Why I love Instagram

I've enjoyed social networking platforms. I'm on Facebook, but seldom post. I have a Twitter account and I've been known to tweet, but I am more likely to re-tweet. I am on Google + but I don't have the hang of it. I obviously blog and I enjoy it a lot, but it takes quite a bit of time. Besides blogging, nothing else has really captured my imagination until Instagram.

It is as if I've been struck by lightning.

I am going to be a shameless advocate here, so please forgive me.

I am one of those people who lives inside my head a lot. I love solitary things--like walking, hiking, reading, writing, (napping), and driving. This rather strong need for solitude can be hard to explain. I love to do those things because it is then that I feel in tune with my surroundings. I notice things and I find many of the things I see moving, rejuvenating and inspiring. Then I want to share those discoveries with people I love.

My very first memory is of the side steps on our house. There were several brick steps and on every other one was a large rectangular (at least 4 feet long) planter of red geraniums. They led to lovely french doors that we didn't use and that were purely decorative.  I would lay down on the step next to the planter and hide. From this position I could look up at the flowers and see them framed against the blue sky and be alone. To this day I love the sharp sent of geraniums and the sky through green leaves.

Instagram captures moments like these for me and then allows me to share them.

Instagram also makes me think of Impressionists. I looked up the definition of Impressionists online and here is what I found (I highlighted what I am talking about in blue):


"impressionism [ɪmˈprɛʃəˌnɪzəm] n 

1. (Fine Arts & Visual Arts / Art Movements) (often capital) a movement in French painting, developed in the 1870s chiefly by Monet, Renoir, Pissarro, and Sisley, having the aim of objectively recording experience by a system of fleeting impressions, esp of natural light effects

2. (Fine Arts & Visual Arts / Art Terms) the technique in art, literature, or music of conveying experience by capturing fleeting impressions of reality or of mood

Collins English Dictionary – Complete and Unabridged © HarperCollins Publishers 1991, 1994, 1998, 2000, 2003" 

The beauty of a face just waiting for a subway

I look at Instagram as the whole world recording fleeting moments. Stopping time for just a second and recording what they found interesting, moving, compelling, funny or sometimes just snapping a picture because they were bored.

I find so much beauty in the world. It is what makes life worthwhile to me. The small snatches of beauty that pack every single day. The times that transcend driving carpool or washing dishes. The living in-between.

Instagram also helps me feel connected to other people. I love seeing what my niece has her daughters wear to church. I want to see what family members are eating, where they are going and what they find beautiful.

Another one of my favorite things about Instagram is finding people in other cultures who love the things I do. Who love architecture, landscape, faces and flowers.

The very moment the sun makes something utilitarian beautiful.

I feel connected in ways I didn't think possible. I also feel like the whole world is being documented second by second and then it's gone and the new second is upon us. It's a futile and beautiful documentation of the ephemeral.

The perfect watermelon.

For example, one day I took a picture of the sun and then posted it with hashtag (#) sun. I then looked up on Instagram all the pictures with the #sun. My picture was already buried under 50 or more pictures of the sun--from all over the world.   That's it--it's filed in some digital obscurity.

Of course on Instagram you have followers and people you follow. There is also the possibility of going on Instacanvas to sell your pictures. It's satisfying to connect with people and have them get what you are trying to do--but it isn't why I do it. I do it to just have the ability to capture and share a moment I found inspiring.

The apex of a college career.

Favorite hamburger ever (Toast NYC).

Something grand, like the flowers at the Metropolitan Museum in NYC. 

Something unpredictable like petal-less black-eyed susans marching along the trail. 

The weirdness of the mundane in a mass planting of marigolds in my yard.

The grandeur of my favorite mountain, Mount Olympus, in April.

The simple perfection of a Hollyhock as it blooms.

Cheers to People Who. . . Build in the middle of nowhere!

Cheers to the people who built the US railroad and ended up in Box Elder County, Utah! This is the view from Golden Spike National Historic Site. I took this picture standing just past the RR tracks looking to the NW. Let me tell you that the view isn't any less desolate (and in my mind, beautiful) from any of the other directions.  

This site is pretty much in the middle of nowhere--unless you just happen to work for a jet propulsion company. I was told that it was located out in Promontory because there were fresh water marshes that those steam engines needed to run (instead of that salty and stinky lake just south). 

