-------

I spent a large portion of my morning holding back tears. I don't think I've ever cried over missing Mehdi, which is actually strange, but I've managed to pull myself together whenever I feel homesick. But for some reason, today, even though I had dragged myself to the library, and was under the pressure of an upcoming supervision, I still found myself taking that deep breath you take when you're trying to push emotions back in, and setting a tissue to eyes welled up with tears. But in the end, I'm not too upset about it, because it lead me to coffee with a colleague, who, I must add, is also one of the warmest and dearest people I've met at Oxford. We didn't talk about how pathetic my day had been or even about how horribly suffocating the thick, dark sky is. Instead, we spent most of it talking about creative writing, in a very raw way. We talked about how sometimes we find ourselves overcome with this intense rush of desire to write the novel we both have been thinking about for years, but how we just can't do it, for some reason. Why? "Why don't we write?" we kept asking one another. Well, we don't have time. This program is so intense. But, is that really the reason? Did we start the novel before the program? Did we write in our long breaks between terms? I don't think that's the reason. I've been thinking about this for six months now: Why don't I write? Because, if there is one thing that I am not confused about in my life, it is that I want to write a novel, and I know I can. I don't know. I remember my creative writing professor once told me that he will do just about EVERYTHING to prevent himself from sitting down to write. He said, he would straighten his laptop for minutes. He would dust the keys. He would even organize the pens in his pen holder, and label all the folders on his desk. And only when he had run out of all procrastinating tasks possible, he would start to write. I'm not sure what it is about that initial keystroke that's so difficult to overcome.

I was overcome with one of these rushes to write on the plane ride home to California, this past Spring. And I opened my laptop (probably out of sheer boredom on the plane) and wrote. I wrote the first three pages of my novel, and it felt so right getting this story out. Then my battery light flashed, and just as it was about to die, I clicked, "Save" and the window popped open, "File Name:" "Save as Type:". "Docx" was right. I paused over the "File Name" for what felt like hours. I thought, "If I label it as 'novel' then I'll always see it, and feel guilt over another unfinished project blinking at me in my Documents folder. I didn't have a name yet for the novel, so I couldn't save it as that. I couldn't save it as short story, because that wouldn't do it justice." so I decided, to name it "-----" That's what it's saved under. "This title comes with no pressure," I thought. 

Yesterday, I opened "-----" and felt my heart skip a beat, because no one can tell if those rush of writing moments churn out any good work. But I read through, and I liked it. I really did. I know I can write this novel. I know I will, one day. And today's coffee with my dear friend assured me of it, I think it assured both of us.  

Conditions

As I twisted a napkin, so it felt hardened into a chain, they spoke,
"If they didn't actually rig the last election, and Tehran is just very different from all other towns in Iran.
If smaller towns are influenced by promises and threats of the military,
     and if the military has sided with Ahmadinejad.
If there is no internal strife between Ahmadinejad and Khamenei,
If there is, in fact, backstage engineering of the votes
If people are not entirely as apathetic as it may seem
If they don't have any other dangerous intell on Rafsanjani,
If he has entered the race so late as a tactic and not in rashness
If Khamenei is actually convinced that he has the majority of the people on his side
     And if Ahmadinejad also imagines that he has the majority of the people on his side
If my sources, and my sources, and my sources of the right-wing conservatists, the left-wing liberals, the swing voters in Iran are correct,
And if we assume that they will hold the reins tighter as a result of the last election,
If there isn't a boycott against voting
    (because, you see, there is not ideal candidate, we are in defense, throw them onto a continuum, stand for the best of the worst)
If we all vote
Then, I am 100% sure that this election will move to the second round, and that he will win...."

Past them, in my line of sight,
behind the closed circle of chairs we sat in, in the cold common room,
a young man stood at a TV,
pressed his palms together,
and ground his teeth into the sides of his hands.

The score was 2-2
and it was a penalty shot.

This is why I'm lucky....

