Gaelic (A Year of Writing Prompts)

I’ve always wanted to visit Scotland, play on the golf courses, visit the highlands, and explore the old castles of the clans.  Today was an unseasonably warm day in the highlands, or that’s what the tour guide told us.  There were only six of us on the tour plus the guide.  We purposely planned it that way so we could get the most of our visit.  Three couples, one guide, two castles. 

The first castle was set near a loch and even with the breeze coming from the water it was still hot.  I could smell the fresh air surrounding us and imaged the place smelling of wood smoke from the fire pits, harsh soap from the laundry, and animal manure.  Without the hustle and bustle of a full time, live-in castle, the only smells were from the water way, the grass, and the dirt.

Walking inside, I was assaulted with a musty smell that almost knocked me off my feet.  As I looked at my traveling companions, I wondered if they felt the same thing but they were speaking softly to their partners and pointing at things of interest.  My brows knotted as the giant ballroom we were standing in began to shimmer.  My group’s voices started to fade away.  Suddenly, I was in the ballroom but this time I was surrounded by a clan of Scottish highlanders.  The men wore their clan colors in their kilts, standing tall and proud.  The women wore the latest in gowns, fashioned after the English elite with a little French influence in the droop of the neckline and the flirty lace around the bosom.

I couldn’t understand a word they said realizing they were speaking Gaelic.  At least that’s what I assumed.  I stood still hoping no one would notice me wearing my cargo shorts, hiking shoes, and Bob Marley t-shirt with my hoodie tied around my waist.  I had pushed my sunglasses on top of my head and my hair was pulled up in a messy bun.  So far no one looked my way and I relaxed a little, listening to this guttural language.  I tried to understand what they were saying by watching their gestures, but it was impossible.  I caught a few words that sounded like English words but it wasn’t enough to piece together the conversations.  There was one word, though, that was repeated over and over again.  Amadan.  I memorized the sound hoping to get someone to translate. 

Everyone in the room fell silent as a man and woman walked in through the entry doors from the hallway.  The crowd parted leaving an aisle in the middle leading from the entryway to the opposite side of the hall where a large banquet table sat.  Behind this table was a regal looking gentleman with a beautiful tartan of dark green with bold, bright blue lines.  Thinner brown lines cut the blue in half adding an earth tone to the cloth.  A gold brooch formed in the shape of an eagle was pinned to his starched white shirt.  The man stood slowly and nodded at the couple who had paused right inside the entryway.  Their steps echoed in the silent hall as they made their way slowly to the banquet table and the man who I assumed was the clan leader.  The people nearest me kept whispering that word.  Amadan.  Since this looked like a wedding, I wondered if the word meant love, or beautiful bride, or maybe it was an expression of joy for this union.

The soon-to-be bride was wearing a cream-colored gown with small roses in gold embroidered around her neckline and hemline.  Her bronze vest was also embroidered with simple leaf patterns, but it enhanced her pale skin and tiny waist.  She would look up at her partner then look quickly down at the ground, blushing.

The soon-to-be groom seemed a little plain, in my opinion.  His tartan looked faded and worn.  The colors were almost indistinguishable although you could tell there was possibly some red and orange in the mix.  His face was red looking freshly scrubbed but his hair was a tangled mess, wisps flying every which way and the start of dreadlocks in some areas on his head.

When I looked at the well-dressed gentleman at the head table, I caught his expression.  It was thunderous.  When the couple reached the table, the knelt in front and looked down at the ground, holding hands.  The gentleman, or clan leader, put his hands in the air.  It remained silent and some people looked like they were holding their breath.

“Amadan.”

One of the guests suddenly turned and looked directly at me.

“Babe.  Babe,” he insisted.

I shook my head and the ancient Scottish clan scene faded away.  I was looking into the eyes of my husband.  The rest of our group had gathered around me looking concerned.

“Are you okay, miss?” the tour guide asked.

“Yes,” I stammered.  I told them about my vision and the word I kept hearing.  “I was witnessing this beautiful wedding ceremony and I’m wondering what the word ‘amadan’ means.  It must be something romatic.”

