Passion. That fleeting rise in the heartbeat of anticipation. Passion. The flush of ones cheek. A wet hot heat. Passion. Desire burning steady, the promise of another, the love of another, the heat of another, the presence of another, the passion of another shared, one soul, enmeshed with mine.

Passion, lost in distance lost in time. Moments past, regrets that last. Passions never bridled, passions unexplored, passions undiscovered. Moments lost for fear.

An early morning

Sometimes I wonder, what am I doing here? Wrapped up in life’s daily chores of living I question my choice of path to tread upon. Sometimes I tread lightly, feeling an understanding and belief in the good of the world, but other times my feet are dead weight and the world appears to me unmasked in a state of disrepair. Then there are times when just one small event can give me hope, one smile, one line of a song or just one note, one laugh, just one word or just one touch. There are women in my life who often greet me with an embrace, I am sometimes uncomfortable, but I have begun to realize the importance of touch and affirmation, I have begun to pull down the walls I have so carefully put up – it feels good.

This morning I was up before 8 feeling nauseous, (a medication I’m taking), I came down the stairs to hear a light knock at the door, there stood a neighbor holding out a bag of zucchini and squash, asking if we would like squash from their garden. As I thanked him and he turned away I thought to myself, this is a moment to tread lightly, a moment to feel gratitude for those who extend themselves, their talents and their gifts freely, a moment to feel gratitude for the gifts of the earth.

Thoughts from last week...

So much has been happening in my life lately, in our life, as I recognize my life is connected to so many others . . . so much has transpired that I have neglected my blog. I often compose a blog in my mind, a running journal entry of sorts, only to later abandon transcription.

I am taking a four credit hour photography class on Mondays at Westminster. I am in the class for five hours every week for eight weeks. This has proved a much greater challenge than originally anticipated. First, the cost. I did not envision having to purchase Ilford RC Multigrade paper in bulk quantities, nor twenty some rolls of Kodak Plus X 125 black and white film. Secondly, the assignments for the class consume quite a bit of time, both in and out of the lab. Hours in the lab developing negatives, hours trying to capture the right shot for the assignment. I anxiously await the development of my next four rolls of film; negatives which I pray will demonstrate an ability to capture motion and depth of field. I spent the most beautiful Saturday morning last week in the gardens at Thanksgiving Point. Alone with my backpack and sunscreen I searched the gardens for shapes and textures which caught my eye and then my lens. It was a hot dry day and I was grateful for the four bottles of water I had placed in my backpack earlier in the morning. I will know before the weekend is over if my efforts were fruitful. I have a new respect for the art of photography and even more so for the artist behind the lens.

I moved into my new home, our new home. In fact I’m still technically moving in as there are a dozen or so boxes stacked in the backyard. I knew this move would be a challenge, I anticipated the exhaustion that accompanies any move, yet this move has almost licked me. Balancing school and relationships and Perrie and moving while feeling this constant panic about my senior thesis and the lack of time I have spent in its preparation . . . breath in breath out breath in breath out . . . to say I am overwhelmed would be an understatement. Thankfully I had an amazing amount of support from my younger brothers and their spouses, two incredible sister-in-laws that have been there when asked, when tired, helping me after working all day, and my two younger brothers who gave of their time freely, I feel blessed. My sister Amelia showed her maturity, to my surprise her presence often made the workload feel lighter. My father and Abby and CJ tackled projects I could not face. I have many thank you notes to write and much to be grateful for.

A week before moving in I painted two rooms. I painted Perrie’s room yellow, per her very specific request, and I painted the living room and entry a soft blue. (I could not live inside a living room the color of mud, this is a home, not a bomb shelter.) And we have neighbors! Living breathing thinking neighbors, the kind who stop by and say hello. I have even been invited to be part of a neighborhood book club. Imagine, a neighborhood of women who do not make me feel as if I have stepped into the movie set for Stepford Wives.

