Playing on the Carpet in the Basement in Pokey with My Niece While Wearing Patchouli Oil

I am lying on the floor, enjoying a quick moment of down-time while my 4-year-old niece, who's been my near-constant companion since we arrived on Saturday, romps next to me. She pounces on me and snuggles against me for a hug.

Niece: You smell like your house.

Geo: Like my house?

Niece: Yes.

Geo: Is that good or bad?

Niece: That's good!

Geo: I'm glad to hear it.

Niece: You smell like cinn-..., cinna-... [she stops]

Geo: Do I smell spicy?

Niece: No. You smell like...

Geo: ?

Niece: ... cement!

Starling

Found out earlier that a young woman I'm acquainted with, a family friend, is dying. Three weeks she's been given. Weeks! That's practically like budgeting out the rest of her life in hours. It's only been a few months since this beautiful girl was singing over the supper table to entertain us and our extended family. She was already well down the road to a professional singing career when she fell ill. And now she's nearly ready to leave home on a startlingly different kind of journey.

And seemingly to drive that hurtful point home, the sweet starling baby my tender-hearted mum-in-law has been lovingly tending and urging toward adulthood (so kindly that the homely little thing was practically calling her Mama after a couple weeks), was killed by Coco and/or Cowrie, the big dogs in residence. What a sad thing. I know plenty of people dislike starlings, but it's impossible not to be charmed by a friendly baby, however ratty looking, who sits contentedly on your finger and talks and chirps and asks comically for food.

So, it's been a thoughtful day.

We had a no-lunch lunch date with some wonderful people, friends I'm glad to claim. But afterward, when the chumming hour was over, more thoughts. They just wouldn't turn off.

Existential angst.
My age.
Other people's problems and griefs.
Mortality.
All the books I won't get around to reading even if I live another thousand years.
Library fines.
Stuff I dare not mention.
My dog's dental problems.

You know, right? Because you tumble down the stairs into your own dark spidery basement of thoughts sometimes too. I wasn't in the black abyss I sometimes visit, but I was definitely below ground in a musty place where the light doesn't adequately reach.

Even when Rob and I went out for Korean food this evening, I had a hard time shaking some of more troubling thoughts (i.e., far beyond the book and dog worries). And a strange fatigue got hold of me. I could barely keep my eyes open or stay upright. Felt like everything was shutting down. Even my speech was coming out in slo-mo. Some date I was!

But we drove out toward the lake in search of sandhill cranes and ended up walking along a tucked away path we haven't explored together since last October. What a beautiful evening—the light was golden, and the clouds and sun rays made an incredible show. The wind whipped my hair twentythirtyforty directions, but blew away the usual bug clouds and also churned up the lake till it seemed you could almost surf on it. Pelicans were everywhere. Elegant terns, with their hilariously incongruous buzzy voices, snapped through the air and mixed with countless swallows, all catching their dinner to the left and to the right—zip! swoop! A great blue heron rose up from the reeds just ahead of us. A muskrat. The species of bird I spotted in our neighborhood last week—black wings, yellow neck and breast and back, rosy red head. Wildflowers, yellow and purple, of which I pinched an armload for the dining room table. A houseboat anchored in a small swampy inlet area of the lake. Birds singing all around, beautiful songs. Shifting light. An airplane high above us, seeming to head straight for the sun. A good walk and then a slow ride around the lake, to spare Mudhoney some alignment problems from hitting too many holes too fast.

It was during the first part of our time at the lake when I caught a whiff of something fresh and flowering then got my body moving, one foot after another, and my thoughts corrected themselves; I'm wasting time on these worries, I said inside me. What if I had three weeks to live? What if today was my last day? What would I want to be doing? and thinking? It didn't take me long to boil it all down to gratitude—that's where I would want my thoughts to be centered, and what I would wish to use as a template for my "last" choices.

How would you wish to spend your day, if today was your last? I know it's almost cliché now, that question, but it doesn't bother me. It's still a good thing to consider.

I spent the rest of the evening trying to be present and notice everything beautiful. When we drove by a bank full of bunchy white weeds and they were thrashing in the wind as if they were in a mosh pit, we stopped and smiled at their wild party. It really looked to me like the earth was dancing. And why not? What could be better than feeling the wind in your flowers?

What if I really had only three weeks to live? What if today really was my last day?

I spent the evening focused on gratitude and loving and concentrating on righthererightnow, and everything about my day changed, in an instant. And energy returned. But maybe that just was the kimchee talking.

