to all of you very kind people..

Every time I login here I'm amazed to see that there are still people checking this site. Thank you for all of the kind emails, words and thoughts. After almost a year hiatus I've decided to start sharing again. 

You can follow along on my shiny new website.

www.apocketfullofclarity.com

xo,
Brooke

A letter to my Stella girl, part 3

Stella,

I wish I could give you the memory I have of you tonight. My wild, tiny three-year old girl. It was one of those nights that I would relive forever if I could. Your hair was hanging in two messy braids, whipping around as you ran barefoot across the weedy grass. The sun was big and low, a giant peach sitting on top of the pasture. The air was perfectly warm. Perfectly cool. That temperature that is so perfect that you can't tell where your skin stops and the air begins. Like you could just reach out and swim in it. 

We were out watering the raspberry bushes. You always want to help. You shimmied your fat little thumb down over the end of the hose and water sprayed up everywhere and you laughed and laughed and laughed, your face dripping wet. Before I knew it you had stripped down to nothing but a baggy pair of underwear and you were running under the hose, hooping and screeching, so pleased with life. 

Soon it was time to put the chickens up. You kicked your dirty little foot in their direction and said, shoo! shoo! while they sauntered back into the coop. You ran in real fast behind them, tippy-toeing around the mud to check the box for eggs. 

I stared down at you as we walked back to the house. Like a faithful pup right by my side, face plastered with the most contented smile. The orange light was climbing the trees. Your hair laid down in the wind and then stood back up again. Leaves fell from the old sycamore tree. And I felt so full. Full to the brim.

The realization often strikes me of how fleeting this all is, and when it does it stops me dead in my tracks. And I just marvel. Marvel at how adorable you are, those big words coming from your tiny mouth. Marvel at the amount of love my heart is able to manufacture. Marvel at the way your bright soul illuminates mine every single day. Marvel how through you, my sweet girl, I have felt God's love over and over again. 

Here's to another year of that.

Mom

(Parts two and one, here and here.)

The birth of Maggie Jane

It's been three weeks since you came. Three weeks full of yawns and cuddles and shuffling around the house half blissed-out, half delirious. Any coherent thoughts that form rise and then burst like bubbles just before I can get them out of my mouth. Sleep deprivation is in full swing. It's the reason I washed Stella's Cinderella dress with our towels and now we all look like we've been glitter-bombed after we dry off. And the reason I walk around and forget where I'm going and why. And how I managed to misplace no less than ten things before noon today. But girl, you have been so worth it. Your silly faces are sweeter than sleep. And somehow the memory of your birth has remained unscathed in my postpartum fog brain. It was a day I hope I will never forget as long as I live. 

My eyes shot open around 5:30am. I felt different in my body somehow. Like something had shifted. Like something was starting. And then I felt that first contraction. It was unmistakable. A feeling that I had forgotten about but remembered as soon as I felt it again. I laid so still, heart pumping fast, instantly energized thinking please let this be it. PLEASE LET THIS BE IT. Not only was I so excited to meet you but you were getting so heavy and strong and I was ready to get you out of my belly. (That is a gross understatement. I think I could write a book on submitting to the Lord's will and timing after surviving those last few weeks of pregnancy. They were not very fun. Not very fun, ha. Understatement.) 

I watched the sky go from black to orange behind the blinds. I let an hour pass and six or seven good contractions before I sat up and woke your daddy saying, PRAISE THE LORD! I'M FINALLY IN LABOR! We spent the next hour in bed giggling like little school girls all wrapped up in blankets guessing how long this was going to take, and if you were going to look like me or him, and if you'd be a girl or a boy like we were all convinced of. (Right now as I type this you are laying on a pillow in my lap wearing pajamas that say "mommy's little man"...if that tells you how convinced I was. Sorry about that. And about the pajamas. Everything else is dirty and hey, you can't read yet.) 

