The first day of Spring

brought a new little niece to me, and a new little daughter to my brother Joe, and his wife Sarah. We knew for a short while that today would be the day, because my sister-in-law was going to be induced, but it was still a delight and surprise when I got the message that she came. It was also a delight and surprise when I woke up today and realized that it was officially Spring. Really, what better day to be born? What better way to begin this perfect season than with a birth? The season itself exemplifies all things life, all things hope.

I still remember a day in Utah that was an in between Winter/Spring day. It was cold outside. And I was walking to school. And there was snow on the ground. When I got to the campus and was walking up the dreaded hill (the one on the South side, near the duck pond), I saw daffodils springing forth out of that cold, hard ground. I was still. I was still because things that look dead aren't really dead, and Spring is the best time to remember that. On other blustery days I would consciously remind myself, "There is Spring. There is hope." The reminder soon became a mantra to me. Or perhaps a prayer. I would think it so often and so sincerely. It may have been the only way I made it through those short days and long nights.

I also remember other Vernal Equinoxes, when there wasn't a baby to celebrate. Just the season itself, and its accompanying promise of warmth and light. That was enough. And so we gathered together, to eat, and drink and share. There were multiple go around the circle activities, where persons present could read a poem or scripture, or perhaps pass around a picture. We would also say our favorite thing about Spring, just as we previously sat (or danced) in a circle sharing our hopes and joys of Winter. And Summer. And Fall. Sometimes during Spring Equinox we planted seeds carrying wishes written in very small hand. Other times just scraps of paper. Twice we dyed eggs naturally with onion skins (and other things). Once they came out the deepest red. Another time they looked red in the water, but came out a warm yellow.

The next year I read a little book, called "The Tree that Survived the Winter," because my year had been a very hard year. One that felt like winter.  (It is really a marvel that I survived.) Someone inevitably talked about symbolism. I probably also talked about Persian New Year. There were always candles. There was nearly always flute playing and jumping over those candles. There was always chanting. Quiet to loud, with strands of words that meant Spring to us. I don't remember them now, except "Verdant" and "Green," but there were so many. One for each person.

This year my word would be "Scarlet." And if I were given three words, they would be, "Scarlet Rose Hunt," the babe's whole name. If I were given four, I would add, "Hope," because that is what Spring signifies for me the very most. One more fact about the baby: she is just a few ounces short of 7 pounds (which I suppose is not a very complete fact, but it is the best I can do). Also, I love this picture my brother posted.

I think it is something about Scarlet's big sisters peeking in at her, with curiosity mingled with awe, mingled with hesitation. And I love these old Boston/Equinox pictures. And each person/memory associated with them.

Circa 2011 (don't let the time stamps deceive you):

Circa 2010:

Circa 2009:

 

Lost things.

The book that Spencer gave away that caused me to cry tears was The History of Love. The author: Nicole Krauss (wife of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close's Jonathan Safran Foer). He gave it away because he was supposed to give it away, to our friend Katherine before she left for Canada. But not that copy. Another copy, one that I bought at Shakespeare and Company in Paris, for 5 Euros. Spencer didn't know that the other copy was meaningful to me, that the inside cover had been signed: he believed the Shakespeare stamp and Paris association would mean much more.

How the first copy happened to be signed: My friend from library school tipped me off on a reading that would take place at Boston College, which school is even more regal than Harvard, if it is possible. (For instance, the buildings look like castles.) She couldn't go, but knew I liked the author. On the appropriate day I walked to the school, found the correct space, and sat by myself on the second row. Nicole Krauss read from two books: the one I knew and loved, and the new book that she was still writing, called Great House, before she knew when it would be published—before it was called anything. The second book was about a desk, or more truthfully about the different people who owned the desk or came in contact with it, those who wrote their secrets there, and those who locked them inside. The desk itself was a secret. That book would be published, and I would read it. In fact, it would be the first book I finished reading after a long period of not being able to read or finish anything. It helped me break through to a better time. But the book I love best is about an old man from Poland, who moved to New York as a younger man, and only loved one woman his entire life. He wrote, because at the end of his life, he needed to write, the way he did when he was a child. What did he need to write about at the end of his life? His disappearing and unlocking, but mostly about his one love, and their child that he never knew, who himself had grown up and become a writer. The book is also about a fourteen year old girl named Alma. There is a book within the book that ties the two characters together. It is so beautiful and sweet and sad and meaningful all at the same time.

