Being obsessed with horses doesn't necessarily guarantee that you're going to make it to the barn every day.  It's a terribly annoying reality. It would be much more fair if loving something fiercely meant that the universe would grant you daily freedom to immerse yourself in said fiercely-loved thing. Boooo, Universe. (nevermind, don't boo the universe. That seems like a pretty terrible idea.) But in this case, it worked out. Tonight I didn't get to the barn until around 7:30. Posie had already been fed, and only a few boarders were there just wrapping up. As I groomed Posie and refilled her salt bucket, the arena lights were turned off, leaving only the stall lights glowing and the radio humming. The last woman there kindly showed me how to close up the barn when I was finished, and I had the whole place to myself. The dark arena seemed too good to pass up, and I decided to take Posie in for a quick session on foot. I led her in and let our eyes adjust to the

Lorraine: You will like this. "One of things about beards is that, when men reach a certain age, they'd like to see if they can grow one. It's a phenomenon I understand very well. After you get over the itchy face, you go, 'Oh, I don't have to shave, that's cool.' And then you move into the philosophical thing-- people say, 'You look weird, you have a beard.' And you say, 'No, actually, it's weird to shave.' Having a beard is natural. When you think about it, shaving it off is quite weird." -- Paul McCartney, on his Ram-era facial hair Dan: That is the best quote ever. I want to put that on a plaque and hang it somewhere important. Lorraine: I'll cross stitch it for you. .

I dearly loved the sunset that graced this blog for the past 6 months. I took it from the airplane on my last visit to California, and I think the colors perfectly symbolized my adoration of warm summer nights, the glorious colors of the sunset, and my renewed connection to the American West. When Dan and I were at a pow wow this summer, I found these earrings that looked identical to this photograph.  I wanted them, but decided to be incredibly responsible, judicious, frugal, and conscientious. I have regretted it ever since. Stupid frugality. The new background is a photo that was taken on my phone in downtown Salt Lake City on a date with my person. It is a detail from the door of what is now a Zion's First National Bank, but was first known as the Octogon House, built in 1857. It has been a great many businesses, been known by many names, and it once even had many more floors.  Every inch of it harks to another era, but which era is hard to say. It is a culmination of

I wasn't paying attention when the clock changed. I was deep in the photos and conversation threads on Ancestry and JewishGen when the twelve o'clock hour rolled by. The number is a beautiful one, a rare one, but it's more than 12/12/12 to me today. It's the fifth night of Hanukkah. Every year, the silver menorah of partly lit candles remind me that one-eighth of me is connected to thousands of years of stories about one group of people. FYI: This is not a post about Israel and Palestine. Lucky you. It is about my search to find my family.  The man that connects me to all this, my biological grandfather, was not a part of my life, and his own life was complicated. I can't do anything in my life to reconcile that. I can't do anything to connect to him or to understand him, and I don't know that I would want to if I could.  It's funny then that it's him that connects me to this story of the Jews, this story that I want so badly to know, to und

"Que Marchas?" My Spanish host mother used to ask me. I loved this verb, Marchar. It was probably my favorite Spanish verb that I learned in Spain, after Comer, to eat. They are both verbs that I learned by living them. Often they would go hand in hand: "Me marcho a la tienda por mas galletas y helado a comer." ( I am heading out to the store for more cookies and ice cream to eat ). Six years later, I think I finally burned off that last scoop of lemon gelato at the gym last week. More importantly, six years later, I feel like certain parts of me, the right parts of me, have let go of Marchar. It's hard to describe colloquially how marchar is different from walking or leaving. It's sort of like, walking with purpose, or walking as a function. In my heart, it sort of implies a certain mindset, to be constantly on the move, lest anything become stale or purposeless. The Spanish surely don't approve of this interpretation, but this is 'Merica, and

I present to you a smattering of photographs intended to guide you through 48 hours in Nashville, about 16 of which was spent in a conference, 10 spent sleeping, and maybe 2 hours collectively in my hotel lounging/getting ready/packing or unpacking/bathing. First, you must get in a plane and leave behind these: and this: In exchange for this. Oh Tennessee: Then, you must go to the Marriott Vanderbilt, ask for a Northwest facing room. Check into said room, and open your curtains to reveal this: Take a shuttle to Music Row, find the tourist nature of it a little bit overwhelming and depressing, and walk to the waterfront, where you will see this: (and feel instantly better) Then, realize that you passed the Ryman Auditorium without knowing it, and go back and get a picture: or two: Succumb to the touristy nature of Music Row and snag a stool for a modestly good country cover band at The Stage: Cruise around to a few other venues includ