Robert Rauschenberg

I have been thinking about my own existence with greater frequency over the last few weeks. Thinking about those who have already gone and those left to go; I obviously included in the latter have the privilege of reflection. And then today I read that Robert Rauschenberg died. Rauschenberg is an artist I fell in love with years ago, more so his paintings than his sculpture. I remember when I first saw a Rauschenberg painting, I had gone to the East gallery to visit ‘Lavender Fields’, only this time I wondered further. My heart drops when I connect with a work of art, like the feeling one gets on the first hill of a roller coaster. This was the feeling I got that day as I stood in front of his work, asking myself, “Who is this man, and how does he know how I see the world?”.

I have found myself in foreign territory. As if I floated to its shore off some far sea. The land is harsh and unforgiving, the skies stay dark at day. The air is thick and breaths are shallow, the sand is damp and cold underfoot. I do not see the sun. I know its presence hangs above, yet visible it is not.

A metaphor for where I am, or perhaps for where I am going. I feel alone. As if I’ve lost my compass and the tour director has gone home for the day.

Distance
in feet or inches
in depth of space
or separation of time
distance to be counted
or to be counted upon
distance in the physical
between you and I
steps to be taken
distance to be reached
distance to be spoken

The deeper the wound the slower to heal, or so it goes something like this. But some wounds heal whilst keeping the injury deep inside. Like a stabbing may leave a knife tip behind, wounds may leave behind grief or pain, words spoken and words unspoken.

I wonder now, who I’ve wounded, what wounds have healed, what wounds have I inflicted leaving something behind?

I wonder of my own wounds, have I enough thread and needle to close them once and for all?

I hate mother’s day. I have fond memories of waking up early with dad to make mom breakfast in bed. Every year a handmade card, until I took a job at a local florist shop and made my mother a wrist corsage each year, seven tiny purple roses, one for each child.

Mother’s day is a grief that can’t be spoken, it’s a pain goes on and on.

These are not entirely my words, some credit should go to Victor Hugo; yet when I feel the grief of infertility I hear his words… a grief that can’t be spoken… how very true. I am not allowed to dislike pregnant women. I am not allowed to show disappointment when my sister, who marries in January, conceives in April. A healthy young woman, once willing to carry my child, now having children of her own, spending her days casually as I struggle to get up in the morning and face the days work that lie ahead.

My sisters have formed a kinship, my childlessness excludes me from this, and this makes me so very sad (difficult to type through tears). I have lost my sisters to motherhood, I have lost my heart to grief, I have lost my soul as it were only a lie, I have lost my hope with each breath took. I have lost my will with each new disappointment.

I have lost.

I found a house. An 1897 colonial. Original architecture around the windows is still intact and original wood floors remain in several of the rooms. Sadly, the bathroom and kitchen have been gutted and 'modernized'. The home has one-third of the square footage of my current home, I would need to give up 75% of my possessions and let go of my own personal space. However, on the upside, the home is 130K less than my current home. I'm excited, yet trying not to become overly excited at the prospect in the event it does not work out. I have conflicting emotions. The stress and headache of moving again, the time and energy expended in packing and purging. What to keep? What not to keep? So many thoughts.

I went to bed at 4am, back up at 9. I have been on my feet for more that fourteen hours, I thought my legs might give out on me. I am physically exhausted,but it is a good tired. The kind of tired that comes from a hard days work in which you see the end product - for my efforts and those of family and friends who came to help, our reward, laughter and smiles. At one point during the evening Perrie said, "I am loved". Yes she is.

amazing the love of a dog, deliberate

amazing the love of a dog, sometimes wet

amazing the love of a dog, without judgment

amazing the love of a dog, kisses

amazing the love of a dog, comprehension

amazing the love of a dog, faithful, loyal

amazing the love of a dog, comfort

amazing the love of a dog, nose to nose

amazing the love of a dog, cheek to cheek

amazing the love of a dog, companion

amazing the love of a dog, my friend

I will not be hushed
with stares and eyes
and telling looks
my voice
my voice
my voice
my voice will now
be heard

my words of joy
and sound of laughter
I will shush no longer after
my voice
my voice
my voice
my voice they want to silence

let them want
let them wait
til last breath take
I will not
be hushed
be hushed
be hushed
be hushed from life
for nothings after