Head to Toe

My last dream before waking this morning a real disturber. I was myself, but my family configuration was different—I was young and unmarried and living with a father and a sister. My mother was either dead or just gone. Some of the details elude me now, but I have a strong remembrance of discovering that I was not wanted. My father, who was never seen in my dream, wished me to leave his house immediately; he didn't love me, didn't want me in his space. His excuse was that I had an anger problem, though I didn't feel angry in my dream, just very sad and terribly confused. I asked my older sister if she wanted me to go away as well, but she wouldn't answer. She told me if I got help on my own and resolved my (so-called) problem, I could come and stay with her a while in California, but that was the extent of her response. I didn't know where to go or what to do; I only knew that my family was rejecting me. I began to wonder aloud to my sister if I could apply for a foster family, but then suddenly realized I was 37. Confusion, shame, grief, fear, loneliness, despair.

Was I ever glad to wake up. My morning prayer consisted of a long list of thank-yous having to do with being wanted. I realized in a fresh way that I am wanted—by my husband, some family, some friends, even a few acquaintances. And by God. And so on like that. What a relief. Who needs to be wildly popular? Not me. I just need my own place in the universe, that fluid spot where I belong.

The next thought that came to my mind had to do with wanting to protect others from that feeling, to sniff it out, to chase it away, to heal it. That's huge—the pursuit of a lifetime. Makes me feel fierce, the desire to defend against such ugly things as rejection and abandonment.

*sigh*

I'll keep sitting on this dream a while and see if it hatches.

(Like the broody analogy? Everything looks like a nest anymore. What's a hen to do?)

I want to tell you what Rob and I did yesterday, a creative project with friends, but it's another story I need to let gestate for a bit. I won't forget though; that's a promise.

What I can say is that two nights ago I stayed up late and hung pictures. (Family, are you gasping from the shock?) This will mean very little to you if you've not been in my house since I painted it white from floor to ceiling. That's right—white! Rob and I have been passing through some kind of phase—the emptier the better, in a way. Lots and lots of clean negative space. I have my hypotheses, but won't get into them now. Our house has been in this whitened, echoey state for some time now. But I dug around in the basement and pulled up some dusty adornments and measured and nailed and arranged. It's like Christmas. I was determined that the first items out of mothballs, so to speak, would be two large portraits of some ancestors of Rob's, either great-greats or great-great-greats; he doesn't recall. It's been years since we've seen these portraits out in Rob's grandmother's house, and for a long time the idea of them felt heavy and intimidating. I mean, even just space-wise, these family members ask a lot of us. But something finally opened in my head and I felt perfectly ready to find them honorific spots somewhere on the walls. Rob pried the nails out of the crate they were stored in and out first came the grandmama. We both had forgotten that she was painted with a baby on her lap, a round little child holding a beautiful Johnny jump-up in its hand. We had both remembered these ancestors as being older and more solemn, but looking at them now it's obvious that they were lovely, youthful people. They are not heavy presences in the least, but really delightful to have around. They watch over us as we eat together in the dining room. such welcome guests, and their absolute arrival feels like such a good omen.

Today, I babysat two of my young cousins, 6 and 2. Have you ever made life-sized paper dolls using little girls as templates? You should get yourself a roll of kraft paper and some markers and crayons and try it. It's the mostest fun, and who doesn't love having a flat, gaudy version of herself nearby to drape on the couch or tape to the wall?

Ready for more out-of-characterness? I made up a crochet pattern. For baby booties. One or two of you might remember the last attempt I made at baby booties eons ago when I hosted a knit group. They turned out really warm and... well, memorable. Frankenstein meets Ziggy Stardust, or something like that. Technicolor. I never had the guts to give them to anyone. I like to make babies happy, not give them issues requiring therapy later in life. My booties were great for some laughs. But today's? Cotton and silk, sweet, just right. Nothing remotely nightmare-inducing, just tiny toasty toes. (By the way, they're not for anyone at my house. Just in case you were wondering.)

That's about it for the progress report. Goodnight.