An English class at Boston College had studied that book in depth, and brought the author there. They filled up a conference/ballroom, then left immediately after, even though she announced that she had time to talk. Their professor was holding their last class meeting then, where they would discuss her speech. It left much fewer people in the room waiting to talk with her, to have her sign their books. I had my copy with me, just in case. I got in line—purposefully last in line—so those behind me would not be ushering me forward. When it was my turn, I asked if she would take a picture with me. "Of course." And however sappy this is, I also told her she was my favorite living author, and the only living author of any of my five favorite books. She asked me who the other authors were, the other books. Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, St. Exuperuy's Little Prince, Kierkegaard's Works of Love, and Dostoevsky's The Idiot. She told me that the first of those two books are referenced in her own. I told her I knew and loved those references. Because there was no one behind me, I asked her who her favorite authors were, her favorite books. Because she had time, she told me. In fact, she more than told me. She wrote them down, on a piece of paper she asked for from her assistant. After scribbling for a few moments, she explained that she prefers Australian and Polish writers, as opposed to American ones. She placed the reading list in my hand. I placed it in my book. Some soon time after I opened the book to find her list, to examine it. The paper was gone. I looked through every single page. Still nowhere. I searched my room, by bag, my bookshelf. It never turned up, even when I packed everything I owned and moved to the opposite side of the country. I only remember one recommendation from that small scrap of paper, because it was also mentioned in her book. It is called The Street of the Crocodiles. While I am glad to remember it, I am sad to have forgotten the others, to have lost the others. This first loss was enough to crack my heart. The second loss, the book itself, is too much disappearing.

From that day:

From another Boston day, about a year later in which C, E, and I met her husband:

I said this on a Sunday.

(In Vienna, early fall.)

James 1:27 states, "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." The first time I remember hearing this scripture, I was in high school and was running around the local track with my father. We ran together often, and as we ran our conversations frequently turned to things of the spirit. He told me that this verse extended to everyone who was lonely, and everyone who was in need, including the poor and the destitute. Because of this, I am going to include those things as well.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf spoke about the Welfare Program of the church in this last conference. Among many important things, he said, "Sometimes we see welfare as simply another gospel topic--one of the many branches on the gospel tree. But I believe that in the Lord's plan, our commitment to welfare principles should be at the very root of our faith and devotion to Him."

There are three main points that I would like to impress upon each of you. The first is that we are all beggars. The second is that we are all responsible. The third is "why" we give. I would like you to think about these things as I talk with you.

One. We are all beggars. There are probably times when you have needed help. The help that you have needed has probably varied. At times it may have been an answer to a temporal need, at other times a spiritual one. Perhaps some combination. I hope that that help came, in whatever form you needed it.

There have been times in my life that I have needed help. One of these instances occurred last year, after I finished my Master's degree in Boston. I wanted to stay there. I looked and looked for a job. I had done well in school. I had work experience in my field. I met with professors and advisors regularly to seek help in fine tuning my resume and cover letters. All to no avail. It was a very demoralizing time for me, to work long hours every day, with nothing positive to show for it. The weeks passed. And the months. And I was still unable to secure employment. I couldn't afford to stay in Boston very much longer. Around that time, my oldest brother called me and invited me to come live with his family in California. He asked me to nanny my nephew for a few months, before his wife went on maternity leave for their second child. It rescued me. It instilled my life with new purpose. That purpose was to love a 2 year old child with curly, black hair--to read to him, play with him, and feed him. I was able to help my brother, but even more, he was able to help me, and do something that I could not do for myself at that time. He was able to give me a place to sleep and a car to drive, among many other generous temporal things. There were also many spiritual gifts given to me at that time, including love and encouragement. Because of those things, I was also able to use that time to apply to PhD programs, and ultimately got into my dream school. Then there are the kindnesses of my sister-in-law. There was one unfortunate month during that stay that I was very ill, and could barely leave the house. I was sick and she more than visited me. She bought me juice. She shared her meals with me when I was too tired to cook food for myself. I remember one particular evening when she ate sushi with me and talked with me.