This is from the academic book I am reading for my dissertation:

"Only Noah and the contents of his ark were supposed to survive God's celestial wash cycle, and yet giants were still walking the earth after the divinity purged its dirtied landscape. Some theologians speculated that these monsters survived by climbing the tallest mountains and thrusting their nostrils above sea level for forty days and forty nights, or that one of them, Og, had simply ridden atop the roof of the ark." (Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, Of Giants, 21) 

Jiggy

What happens if I stand up in this coffee shop and just start dancing? If I stretch my arms up over my head, and wave them back and forth, take a step or two forward and then three steps back? If I turn really slow and then bring one arm down? What happens if for a minute I let go, if I defy the social 'norms', and do what I feel? Because that is how I feel today. I feel like there is an energy boxed inside of me that needs releasing. When I go for a run, and I'm listening to music, sometimes I casually raise my arms above my head and pretend like I'm stretching, when really I'm dancing. I'll swing my arms forward and back, to pretend like I'm shaking out stiffness, when really I'm moving my body to the beat of a song. And when none of that satisfies my urge, I'll just try to keep my feet on the ground as little as possible, letting my toes touch the ground only for a split second before releasing them into the air, and I'll try to capture that moment when neither of my feet are on earth, but I'm moving. Running is the man's versions of flight, I think. And it is just about the only sensation that satisfies my constant need to dance. Because that's what it is. I'm addicted to moving my body. When I'm home alone in Oxford, I practically do all my tasks with a little jiggy. I'll flock my arms like a chicken as I walk over to the fridge. When I bend down to get a plate from the cupboard below the sink, I pause a second or two and shake my booty, just as sexy as Beyonce (only in baggy PJs). When I stand at my closet to decide which shirt to wear (though I always end up wearing the same two), I'll bring my knees down and up, alternate between moving my hips right and left. And if I'm walking over to the chair by the fire, I'll do a full-on turn in the middle of my living room. Sometimes there's music playing, but most often there isn't. Is that weird? I'll catch myself every once in a while doing sporadic dance moves when its dark outside and my light is on. I think the residents in the apartment complex across the street must think I'm a little crazy. But what can you do when there's a jukebox trapped inside of you?

Out in the garden where we planted the seeds
There is a tree as old as me
Branches were sewn by the color of green
Ground had arose and passed it's knees

By the cracks of the skin I climbed to the top
I climbed the tree to see the world
When the gusts came around to blow me down
I held on as tightly as you held onto me
I held on as tightly as you held onto me

Cause, I built a home
For you
For me

Until it disappeared
From me
From you

And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust

It was the trees. The trees taught me how to pray again. 

I stopped praying a year and a half ago. I stopped when the whole act started to become a charade, done out of mere obligation. Every time I finished a prayer I was left with guilt. Guilt for not remembering which rakaa I was on, guilt for praying late, guilt for not praying, guilt for praying too fast. Guilt clung to me for minutes after I’d finished, like the sickening and sticky aftertaste of a coffee taken with a cigarette.  At some point I just realized I hated it, its every movement exhausted me. I knew that what I was doing was merely keeping appearance, like dusting a house of cards every few times a day, without ever putting anything into it to hold it together. So I stopped. I still thought of God. I still spoke to him, but I stopped dancing his dance, and I felt such relief. It was as if I had quit an addiction, like I’d cleaned off my desk, and organized everything into neat boxes and binders, like I could finally mark that year long lingering task from my to-do list.

But ever since I’ve come to Oxford, things have changed. In my daily thirty to forty-five minute walk to campus, all I see are trees. The trees at Oxford are undescribable. These immense and graceful beings watch over every narrow alley, every broad street, every corner building. They're organs for the city, guardians of its every movement. They are more human than any.other.life in this city, including my own. Sometimes they remind me of my grandparents, my great grandparents, my friend’s grandparents. Not only because that’s exactly what they are for this town, but because that’s exactly what they look like. The one right at the roundabout on Cowley-Iffley Rd. resembles my grandma. Standing with all her pride, in all the glory and wisdom her age has given her, her hair frizzed over by age, but yet still at the whim of every tickle in the breeze, her arms out inviting me in. Standing there. Just watching. With all her patience, she trusts in what she sees, never feeling the need to move too quickly, or even speak against it or in support of it. She just smiles. She just observes.

