Morning bike ride

In Hawaii the sun is libertine

she kisses everyone-

the relentless roosters

The copious coconut trees

The brown-backed surfers

And me.

In Hawaii the sun makes the warm cloudy mist rise from the ground

Here the morning mist is the gloomy cold gripping greedily to car exhaust.

My skin is not kissed but freeze-dried

A brief stripe of warmth intermingles with the cold breeze.  Car exhaust?  Or the last fighting gust of summer?

Or perhaps my imagination.

The sun has given me the cold shoulder.

I look up

And realize

The sun has a different job here.

She is an artist

Who has painted the mountain with her morning light

Until it glows with pride in a hundred shades of orange and yellow.

I forgive you, Fall.

Coincidentally, everything is perfect.

Once upon a time, by mere coincidence, I went to Lithuania during a time when visa problems were a thing. So I was shipped off to Ireland.

Coincidentally, I was given a companion who is the most amazing soul ever and who went to the same college as me and who had my EXACT same major and also played the piano and who I needed in my life at that moment to teach me a great many things.

Then one day, my coincidental companion and I happened to be walking down an empty street on a rainy day and happened -- by chance -- upon a young Egyptian woman who laughed and cried and bonded with us for the whole week she had remaining in the country before she had to return to Egypt.

What a coincidence: she came to the United States -- UC Berkeley, to be specific -- during the very summer that I moved from Hawaii and happened to be two states away. I visited her last weekend with my coincidental companion.

And there we sat in a Berkeley cafe -- a returned missionary from Lithuania and the companion she met in Ireland with the phenomenally awesome Egyptian they met once for a week. And together we marveled that God is so good at coincidences.

Some things I failed to mention

Once upon a time, on a blazing hot morning in the desert, there was matrimony.

And while we're on the topic of major life events, I recently realized I rarely include them when I'm writing about my life. So let's do this like a resume, shall we? Most recent first. List style. But with photos.

1. July 30, 2011. Scott (my brother) and Jayne (my new sister) were absolutely BEAMING yesterday. They couldn't keep their eyes (or hands) off each other. Totally legal, though, since it was their wedding day. I'm so happy to welcome this gorgeous, confident, loving, bargain-shopping woman into our family, to see my brother in such a blissful state, and to pass along the "grandkids question" to someone else.

2. June 2010. I graduated from college. I know, I know, all the kids are doing it. To me, however, this was a long time coming. It feels good to say I did it. I did it! I'm done! *Sigh of immense relief.

3. November 26, 2010. Once upon a time, on a humid morning on the islands, there was another matrimony. Mine. 'Twas the most unforgettable day of my life, though it came and went like a blur... Does that make sense? We rode away into the sunset (literally) on Kendon's yellow motorcycle (which died the next day... my parents had to pick us up from our honeymoon). Can it get any better than a tropical island wedding and a remote mountaintop cottage? Oh, yes. Every day.

P.S. The rumors about in-laws? All lies. These Bagleys are the bee's knees.

4. November 2010. Shortly before my big day, brother Neal had his own big day... and I don't mean with a woman. This commitment was to God, for two years, and he continues to commit on a daily basis, all the way over in Bolivia. Neal has white hair and blue eyes. Bolivians don't. I wish I could delight in this contrast by seeing it for myself. Instead I just daydream about it. I couldn't be prouder of my towhead Bolivian hermano.

5. September 10, 2010. Once upon a time, on a slightly chilly morning in Logan, Utah, there was also matrimony. Brother Alan made the wisest choice he's ever made by finding someone who will force him to make wise choices for the rest of his days. Heidi is the most organized, devoted, and domestic 20-year-old I've ever met. When I was her age I was still failing at tuna melts. I'm proud to call her my sister.

6. July 2010. I went to France on Bastille Day. Then to Lithuania for friendship purposes (see why in item 8), where my camera got stolen. So no photos here.

7. November 2009. I went to New Zealand with great friends and ate white bait with eggs.

8. October 2009. I also did a gig where I committed to God. It was for 18 months in the wee country of Lithuania (Labas visiems!), and it ended one sad, tear-filled October afternoon. I will never, ever, ever forget the beautiful people of this country. I will never stop loving them. And if I can't meet them again in this life, I hope to be a good enough girl to see them in the next, where I will give big, "thank-you" tackle-hugs to all the people who changed my life and perspective in this lush, resilient nation.

Note: I went to Ireland too. For six weeks. And gained memories to last a lifetime.

Yes. There. I'm glad to have gotten that all off my chest. Now perhaps, dear readers, you will know a deeper side of me. You will understand my reasons for loving the things I love (like family), and hating the things I hate (like bigotry), and not really caring about certain things (like white bait). Seriously. Don't try the white bait.

A ride down memory lane

I rode my beach cruiser for the last time.

I took my usual route, riding past Kekela Beach Park, where Kendon and I went on our first beach walk as a married couple.

There was the beachside mansion, with its weed-covered tennis courts, broken windows, and chipped paint. I used to think it was haunted. I later found out an old woman lives there who is simply lonely and eccentric.

