Summer Time

I like having fun in the summer, so I made a list of things to do and will be keeping track of everything with subsequent blog posts:

• Bike tour in Oregon
• Weekend in Vegas
• Twilight Concert Series
• Sliding Rock
• Tube the Provo River
• Mona tire swing
• Make ice cream (kofe)
• Mexican dancing (with my neighbors in Magna)
• Bonfire (on the beach or in the canyon)
• Spiral jetty
• Chemistry love photo shoot
• Garden (tomatoes, basil)
• Camping (Arches, Goblin Valley)
• Make arroz con leche
• Sunday dinner with friends
• Book club
• Crepe night
• ice blocking
• Triathalon
• 5k with mom
• Bookshelf build
• Random acts of kindness for neighbors
• Community art (random eyes on objects, colormekatie inspired project)
• Temple tour (visit all the temples in Utah)
• Eat at roadside taco stand

Expectations

I don't know why I expected him to look different. As if somehow all the changes I had felt would somehow be portrayed in his face, the way he walked, some physical manifestation in him. And as we stood awkwardly positioned between the masses of passing students, I could help but notice his teeth.

Clean, but still stained a pale yellow with years of soda pop and gatorade, straight with distinct gaps between his top front teeth. I think I had to focus on his teeth to realize that he hadn't change. And to resist the overwhelming urge I had to hug him.

His laugh was the same, his coat, his smell still wafted temptingly towards me. I had to finger the ring on my left hand to remind myself-- even if he hadn't changed, things had changed.

"Don't hug him, don't hug him, don't hug him," I had to replay my commitment mentally to get the strength to physically resist.

Five years is a long time. You don't date that long without having a flood of memories assault you when you see  someone after a month of absence. Dark nights, couches, fumbling in the dark. Early mornings, running, leg weights. Exotic flavors mingled with heavy beats keeping you moving on a dance floor. Millions of memories, but necessarily words. And yet his mouth kept moving and I still couldn't pull my eyes away from his teeth.

His eyes were too dangerous, those eyelashes would get me in a minute, and I knew it. On our first date, when he was still fresh in America and could barely speak English, he spoke with those eyelashes. Years later, when he was "teaching me Spanish" he used them again. Sitting side by side on my living room couch evolved quickly into laying on top of each other as he mesmerized me with those eyelashes. No, I couldn't risk looking at those eyes.

And I couldn't look down. I couldn't look at his hands. Those hands knew the weak spots around my hips. Those hands which had mapped the contours of my face and body countless times. I knew if I looked at his hands I would be tempted to hold them in mine.

So instead I fidgeted furiously with my hand again. I don't love him anymore. Yet, I will always love him. I will always have loved him, but now I am in love with someone else. And I was late to class.

Risking everything, I glanced into his eyes and said goodbye.

Crazy Lazy

A secret: Most of the time I don't know the answer. Most of the time all I really want to do is curl up in a ball under my warm covers by myself and never come out. Most of the time I make it about on time. Most of the time I push boundaries. Most of the time.

The sweetest most serendipitous avoidance

Email received from the boy with whom I am in love:

"One time my sister Sarah told me a story about when she went to Greece with her husband. One of their visits included a small restaurant in the town that they were staying in. I don't know how little, but it had two floors. I know this because they decided for some reason they didn't want to sit on the first floor and went up to the second floor. They found a seat in the back corner and while walking to it noticed someone who looked familiar. In fact, it was someone that they knew from their stake in Philadelphia, they were pretty good friends. But neither of them knew that they were going to be in Greece at that time and they hadn't really planned to go to that restaurant either. Had my sister and brother-in-law decided to sit on the first floor they probably wouldn't have seen this person and would've never known that they had been there.
I went to your class today but since I was a little over 20 min. late I decided I would wait outside until class was over to greet you. I pulled out a book and started reading. After some time had passed I looked up and everyone was leaving the classroom. I would probably make a pretty bad investigator, I'm obviously no good at stakeouts. But I figured I could still find you so I got up and peered through one of the doors. Someone who looked like they might be you stayed behind for a little bit to talk to someone who looked like they might be a professor. So I kind of stood between the two doors to the classroom hoping that I could catch you and took another look into my book. But that was a bad idea because when I looked again you had disappeared.
People can meet in random restaurants in Greece without planning it but if I try to intercept you on your way to and from class I can't do it. It's weird how things work (or don't work) like that.
I tried to look for you afterwards but I couldn't find you. I guess the only reason I wanted to see you today is that I wanted to tell you something.

