Tiny Dancer

In a crazed effort to turn her into the woman I wish I was, I signed Stella up for ballet classes. And although she undeniably prefers dragons, cowboys, witches and the like to the typical little girl obsessions, she loves it. 

On Tuesday mornings her smile is a little bigger and her morning chatter is dripping with extra exuberance. She lets me wet and brush her hair with unusual compliance. She recites her "ballet rules" from her car seat. Don't be a shy girl. Be a super good listener. Do everything my teacher says. She skips her way up the stairs and greets everyone with the obnoxious salutation, "HI GUYS!! I LOOK SO PRETTY!!!!" From the observer's window I watch her enthusiasm quickly turn to brow-furrowing focus the moment class begins. 

Watching a two-year old learning how to do ballet bears a striking resemblance to a baby animal teetering on its legs for the first time. There is an element of sublime cuteness in the which you find yourself making involuntary cooing noises, coupled with that almost uncontrollable urge to rush out and lend a steadying hand.

The child looking around puzzled at all of these adults, wondering for the first time how in the world everybody got so coordinated. Sticking her little tongue out in fierce concentration as she searches her brain for the control switch to move a certain limb in that certain way. And beaming with pride when she gets it all figured out.

I can't help but see myself in the bewildered face of my little girl. A young mom navigating these waters of early parenthood. Looking around at everyone else thinking, I'm going to have the only kid that still wets her pants in high school. Relentlessly second-guessing my intuition, my mothering abilities, my reactions to things.

Instead of wishing it were otherwise, I'm trying to relish these moments of raw insecurity. Enjoying this slice of humble pie. Knowing that confidence will someday replace bewilderment, the pie will eventually be eaten. These feelings of complete vulnerability never last very long. But today...wobbly as ever.

On Birth and Hope

This morning I was dreaming of my husband in 9 minute increments. Compulsively hitting the snooze, forcing my eyelids closed and summoning all of my brain power to bring his face back into focus. These business trips of his are killing me slowly and the short weekends home are finishing me off. Another Monday. I will survive.

Our baby is kicking hard now, making my whole belly move. I sat and watched it for a while before getting out of bed and marveled at the prospect of a new life. At how life begins. At how this little person, unknown to us now, will soon have us completely captivated and utterly in love without even trying. 

And how that fact alone gives me hope in the human condition. We may be slaughtering each other in Syria and dragging each other down like ruthless animals in the political arena...but people all around the world today are having babies and loving them. 

Hallelujah for that. And for all of the other people around the world who are overflowing with love and who wish to have babies to shower it upon but can't for one reason or another. Hallelujah for that, too. That love still exists. The pure and selfless kind that people freely give and never get back.

Two precious little babies joined our family this past week. And for reasons only God can explain, one was allowed to live and one was called back home after just two short days. It's got me thinking a lot about hope. About how underneath all of the religious controversy, the who's right and who's wrong, the political incorrectness of it all, lies the real reason religion exists: to give people hope. There is a tangible strength that comes with belief, real feelings of comfort and an abiding peace that comes from trusting that there are reasons, even if we aren't privy to them yet. That there is indeed a loving Father up there orchestrating this whole life experience. Someone who has our best interests in mind. Someone who gives love freely. And we can feel it if we just believe.

Many prayers going up for my cousin Annie and her family as she buries her sweet little man tomorrow. And many prayers of gratitude for another healthy girl born to my sister Kami and her husband. Another Monday. We are so blessed.

Back from the dead

I was well into my 20th hour of labor when I heard this voice for the first time. It was my own voice, but much older, more confident, calm and self-assured. The type of voice that you don't question, just trust. It came at a point when the escalating pain had begun to pop the seams of my concentration. I could feel myself on the brink of unraveling completely. It said, BREATHE AND COUNT. So I did. And then it said, IF YOU CAN JUST MAKE IT TO 20, YOU'LL BE FINE. And when I made it to 20 the pain started to dissipate. And with each contraction it would pipe in, OK, 25 THIS TIME, with the authority of a football coach and the gentleness of a mother. And off I'd go a counting...on and on for hours. Until finally, FINALLY I heard the cry of a baby and buried my face in my arm and thought, holy crap, I just survived that. 

I had a similar sentiment pulling into the driveway a couple of weeks ago. It was late. The end of a Summer-long road trip across the country and back. Me, my cranky, pregnant self and my hyper little two-year old stuffed into the back seat of a Chevy Suburban for days upon days. This was completely voluntary and self-inflicted and let me tell you what...If you would like to know the exact length of your patience rope, as they say, you should totally give this a try. 