Some run from death
Some march towards death
Some scream at death
Their bellows fall silent

Others fight off death
and swear at death
and beat off death
their arms grow tired

some laugh at death
some cheer at death
some faint at death
their suffering unheeded

others question death
And feed off death
And wait for death
Their pain now ended

I want for death
I hope for death
I seek for death
Anticipations thwarted

Slowly drips upon my cheek

I blink it falls once more

overcome or come undone

move further from the shore



eyelids heavy chest is full

breath is shallow fast

drips still fall as from it all

much longer shall it last


noon day sun full of light

night as dark as day

love is lost deepening frost

words from lips to say

red or yellow locks of sun
curls of black or gold
brown eyes bright lit with light
smiles to always hold

cheeks of summers peach
twirling color under sky
tiny lips fingertips
words reaching to ask why

words that I will never hear
hands empty drawing cold
sky of night no stars for light
lullabyes of silence told

no doll nor ball or teddy bear
no silence profers peace
no small chair or table
no handprint wrinkle crease

written by megan van pelt

Change it comes can be seen in them trees
change it comes with the blowing of the leaves
change it comes when all leaves be gone
cold gray branches rotting in the sun
change it bears the earths floor cold
change it has come the earth is sold

change it comes the earths sky black
change it comes upon my bent tired back
change it comes my hardened heart grey
cold gray brokenhearted scared to stay
change it bears another sun to see
change it has come far too late for me

written by megan van pelt

I stood outside tonight. Under winters canopy I watched the snow fall onto lash and cheek; I felt it melt against my skin. A priceless work, not seen upon museum walls, snowfall under moonlight.

My footprint is slowly vanishing, by morning, erased by fallen snow.

So much loss

I have yet to share my thoughts on the death of my niece Lilly, thirteen months later and I am unable to think of her without the presence of tears, such a tiny little bundle of pink, so much love shared during such a brief life. Barbara and I were there during Emily’s labor, in fact, Barbara heard Lilly’s heartbeat long before Lilly entered this world. Emily took Barbara to a prenatal office visit, Barbara was so delighted to have heard the heartbeat, she talked to the doctor who was going to deliver Emily’s little baby girl, she understood that Lilly’s birth would be a challenge yet, like Emily, her anticipation and excitement were not thwarted. Barbara was a part of Lilly’s birth.

Two weeks ago Barbara was a part of Ryker’s death. We watched as Emily’s little baby boy took his last breaths of life. Barbara sat in one of a pair of rocking chairs that had been brought into the room; she rocked him, gently kissing his cold little head. Barbara wanted to hold him, to rock him, to tell him she loved him. Barbara wanted to be there. I wanted to run. From the moment we entered the room I struggled to keep my feet firmly planted onto the hard linoleum floor. Each breath I took felt heavier than the last. If I just stood still I would be able to remain standing. I wished in desperation that I could give him my own heart, that he could have life. Yet his was already gone. In thirteen months my sister would bury both her first and second born. The odds of having a child with a rare brain defect followed by a child with such a rare heart defect are one in one million. Almost a million other mothers spared the grief and loss of losing not one, but two of their children. Two tiny white caskets in such a short period of time.

It is much easier for me to recount a part of the experience through Barbara than myself. I too held his cold little body; I too rocked him and kissed his beautiful little head of hair. I did not want to let him out of my arms, if only I could warm his little body. Each breath carefully exhaled to provide a source of warmth.

We buried him in the frozen winter ground on Wednesday. Beside Lilly he now lies. This was my first time to her grave since we placed Lilly beneath the earth. I was angered to find no headstone, no place to leave her a summer bouquet; just a small metal stake with her name. The headstone of a carved angel should lay at her feet, at least a metal urn, perhaps a proper stone with her name, an attestation of her brief life. And now, another needed for her brother as well.