I have not only been blessed by family members in times of need, but by ward members, including those in our shared ward family. Two days after our arrival in Vienna, my husband and I were still without a place to stay. We happened to meet a sister from the ward. A kind sister. She asked my husband how we were, in a very genuine way, and he told her we were fine. Probably also in a very genuine way. I however, who am not quite as adventurous as my husband, was not fine. She asked me how I was, and I started crying. She listened as I told her our story--how we were married one month before, how the day after that, we were hit by a semi-truck, did an aerial through the sky, and landed upside down in a deep ravine, how because of that we were unable to leave for Europe as early as we had planned, how despite that, we had spent the last two weeks in Europe, bicycling across Slovenia and Croatia, and how (for the time being) we had only those things we had been carrying on our bikes, how we spent our first night in Vienna at a hostel and the second night sleeping beside a campground, because the campground itself was unfortunately closed for the season (unbeknownst to us), and my knee was too hurt and too injured to ride any further.

When I finally stopped talking, this sister did what sisters do. She gave me a hug, and invited us into her home. And after bicycling many days in the wilderness, her house truly was the land of milk and honey. And even more wonderful, it was the land of herbal tea and American peanut butter--which two things I had been desperately missing.

We were strangers, and she took us in. We were hungry, and she fed us supper. I was dirty, and she let me take a shower in her bathroom. She handed me a towel. She showed me where the shampoo was. The conditioner. She let us wash our clothes. I think she did these things, because she knew, like King Benjamin, and like others, that when she did these things to us, she was doing them to Christ, and was, in a very real way, "merely in the service of her Lord."

These original kindnesses extended into deeper kindnesses. One of my first thoughts was that we would never be able to be as nice to this couple as they were to us. Then I realized that on one hand, there might come a day when we would be able to be that nice to someone else. We could as it were, "Pay it forward." But, on the other hand, I realized that that wasn't really the point. It wasn't really the point that I couldn't repay them deed for deed, because while that is still true, my current status does not make me exempt from service or from giving. I am still responsible. Right now. Regardless of my circumstances. I can still share meals with those who may need nourishment or company. I can still give of my time. Etcetera.

None of us are exempt from this pure gospel of giving. And indeed, each of us is responsible for everyone else, which is my second point, confirmed by President Uchtdorf: "Please do not think that this is someone else's responsibility. It is mine and it is yours. We are all enlisted. “All” means all—every Aaronic and Melchizedek Priesthood holder [and I would add every Beehive and Relief Society sister], rich and poor, in every nation. In the Lord’s plan, there is something everyone can contribute."

My third point concerns why we serve. President Uchtdorf reminded us that we visit the orphans and widows, feed those who are hungry, and clothe those who are naked because all things are spiritual to the Lord. He said, "The two great commandments--to love God and our neighbor--are a joining of the temporal and the spiritual. It is important to note that these two commandments are called "great" because every other commandment hangs upon them." He went on to lament, "Unfortunately, there are those who overlook the temporal because they consider it less important. They treasure the spiritual while minimizing the temporal. While it is important to have our thoughts inclined toward heaven, we miss the essence of our religion if our hands are not also inclined to our fellowman."

Because this is the Lord's principle, the Lord himself taught it when He was on the Earth. It explains why, time after time, He took care of people's physical needs first, whether by feeding them loaves and fishes, or by healing all manner of their infirmities. One important time, he even encourages the Nephites to go to sleep. It is in 3rd Nephi, after he visits them and teaches them. He said, "I perceive that ye are weak, that ye cannot understand all my words which I am commanded of the Father to speak unto you at this time. Therefore, go ye unto your homes, and ponder upon the things which I have said, and ask of the Father, in my name, that ye may understand, and prepare your minds for the morrow, and I come unto you again." I really appreciate these verses, because I know myself when I am hungry, and I know myself when I am tired, and know that during those times I don't see reason, let alone the soft, gentle guidance of the Spirit. Christ wanted to teach the people. He wanted to nourish them spiritually, but He also knew that not even He could do that effectively until their physical needs were met, which in this case meant sleep.

I recently saw something very beautiful, and because it is not only beautiful, but relevant, I am going to share it with you. It was a short video, showing a Brahmin man who knew these same truths. In his own words:

I was working for Taj Group of Hotels Bangalore. I saw a very old man. He was eating his own waste for hunger. I thought what is the purpose of my life? What am I going to do? In a star hotel, I feed all my guests. But where in my hometown there are people who are living, even without food. I quit my job, and I started feeding all these people from 2002... We feed the homeless, mentally ill, destitute, and the old people who have been left uncared for of the society. People are suffering for food. They don't have food to eat. If you don't give them food to eat, they will die of human hunger. I cut their hair. I give them a shave, I give them bath. For them, to feel psychologically that they are also human beings, there are people to care for them, they have a hand to hold, hope to live. Food is one part. Love is another part. So, the food will give them physical nutrition. The love and affection which you show will give them mental nutrition.