So many hours spent in that back seat thinking, I would rather scratch my eyeballs out than play with these dress-up doll stickers for one more second. And then holding her chubby fingers between mine while she fell asleep thinking, what a beautiful, vibrant little soul packed into that perfect little body. And waking up in a hotel room to the sound of her rummaging through the lollipop bag and I'd say, Stella, not right now, and then watch the proud look melt off of her face and a loud, ugly cry take its place. And I'd think, this is exactly how I wanted to start my day. And waking up in another hotel room to the sound of shoes being clapped together inches from my nose. I'd open one eye and say, What in the world are you doing? And she'd say, I just killing a spider or something mom. It's freaky. And I'd roll over and laugh and think, thank you God for a two-year old in my life.

It was the ultimate exodus from the warm, boring little comfort zone I had nestled myself into. And this is what I'm all about. Pushing my limits. Taking myself to the brink of unraveling, breathing through it, and emerging a stronger, more confident person. Someday to become that older, more self-assured version of myself that graciously shows up periodically to help me limp along until I get there.


Our dear friend Erik just completed an exodus of his own. Racing wild horses across the Mongolian Steppe for 10 days. You can read more about his journey here. Beautiful promo video made by Nathan.

Speaking of videos by Nathan...the night we got home he showed me this little number he'd made while we were gone. There's something about a man who has so much creative talent, who can fix a lawn mower, work a tractor AND bake better cookies than I do. All I can say is, I lucked out.

clear as mud.

I drove to Grammie's house this morning a little earlier than usual. She had carpet cleaners coming and wanted me to stand in as her bodyguard since her trusty watchdog passed away last week (15 year old Yorkie, 8" tall. Terrifying if you're scared of bad breath) and since I am obviously bodyguard material. The woman is 92 and has way more sass than I do. And she has a cane. All I could do to defend myself at this point is put someone in time-out.

All of this to say I was in the car early enough to catch Morning Edition on NPR, instead of the usual dreaded Diane Rehm show, whose voice I can only stomach for a minute or two before I start grinding my teeth and banging my head against the window. How that lady got her job I will never know.

Today they were reporting on two national health issues - an outbreak of whooping cough in Washington state, and a drastic increase of allergy cases in children born within the last 5 years. The first they explained is from people not getting vaccinated, and then they went on to say that getting vaccinated doesn't prevent you from contracting the disease, nor does the booster shot that they're strongly recommending everyone rush out to get. The cure? Antibiotics. Five day's worth. Although that doesn't help the symptoms or cure you, necessarily, they explained. Next up, the allergy epidemic. Cause? The verdict is still out, but the expert they interviewed said it is due to our "sanitation-crazed" lifestyle. Too much time spent indoors, too much washing with anti-bacterial soaps, and yes, too many antibiotics. He mentioned how the Amish people have virtually no cases of allergies, and said it's because their kids play outside around animals and they drink raw milk...promptly followed by a warning to never drink nor serve your children raw milk due to the bacteria contained therein.

The segment finished and I sat there thinking, WHAT THE?

Is this the best we've got, people? Our doctors and researchers are starting to sound like our politicians. Scared to commit to one answer. Unable to find solutions. Endless finger-pointing. Arguing circles around each other while getting NO WHERE. Meanwhile we, the obedient robots, unquestioningly follow the vanishing whims of their latest "findings".

I was listening to The Shins while painting Stella's room the other day and heard this line:

Since then it's been a book you read in reverse, so you understand less as the pages turn.

Disturbingly applicable. 

Needless to say we are continuing to tediously plan the details of our future Walden-esque life. Adding: one milk cow.

round 2

On this day in the history of the universe in the wee hours of a rainy summer morning, I slid and screamed my way into this big wide world. I was delivered by my dad and nursed by my mom and brought home to a house full of love and noise and twelve eager hands ready to hold and cuddle and bounce and rock. 

Birthdays always make me think of my family. Three sisters, three brothers and two more added after me. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, in-laws, nieces and nephews, my husband, my child, and countless friends who are so dear to me they might as well be family. I am so thankful to be sharing my life with these people. And so thrilled to be adding another one to the bunch.

Bubbles

More loveliness from Nathan the Schmoe. Wouldn't you love to have a video like this of your own kids? Yourself? Your boyfriend? Your grandpa? Anyone and everyone?


He's got a rare opening in his schedule from 5/28 - 6/8 and a brain full of amazing ideas for more of these beauties. Email him at nbschmoe@gmail.com if this sounds like something you'd be interested in. He would love to work with you. For reals.

If I suddenly disappear.....