My friend once asked me to name my three favorite animals with my reasoning, as a part of some sort of personality test, every animal was meant to reveal something different about my character. I said, horse because a horse is strong, yet always graceful. Bird, because a bird is always singing, always happy. And elephant, because an elephant always seems satisfied with the bare minimum. Now that I think about it, I was really just trying to re-describe a tree: Strong. It moves its leaves and its branches with every touch, but it never lets anything access its core. It never moves its roots, unless it wants to grow. Happy. What better visualization for a giggle than the way leaves shiver in the wind. Humble.

Something in these trees one day forced me to take an extra pillowcase and lay it on the ground, to set a piece of earth on it, and to wrap my hair, before standing. As I stood, I realized that I don’t remember the last time I felt my bare feet against the ground. I brought my hands up and I dropped them and began. And I said every word. I did every movement, all while realizing that my feet were always in place. I was that tree, bowing and bending, moving and turning, without ever taking my feet off the ground. I was rooted, and felt more layers of flesh, of blood, of being in myself than I  had ever felt.

And so I’ve started to pray again. Yes, my prayer is still to God. I still address him, but where is he, if he’s not inside me, and who is he, if he’s not me? If he’s not the part of us that we live through. Aren’t we the creators, forgivers, protectors, nourishers, the givers of life? Doesn’t that eagle come to be as magnificent as it is, because each one of us notices it’s intricate wings, its bold dark eye, its grace as it soars. I’ve realized from watching how imbued that tree is of God, that God isn’t someone out there, up there, somewhere with a hand outstretched to me. He’s in me, with a hand stretched out to the world, to Mehdi, to my parents, to my sister, to you.

Now when I pray, it’s not out of obligation, or fear of an impending day of doom, but because I think I deserve. I deserve five minute increments in the day to myself, to think of who I am, to try to be that tree.

There's a sorrow in my heart. Things have improved so much in the past few weeks, and I'm so grateful. I feel so much more calm, at peace. And yet there's still this sorrow poking at the side of my heart, like a delicate fish bone caught in your throat while you're at a dinner party. It's not big enough to cough up, and not thin enough to swallow. It's this abnormal size, and every time you swallow, you feel a sharp tinge. And the only thing you can do is to try swallowing thick bread, in hopes that it will wash it down. That's what this sorrow is like. Only this sorrow isn't in my throat, and can't go away with a swallow or two. This sorrow is deep inside, and I'm not sure how to access it.
I guess I've begun to realize how much is out of my control, and how little I have, not emotionally, and not in an abstract sense. No, I'm rich in all the things that really matter, like family and love and faith. What I don't have is the superficial, the things that "don't bring happiness." Basic luxuries, like a predictable living situation. Like a steady income, like....why can't I even say it? Like money. I'm so broke, and so in debt.

You grow up thinking that as long as everything else is there, as long as you have all that matters emotionally, money is insignificant. You grow up thinking you'll be happy with less. But then when you have less (and by less, I mean living off money you don't have), you start to be overcome by this disease. You start to be taken over by numbers. Numbers! They're everywhere! $3 for blueberries. $2 for a bus ride home, so that I don't have to feel like my bones are breaking from cold. $.75 is how much I paid for the last three hours of heating in my flat. $10 for a toaster. $ 2 for a Latte, 1.80 for an Americano.$8 for dinner with friends. $4 for warm house socks. Everything is numbers. What you eat, what you wear, where you sleep, what you bathe with, what you walk in, what you talk in. They're everywhere. The moment you open your eyes, like a pack of wolves, like a bug infestation...and all of a sudden come 11:30pm, you realize you've spent so much of your day just making choices and navigating between numbers, constantly deciding whether your comfort is worth it, whether your craving is worth it, whether you deserve it this time....and it becomes like a sharp bone rooted deep inside of you, jabbing every time you make a move, make a choice, and you start to feel so injured and so vulnerable and so so so so so ugly for even thinking about it as much as you do, because everything in your life is telling you to have faith in your future, and yet you just can't let go of reading the numbers.