I love you Rebecca"

Not only does he send cute emails like this, but he lets me paint things on his face while we are at habitat for humanity house builds (without complaining), feeds me raspberries, and carries me around when I'm tired. Who could ask for more?

Hal or you weening?

I didn't realize it was Halloween this morning. I didn't realize much this morning actually. The pedal fell off of my bike while riding it to work on Friday (a story in and of itself) and so I am walking to campus until I can get it fixed. So when I was walking to campus in the pitch darkness I didn't really think much about the holiday, but more about being ambushed in the twilight hours.

I like Halloween though, because you get to see all sorts of fun costumes around campus, giant Bananas searching for their monkey, the testing center gone completely Harry Potter, random dance parties in front of the JFSB and, my favorite, the sexy saxophone man:



I also have my own sexy something man, I realized though while looking through some of the costumes we've donned that he seems to have a favorite pose.

We're just links in the chain or The Missionary Countdown

Excerpt from my missionary collection of "Rebecca's Observations"

It started out as a joke. I suppose some of the longest lived traditions had similar beginnings.
The multi-colored chain links seemed to span eternity in the significance of each paper folded piece and it was a constant reminder of just how much time I had left until I would return back to my home, my family, my life filled with non-Korean, non-missionary like tasks.

But yet as each chain link is broken it provides a reminder of just how tangible time is, how short even the longest second is and how it goes

moving always consistently

stampeding, crawling, rushing,

unfeeling, regardless of our

desires to change, it is

immovable in its flippancy.

The links between now and my future fate. The cord connecting now with what has gone before and the eternal potential of tomorrow.
              And it's an ethereal reality- a dream waiting to be lived since childhood which came all too quickly and what  you thought was standing on your doorstep is now walking around your house, remodeling, re-painting, tearing out cupboards, cleaning out closets and you know it will leave before you are ready.
It seems all too much like a dream to be real, but the pinches and pokes, jabs, sneers, rejection, and tears let you know you're awake. And then one day you really wake up and there are no more links in the chain, it's over, and your time is up.

Time to start all over.

Bike me back to San Francisco

I've been working on the Provo Bike Committee for the past little while, and I really love it. I love bikes. I love a sense of community. I love meetings. What could be better? Anna and I helped to sell neat water bottles with bikes on them at an outdoor concert. And I decided to start a bike education class, which will be GREAT. Or so is my hope. I have to get more information together and finally put together my power point, figure out who my audience is, and other such things.

In honor of bikes I decided to record some of my favorite biking memories.

As easy as ABC, 123

You might think with such an avid love of riding bikes that I learned early in life, but to be honest, I never honestly rode by myself until I was about 12. We had lots of bikes at our house, there was no shortage on rusty bikes, mostly provided by my Grandpa who would collect them from junk heaps and store them in the garage for years with a firm resolve to get around to fixing them one day. Eventually they would fall behind on his never ending list of projects and be buried by dust and good intentions. 

But as far as working bikes were concerned, they were limited and almost always occupied by an older sibling. Considering all my friends were either across the street or too far away to even think of getting there on anything not motorized, I never had much motivation to learn. One day though I was invited to go on a bike ride with some friends and I was so embarrassed to admit my ignorance that I decided to learn.

So I approached my grandpa and asked him for a bike and lessons. He willingly agreed and explained how to mount, how to balance, and the basics of peddling. Or as much as one can explain it without using words so much as stories of his childhood. And then we were off.

My neighborhood in Kentucky is known for it's home-town feeling, quaint accents, and beautiful rolling hills-- the last of these became terrifying to my ten year old self looking down them from my bike seat. However, with my grandpa by my side and his comforting hand the back of my bike seat to guide me, I faced it with courage. One thing you should probably know about my grandpa, though, is that he is not fast. So after the first couple of steps he let go of my seat and I went careening down the hill. 

The wind in my hair, the free fall feeling in my stomach, it was pure freedom. I closed my eyes and for a split second I could feel that this was where I belonged in life. Then I opened my eyes to the fast approaching base of the hill, the cross roads with an approaching car, and I realized I had missed a quintessential part of my training-- how to stop. I quickly veered into one of the deep ditches next to the road and came to an abrupt stop that included a stylish dismount over my handlebars and crumpling into a heap face first.

A few minutes later my grandpa came huffing and puffing up to me and apologized for letting me go. He related a story about his first (and last) time riding a motor bike and how after his accident he had sworn to never ride another one. He assured me that I could do the same if I wanted to and I wouldn't have to feel bad about never touching another bike again.

Thankfully, I discarded this loving advice and just learned how to use the brakes.

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