Finale

Today is the 50^th anniversary of man walking on the moon. I know this happened in 1969 because my mom talked about it happening when she was a senior and in 1989 I attended her 20-year reunion and can still picture all the "Class of 1969" shirts with peace signs in the circles of the 9s and 6s. 1969. Moon. Got it.

It’s also the 2-year anniversary of moving, or in moon lingo: ONE GIANT LEAP TO DRAPER, MANY SMALL STEPS TO SETTLING IN. Two years ago, I was eating Jen Vawdrey’s salmon on a paper plate in my old house’s empty kitchen, sweaty, wondering how I’d become a hoarder, and unaware that our mattress had just caught bedbugs from the moving company’s blankets. (Just another bullet on the long list of skin ailments I’ve personally suffered from. Once the culprit behind my welts was discovered, our brand spanking new house was exterminated on Friday, October 13. How superstitious is that?)

I’m thankful I’ve only moved twice as a married adult. I’m not the made-for-moving type. I have a wispy and delicate root system. And just for saying this I’ll probably move twenty more times before I die.

Moving was ______________. Fill in any word and it fits. Awesome, awful, regenerating, exhausting, fresh, dirty, strengthening, achy. It was every phase from whole to hollow but the little saying in the polaroid above is true; life goes on no matter how much you’ve got, and no matter how much you’ve got it's still a life!

Tonight we doubled with Frenchie and Matt to Gourmandise. (Frenchie's shirt said bon jour and she purchased macarons. Oui, the nickname suits her!) After they left, I went out on the deck to watch the twinkles and the neon circle of a ferris wheel bubbling up from Art Dye’s darkness. Pops, whistles, flashes, flickers. The trance of the Steel Days finale was suddenly before me. I love fireworks. They relax me. Every burst is like seeing for the first time; I'm a mesmerized kid all over again.

It was unplanned but lovely to realize even though moving felt like landing on the moon—foreign, slow motion strides—much of the light in my life still comes from American Fork. And just like that a fleeting, soothing bouquet of fiery flowers was my perfect ending. I think I’m finally done talking about, thinking about, and writing about moving. It has passed through me.*

Little black dress. Evening look eyes and lips. Sequinned clutch. I’m arriving fashionably late to the closure party (did I even RSVP?) but celebrating anyway. I feel good. *pulls the string on a party popper*

Photo image of a card from the Project Life by Becky Higgins set Steph gave me for my birthday.

Sad moon facts I learned from reading to Archer: There is no air on the moon to scatter the sunlight, so even in daytime the sky is pitch black and filled with stars. With no air, there is no sound on the moon. With no air, there is no wind to stir the rock dust that lies thickly on the plains. The moon is a still, silent, barren, lifeless gray rock that has no light of its own and merely glows because it reflects the light of the sun. The moon is nothing without the sun. There's a metaphor! Also, this commercial is superb.

* "Rather than simply passing through these things, they must pass through us and do so in ways which sanctify these experiences for our good." -Elder Neal A. Maxwell

selenophile: a person who loves the moon