"Ratiocinative" : (noun) the process of logical reasoning

Really??!! Sounds more like a disease.

On second thought, that may be fitting.

Infidelity

I’ve found a new walking buddy. Quite cute, in fact. Not too tall. Fashionably colored. With two wheels, two handles, and a cushiony comfy seat. Sounds like a bike, you say? Why, yes, that’s what I thought, at first. But I have since come to think otherwise. You see, bikes are meant to be transportation vessels. They’re meant to take you places. But that’s just not how our relationship works. Hidden beyond its twisted exterior, I think there was a bike somewhere in there, at some point. Maybe even a solid, strong, sexy one. Maybe one that made all others of its kind jealous, but those were the olden days. Now, this bike is just a man, like you and me, living every day, as if it’s his last.  

Last week, on a cold, wet morning. I locked the front door, and as I walked towards my friend, I told him. “Friend, I’m late. I should have been at the library by now. We’ve got to run.” We pulled out of my driveway and turned onto Banbury Rd. It was raining, quite hard. And we chugged along quite fine for a good five minutes. Then there was an intersection. A busy intersection. A four-way intersection, with kids crossing. An intersection with a red light, shining straight in our eyes. Well, in my eyes. I squeezed the brake, and nothing happened. I pulled it so hard towards me, that my nails were grinding into my palm, and still nothing happened. We were still running at full speed. That’s when I realized that Confuscious had gone blind. It snapped it’s brake. And instead, we took a nice walk. 

For forty-five minutes.

In the rain. 

To the library.

This is not the first time. In fact, this has happened so often that every bike co-op in Oxford knows us. Often, I’ll see the man who works at Summertown Cycles in Zappis Café in the centre. He gives me that smile, the kind of smile you give your girlfriend when you know her boyfriend’s cheating. Last time he I took my bike in (when it’s other brake snapped), he told me, “I’m sorry. I think it’s time you faced the facts. It’s time.”

Every week, the number of unexpected, long walks Confuscious and I take increase. This past week, for example, we took five. How many times did I ride my bike to campus, you ask? Let me think…..Oh yes, that would be five.

We stopped to walk Every. Single. Day.

I think it’s time we had the talk. He’s got to know. This is inappropriate. It can’t keep happening. I’ve just got to man up and say it to him. I’ve got to tell him: I’m married. There’s only one person in the world I’m meant to take long, unexpected walks with hand in hand. I can’t keep doing this.

Yes, it’s time for the talk. But I just don’t think I’m ready to be a heartbreaker. For now, I’ll just continue to leave my friend unlocked in shady places overnight, and see if, like all disloyal friends, he’ll jump ship when a younger thang comes walking along. 

The Granny Smith apple core at the edge of a coffee saucer

The single carnation set to balance on the edge of the English Department’s bike rack

The old man whose slowly biking his way down Broad St. whistling a tune I can’t recognize

The old woman whose taking a break from weeding at the edge of her vegetable box

the single star that’s somehow fought its way out from under the clouds to show itself off in the cube of sky my window holds

chocolate sprinkled across a cappuccino

the touch of another human being against my shoulder, on a crowded sofa, in the palm of my hand

Every time I read Sohrab Sepehri’s poems I’m awed by his ability to  notice such fine threads of vibrancy in life’s tapestry, but I think this week I’ve learned: It’s only when the flame inside you is so weak that the smallest rush of cold breath could put it, that you burn through every potential piece of warmth.