...you can find me building a tree house deep in the mountains somewhere near a lake that has an unencumbered view of the sunset. 


I've been reading Walden and it has left in me this residual puddle of angst-y emotions. I suddenly want to sell everything we have and go live off the land in a little shack in Hawaii. I am wanting more juice out of life, you know? More study, more learning, more growth, a more clear perspective of why we're really here. More awareness in the present moment. And less getting caught in the quicksand of consumerism, popular culture, and of using what other people are doing as a gauge of my own success.


A little voice says simplify, simplify, simplify! And I say, yes, that sounds nice. And then I get distracted by a million things that wouldn't exist if I had heeded the voice in the first place. And not only distracted, but scared. I'm realizing that I'm taking safety and refuge in my possessions. In having a tastefully decorated home, a nice big TV and a cute couch to watch it on. I waste so much brain power thinking about what car I want to buy and will it be big enough to fit the stroller and groceries? 


And what would happen if it all just went away? Would I be able to find just as much satisfaction and joy in life if it were stripped of all of the fluff? I want to get to that point. I want my existence to be grounded in something much more solid and meaningful.


From the man himself:


Let us settle ourselves, and work and wedge our feet downward through the mud and slush of opinion, and prejudice, and tradition, and delusion, and appearance...till we come to a hard bottom and rocks in place, which we can call reality, and say, This Is, and no mistake.


So we took a little walk today. The skies were overcast and the air was wet and a symphony of crickets were chirping in full force. We chased a butterfly and snuck up on a woodpecker and guessed which birds were responsible for which happy songs. We ate apples, barefoot, overlooking a soggy marsh. And when we were done we laid on our backs, the three of us side by side, and we closed our eyes and smelled the pine trees and fresh mud. 


And I felt myself grounded in real life. Just for a minute. 

Nathan Schmoe and his grumpy girls

Grammie, zonked. She is the queen of car sleeping. She puts on her shades, so as to remain inconspicuous, folds her arms and bows her head. One is hard-pressed to tell if she's actually sleeping or deep in prayer. 

Sometimes after being away Nathan comes home on a late night flight, and on such nights it is up to yours truly (with Stella in tow) to pick up said husband from the airport long after the sun and all sane creatures have gone to sleep. And if there's one thing I have learned about my child, it is that she requires the same exorbitant amount of sleep that I do in order to function in any normal way. Needless to say, these late night pick-ups have been pushing our limits and testing our sanity.


So this morning we thought we were scot-free when we BOTH woke up happy after a measly 5 hours of sleep. Tired, sure. But so glad to have Nathan home that sleeping in just wasn't an option. Stella followed him around like a faithful little pup. She watched his face while he talked and after every sentence she'd throw her head back with a boisterous laugh and say, "THAT'S HIL-AR-EEOUS."


That girl.


We decided to take her to see the new sea turtle exhibit at Sea World, and it was on the way there when things started getting testy. Approaching a toll booth we realized we had no cash except a few nickels and an ash tray full of pennies. The cars were lining up behind us and I started barking demands as Nathan tried to quickly sort through the change. "HURRY UP!! COUNT THEM OUT!! PEOPLE ARE WAITING! WE NEED 75!!!" The lady rolled her eyes and in an annoyed, nasal-y voice shouted, "JUST GO ON THROUGH", mumbling under her breath. Stella wanted to watch Jack!...no Elmo!...no Abbie's Flying Fairy School! and kept chucking the phone at the front seat in frustration. We let her eat an entire bag of yogurt pretzels and when they were gone and the whining continued I was about ready to lose it. Luckily Nathan keeps his cool in such moments and kicked it into high gear distraction mode. "Stella, look at that Spiderman billboard! OOh, look! There's an airplane! And a red semi-truck! Your favorite!" etc, etc.


The Turtle Trek was a series of rather anticlimactic aquariums which involved a lot of waiting in cramped quarters with our fellow smelly Sea Worldians. Stella took to balancing on a skinny cement ledge and then throwing herself off of it onto a row of wheelchair bound child haters. They shot her whiskery scowls every time she squealed or laughed or bumped their tire. Stella thought that the highlight of the experience was the 3D movie. Well not so much the movie, but the 3D glasses. When we had to give them back at the end of the trek all hell broke loose.


We drug her all the way back to the car while she wailed, "MYYYYY YELLLOOOWWWW GLASSESSSSSSSS!!!" I heaved myself into the front seat, slipped off my shoes and put my feet up on the dash. Stella stopped flailing as soon as Nathan strapped her in her car seat. We were both asleep before we left the parking lot.


He's REALLY happy to be home.