Being a Brahmin community and an orthodox family there are a lot of objections. Brahmins are not supposed to touch these people, clean these people, hug these people, feed these people. Everybody has got 5.5 liters of blood. I am just a human being. For me everybody the same. There are thousands and thousands, and lots and lots of people suffering. What is the ultimate purpose of life? It's to give. Start giving. See the joy of giving.

I especially love his testimony that, "Food is one part. Love is another part." It is true. It is also that same linking of the temporal and spiritual that President Uchtdorf talked about. And while we are told that "the poor will always be with us," we must still work toward zion now. We must still work towards becoming a people of "one mind, one heart, with no poor among us" now. This is our duty. This is our call. Of this I testify, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I am from:

+Klamath Falls.
+Grants Pass.
+Baker City.
+John Day.
+Cottage Grove.
+Provo.
+Long View.
+Florence.
+Stockton.
+Fair Oaks.
+Cameron Park.
+Boston.
+Valencia.
+Pico Rivera.

Last week I drove through nearly all of them.

10 Things I love(d) about Boston.

1. The baby shower celebrating one Merrimack Maple.
2. An actual high school musical (courtesy of Rosie).
3. Mormon church.
4. (Early) Equinox.
5. Vegan feasts: i.e., Veggie Planet, Grasshoppy, Spikes.
6. Non vegan feasts: i.e., North End canolis, Tuesday's brunch.
7. (Korean style) Karaoke!
8. Seven+ second hugs.
9. Nap time.
10. Pup time.

The happiest place in Boston.

Do Re Me Karaoke. As attested to by myself and Brian. (And maybe Katie?) As K said, we sang until there was no voice left.

Rachie and Katie time. Rachie and Katie time. Rachie and Katie time. Rachie and Katie time.

"Oh schoolwork, where is thy sting?" or "God bless Spring Break."

Yesterday morning I found myself grinning wildly at odd intervals. What did it matter that I was about to give a 20 minute Nietzsche presentation that I may have been extremely nervous for? What did it matter that my paper proposal for that same class is more than one week late? What did it matter that my Kant paper is still to be (re)submitted between now and Monday? I WAS GOING TO BOSTON!

TODAY. I was going to Boston today. And I am here now, sitting on the couch of la Seawrights, and it is wonderful already.

When I was 26.

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

December

January

February

Los Angeles, I'm yours.

I have an answer now.

I am 99% going to spend this interim living at my grandma's house in Los Angeles. I decided one night while talking to my oldest brother, who lives in southern California too. Maybe I was just happy to have reached a conclusion, but it was the best I have felt about anything in a long time. When I told my younger brother he responded that he feels like living at grandma's after college is a rite of passage for Hunt children that he somehow avoided, which is perhaps why he doesn't feel like an adult yet. And it is a passage for Hunt children, but only some. I will be the third to do it, following my two older brothers. This is not completely surprising, as I similarly followed them on serving a mission and attaining an advanced degree.

I simply feel that a home surrounded by avocado and lemon trees may be the perfect place for me to be right now. And also, I may or may not have prayed that the Lakers would win the championship as confirmation for my decision. Sorry, Celtics fans!

On Rand.

I will not say everything I think about her here, but I will say that I think she is a good philosopher, and that if she believed in God she would be a better philosopher. I will also say that I can’t stop reading her books, even to the detriment of my other activities/relationships. To demonstrate, I have carried—and read—her hefty volumes in the following places: at church, during class, during a concert, at the gym, on multiple trains, on multiple buses, while walking, in my bed, in at least one vegan restaurant, and so forth.

February fourteenth, pt. 2.

This year I lay on a couch in New York City wearing clothes I wore the day before, watching the Truman Show, and eating brownies made by someone that I love and ice cream made by Ben and Jerrys. The brownies were accompanied by song, and carried a single candle in the middle. I blew it out and made a wish. It was 1:37 exactly. The wish came true almost immediately (though not necessarily in the way I would have hoped). A few hours later I boarded a bus back to Boston--the land of cobblestone paths and granite curbs--to the realization that I am always boarding something. I am always in between.

Every book/person I have loved the most in my life.