I’ve realized since coming to Oxford that my writing process is considered quite strange. I often go through at least three to four full drafts of work before I start to think about grammar, word choice and all those juicy details. In fact, my first draft is a ‘free-write’ of everything I think on the topic I’m writing about. As strange as my process is, it means that I usually have a full draft before most of my colleagues , though my first draft will probably require far greater editing/rewriting than their first draft. But I find this ‘free-write’ process not only incredibly enjoyable, but also essential. All students in the humanities know that you don’t REALLY know what you’re really even striving to say until you’ve finished the final sentence of your first draft. To write the first draft, I usually put on good music and then just start writing with the rule that I can’t stop for a good two hours and by then I will have all my ideas out in some sort of logical order.  Once it’s over, I’m exhausted. Try writing for even ten minutes non-stop. It’s not easy. It demands a state of intense concentration. But there’s a thrill. It has speed. It has drive. It takes on a power of its own. Soon you find yourself sitting behind the wheel, just taking it in, enjoying the ride, the view, only occasionally making a move to make sure that words don't jut out too far from the lane.

But this time it’s different. I can’t start. I just don’t have the energy right now. I started out in the library, and couldn’t get through a paragraph. Now I’m sitting in a coffee shop, an Americano and vanilla pastry later, I’ve barely moved through a page without stopping from mental weariness. How will I ever turn this in by tomorrow? Everything in my life has become so exhausting. I’m climbing to get to the top of a slide, and with every step I’m finding that the ladder is getting taller and taller.

Nests & Things

If I was asked what animal I would like to be, I would say bird (at least this week, I would). Not because they can fly (to me, running is like flying).But because the nest I saw yesterday, on the branch of the tree painted in autumn’s shades of red, yellow and orange, nestled in the walkway between my college and my department building, was very messy. The nest was disheveled. It had bits of branches sticking out of its sides. It had pieces of yarn, and paper candy wrappers, and even a bit of cloth poking out its sides. It was messy and disorganized, and yet perfect in every way because I knew that the bird who had built it earlier in the Spring loved it. Not only was it just enough for her, but it was where she fluffed out warmth to her eggs. It was where she taught her babies to fly and watched them learn to swallow.

And yet, she left it. She flew away and left the home with all of its woven memories. Wherever she is, she knows that the autumn that’s easing into winter will unravel her home and all its branches will fall to the earth.

But she doesn’t mind. When it’s time again, she’ll build another. Maybe again on this tree. Maybe one in a walkway that gets more sun. Maybe, not even in Oxford.

Last night when I got home, I rolled up my sleeves put on thick washing gloves and cleaned the bathroom, kitchen and my bedroom. Once all the loose paper in my room was in ‘neat’ piles across my desk, and my clothes were all hidden in one way or another in the closet or in my drawers, I knew I was ready. I put my backpack in the center of the room. I reached in and pulled out what I’d been thinking about all day—the two big pomegranates I had bought from the small market. I placed each of them on my bookshelf, nestled between my favorite novels and the photos of Mehdi and my sister. And then I stood back. Yes, this home is ready for the weekend.

This morning I woke up and noticed my crooked ceiling lamp. The broken fridge irritated me. The water in the shower that’s either burning hot or freezing cold annoyed me. The desk chair with its broken back nearly drove me mad. The lamp shade that’s dislodged and wobbles dramatically from one side to another….

There is so much I must learn from birds. 

Walls at their breaking point

In the middle of our complex lesson on Attached Pronouns in Classical Arabic, our tutor slipped in a short aside on the “guarding alif.” The alif that appears in perfect plural verbs. It’s not read. It’s silent. It just stands there like a wall, he said, as he drew a sharp, vertical line down on the white board. It stands there to let you know that this word ends here. And its stays there. Well, that is until we need to attach a pronoun or something to it. With a swipe of his thumb, he obliterated the guarding alif and gave it ownership.  