Finished at last

The semester is over. I took my last exam earlier this evening. Walking out of the library and into the white of falling snow I thought of CS Lewis’s wardrobe, he walks his main character through a musk filled web of forgotten cloaks, as she disembarks from the wardrobes end she finds herself in a winters wonderland, only this is not familiar snow; her feet tread softly, forward, onto a blanket of white she embarks, an unseen world awaits for her.

In comparison, I thought to myself, school is my wardrobe. And when I find myself at my own wardrobes end, what might I find awaiting me?

I really should try to not be so subtle

I voted against Referendum 1. Had the bill passed, I would be among the hundreds of concerned citizens preparing to take legal action through the Utah Supreme Court. If the Utah Supreme Court failed to uphold the Utah State Constitution, the next stop would be the United States Supreme Court. Why would I join thousands of others in a costly legal battle? I do not have children, how am I even affected by school vouchers? As a citizen of the state of Utah I have a responsibility to uphold the State Constitution. As a citizen of the state of Utah I have a responsibility to ensure that both elected and appointed state officials uphold the Utah State Constitution. And when the Constitution is threatened, when the right of every child to obtain an education is threatened, when corporations seek to amend the State Constitution in efforts to decrease their property taxes - you can be assured that I will raise my voice.
I do not intend for this to be a long explanation on why school vouchers are unconstitutional, why they are funded and driven by those seeking to increase profits for shareholders, I do not need to tell you how school vouchers discriminate and whom they discriminate against. My husband wrote an exceptional paper on school vouchers that covered in detail these topics, any attempt I would make at doing the same would come up short in comparison, and as him and I have talked at great length about this issue it would be difficult for me to avoid plagiarizing some of his ideas. I do not need to convince you that school vouchers have the potential to do irreparable harm, if you look past the propaganda and hype, if you read House Bill 148 for yourself instead of relying on paid commercial actors to explain it, if you take the time to compare it to other school voucher bills, the few that have passed in other states, you will understand why we need to stand up and say NO to Referendum 1. I do not wish to convince you of what I know to be true. It is far more powerful when we seek out the truth ourselves, when we think for ourselves.
So what do we do now? We raise our voice. We share with others the importance of standing up, the importance of defending our State Constitution, the importance of defending the right of every child to receive a good education, not just those chosen for admittance to parochial schools, not only the children who can financially pay for a good education, not only the children deemed bright enough by a school administrator, but all children, regardless of academic ability or religious background. I am convinced that as long as the dollar has value, regardless of what shape it takes, as long as men desire more, as long as the earth revolves around the sun – we will have a need to defend our right to education, our right to life and liberty, our right to live in peace, our right to free speech, there are even those fighting for their right to love. I cannot comprehend how a civilized society could possibly require one to defend the act of loving another. Many of us feel safe and protected. Many of us feel secure in our homes, secure in our jobs, secure that our rights will always be defended. We are so comfortable that we do little to ensure these same rights for others. This is the same security felt by those who had spent their lives attending synagogue with their fathers and mothers, their children and wives; fathers and mothers who never imagined that one day their children would not be allowed the same education as other children because they chose to attend synagogue instead of mass. Parents who never imagined their child could be denied opportunity because of test scores. Yet one powerful campaign of propaganda led a nation to remove the most fundamental rights within its own society; it began with the burning of books, it ended with the burning of bodies.
I am not asking that we lose our sense of security; I am asking that we stop taking it for granted and demand it be offered to all.
It begins with something as seemingly innocent as a school voucher, instead of improving our educational system, a priority that does not profit big business and therefore does not become a bill, we offer the chance of a better education to the few who can afford it or those who present the highest probability of increased test scores or a win for the schools basketball team.
Or, we can just say screw the lower middle class, if they want a good education let their parents get a third or fourth job to pay for it; of course we then run the risk of losing our janitorial staff.

But the fruit that can fall without shaking
Indeed is too mellow for me