Lately I wish that everyone I love has read all of the same books as me, so instead of fumbling to explain my feelings, I could say, "Today I feel like Anna Karenina in the scene when..."

Yesterday I might have felt like Levin.

To the person I most wish to communicate with, I would explain, "I am the fox and you are the little prince when the little prince says goodbye." Or perhaps, "I am every character in The History of Love." Then, then I might be understood.

Bless, pt. 2.

Bless returning to Boston and sleeping in my own bed for the second time in one month. Bless subsequent sleepovers and shared futons, courtesy of the pup house. Bless journal clubs, private cello/mandolin concerts, and morning dance parties in that same house. Bless waking up to snowflakes and the whistling of a tea pot. Bless out of state visitors, planned and unplanned. Bless back rubs. Bless birthday girls, birthday breakfasts, birthday parties, birthday dinners, birthday cake. Bless MLK and the interwebs for allowing us to watch his speeches--he has been to the mountain top. Bless bubble tea and catch-up conversations. Bless family homes and family traditions.

Rachel-isms

"slash" (often used multiple times in the same sentence)

"maybe" (said next to definite statements, e.g., "I miss you, maybe")

"may or may not be true"

"-ish" (used to qualify anything)

"p.s." (said after, or as a statement)

"by the way" (said after, or as a statement)

"fun and funny"

"thank you in advance"

"not that awesome" (said of things I dislike)

a specific head nod with a specific facial expression

Our Autumnal Equinox.

Spring we jumped over flames while miss Klemm played a pan flute. Summer we danced along the esplanade with abandon, chanting our gratitude and longing for summer's sun and its silent promise of a return to warmth. Fall was more somber. Perhaps rightly so. Perhaps different seasons require different ceremonies. And so we found ourselves on summer's dock, sitting in a circle, enclosing a single pumpkin candle. Each person expressed gratitude for one thing: Katie for water cycles, Austin for the great poets, Julia for circles and their inclusiveness, Jared for his ears and the joy of sound, me for kindness and sincerity, others for still more. Next we shared poems, or scriptures, or drawings signifying what autumn means to us. There was a lot of talk about harvests and preparing for winter, but also about returning to the center of ourselves, and handling this transition with solace. Elizabeth made an interesting point that while winter and summer are steady--you look out the window and things look the same from day to day--fall and spring are somewhat transitory. And it is true. We stood at the water's edge with a pistachio in hand. Katie asked us to reflect on our last year, and those aspects we wished to preserve and internalize, as well as those aspects we wished to discard, before we placed the meat portion in our mouth and cast the shell aside. The symbolism was simple, but meaningful. There was still chanting, and even jumping over the solitary flame (just for good measure), but it was quieter, less complex. The chanting grew softer instead of louder, and our leap was not backed by flute.

I am still a little afraid of winter.

Picking apples, making pies.

Yesterday day was fall time bliss in all its forms: gold leaves, orange leaves, red leaves, taking the scenic route, Northborough, Cambridge friends, apple orchards, apple cider, apple donuts, apple pie, apple everything, as well as hay rides, smiling children (including baby Søren), pumpkin patches, and freshly made kettle corn. Delicious. To wrap up this perfection, yesterday night was the RS broad cast and a night bike ride to and from Belmont with Katie, which inspired me to say, "Assuming we don't die, this will have been a really good idea," and inspired Katie to answer that she likes any sentence that begins that way. Thank you, New England for being so lovely.

Warmth. Alive. Light. Green. Stars. Summer.

"Warmth. Alive. Light. Green. Stars. Summer. Warmth. Alive. Light. Green. Stars. Summer..." quietly at first, and slowly, but increasingly louder and faster as we danced around the circle in our mid summer celebrations. This chant was preceded by summer poems, summer readings, summer things. Katie had me read quotes about H.M. and we each shared what we love about this season in cheesy-go-around the circle fashion. We lit and relit candles which the wind blew out all too quickly and we danced and twirled the length of the dock, scarves in hand, flowing behind us and before us.

These festivities were followed by secret summer wishes written down on white paper and made into boats. Katie's began, "My secret summer wish is..." reminiscent of an assignment in the 5th or 6th grade starting "My summer vacation..." Still there was something healing and meaningful in writing down goals, hopes, desires in this way. I lay on my stomach and reached my arm over the edge until my white boat touched the cool black water. Then I followed its course with my eyes.

I cried on the train ride home as Rachel Sorensen held me.