Faces

One of my first memories of thinking a baby was cute was when my Uncle taught his daughter how to do "faces". All of us girl cousins would sit around and drool over how adorable and hilarious she was. I was so tickled to come home and see that Nathan had taught Stella this little party trick.

a letter to my stella girl, part 2

The other night your dad and I were busy talking over dinner and before we knew it you had taken three little black beans and laid them tenderly on a tortilla chip and given them a pillow of shredded cheese and tucked them in with a small scrap of lettuce. Deese my babies, you said, and then you sang them The Itsy Bitsy Spider because dey like dis song.

On the eve of your second birthday I'm thinking about a line from this book...

"It's time for something beautiful to turn into something else that is beautiful."

You came to us so squeaky clean, like a little chunk of God's love was chipped off and plopped right into my arms that day. I held your tiny body and watched you sleep and felt a little more pure, to be holding something so pure. And I thought, God, please keep her this way forever. Because I thought you couldn't possibly get any more perfect, and yet here you are. 

Your beautiful bald little head grew white messy curls. Your gurglings and grunts became poignant questions and funny observations. Your imagination has come alive through books. Your eyes get wide and you sit perfectly still, inhaling every image, hanging on every word. It has become my little slice of heaven, our reading time. You sit heavy on my lap and I smell your hair and watch your wild eyes dart around the pages while I do all of the voices.  

You are smart as a whip and when you watch me talk with that furrow in your brow and your eyes locked on my mouth, I can almost see knowledge pouring in through your ears and swallowed whole by your steel trap of a brain. You've memorized the words to all of your favorite songs, which you sing throughout the day, and with special gusto in the car. You ooze happiness. People of all ages, shapes and colors are drawn to you like an irresistible magnet. They seek you out to hear you talk and to kiss on your cheeks and to catch a glimpse of those scrumptious thighs.

You prefer a cup full of rocks over any toy. You carry those rocks around the house, up the stairs then down the stairs then up again and even into the bathtub. Last night you were teaching your doll how to stir them up to make cupcakes. Stir, stir, stir Patty! Hold the spoon like this Patty! Good job! Big girl Patty! I swooned over the whole scene from a distance and my heart swelled up and thought, God, please keep her this way forever. And I'm sure He smiled and patted my head and answered, oh, this is only the beginning.

May you always ooze happiness. May you always feel confident enough to live uninhibited, and to sing at the top of your lungs whenever the moment strikes you. May you always retain that innate desire to nurture...black beans, rocks....and one day, a very long time from now, a baby of your very own. So you can experience this insane amount of love that is attached to your offspring, who will never understand just how much you love them until they have a little one of their own. And so the cycle goes.

What a wonderful blessing that you came into my life, bringing that love, oozing that happiness, a constant reminder of how much we are loved by the parent of us all.

Always, mom.

(Part one, here.)

one minute of pure joy

Nathan created this little treat in honor of her second birthday this week. SECOND BIRTHDAY. Somebody pass the kleenex.

creeping things

We woke up to a beautiful fog resting on the back pasture this morning. As the sun rose it went from white, to deep red, to orange sherbet. After flying south for the winter, the peacocks are back and have taken shelter in a tree outside of our window. Every few minutes they let out a piercing cry. It gives this old ranch an exotic feel, maybe because it reminds me of that resort in Mexico that had peacocks everywhere and their calling kept me up at night. I was also eight months pregnant which may have had something to do with it. After a month of perfection the weather here is starting to turn hot. When the temperature rises, the bugs come out. As evidenced last night when we (Nathan) killed three huge, hairy wolf spiders near Stella's room. Comforting.


I went to bed thinking about that principle. Heat brings out the bugs. The same is true in my life. Lately I've felt dangled over the fire of affliction and it's amazing what is crawling out of the woodworks. Bugs upon bugs upon bugs. 


I'm noticing how often I subconsciously judge people. It is so easy to judge people, isn't it? Especially when you feel like you've got a few things figured out yourself. It's like the moment I feel secure I breathe a sigh of relief, and with the next breath I'm commenting on so-and-so and how they have SO FAR TO GO.


What is up with that?


I went to a get together recently and sat back and watched all of the socializing and the present giving and the interacting. Little judgements started creeping out from the shadows. Crawling like dirty little spiders into my awareness. I acknowledged each one, identified it as an intruder - not what I think but what someone else would have me think. And then I squashed it. I went on a killing spree. I killed a big fat mama and all of her disgusting little babies. Then I swept up all of the dismembered corpses and with a deep breath sent them flying out of my brain. Out of my life.


It feels so good. Those moments when you're taking charge of your life. Taking responsibility for your existence. Cleaning house.