Cheers to people who love their job. The ranger shown in the picture below (and I am very sorry I did not get his name) loves his job. He had more stories than you had questions and made my teenagers laugh. He had a microphone and wasn't afraid to use it! There is something to be passionate about for every single human--go out and find it for yourself--he obviously did!

Cheers to hyperbole! Golden Spike Burgers in Garland, Utah.

Cheers to hyperbole that actually may even be true--Yum, yum. Just as a side note on this burger--it had bacon, mushrooms, cheese, onion rings, avocado, lettuce and beef of course. I usually don't like kitchen sink style cooking--but this was really good.

Poppy's Garden

I would call my father a renaissance man. He can pretty much do anything--who else starts doing Bikram Yoga in his late 70's and does it well?  He went to Harvard Law, always active in church, raised horses, ran large companies, ran small companies, was President of Ballet West for a bit, managed a ranch,  plays tennis, loves art, hiking, thinking, reading, a loving husband, amazing father and inspiring grandfather. 

That said, when I think of my dad I think mostly of gardening and hiking. Some of my earliest memories were working in the garden with him. When I was very young he decided to plant tons and tons of bulbs in the large yard that we had at the time. I remember planting those bulbs on a cool autumn day. When I became an adult and had my own yard I bought some peat moss to remediate the soil. I opened the large pack and was immediately assaulted with a sense memory so strong it made me cry. I was taken directly back to planting those bulbs and how much I loved the soil and how I had forgotten it until that moment.

I remember when we went hiking when I was little that he would tell us the names of all the wildflowers. I still know the names of all the ones he taught me. When we would go on long hikes we were always quiet on the way up the mountain, but then on the hike down we would talk and talk. I love to hear him talk about anything--to this day he is always interesting--although not always talkative.

I feel blessed that my children know their grandparents well--on both sides and that they are all wonderful people. My mom and dad have all of us (as many as are in town), kids and grandkids alike, over almost every Sunday. There are usually about 30 of us. Who does that every week and still smiles when we arrive?

No one grows zinnias like this. Not a speck of powdery mildew. If you've ever grown Zinnias in Utah you know how hard it is--you have to be vigilant and committed. Yet, he does it. Anything in his care is lucky.

Rosie's Cottage

I received a phone call a few days ago from the woman who previously owned our house. Her husband died over a year ago and her health was in decline so late last summer she had to sell the house she'd lived in for decades. We bought the house on the last working day of 2011. She loved her house. My husband and I could tell just by walking through it. They had customized the house to fit their needs to an extreme degree. 

It has six small bedrooms, a dark room and his and her separate work/craft rooms. There was a rose motif throughout the house, the back door with roses etched into the glass, the trash compacter with a wooden rose stenciled on the handle, rose address tiles and actual roses, roses everywhere. 

I counted over 25 rose bushes just in the small garden in front, probably 20 in a similar garden in back and another 20 at least throughout the yard. 

We decided not to do anything with the roses until we had seen them bloom. I wanted to see and smell them and I am glad I did. We were in for an extravaganza of rose variations and boy oh boy, do they ever smell good. 


I've been trying to discern the types and it looks like we could have, Alba, Austin, climbing, floribunda, hybrid tea, miniature and roses that have gone to root stock, to name a few. I wish I knew the exact varieties --I am pretty sure there is a Peace Rose and my particular favorites are a yellow rose that smells faintly citrusy, a deep red with a wonderfully saturated heavy sent and the cabbage style roses that look like peonies.

Anyway, back to my conversation with the woman I now call Rosie (real name withheld because it's not near as fitting).  She thanked me for sending her roses. Unbeknownst to me--my very thoughtful and non-communicative husband had told the neighbors who are still close friends with Rosie that if they were going to visit her in the retirement home that they were always welcome to take roses to her. They did. 

Our conversation was very nice. She of course talked of her love for the house and we had a discussion on the cultivation of roses. I spoke of a recent infection of aphids that is now under control. She spoke of the things she loved about her historical home. I knew she had not been ready to leave, but circumstances forced her out. The conversation made me both happy and sad. 

I was happy that I shared the love of the house. It is simple, useful and charming. It is smaller than we were used to, but it feels right. It is slightly run down and we've been ripping out wallpaper, painting and putting in new light fixtures. We found beautiful wood floors under carpet and we sanded and waxed them back to life. The list is long of other repairs that need to be done--but nothing is urgent. It has a view of my beloved Mount Olympus and of our neighbors beautiful gardens. It is a family neighborhood with a strong community feel and one we are familiar with. My son can run and play with his friends at a moments notice. So much of what I love about the house is what she had loved about it too.















