! It was great exploring England with them and dragging them around Oxford.

We saw a lot of old stones . . . 

[At Avebury]

[Could not have asked for better weather.]

[Stonehenge!]

[Oh haiii]

[With part of the fambamerly.]

[Old stones, young faces.]

[Please look at that group of people in the background taking pictures of Stonehenge. Because if we don't take pictures of these ancient stones to put in our Facebooks, Instagram albums, and blogs, did we actually go? Do the stones actually exist? Do we exist? The existential questions of the 21st century.]

. . . we also went to Salisbury Cathedral and saw the Magna Carta . . . 

[The Cathedral itself is absolutely stunning.]

[Courtyards and cloisters.]

[Stained glass. You're not allowed to get a picture of the actual Magna Carta, so I guess you'll have to decide for yourself if I actually saw it or not since it's not on social media.]

. . . and we finished the day off at Winchester, where we saw the Round Table. 

[Love this pic.]

[Queens, kings, princesses, and dragons of the Round Table. Love this crew an awful lot.]

It was great having my family in town--glad they put up with me! 

**Also, I have given so many tours of Oxford this term . . . and would love to give more. So if you're coming my way, send me a message. :)

IRELAND (or, the one where I finally get a Spring Break)

Hello, world.

I have seriously neglected the blog the past couple weeks. I finished Hilary Term (hallelujah) and then promptly left for Ireland with some friends to start out this break right. Now, this is kind of a big deal. We don't get Spring Breaks at BYU (I know, I know). So this was my first-ever university Spring Break. And it has not disappointed me so far.

Ireland was incredible. We started in Dublin and then moved up the coast, coming up north through Belfast, then along Giant's Causeway, Slieve League, down to Donegal, and then back through the northeast to get back to Dublin. But I'll just post the pictures and let them tell the story.

[Dubliners.]

{Also, did you know that one of my favorite short stories takes place in Dublin? It's called "The Dead," by James Joyce in his collection called Dubliners.}

[In the square at Trinity College.]

[Trinity College again. The Book of Kells is held here. Also, this square is where protesters fought with British soldiers during the Easter Rising in 1916.]

[The Library at Trinity College.]

[With the ever-lovely Emily.]

[THIS STAIRCASE IS SO COOL.]

[Oh, you know, just an indie band playing on the streets of Dublin.] 

[St. Patrick's Cathedral with Emily and Dani.]

This trip also introduced me to the wonderful thing that is Air B&B. We stayed at great places each night. One of the perks was getting insider information on places to see (and full Irish breakfasts, but that's a different story). The guy at the first place said that we needed to go see a place called Newgrange, which is an ancient tomb that is older than the Pyramids of Giza . . . and you get to go inside. So, naturally, we set out to see Newgrange. And it ended up being one of the trip's highlights. 

[See that mound in the back? That's Newgrange.]

[The entrance.]

[The crew.]

[Quintessential Ireland.]

One of Emily's coworkers had highly recommended that we stop at a potato crisp factory on our way to Belfast. So, we did. I mean, how often do you get to go to a potato crisp factory? And how often do you get to meet Mr. Pat Tayto? Once in a lifetime. 

[Oh, and did I mention that the potato chip factory is in a castle? Yep. It is.]

[The spud himself with the crew.]

Next up, Belfast. I felt like we were transported right into the center of history--the Troubles weren't too long ago, and there are still disagreements . . . even bombings in Northern Ireland. We went to see the Peace Walls and the murals in the city: 

[The past is not even past.]

The next day, we went to Giant's Causeway, which I was stoked about. Going to Giant's Causeway has been a goal of mine for years, and it met all of my expectations. 

[This is my excited face.]

[On the causeway. This is a natural coastal formation. Years of wind, fire, and water made the coastline look like cobblestones.]

[Sooo, we kinda look like a mid-2000s band with our shades of green. What can you do? It was St. Patrick's Day. We had to wear green.]

[Dreams do come true.]

We then went to a Rope Bridge, which connects a small little fishing island to the rest of Ireland. I'm not a fan of heights (especially when you can see a sheer drop off), but I swallowed my fear and went across the bridge. And the view (and the day!) were absolutely gorgeous. 

[On the bridge.]

[Irish coast.]

[Natural beauty.]

It wouldn't be a proper St. Patrick's Day without a parade. And don't even worry--we went to two. One we watched . . . the other we somehow drove through. 

Our last destination was Slieve League, which has the largest sea cliffs in all of Europe. We got there at sunset and the next morning we hiked around a bit. You could not have asked for more stunning views. 

[Pure beauty.]

[A watchtower which was built during the Napoleonic Wars to ward off Napoleon.]

[Livin' on the edge.]

[The crew . . . and somehow we all ended up matching again?]

Basically, this trip to Ireland was incredible. Truly, it was. Great sights, great company, great conversation. One of my most favorite trips I have ever taken. I'd say Spring Break 2016 is off to a great start. 

(Also, Spring Break 2016 aka Best Spring Break Ever is not over yet--I have more pictures to post from Dartmoor [as soon as I get them from Briana], Easter weekend, etc. But for now, back to dissertation.)