My favorite quote from conference: "Be kind. And be thankful that God is kind."


True that.

call me adolf

my little blue-faced wild girl who is happiest when covered in filth of one kind or another.

All of this newfound responsibility and maturity (that has come, for me, with having a baby) has two faces. The one is wise and learning and reliable and constant. The other is crotchety and anal-retentive and boring.

I spent a long long time cleaning the house yesterday only to have someone want a sandwich! And they wanted me to make it! In the newly cleaned kitchen!! Crumbs soon covered the clean floor and bits of mayonnaise-covered bread were flung from the high-chair. And instead of laughing and saying, you silly baby, I clenched my jaw and my stomach locked up and I thought, MY CLEAN FLOOOOOOORS!!!

And Nathan came in from rolling in the dirt with wrenches and power tools and with each step I could see little puffs of dried dust and dirt and grass escape his clothes and settle on the floor. I decided to refrain from telling him very loudly with hands on hips, I JUST MOPPED RIGHT THERE, and go for the more subtle approach - pulling out the broom and urgently sweeping up his tracks. Completely oblivious he moved into the kitchen and pulled out...some CHIPS! CHIPS!!!! ON A FRESHLY MOPPED FLOOR!! I felt an ulcer forming on my stomach.

Which is when I realized, I'm a much nicer person when my house is dirty. Stella can practice her baseball pitch with a cup of cheerios, Nathan can stomp around with muddy boots and I don't even bat an eyelash. When my house is dirty I can appreciate it for what it is - a place to live and eat and play and get comfortable. Not to be confused with a tediously polished museum relic that must be protected from every speck of dirt and germ.

Nathan says there's a bigger issue at hand here. Namely, the impulse to nail everything neatly in place once some measure of order and comfortability is achieved so that there's no possibility of loss.

To that I say, I'm sure I'd be cured if YOU took over the cleaning. 

healing

photo from here

Our bodies are such complicated machines. The way they're affected by everything, you know? It's like raising a kid. Everything you do (or don't do) to them, for them, with them...it affects them somehow. And they remember it forever. Maybe not in their conscious minds, but it's stored deep down in there. In the place where our beliefs are shaped. We have such power to influence. And not only us as parents, but friends, relatives, people who we're surrounded by. We're such dynamic creatures. The scope of which we don't even completely understand yet. Yet.


Yet brings me to my next observation, which is that some people don't seem to care a bit that they don't understand themselves, the way their bodies work, the things they're affected by. Or maybe it's just that they don't know it's possible. Or useful. I find this so interesting. We've become so accustomed to looking outward for answers, solutions, medicines to provide quick fixes, advice from people who have been through years of schooling but who can't possibly know us. Our unique circumstances. What's going on in our lives. What's happened to us in the past. I believe that all of these things dictate our health, or un-health.


Fear, stress, worry, anger...these are some of my predators. Sometimes they shoot at me from down below as I'm traversing this tight-rope balancing act of optimal health. Sometimes they miss, sometimes they don't. I have the propensity to nurse a grudge, as if it is the dearest thing to my heart. I always realize weeks, months, years (sadly) later that it was nothing but a hungry parasite sucking me dry of peace. 


I'm going through this thing right now. It's disheartening at best, scary at worst. I'm resisting the temptation to high-tail it to the doctors office to get some chemicals to "fix" it. Instead I'm waking up an hour early every day, devouring every good book that's been written on the topic, following that with some sincere, honest prayer, and topping it off with some time to sit in quiet. To listen and observe. To ask myself probing questions and then carefully watch how my body responds. I've been eliminating the junk from my life - processed food, toxic emotions, negative people. I wish I could say miracles are happening. Someday I'll be able to say that. But I know this kind of healing takes time, and I'm okay with that. Better than okay. Because at the end of the day it is so empowering to realize that healing is a completely personal endeavor. It's made possible through faith. Faith in myself, in my own competence and in my body's ability to restore balance once the junk is removed. Faith in Christ, that He will lead me to answers, be there as the one and only person who can completely understand, and that He will bridge the gap between what I'm bringing to the table and what is required for healing to take place. It is a beautiful process.


If our bodies are like kids that we're raising, I want mine to grow up to know that it has marvelous intrinsic healing capabilities. Not just believe it, but to have been given the chance to prove itself, first-hand. I want it to know that it has all of the answers, it's just a matter of decoding them. I want it to know that I have time for it. I am all ears. I'm thankful that it has served me all of these years without so much as a peep of complaint.