I looked at the tour guide in shock as he burst out laughing.  This lasted for several minutes and I began to feel irritated.  Was he questioning my sanity?  Did he think I imagined the vision?  Did he think I was lying?  Before I could lost my temper, our guide got control of himself.

“Idiot.”  He chuckled.

I bristled, “Did you just call me an idiot?”

“No,” he answered quickly.  “The word you said, ‘amadan,’ it means idiot.  They must have been talking about the couple.”  He chuckled more as he pointed at the walls in the ballroom.

As we looked closely, we saw pictures on the walls that had faded over time.  The ones that looked older because the paint was barely visible were pictures of eagles soaring over the loch, battles of clans in their tartan colors, and royal women of the castle.  The newer paintings that weren’t as faded told a different story.  They were pictures of flower covered dragons, smiling fairies flying through fields of primrose, and Beira, the Queen of Winter, casting her freezing spell over the moss in the castle yard.

Amadan.  Idiot.  I don’t remember the rest of the visit because that’s all I could think about.  I was romanticizing about brutish Scottish clan men who fought hard and loved fiercely with their strong, independent women at their sides.  The idea of a clan leader painting fairytales on the walls would be the only memory I would keep.  The guttural, yet enchanting sounds of the Gaelic language would only be summed up in one word for the rest of my life.  Idiot.

Fern (A Year of Writing Prompts)

It was the only thing left.  Ashes covered the once lush, green landscape making it look like an apocalyptic nightmare.  The wind had died down to a soft breeze, blowing the gray-black matter softly in the wind.  Dirty snow-like flakes floated in the early morning light as the sun appeared beyond the mountain range.  All this devastation yet here it was, stretching upward, reaching toward the warmth.  How it survived, no one could imagine considering the heat of the fires.  The wind that fueled the flames was now that gentle breeze.  No green for miles.  Except.  Except the delicate leaf with its curly ends looking like exquisite lace on a ball gown made for a princess.  Tiny holes in each long-fingered leaf gave it texture so if you touched it, you expected to feel bumps.  But it was smooth to the touch.  And soft with tiny fur covering the light green surface.  Trying to straighten the leaves was like fighting to straighten a curl in someone’s hair.  The coil, pulled to its limit, bounces right back every single time.  And so, this survivor keeps its beauty.  It keeps its life.  Despite the heartache and loss, this is Mother Earth’s promise of rebirth.

No Entry (A Year of Writing Prompts)

            “Ma’am, you can’t go in there,” the large security guard blocked the entrance with his enormous body, hand on his baton.

            I looked at him confused and angry.

            “That’s my family,” I yelled balling my fists ready to try to run through him.  I knew that would be impossible.  I mean, I could run into him but certainly not through him.  The guard was built like a solid mass of flesh, bones, and muscle.  He looked like he was about 6’8”, maybe even 6’9”.  I’m not a short female.  I’m 5’10” and my older brother is 6’6” but I was almost looking straight up to see this guy’s face.  His expression left no room for arguing but I was going to take my chances.

            “That’s my family,” I tried to swallow my panic and tone down my decibel level.  I opened my hands to show I was calm but none of it worked.

            “Ma’am, I have orders to not let you in,” the guard replied with no expression.

            Good thing my arms are long because even with his height I didn’t have to tiptoe to give him a solid, open handed slap on his face.

            “I know you’re only taking orders, but you are welcome to pass that on to whomever is giving them,” I hissed. 

            I smelled his cologne before I heard his voice behind me.

            “Will you follow me, please?” his formal British accent made me picture one of the royal family members with a designer suit, perfect hair, and pale skin.  When I turned around I found I was correct about everything except his skin, which was brown, with an added groomed goatee.  His sympathetic ebony colored eyes weakened my resolve to somehow move the bulldozer of a guard and rush through the doors.  I followed him silently not looking back. 

We walked down the hallway then turned right at the next intersection.  The whole building was bright with artificial lighting and I felt my skin glimmer eerily.  I wondered if we entered a dark room whether I would glow.  That would be kind of fun, I thought.  I don’t know how long I had been in this building with its cold lighting, endless hallways, and locked doors but I was starting to go crazy.