Last night I came home from Paris. I’d spent three days talking incessantly to one of my dearest friends. When I rode to the airport on Friday, I felt like I was scrambling out of Oxford for a breath of fresh air. Last night, when I returned, I climbed up the three sets of stairs to my attic room. I opened the door and felt the rush of iced breeze. My radiator had been off for the length of my three day trip, and steeping into my room felt like stepping into a freezer. The central heat was off for the night. I changed and slipped under my duck feathered duvet, and pulled another blanket over myself. The air was so cold that my forehead was starting to pound. I shut my eyes, and while I was so exhausted, the freeze in my nose was so alarming I couldn’t sleep. I spent hours going back and forth between suffocating under my blanket and bringing my head out only to freeze. The night passed. I woke up with the headache I’ve had all day. Sleeping in cold isn’t unfamiliar. I do it often, only not in a room with walls. I sleep in the cold when I’m in the mountains, when I’m near the highest peak in mainland America, when I’m at the edge of the Sierra lakes. I take the cold as a gift from the star ceiling over my head. But in this room, in this house, in this city that is defined by its medieval walls, this air was painful.

This headache has been a lens. Everything I’ve done today, touched today, I’ve seen and read and experienced through this headache and the story that came with it. I’m immersed in a world of invisible walls: my hard book cover, the gloves that protect my fingers from the slashing breeze as I ride my bike, exhaustion, the locked café doors.

I’m reading a book about ultrarunners, people who never ran a day in their life, who become proof of man’s unlimited and boundless capabilities by running hundreds of miles in unimaginable natural terrain. They break every physical, mental, and emotional boundary we think exists. I’m close to the finish line, only 20 pages left to read, and I can’t decide if this book has been uplifting or miserable. Because every time I’m confronted with such inspiration, with people who break every link in their chain, I’m upset by how bounded I feel. Knowing what we can achieve and knowing how to achieve it are different from actually believing you, yourself are capable of it.

Walls are as easy to bring down as they are to build. I’ve realized this even more from this painful and stubborn headache. It’s not the swipe of the finger that really matters, but what we attach ourselves to once we’re standing in the vast boundless openness before us that gives it meaning. 

There is such an unsettling silence without him. I never realized how accustomed I've grown to having someone always present in my space. The strange thing is that I love solitude, or so I thought. It isn't that I no longer love solitude. It's that I've realized that I like the solitude that comes by choice. I like pulling away from it all, but I like to keep him close. I don't expect us to talk when we're in the same space. We don't have to do anything. Just as long as he's there, as long as he's in my space.
He's so far.
This time difference is brutal.
Why am I here?

Yosemite Backpacking Glen Aulin

Mehdi and I have decided to start writing down our backpacking experiences, so that we can remember the details of the places we're going. At first I thought of starting a new blog, but then considering the number of un-contributed to blogs that I've started, I decided to just write them down in here.

I'm going to start with our most recent trip. 

To backpack in Yosemite, one needs to either be very organized and a plan far ahead, or be willing to endure a series of strenuous early hour-long wait sequences. We, of course are far from organized, so to obtain a backpacking permit for our chosen "Glen Aulin" trail, we had to stand in line the day before. 

Mehdi and I left for Yosemite around 2pm July 25th and arrived at the park's gates around 5pm. Our backpacking permit pick-up location was one the other side of the park at Tuolumne Meadows. From the entrance to Tuolumne Meadows is about 1.5 hours. Once there, we went to the closest campgrounds and realized they were all packed full. We had heard that in order to successfully obtain a permit, people stand in line form 3am. To make sure that we had an opportunity to get the permit, we decided to spend the night in the car and hit the line at the break of dawn. The car was surprisingly comfortable, once all the food was stowed in the bear boxes and the chairs were brought down, the sleeping mats were laid out, the sleeping bags unrolled and Mehdi's position confirmed so that his long legs would be comfortable. 