Life is so fast-paced and I'm thankful for the "quick-fixes" in times when I don't have the energy or motivation to heal myself otherwise. But in reality, this is the kind of education that I came here to get, which is how I'm able to truly count these periods of un-health as a happy blessing. An opportunity to learn, understand, grow more confident and self-respecting is always a happy blessing.

Let's just say her vocabulary is growing.

More Stella videos here and here.

Things I couldn't have guessed

I've been in a funk. Maybe it's exhaustion? Too much sugar? The current moon phase? Regardless, I'm catching myself staring blankly at the wall more frequently than I'm comfortable with. Like my brain has sand in the gears and I'm crunch-crunch-crunching my way through the daily routine. 

I woke up this morning and the image of our cat filled the expanse of my dark, empty head. When I went to feed her last night she was meow-ing in the most pathetic way, as if to say, "Please good woman! Just pet me a while." And I would have, if I felt up to sneezing and snotting and eyes-swelling-up-like-Rango. I'm awfully allergic. Trust me, it's awful. And if only the poor little kitty knew, then maybe she wouldn't mistake me for a cold-hearted wench that quickly drops the food into her bowl and scurries back into the house, slamming the door. (I'm not mad, little cat. You have to slam our front door in order for it to close properly.)

I heard a piece on NPR the other day about how people with boring food preferences oftentimes have a higher density of taste-buds, causing them to experience tastes more (too) intensely. What a prospect! I thought of my sister, who we teased mercilessly for eating grated cheddar cheese by the bowl-full while the rest of the family ate, say, bean soup. And how at thirty-five she still won't touch a vegetable with a ten foot pole. How positively juvenile, I've been guilty of thinking. And as it turns out, that pitiful soul can't help the density of her taste-buds! If I had only known!

We spent the morning at the beach. Morning at the beach on a weekday in Florida equals speedo-clad, leathery-skinned, age-ripened old people swarming the shoreline like a mess of fruit flies carrying seashells and metal detectors. One such specimen eyed me disgustedly as I took off Stella's diaper to shower her off. There was a little present in there, how could I have known? I wiped her off, showered her off and purposely tried to catch this man's stare. 


My first impulse was to judge: He's obviously never had kids. Selfish old geezer. Doesn't he know children are wonderful? God's gift to the world? Even their poop? 

Then I thought of the cat, and my allergies, and my sister, and her taste-buds. 

My thoughts shifted to: Lonely widower? Got his house broken into last night and his tires slashed? Bad case of Botox that has left him with a permanent scowl? Poor, poor man. You just can't help yourself! 

Then our eyes met. My face broke out in the friendliest smile. He heaved a rude sigh and turned to walk away. 

People are such a mystery. Everyone has a story. Things are almost never what they seem. Isn't it so liberating?

mud soup

Around here, Saturdays in March are some kind of decadent treat. The sun wakes up early and burns just warm enough to make your skin thaw. The garden is buzzing with friends, all here to dig their fingers in the dirt and help tidy the homes of our tiny growing vegetables. I am up to my elbows in sink water, dunking collard greens and watching the water bead up and drip off. It is a blindingly beautiful thing, a home-grown vegetable. 


Stella and her two little Japanese friends sit in the mud hunching over a bucket of water. "We making a potato soup!" the older girl informs me, stirring the water with a muddy hand shovel. Stella finds shriveled kumquats and white little pebbles to contribute. The boy watches them with a scowl and periodically reaches his squat little fingers out and tips the whole bucket over.


Dinnertime is spent in the backyard of new friends. Watching the sunset over a sleepy pond, listening to our babies grapple over a brownie, gushing over their vintage VW bus (my dream car). 


It got me thinking, there are a hundred thousand million reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient.

on feminism and a dusty surfboard

(Written last October)


Last weekend an apostle came to town. The night he was scheduled to speak everyone arrived early. There was a special reverence in the air. A hushed silence came over the room as he and his wife walked in and took their seats up on the stand.


He delivered a wonderful message, was completely charming and witty and everything you'd hope an apostle would be. Despite all of that, my eyes kept drifting over to his wife again and again. She was nothing what I'd expected. She was small. Think Olympic gymnast sized. She had long, frizzy dark hair with bangs covering her whole forehead and resting on her eyelashes. She wore a floor-length black skirt with a black long-sleeved shirt and a lot of black eyeliner. My initial impression was Wednesday from the Adams Family. She spoke just above a whisper and kept her upper torso very still, just shifting her eyes as she spoke. She was very poised and articulate and terribly, terribly sweet from head to toe. 


As she spoke my mind revisited all of the other apostle's wives I've met or heard, and all of the women who speak from the pulpit at General Conference, and I concluded: sweet, sweet, soft-spoken, subservient, geez, sweet! And I thought, I will never be an apostle's wife. 