When Stella woke up we went downstairs and made waffles with strawberries and whipped cream, a favorite around here. We didn't want her to know that today was the day (anxiety makes her wet her pants and get clingy) which wasn't hard to conceal because I wasn't in very much pain. The contractions were starting to get closer together though so I snuck upstairs to make some phone calls. First I called Diane the midwife whose excitement made me feel giddy all over again. She said to call her back when they were coming every 3 - 4 minutes and lasting at least 45 seconds. Then I called Aunt Erin who had offered to come and pick Stella up when I went into labor. She said she'd be there around 10 to take her on a little play date with all of the cousins. Then I called NE and papa to tell them the good news. NE was sick with the flu and showed up a little bit later sporting a surgical mask. She said she wouldn't miss it for the world and I felt so much safer having her here. Papa was really nervous about us having you at home instead of at the hospital, but he came over too to show us support and to help your dad give me a Priesthood blessing. Your dad was cool as a cucumber and gave us a very Spirit-filled blessing of comfort and protection. I felt so much peace. Not an ounce of fear. Which was an answer to my many, many repeated prayers.

Once Erin and Stella were gone we got to work washing the sheets and getting the bed ready. First our good sheets, then a waterproof cover, then the cheap sheets. We cleaned up the dishes and got in the shower. Whenever a contraction would come I would yell "START!" and your daddy would time it using an app on his phone. They were about a minute long now and coming every three minutes. I got out of the shower and called Diane again. She said she'd leave right away and I remember thinking,  I hope she takes her time, because even though the contractions were long and frequent they didn't hurt as much as I'd remembered. 

Diane showed up around 12:30 with Shannon, her nurse, and Michaela, the midwife-in-training. They got to work setting up equipment, checking heart-rates, blood pressure, temperature, and checking my progress - 7cm at that point. Everyone (including me) seemed surprised that I was that far along and still feeling so good. When I was 7cm in labor with Stella I was huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf. This was going so much more smoothly already. 

It was a cold, windy afternoon and your dad made a fire downstairs for us to lounge around while we ate lunch. My water hadn't broken yet so I was kneeling on some folded up towels, just in case. I had my back to the fire and NE was holding hot washcloths dipped in lavender oil on my lower back, which felt like heaven. We all talked and ate and told stories and laughed. I was starting to feel things intensifying so we decided to move the party upstairs. The sun was coming through the back windows of the bedroom casting large, rectangular patches of light onto the floor. I picked a sunny spot near the window and dug my toes into the warm carpet. I held onto the side of the crib and swayed my hips back and forth during each contraction, trying to relax myself completely. First my forehead and jaw, then my neck and shoulders, then my chest and arms, and finally my lower belly and hips. I could feel myself tensing up in response to the pain, but as I consciously released my muscles I felt the most incredible surges of endorphins swimming through my body. It became so intoxicating. I found myself wanting more contractions because I knew they'd be followed by another wave of endorphins. I watched the sunlight through my eyelids and swayed back and forth and smiled. 

I couldn't tell you how long I stayed like that, but at some point Diane asked if I wanted to be checked again. I did, and climbed onto the bed. She said I was 10cm and 100% effaced. My water still hadn't broken, but she asked if I wanted to try to push you out. I said, sure, I guess. This was new for me. The last time I went through this, my body pushed the baby out all on its own. The only way I can describe it is a "reverse vomit" where it felt like all of my muscles pushed downward violently at the same time and I couldn't have stopped them if I tried. But this time I was laying on my back and when a contraction came I would push as hard as I could. I could feel you coming down as I did, but as soon as the contraction was over I could feel you get sucked back up into my belly. I kept at it for a while and started to get really tired. I decided to have Diane break my water so we could get this show on the road. She did, and immediately I felt that crazy urge to reverse vomit. I flipped over onto my hands and knees and holding your daddy's hands really tight I let my body take over. And when I say take over, I mean TAKE OVER. The sounds that came out of my mouth were akin to a wild jungle animal. Maybe like a lion roaring as he rips into a gazelle, or something. It was completely involuntary and hilarious and if I wasn't otherwise occupied I think I would have stopped to have a good fat laugh.  Every contraction made my body squeeze you out a little further, like a tube of toothpaste. After a few pushes I heard Diane say, "one more and your baby will be here!" I waited what seemed like an hour for the next contraction to come and felt you slide right out. That feeling! It is the mother of all sweet relief! I wanted to collapse into the pillows and cry for joy. But before I could they passed you like a little football right up through my legs and I was staring down at your tiny face while you cried and cried and cried. Your daddy pressed his forehead against mine and said, "IT'S A GIRL!" and I said, "NO. WAY." and we laughed and cried and laughed some more. 

You were here. Maggie Jane. 

Adios 2012

Happy New Year to all of you, from us. Video by Nathan.

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?