Our alarm went off at 5:30, and we jumped out of the car with our jetboil, tea bags, biscuits and two mugs to stand in line. We were first! I sat on the rock right behind the sign that read "The Line Starts Here." Almost instantaneously, several other groups came out of their car and stood in line. The Tuolumne permit office didn't start giving out permits for the next day until 11am, so safe to say all of us in line ended up becoming pretty good friends by the end. 

Once we had our permit, we headed over to the backpacking base camp and reserved a campsite, and then went and explored Yosemite Valley. It was Mehdi's first time. It was also our anniversary! And we searched for a nice place to eat lunch, and escape the heat and couldn't find anywhere but the crowded food court with frozen burgers. :-) 

The backpacking base camp was very cozy and crowded. Our site alone had at least 4 parties camping in it, but everyone was really friendly. We met a young man who was doing the entire John Muir Trail in 11 days for his fourth time! Quite the inspiration. 

At 7:30am the next day, we met my mom and Milad at Tenaya Lake. We parked one car there and all drove in the other car to the Glen Aulin trail head. After putting all food goodies in the bear boxes at the trail head and adjusting our bags we started on the trail at 9:00am. 

The trail was about 6.5 miles. It was gorgeous, stunning, and not difficult at all. It was mostly flat with a few downhill stretches. The trail rain along limpid waters and across large granite surfaces. If it weren't for the stacked rocks, we would have surely lost our way. At about 3 hours, we got to the sign marking Glen Aulin, and it was another .3 to High Sierra base camp. We walked for another 20 minutes before we were welcomed by a wide, but short waterfall running into a dark blue and green swimming hole. 

We crossed two bridges over the water and then entered High Sierra camp. High Sierra camp has a store and several tent lodges. You have to walk past the lined tents and the dinky store before getting into the backpacking campground. We picked an amazing campsite farther away and more elevated. 

A note of caution: Bear boxes are only located near High Sierra Camp. There is only two and they are incredibly fetid and disgusting. We were very happy that we had brought our own bear canisters, (one for every two of us). 

Our first night was incredible. My mom and Milad took a nap since they had been driving from 2am, but I couldn't resist. I wore my swim pants, and went right down to the waterfall. The water was so much warmer than I expected. It was so refreshing and calming to swim in natural waters. Mehdi came along, he waded up to his knees and took photos. We made a cup of tea, as I shivered from the cool breeze on my wet clothes, before making our way back to camp. After changing and drying off, I woke up my mom and Milad and we made coffee and tea and snacked on dried fruits under the sun on a large piece of granite, secluded from any other group. Afterwards, I followed my mom down to the brook using the small path we had in our campsite. And in less than 10 minutes we were both in the water. We tempted Milad in, as well. 

On Saturday, we day hiked to the "Water Wheels." It was only 3.5 miles, but a steep downhill in one direction. We found a magical place to sit and eat lunch right at the edge of the Water Wheels. Our hike back was an intense climb in striking, draining heat. But once we returned, we stopped at the Glen Aulin falls and all went in for a swim. I was so happy that I seized the moment and swam yesterday, because on Sunday the water felt far far colder. 

On Sunday, we woke up at 7:00, ate a delicious breakfast of oatmeal and peanut butter and then backed up. We were taking a different route back, that began at the same place that marked the "Glen Aulin" location and "High Sierra Camp .3 mi." It went past Murphy Creek and came out at Tenaya Lake. The pros of this trail was that it offered variation in scenery. It moved through forests rather than large open spaces of granite. For this reason, it also offered a cool shade. But it was filled with mosquitos. We could barely sit for a water break without feeling at least two pinch at our legs or necks. It was also relatively flat. We made it back in 4 hours, drove back with the car parked at Tenaya Lake, picked up our goodies from the bear box, returned the bear canisters to Tuoloumne Meadows and began the four hour drive home (with a stop for a hearty pizza lunch, and iced coffee).