I am way too spicy. I have women's rights and feminism plastered all over the walls of my brain. I can be authoritative and rude and outspoken and, most annoyingly, prideful. And I wonder if any of those women started out like me? And do I even want to become that type of woman? Some part of my identity is tied up in being feisty and savvy and not so quiet about it all. And I wonder if that's something that will fade away as I grow?




(Written today)


I had an encounter last week with a teenaged girl. She had spiky red hair, a hoop through her nose, and body parts stuffed into Barbie-sized clothes. She was chewing out another woman twice her age, a respectable authority figure, in a loud obnoxious voice with her chest puffed out and finger waving. Her language was uneducated and harsh and crude.


Is this what women have become after just three generations of liberation? Are these the types of girls my daughter will have as peers and colleagues? Immodest, vulgar with hardly a trace of femininity left unscathed?


I'm beginning to understand the incalculable value of traditional women. Gentle, nurturing, quietly wise. 


Once I wanted to pursue professional surfing. I idolized spiky-haired women who could stand on a board propelled by a wave and do some pretty cool tricks. I used to roll my eyes when I watched General Conference and those soft-spoken women came on. I JUST CAN'T RELATE TO THOSE PEOPLE, I thought. THEY'RE SO CLOSED-MINDED AND BORING.


Now my surfboard is gathering dust in the garage and the words of those sweet women fill my head with beautiful truth and buoy up my sometimes-weary heart while I mop the floors and do the dishes. 


I've chosen to pursue a quiet life in the trenches of marriage and motherhood. It is far from the lime-light of popularity or prestige and certainly not very exciting, I'm sure some people think. And amazingly, I don't mind. I still surf occasionally, but my focus has shifted. I'm still feisty and outspoken, but I no longer want to be. The things I care about have changed. My heart has changed. 


I feel like I'm finally becoming someone I can be proud of.

night-time escapades

There are two things you may not know about me. 

First: I live in an old ranch house in the middle of nowhere. The stairs creak, there are a lot of curtain-less windows and plenty of stories from previous tenants of, well, noises. Ghosts. It is so picture perfectly scary that it was used as a film set for a horror movie last year. Charming, right?

Secondly: I am a big, fat wuss. 

So it is surprising to me even that I've slept here husband-less hundreds of times with virtually no problems....until Monday night happened.

It started out like any other night, you know, eat dinner, bathe the child, put her to bed, clean up. I was loading the dishwasher when I heard a loud 

OOOOOOoooooowwwWWWWWOOOOOooowwWWWWWW!

It sounded like the cry of someone who had just been shot and was bleeding to death outside my window. Naturally, my first thought is: HOLY. CRAP. There is a ghost out there that is crying their eyes out!!! 

After searching the house with shaky knees the sounds led me to the back door, and with a sudden burst of bravery I flung it open. I heard a "REEEEERRRRRR!" and a raccoon scampered off into the dark. SIGH. Raccoon. Back to cleaning.

Not a half an hour later I was putting a book on the shelf and 

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. 

on the front door. A split second of reasoning deduced that I wasn't expecting anyone, I hadn't heard a car pull up, and it was way too late for random visitors. Panic set in. So I did what any self-respecting protective mother would do. I dove into the kitchen and hid between the cabinets in the fetal position. I called Nathan. 

"I think there's someone trying to break into our house."

"What?! What did you hear?"

"Knocking."

"Honey, someone breaking in wouldn't knock."

"No. It was a soft knock, like they're trying to see if I'm home. You know? Home Alone? Sticky Bandits style? Nevermind. Call my dad and tell him to come over quick. I'm calling 911."

Then I sat there like a paranoid squirrel listening to every little noise. Soon I heard the diesel engine from my dad's truck come roaring up the driveway. He circled the house like a mad man with the high-beams on going so fast that I'm pretty sure I saw him get airborne on a driveway rut. Like Jeff Gordon driving an F-350. By the time he was done rounding the track three cop cars had shown up.

They proceeded to search the premises with big spot lights - in every dark corner, up in the trees, the garage - covering all the bases. Nothing. No perpetrators, no footprints, nothing. And yet I'd heard a knock! This guy is good, I thought. I loaded up the car and stayed the night at my parent's house. 

(UNRELATED: When we got there my mom and sister were watching The Bachelor. I figured some mindless entertainment would be good for my nerves, so I sat down and joined them. I had never seen the show before. HILARIOUS. Is all I have to say about that. Did anyone else appreciate the baton twirler as much as I did?! Seriously laughed till I cried.)