I watched this polished man as he walked with precision, back straight, eyes forward, total confidence exuding from every pore.  His cologne reminded me of going to the dance clubs and meeting some of the wealthier patrons.  Their colognes were subtle, but the scent stuck to your cheek after they kissed it.  It was comforting to smell nice the rest of the night although a little difficult to explain to the husband when I got home.  It didn’t help that I worked as a bartender. I could almost sympathize with the security guard I slapped.  Our poor bouncers would have to deal with wannabe patrons, most of whom couldn’t even afford more than one drink in our establishment, but wanted to be able to tell their friends they rubbed elbows with the elite.  Our bouncers were actually giant teddy bears, but they had a job to do and they did it well despite the abuse they endured.  Their paychecks certainly made up for everything and they were happy.  I started to feel bad that I slapped the guard until we reached a large, glass window. 

My tour guide stopped, and I looked inside to see a family huddled together in a corner.  Their eyes were round saucers.  My heart stopped as I thought about my family just on the other side of that door just down the hall.  Instinct told me to run and take the security guard by surprise, but my guide must have sensed my plans because he touched my elbow lightly and nodded toward a green door just a few steps away.  Confused, I followed him again.  The sign on the green door said, “No Entry,” yet the guide took a key out of his pocket and unlocked it.  I heard a series of bolts sliding throughout the door and just as suddenly, the sound stopped.  The door opened slowly on its own.  My refined guide gestured for me to enter.

“Is this where my family is being held,” I asked naively. 

He didn’t answer, just smiled and continued to point me in the direction of the room he just unlocked.  I knew there was nothing more I could do so I walked into the darkness beyond.  The green door closed softly behind me and everything became pitch black.  I didn’t have to wait for my eyes to try to adjust as lighting on the floor illuminated a hallway and I could barely see another door at the end.  I couldn’t go back through the green door as there was no door handle on my side.  Even though the floor looked flat, I found myself hiking upward.  By the time I reached the door at the other end, I was panting from the exercise.

This door was black and in white letters a warning read “No Entry.”  Having no other choice, I turned the knob and threw open the door.  If there was anyone on the other side, they would be surprised and hopefully stunned by the force.  I heard the door hit a wall and by some miracle it didn’t swing back to hit me in the face.  Good thing, too, since I was too stunned to move.

The sun was shining brightly, I could hear waves crashing a short distance away, and the smell of gardenias was heavy in the air.  I stumbled on the small set of stairs leading out.  As soon as I was clear of the building, the black door slammed shut.  Then there was nothing.  No door, no steps, no building.  Nothing.  I fell to my knees crying.  My family!

“Hon,” I heard a voice just above me.  I looked up in disbelief and saw my husband standing there, smiling, with his hand held out to help me up.  My girls were just behind him, also smiling, with towels in their hands and their bathing suits on. 

“Come on, Mom!  We’re ready to go swimming!”

My husband looked at me concerned.  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly as he dried my tears with his towel.

I nodded silently, took his outstretched hand, and followed them to the beach.  When I looked back to where the black door was located just a few seconds before, I saw our van.  Just beyond, in the tree line, a sign read, “No Entry.”

My husband smiled.  “This is our private beach, now.  The sign is to keep people away.”

I put my head on his shoulder as we reached the sand and our girls dropped their towels as they rushed to jump into the gentle waves.  My family.  I thought I had lost them.  But they were right here all along. 

An Artist's Eye

My husband commissioned an artist to create a portrait that represents my four daughters and me. First of all, major points to the hubby for even thinking about something so amazing.  Second, more points to him because he paid for it with his own money. Third, extra extra points for hiring a Samoan artist who happens to be in Samoa.

I've always wanted to be an artist, to paint and draw.  It looks incredibly peaceful.  Unfortunately, the artist gene completely bypassed me, ran very far away, skipped my mind and hands, and crossed my name off of the forever artist list.  I feel that I have the heart of an artist.  I certainly have the introversion to love artistry.  Alas, I have tried but instead of being tranquil moments of time, it turned out to be stressful and aggravating.  I bought a small set of blank canvas boards and thought I would try out painting.  After two attempts, I simply added two more pieces to the garbage pile. The remaining blank canvasses are sitting in a box in the garage along with the rest of the junk that still needs to be cleaned out.