The sea breeze hit my nose again as I glided past Pounder's Beach, where Kendon and I spent our first Christmas afternoon building a snowman... out of sand.

There was the otai stand, where a kind local family sells carved wooden art and tapa mats and, most of all, delicious, refreshing, otai on Fridays and Saturdays. Perfect for date night.

I passed the dirt road I used to run down in my single days. Eventually it can take you to a beautiful waterfall perfect for a hot day, but follow it a different direction and it leads to the most blissful banyan tree, which stretches its strong arms down a cliff and invites passersby to climb up, up, up.

I smelled barbecue wafting from one of the houses nearby -- probably for a plate lunch sale later -- and remembered all the times I've had plate lunches at the cafe up the road. My friend Jon once challenged me that I couldn't eat an entire pancake platter from there. He said he would pay for breakfast if I could. Four 12-inch pancakes churned in my belly for hours.... but they were so deliciously free.

I rode past the Polynesian Cultural Center, watching dancers in costume race by the back fence to perform in the daily canoe show. When I worked here, I would delight in walking out of my small gift shop and yelling, "Aloha!" with a shaka to Japanese high school groups. Their response was always an enthusiastic "Arohaaaaa!!" that never failed to make my day. Later I would see a prophet of God -- Thomas S. Monson -- pay a visit here. I would surprise Kendon with a Haunted Lagoon ride here during Halloween. And I would sit in awe every time I saw the night show -- a classic tale of the soul of man and land; of the "Ha: Breath of Life" that lives in all of us.

I approached campus and memories flooded from all sides. Here I gained a new sense of confidence; made friends that changed my life; had teachers that changed my perspective; held my dream job; received a bachelor's degree; and learned to understand Aloha.

In the distance I saw the Laie Temple. On the hill behind it, I sought shelter when a tsunami threatened to overtake our little town. My house never floated away (though I was prepared with my camera to document this), but I did manage one of my best sunburns after that long day of waiting. The temple resting beneath bears perhaps the greatest significance of all the structures in this diverse little town. Here I held hands with my best friend and listened to the words that made him my husband -- my eternal best friend. I cried as it occurred to me that our relationship literally had God's stamp of approval.

I thought of these things on my last bike ride. I looked down at Mufi, the rusting, turquoise beach cruiser, gripped his sticky handle bars, and said one last thank you for all the rides.

Then, under the weight of all the memories, I biffed it. For the first time ever, my feet slipped off the pedals and I bruised my knee in a mad attempt not to crash. I took it as a sign. It's time to move on, I thought. Time to make new memories. Time to ride a new bike past new landscapes.

As I arrived at this new epiphany, I also arrived at the house of Mufi's new owner. I handed him over to Megumi, who gave me a big "arigato" smile that made everything OK. It was time for her to discover Laie by beach cruiser.

Goodbye Laie.

Hello fresh start.

Fertility

There is something in the water in the BYU-Hawaii LDS 14^th ward. And it might be sperm.

Gross. Pretending I didn’t say that, let me start over by announcing that I belong to the most hazardously fertile ward in the world. We’re talking more than all the married wards in Provo, Utah or Rexberg, Idaho COMBINED.

Each week, a list is passed around for more women to sign up announcing their due date. Every other week, another stroller becomes the new caboose of a long train of baby carriages stretching all the way down the hall. Every couple of weeks, another wife suddenly develops a belly growth, as though hiding (not well) a large watermelon under her shirt.

It’s as though there’s a secret fertility club, and to become a member you have to get pregnant, and after you get pregnant you must bear heartfelt testimony to everyone about the newness and exuberance one feels when she has on her belly a large watermelon growth.

Certainly this is a wonderful thing. I hope to grow a watermelon of my own one day... one distant, distant day long after forfeiting my chance of joining the super secret not-so-exclusive 14^th ward fertility club.

Last Fast Sunday, as is custom, a great many members of the club, including fruitful new daddies, stood up to extol the virtues of parenthood and encourage childless newlyweds (like we Bagleys) to try making watermelon Bagley bellies. I was deeply engrossed in a doodle of a giant ice cream cone when Kendon got my attention and looked at me with puppy dog eyes. “I want one,” he mouthed. “Ice cream? Me too,” I said, my tummy growling in agreement. “No, a baby,” he replied, his eyes so puppy-doggy now I could have scratched his ears. “We’ll get one. Someday,” I assured him, patting his leg as I carefully made criss-cross waffle cone lines on my program. He poked me again. “No. Now.”

I looked around me, from the babies in bellies to the babies on bouncing mama laps to the newly-liberated aisle-walking babies, then back to Kendon and thought, Heaven help us, they’ve indoctrinated him. I swallowed hard and tried to look sympathetic.

Then he burst out laughing. Kendon’s laugh can sometimes exceed baby scream decibels. As half a dozen disapproving baby bellies turned and looked at us, I breathed a sigh of relief and began to daydream about puppies.