When I came home on Tuesday and nothing had been stolen I figured I should face my fears and try to stay home for the night. I could always leave if I got too scared, and besides, nothing had been stolen. It was probably just my imagination. 

I went to bed early, got up early, and opened the blinds just as a beautiful little woodpecker came swooping down onto the front porch. It landed on a wooden pillar right by the front door and 

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

I felt like such an idiot.

myself in four parts

I woke up to a kiss this morning as your dad was leaving for the airport. It stole me from the land of sleep and with my eyes still closed I rolled onto my knees, grabbed his hands, and we prayed. He smelled like soap and Old Spice. I heard him clunking his way down the stairs which was followed by that all-too-familiar heaviness of heart. The anticipation of a daddy-less week.


I laid there in the dark, everything quiet except the fast, relentless flicker of thoughts passing like an old film reel. Everything I need to do...a detail reminds me of another detail and almost imperceptibly my thoughts make a million hops across my brain like a little flea on crack. 


I'm telling you this because someday your worries will consist of things beyond whether lunch is served on the froggy or the ducky plate, and you too may find yourself laying in the dark feeling helplessly subject to your anxieties. And I want you to know what I've learned from all of this: 


There are four distinct voices operating within us all. 


Body, spirit, mind and heart.


These night-time displays generally occur when one of them is needing some attention. It's a bit like parenting a house full of kids. The body and spirit are quiet and subservient and won't make much noise unless they're really bothered. The head and the heart can either be the very best friends, the quintessential powerhouse team or they can hate each other's guts...and their battles will unfold on the playing field of your body.


They all just need a little lovin', really. My bonding methods of choice are yoga, prayer & scripture study, meditation and writing, respectively. If I do them everyday I glide through life like a well-oiled machine. 


BUT, I'm reminded of this precious instruction by my own failure to live up to it recently. So don't get discouraged. You have all of the tools you need to do wonderful things with your life. Like becoming a charitable person. The goal of all goals. I'm working hard to be a role model for you because you are precious and you deserve it.

a memory of love

Stella with two of her favorite people: cousins Sophie and Londyn

In my mind there is this picture, it existed once if I could only find it again. It was of my grandpa long after the lights had gone out. Alzheimers. He was sitting at the table ready to eat and Grammie was leaning over him, carefully tucking an unfolded napkin into his collar. He couldn't remember how to talk anymore, which broke all of our hearts since he was a terribly funny man. And he couldn't remember who she was, which I'm sure was nearly enough to snap her tiny little heart in two. And yet she kept on, gently guiding him from the bed to the chair to the table to the bath, and so on. Thoughtfully ironing his shirts and shaving his face and talking to him as if nothing in the world had gone awry.

And this, to me, is love embodied. Giving someone what they need, and happily receiving what they are able to give back, meager as it may be.

Something to aspire to.

Happy lovers day, everyone.

where the rubber meets the road

My prayer tonight went something like this:


"Today I didn't feel as enlightened, joyful, peaceful - I didn't feel the Spirit like I did the first hour I was awake. Which is 100% my fault and for which I'm very sorry."


I'm still learning all of the truths in practice that I'm taught cognitively during my studies each morning. I say things I don't mean, I allow a crabby little baby to get the best of me at times, I get offended when I don't get my way and annoyed by almost everyone, including myself. SO. Safe to say I have a long way to go.


Have you ever learned a new language? Isn't it interesting how you can hear and understand, read and understand, and then as soon as you open your mouth to speak your tongue becomes this foreign object that you suddenly have no control over? You just can't seem to make it do what you want it to do. Your knowledge of the language holds no sway if your mouth is untrained.


I felt that way in my body today. Like my wheels are spinning so fast when they're in the air, but once the rubber hits the road, not so much.


Thankful to close my eyes and try again tomorrow.

carrots in heaven

I've heard it said that heaven can be imagined by thinking of all of the splendors of the world, multiplied by two. I thought of that today watching you laugh. You had two fingers in your belly button and you forced out this loud, nervous giggle that usually means something terribly exciting is about to happen.


It was carrots. Your dad was fishing out some carrots from the fridge to take as a treat to the horses. You held one tight in each hand and with the proudest, most contented look on your face, ran chest first toward the door with your feet pattering behind trying to keep up. He scooped you onto his shoulders and started jogging around the yard, which you think is the most hilarious thing. Your curls were bouncing and wild shrieking filled the air as you two ran off, the cat tagging after as if she had some business of her own that happened to be taking her in more or less the same direction.


It was a splendor of my world, that whole scene. If I tried to multiply it by two I think my brain would explode.