What an artist sees in their mind and how they interpret those thoughts onto canvas is absolutely incredible.  My husband's attention to details and relaying that to the artist turned out to be a labor of love. The end result has others wanting to purchase this beautiful piece but happily, it is mine.  The details she added (my tattoos, for example), make it completely one of a kind and extremely personal. This artist's eye captured a lot of love and more importantly, created a family legacy.

In progress:  "O a'u o Matua Fanau - Our children are our greatest treasure"

By:  Nikki Mariner - Manamea Art Studio

Person of Shadows

I can't believe it's done.  Well, almost...  It's in the final stages of editing and critiquing, but so close to being published.  Stay tuned...

Chapter 1:

             

            The nighttime noises were soothing.  The waves were quietly lapping against the shore as if the ocean were settling down for slumber.  The sprinkling rain pattered on the leaves outside.  The smell of salt, earth, and flowers glided past in the breeze.  Calming, cool, comforting. But she couldn't sleep.  Her body was on edge, anticipating something.  It had been this way for the past week.  Exactly seven days since she met the haole man on the beach.  

            He had done nothing wrong.  Actually, he was very nice and helpful.  He came to her rescue when her basket of fish fell on the sand.  The kids playing on the beach along the shoreline laughed at her and her brother as they scrambled to rinse them off and put the fish back in the basket.  They were very successful that day and the basket was filled to the top.  That much fish would feed them for a week and they would still have some to sell.  

            Her short mu’umu’u was faded from the original red color to a pinkish hue and the flower pattern had turned into dull blues, greens, and purples.  The edges were beginning to fray again.  No matter how many times she tried to sew the ends of her sleeves, neckline, and hemline, eventually the stitches would come out.  The mu’umu’u fit snugly on her slim frame and she knew she would need another dress soon.  She began to mentally calculate how much material she would need to make another dress and how much it would cost. 

            Her long, wavy, dark brown hair was always pulled up in a bun.  No matter how tight she pulled her hair back, short tendrils would escape and fly around her face and neck as she worked.  She brushed back a strand of hair as she picked up the fallen fish and her wide, brown eyes filled with tears as she heard laughter from some of the town kids.  Her small, flat nose flared and her wide mouth grimaced as she heard the rude comments thrown in their direction.  She didn’t dare look at her brother because she knew his face would be a mirror of her own.  Kids can be very cruel with their words but the haole man put a stop to that as he shooed them away and bent down to help them.

            "How much is your basket of fish?"  He asked.

            The girl looked up in surprise and it took her a minute before she could find her voice.  "We're keeping some for food but I can sell you half the basket for $20."

            "Twenty dollars?"  The man looked shocked at the price.  

            The girl swallowed thinking she just asked for too much.  To hide her embarrassment, she looked down quickly and began to pick up more of the fallen fish.

            "I'll give you $100 for half the basket."

            At first she thought she heard him wrong.  When she found the courage to look up at him, she saw him smiling and holding out a one-hundred-dollar bill.

            She gulped and told her brother to quickly make a new basket to give the man half of their catch.  As her brother ran to pull a coconut leaf off of a nearby tree, the girl looked at the man from the corner of her eye. He was quiet as he watched her brother run across the sand barefoot.  Now that she was able to observe him, she realized he did not look like the usual red, sunburned tourists that sometimes found their way to the remote Hawaiian beach near her home.  This man had pure white hair but he wasn’t old.  Maybe in his late 20s.  She noticed his skin was not red or sunburned, either.  It was pale but you could tell he had a darker undertone.  Maybe that's why he didn't resemble a lobster like the rest of the visitors to the island.  She finally stood up as the last of the fish was washed and placed into the basket and noticed that the stranger was quite tall.  She was always told her height was unusually tall for a twelve-year-old but even she had to look up at this man to see his face.  The sun was shining behind his head and she squinted to get a closer look at his features.  He had high cheekbones and a prominent nose.  It was not bulbous but very regal looking.  He had a small mouth and thin lips that were currently curled into a small smile.  She caught him looking her way and was startled by his eyes.  They were a pale blue color, almost translucent.  She felt like she could see into his soul.  Or maybe he was looking into hers?  She looked away quickly as a strange feeling took over.  She looked for her brother who had finished the basket and was running back to them laughing and jumping.  The man looked away as he heard the jubilant noise and smiled.  The girl noticed how the smile never reached his eyes but seemed pasted on his face.  Even with the large sum of money, she wanted to complete the transaction quickly and get away from this stranger.