Long wars on the beach

I went for a walk on the beach with Kendon. A light breeze caressed our faces as we strolled, hand in hand, and let the water splash our bare feet. Then we looked into each other’s eyes and knew exactly what the other was thinking.

War.

I bent down and scooped up the biggest ball of sand my palms would contain, and he did the same. Then I chased him. Then he chased me. Then I got sand in my mouth and in my ears and on my face and in my hair and down my back. The fight continued. I got sand down my pants. It continued some more. I got sand in my eyes. The war raged on, and finally I managed to toss some small sand granules on Kendon’s precious American Eagle t-shirt, so then it was time to go home.

I think I win.

Enemies of date night

Friday night is date night.

At least that's what we say. Usually it goes like this: Me: "YAY! DATE NIIIIIIIIGHT!" Kendon: "Oh.... yeah. What do you want to do?" Me: "Uhhhhhh.... Dang it. I hadn't thought about PLANNING anything. You?" Kendon: "I'm tired. Let's read Harry Potter and snuggle."

So then date night turns into the-same-thing-we-do-every-night night, and I wake up way too early Saturday morning grumpily thinking that's it's another weekday.

But I decided tonight would be different.

So I went to the Polynesian Cultural Center after classes to buy student-rate tickets for the one and only annual WORLD FIREKNIFE COMPETITION! Shirtless greasy Polynesians spinning around giant sticks that are totally ON FIRE! It was going to be the best date night surprise.

Except for this.

I marched up to the ticket booth, debit card in hand, feeling further confident at seeing my good ol' buddy Ben at the ticket window. "Hi Ben!" said I exuberantly. Said Ben: "Hey Val. You pregnant?"

I was slightly less exuberant at this question. But in seconds I regained my composure, answered in the NOT affirmative, and said I was there to buy 2 student-rate tickets to the large greasy fire-twirling men (who perform, mind you, for a mere 10 minutes at the intermission of the regular night show).

"You have to come back tonight," said buddy Ben, looking annoyingly important with his shiny name badge and aloha shirt. "You can't buy a ticket until five o'clock."

"Oh." I was getting less excited about my surprise. I had been fantasizing about hiding the tickets somewhere romantic for Kendon to find when he came home... like in a grilled cheese sandwich. I turned to leave, then remembered one last question:

"Ben, how much are student-rate tickets?"

Ben did some important calculations in his shiny ticket-booth computer, then looked back up at me and said, "$43.16."

"No, no," said I, thinking he may be calculating my fictional unborn twins AND my husband into the pricing. "I mean for one person. A student person. It can't be more than $10 for a student person.... Right?"

"$43.16," repeated my only sort-of buddy Ben, then, "Unless you have a friend who works here. Employees get discounts."

I searched his face for a "hint-hint" grin. None came. The badge of my acquaintance Ben was way too shiny. It hurt my eyes when he puffed out his chest like that.

"What if we just poke our head in at intermission?" I asked. "We just want to see the men twirl their fiery knives! We don't care about the show." I did some math of my own without even needing an important shiny computer and said, "Surely we don't need to pay $83 just for some head-poking at an intermission....?"

"Yep. You do," said my enemy Ben.

And that is how, on this Friday date-night afternoon, I left the Polynesian Cultural Center with no tickets and a fat complex. I wonder if a Harry Potter book can fit inside a grilled cheese sandwich.

Thunderstorms

This story begins with me peacefully dreaming about a Quidditch match (Don't judge me -- Harry Potter readings before bed have become part of our religion) and snuggling up next to my oh-so-comfortable manny man.

Then it happened. The angriest, loudest BANG I have ever heard echoed across the ocean, bounced off the mountains, and hammered its way into my house and on through my horrified brain. I jumped nearly two feet from my [broomstick and] snuggle position and saw the wide-eyed face of my manny man doing the same. I remember being certain, for at least two seconds, that I was about to become a not-so-honored guest at the end of the world entrance party.

The lightning came simultaneously and threw haunting shadows across our small studio apartment, turning our frightened faces into scenes from a film noir. I clung to my Kendon with all of my strength, my body quivering as another BANG pierced the air. I was sure, in my panicked, just-awakened state, that if the lightning didn't penetrate the walls and kill us, that a flash flood from the deafening rainfall outside would drown us before anyone knew we were missing. The thunder shot out again. One cannot breathe when a sound is that loud. One cannot think.

Except for one thing, which pierced my brain even deeper than that first, startling blast: I'm so glad I have him.

By him, of course, I mean Kendon. I realized in those panicked moments that no disaster is too horrifying as long as I have him by my side, petting my tousled hair and assuring me that everything will be OK. I could handle a flash flood if he were there to cling to. I could witness the end of the world if he were holding my hand. I could die... if he just kissed me and assured me with his half-smile and big, brown eyes.

These are the things I realized in those terrifying moments last night. My whole life didn't flash before me like they say happens when you think the end is near. Instead, this recurring sense of what my Kendon means to me kept me awake long after the rain died down and the bursts and booms became less frequent.

Thank God for thunderstorms.

Haiku

Chicken on the roof
Bullying pigeons up there
Laie don't change