I was sad because life marches on, children move away, husbands die and our bodies fail.  I was sad because we've already made changes to her beautiful cottage that I know would make her sad. We took out the kissing dove bird bath in the front rose garden and other small statuary.  A neighbor approached me at church and asked me what I had been doing inside the house and I just mentioned that we are updating it a bit. She must have been a friend to the previous owners because she made the statement that "some day someone was going to do the same thing when you move out," like I had personally offended her by making changes. Even though it hurt my feelings it also made me feel good that the family who lived there previously had made an impact--were thought worthy of defending.  

The phone conversation ended and I was left with an overwhelming feeling of love for the woman. She just had to connect with us and check on her roses. 

We've left pretty much all of the roses in front untouched. We had to remove a couple that had gone to root, a few that were crowded against the house and crowding other bushes. The back has been a different story, we have removed quite a lot and I've said a silent prayer asking for Rosie's forgiveness.

Beautiful Morningside Heights in NYC

We went to NYC all of last week for my daughter's Senior Recital and graduation from the Manhattan School of Music. It was one of the best trips we have ever taken. Everyone was old enough to enjoy the trip and were really good sports, because we walked and walked and walked and walked--just like those pioneer children who sang.

I am always amazed and inspired by the city. When I traveled to NYC before my daughter went to school there I didn't love the city. When my daughter moved there I realized I just didn't like Times Square much, and that is where I'd mistakenly spent so much of my time.

I love my daughter's neighborhood, nestled at the bottom of Harlem, right next to Riverside Park and right in the Morningside Heights section of the city. The picture above is of the view from Grant's Tomb, right next to Riverside Park. Lovely to see so many people learning to ride unicycles on a sunny Sunday (only in NYC).

This area of the city is vibrant, ageless, intellectual, full of seminaries and full of energy from Harlem. Columbia University is near and there are many yummy affordable restaurants and lots of outstanding architecture.

Normal street view

I've become obsessed with front doors, because our new house really needs new ones. New York City is the place to be inspired by doors! These might be a bit grand for our 1960's rambler though.

 

The following pictures are of a courtyard at Barnard. Oh, to be a Barnard woman! We left just before President Obama gave his commencement address there.

Columbia!

Columbia, blending old and new

In most places in Salt Lake you have to get in a car and drive to get groceries and other necessities of life.  It is something that drives my daughter crazy when she comes home. Suburban sprawl makes for quiet neighborhoods, but I do think we miss out on something really nice. Every one of these pictures was taken just a short distance from her room.

We are all mourning--just a little bit--of her leaving New York. Maybe I'll learn to love Los Angeles--where she is off to next.

What would it be like to live here. . . Castle Valley Outdoors

My Uncle Glendon passed away this fall.  He was loving, generous and so good to us as his extended family.  I haven't been able to write about his funeral yet--I will, but not yet.

My sister-in-law Brodi wrote a really beautiful account of his funeral that made me cry--here's the link.

Here, I am going to write about something he created in the high desert plateau of central Utah--in Emery County, Utah to be exact. It might just be my favorite place on earth and we have been able to spend our Thanksgiving there for years and years. This Thanksgiving I was extra grateful to him for allowing us to be part of his family.

You can get to Castle Valley Ranch from I-70,

from the Moore Cutoff Road (this is a nice little drafty cottage),

















and from Utah State Highway 10 that goes from Price to Emery--my favorite highway in the world and I have to drive it in the daylight. If I don't get to see the scenery in the light I get a little cranky. This is a must because when I drive out of Spanish Fork Canyon and turn on to Highway 10 the sky opens up and I feel free! With only 8 inches of precipitation a year it is incredibly dry but the flip side of that it is also ecstatically sunny!


















Here is a long view of Castle Valley Outdoors--Castle Valley Lodge on right, Muddy Creek Lodge in the middle and Pioneer House on the left (hidden by trees).

 Views, view everywhere

 Camaraderie in the cold

 Sparse and hardy vegetation

There is fish in that thar pond!

Fire pit for s'mores

 Seriously, someone in our family left gasoline out--just so my son's eyebrows could almost get singed off.

Breakfast view

Windy walk around the lake

 Sunset on the fields

 Sunset on the plateau

















Time to go home. I hate to go back home.

Thank you Uncle Glendon for a life well lived and great memories we all treasure.