            After they put the cleanest and nicest fish into the new basket for their customer, they made the exchange and began to walk home.  It had been a long day of fishing but the girl was excited to show her grandmother the money.  Maybe she could buy some cheap material to make another dress.  Her brother, who was walking a few steps in front of her swinging the basket of fish, looked like he needed a new outfit as well.  She saw the small holes in his stained, yellow t-shirt and the frayed hemline only falling to his thin stomach.  That’s when she realized he had grown taller in the last few months.  He was two years younger than her but now that she looked closely, he was already becoming tall and lanky.  People sometimes mistook them for twins.  She knew eventually he would pass her in height and as she looked at his faded kikepa, it looked almost as worn out as her mu’umu’u.  The money would definitely help them.  But she couldn't shake this uneasy feeling about the strange man with the pale eyes.

            As soon as they saw their hale, her brother began running with the basket.  “Mama!  Mama!  You’ll never guess what we have!”

            Their hale was big enough to fit all three of them, two trunks, a small dresser, and a small shelf that was empty.  The floor was made of smooth lava rocks packed and covered in a sand and dirt mixture.  The foundation was raised because of the constant rain.  The poles that held up the roof were made of koa wood and evenly spaced so the hale had an oval shape but you could walk in and out without the need of a door.  In fact, there was no door.  The thatched roof was made of pili grass that was cut and put together like shingles.  The girl's grandfather was a fisherman so there was a fishing net thrown over the thatches to keep them in place, especially when it was windy or through the heavy rains.  The net was tied at intervals to the poles that held up the roof.  The floor was covered with lauhala mats and their sleeping mats were rolled and tucked into the spaces between the poles in the ceiling.  The different shades of brown that made up the color of the house from floor to ceiling gave it a very earthy look.

            Their grandmother came around the side of the hale carrying a small basket of roots.  The girl could see the dirt on her hands and her wet mu'umu'u clinging to her legs.  The purple taro were in the basket along with some of the leaves.  You couldn't see the taro patch but the girl knew it was just beyond the mango and guava trees that grew in a half circle around the hale.  The girl's stomach began to growl as she saw the soon-to-be cooked food.  She realized she hadn't eaten much all day as they were busy catching fish.

            Mama smiled as the boy ran up to her and showed her the basket of fish.  He was waving his hands around as the girl walked up and she saw him give their grandmother something pale and smooth wrapped in a leaf.  She also saw her grandmother's smile fade and the fear start to creep into her eyes.  Her heart skipped a beat as her grandmother turned to look into her eyes and she felt a jolt of lightening as she heard her grandmother's thoughts.

            "Do not say anything.  Tell me everything that has happened today once your brother is asleep."

            The speaking stopped abruptly and her grandmother's expression went back to her usual smiling, caring face.  The girl thought she had imagined the last few seconds.  But as they all walked to the cooking fire together, she noticed a slump in her grandmother's shoulders.  The old woman was tall and strong.  The tall, lanky build ran in the family and you could see the remains of a young, vibrant woman.  Her own mu’umu’u was showing signs of wear and the girl thought about what colors would look nice on her regal grandmother.  She suddenly pictured her in a pa’u made of a beautifully printed kapa preparing for a hula kahiko.  Her poise and grace were clear and as the chanting began, the girl’s vision faded.  She knew then that she did not imagine anything and anxiously awaited her talk later in the evening.

            The food cooked quickly and she watched as her brother turned the fish on the spit, her grandmother smashing the taro into poi, and her own hands working quickly to cook the taro leaves with coconut milk.  They feasted that night and with full stomachs, they sat around the fire listening to their grandmother's stories about their ancestors.  This was a nightly occurrence and the girl could relax as she listened to her grandmother’s low, alto voice as she spoke and sometimes chanted the stories.  She began to feel drowsy and didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until her grandmother gently shook her shoulder.

            “My little honu, tell me about today.”  Her grandmother tried to keep the expression on her face blank but the girl could tell she was fighting a battle of emotions inside of herself.  The girl looked around for her brother but her grandmother, sensing her thoughts, pointed toward the hale.

            "He is already asleep.  Now, tell me what happened on the beach today."

            The girl looked at her grandmother and felt like she was seeing her for the first time.  Her hair, wavy like her own, was sprinkled with white hair and pulled back in a bun.  Her dark, brown eyes were wide and the skin around them were showing signs of wrinkles.  Her nose was wider and her lips were pursed as she waited for the girl to begin her story.  The grandmother's long, slim fingers were intertwined as if in prayer and she sat cross legged on the ground with her back straight and tall as if bracing herself for the worst.

            “Oh, Mama,” the girl sighed and told her about the fish and meeting the strange, pale, haole man on the beach.  It felt good to tell someone about this stranger and the uneasiness she couldn’t explain.

            As she finished her story, her grandmother’s face began a rapid series of changing expressions: pain, grief, sorrow, and finally fear. 

            “Go to bed, little honu,” her grandmother said softly.

            “Good night, Mama,” she said and kissed her grandmother on the cheek.  As she turned to go to the hale, she saw her grandmother’s hands open to reveal a boar’s tusk with images carved into the bone.  Before she could make out the images, the tusk was folded into the leaf and her grandmother turned away from her.

            She awoke with a start.  She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep and she thought she heard a loud, booming noise like thunder.  She looked around the hale but her brother and grandmother were sleeping soundly.  She could hear their quiet breathing and sometimes a soft snore but she was the only one awake.  Her mind went back to her encounter with the strange haole man and the tusk in her grandmother’s hand.  When she asked her brother about the tusk, he said he found it while he was weaving the basket on the beach.  He didn’t know what kind of tusk it was but he saw the carvings and he thought it might be worth something.  That’s why he was jumping and yelling when he came back from making the basket.  He wanted to show her right then and there but something about the stranger made him put the tusk away and stay quiet.

            Her eyes began to feel heavy again but then she heard a quiet, rustling sound.  At first she thought it was the rain on the leaves outside but the sound was coming from inside the hale.  The walls were usually open to let in the breeze but with the rain, they had let down the woven lauhala panels.  With the walls down, it was darker than usual and the girl’s eyes were trying to adjust to the dark.  The rustling sound began to get closer and she suddenly felt something brush against her leg.  Whatever it was, it had a strange ocean smell and was walking towards her grandmother.  Terror stole her voice and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t call out.  As the shadow neared her grandmother’s sleeping mat, the girl found the strength to sit up and slap the floor, her voice seemingly ripped from her body.  She wanted the noise to wake up her grandmother but instead, she caught the attention of the strange shadow.  It stopped abruptly.  She saw the shadow turn and slowly make its way back to her.  As it got closer, she was gripped with a fear that pierced her soul.

And the best Rumor goes to...

Rumor has it my husband and my brother-in-law got into a fight, my husband's brothers jumped in, then my husband ran away to Kauai.  Another rumor (my favorite) has it that my husband got involved with some Tongan drug dealers, they broke into our house while our daughters were at home alone, and my husband ran off to Kauai to hide out.

Sounds like a really bad Michael Connelly novel minus all of the lawyer speak.  Although, if we threw in a lawyer, a good cop/bad cop, and a mistress, things might boil into an exciting adventure.  At least on paper.  And Kauai is not a bad setting albeit a little small.  He would have to live in the mountains to actually be considered 'hiding' because let's face it, Kauai is a small piece of land in the middle of a very large ocean. 

My real life (and my husband's real life) is not nearly as exciting.  Unless you count the hours we slave away at work sitting in front of a computer, speaking with students, processing water samples, going home to cook dinner, watch over grandparents, prepare children for a church mission and college, I'm not certain I would label my life as "exciting."  Busy, sure.  Active, maybe (not always physically as my muffin top will attest).  Hustling, yes, but not in that gang banger, drug dealer type of way.  We work hard to support our family and make sure our children are comfortable.

So why the rumors?  And you're probably thinking, "Man, those people in Utah have nothing better to do than make up stories about people."  Alas, it's not the people in Utah making these things up.  It's people in American Samoa.  Unfortunately, these stories were told to an uncle of mine who was so inflamed he was about to jump on an airplane to either Kauai to find my husband or come to Utah to do what, I have no idea.  Maybe pack my girls and I up and take us to Hawaii to live.  Not a bad idea, unfortunately, we have lives here in Utah.  I have a job, the girls have school, we have a house and a dog,...  Things could be really complicated if we were to just pick up and leave this joint.  But I digress.  The question was about rumors and why they are told.  I have no idea.  Boredom?  Jealousy?  Again, my life is nothing short of the slowest most boring novel you've ever attempted to read.  No exaggeration!  Why me?  Maybe it's because my husband is in Kauai and we didn't post a long explanation on Facebook so all the faitatala people could satisfy their need for stories. 

Oka, did you see Michelle's husband?  I wonder if they're getting a divorce? 

E, va'ai le toalua a Missy.  Oka se makaga! She must have kicked him out.

The truly important people in my life knew the situation and those who asked were given truthful answers.  My husband is in Kauai to take care of his grandparents.  The opportunity presented itself in the form of a job offer, we met as a family, and (bless my girls and their amazing hearts) we decided it was the right thing to do.  What does our future entail?  We have no idea.  After his grandparents are no longer on this earth, my husband will make his way back to Utah.  Or we'll make our way to Kauai.  We don't know.  Life is funny that way.  We can plan everything to the most minute detail but we have no control over what happens.  We have to be willing to roll with the punches.

My apologies to the Rumor Mill because I don't have a more dramatic explanation.  No intrigue.  No flashy cars or women (or men).  No heart palpitating chases through the jungle.  Just... meh.  And you know what?  I like 'meh.'  It allows me to live in peace and quiet.
 

From the Eye of a Lens

I have become a bit obsessed with photography.  Capturing moments that would otherwise fly by without another thought, that's what I love.  I also like the impromptu moments.  The moments where no one is watching and people are just interacting.  I was sitting in church today and wishing I had my camera as I watched an older, single gentleman making a silly gesture to a young child sitting in front of him.  I could see both of their faces light up in delight and could imagine the giggles that could soon follow if he continued.  My camera finger was itching as another moment caught my attention.  A young husband with his hand resting lightly on his wife's shoulder.  A few minutes later her head rested against his shoulder with a feeling of contentment, security, love.  Being able to catch a fleeting smile from father to son, or a scolding look from mother to child, or a couple looking into each other's eyes with understanding, those are the flashes in time that I want to catch and keep forever.

When I flew home in December with my dad, the overall reason for me going was to help.  My stepmom needed an extra pair of hands so she could concentrate on making sure my dad was okay. But I was also the family photographer.  My siblings would text me daily for news, pictures, stories. I shared the pictures of my trip on my Facebook page and many family members appreciated the moments that were captured on camera.  Personally, I can look at the photos and remember the good times.  With a photograph, not only is a scene captured in time, but a story is created and passed down. I was able to share my experiences with my family and explain to my kids about the stories I heard and the wisdom that was shared.  All of this from a few pictures.

As I watch my husband play music, I'm fascinated by the workings of the band as a whole.  Capturing those times where a singer is consumed by the message of the lyrics or the bass player surrounds himself with the beat.  I watch the guitar player's hands as he begins with a note, then moves to a chord, which is pulled together to create a melody.  It's fascinating to watch as hands are playing different instruments and then they pull it all together, it can create an amazing, inspiring sound that can create emotions of angst, loneliness, anger toward injustices, or calm happiness.

This is how I feel about photography.  From someone who cannot draw, even with the YouTube tutorials, I can capture moments through a lens and share it with others.  I say I've become obsessed because every weekend in the last month, I have felt a strong pull to grab my camera and go find things to photograph.  The joy that comes from seizing these memories has given me something to look forward to and it's something I enjoy.  Immensely!