Day Four Through Day Umpteen

Here's the latest Adoption Progress Report from Bright Street:

• Got a replacement Social Security card and copied it for the agency so now my background can be checked for criminal activity. (Glad to know this will not include reports from the Fashion Police.)
• Have heard from a few people that requests for character referencs and official inquiries are being made about us.
• We've been given the key to the front door of the LDS Family Services adoption site. The key won't turn in the lock yet (some strange password issue we're waiting to have resolved), but soon we'll be working our way through the next round of paperwork, online this time.
• We have been assigned an actual case worker. Her name is Paige. We have our first meeting with her this Tuesday. Every time I think of it my stomach does tuck and roll.
• My mum-in-law gave me a beautiful black mantilla which belonged to Rob's great-grandmother, Josie. Josie wore it while she was pregnant with Rob's maternal grandmother, Daphne. I love Grandma Daphne very much, and was privileged to live near her in the last years of her long good life. She once made a present of a piano to me, her mother Josie's. I was shocked, and still am. But there it stands, in the living room of a novice pianist, adored. Now I feel really honored to have this mantilla, especially as we try to move through this journey of growing our family. I wore it on Friday to the temple. It felt beautiful around my shoulders, like support, like protection, like knowing, like grace.
• It seems that I've been given a magic looking-glass. It's no circus mirror like the one I've made a long habit of staring at; this new glass shows accurate dimensions. Each time my attention's been directed to peer into it these past couple weeks, I've been shown something important about myself. None of it's been pretty, which is to say that this is not a mirror invested in flattery or petting; I see the shape of things now and what's possible (that's the more appealing part which keeps me willing to continue studying). The first good look I took made me go quiet, stopped me cold. I've got a blog post that ventured halfway into that particular vision; I really meant to write it all, but it got too intense to publish and I had to let it go. I do take comfort in the fact that something in me is apparently ready to receive such information and not bolt. Anyway, each look has been different; one that happened on Friday night was really fascinating. I got to observe and help someone else going through a personal crisis, and got all sorts of understanding. I got my lesson and a satisfying twist of irony. I don't mean to skip over stories here, but it doesn't feel right to elaborate further. I'll just say the glass and I had an eventful weekend. 
• (And just in case you're wondering, I do equate the last bullet point with adoption progress.)
• On the 17th I decided to start a scripture-reading program. Five chapters a day will see me through the entire Standard Works  in a year's time. For me, an important aspect of parenting is being able to teach from the scriptures as well as from life and nature and all good sources. That means I gotta know my stuff. Or at least be better acquainted with my stuff. Or simply be in the habit of finding my stuff. So, I downloaded some handy-dandy bookmarks to track my reading, and right now I'm working on the Book of Mormon and the Old Testament. I'm enjoying the time, and it goes by quickly. To keep myself moving forward—march, march, march—I'm simultaneously reading and listening. Makes for an interesting experience. Sometimes it's useful to hear a different delivery than the one that speaks out in my own head. Also, with two senses engaged at once it's easier to keep my mind focused. I've had a tough time with that lately—a result of anxiousness, I'm sure. 
• I'm de-hoarding the basement. Construction will soon follow. 
• We had our dandelions treated. Obliterated. So our neighbors will be like us better and not hold our future children for ransom (their single demand: "Kill the weeds!"). Mind you, I'm a great believer in dandelions as a concept (and they make excellent tea), but I'm not as recklessly anti-social as one might think. I do love my neighbors. And their tidy nice-people lawns. 
• I'm dusting off a colorful blankey project I started last time I was pregnant. Man, is it pretty. And I find I can look at it again now without too much emotional kickback. I'm going to finish the thing, whatever happens.
• I'm gearing up to become an early morning person, as of tomorrow. Wish me luck. Now, goodnight.

Saturday

Saturday

Saturday is a special day.

It's the day we get ready for Sunday. 

We grab our hats 

And we hike to the Y

And we ride up the bike trail to Borders.

We make salad 

And we go to the church

And we eat barbecue with our neighbors.

Then we soak in the tub

And we curse our shin splints

That'll keep us from walking on Sunday.

In other Saturday news, I made:

• really good whole wheat sourdough pancakes (the biscuits on that page are also great)
• editing marks on a friend's screenplay
• bubble bath: 1 liter water + 100 ml glycerine + 100 ml Dr. Bronner's Castile Soap + 2 drops patchouli oil + 7 drops geranium oil
• noise (aka music practice)
• my first complete and correct page of lyrics and chords for The Be Heres' up and coming Ukulele Songbook (Nellie the Elephant, if you want to know)

I'm Going Off the Rails

A minute before ten and I'm going to bed. Early. That's not early for you? It is for me.

I would have gladly punched the clock at nine tonight, if I hadn't had a screenwriters' meetup in Sugarhouse, and then a series of stand-still traffic clots on the freeway. Nighttime road construction—it's all the rage. (Can you find the hidden joke in that statement?)

My fatigue has really caught up to me. I've been dumbheaded and drowsy for days, but kept on driving anyway. Tonight exhaustion is pulling me over like the policeman in my dream early this morning. When I saw those blue and red lights and got that awful sinking feeling inside as I recognized they were flashing at me, I searched my brain to discover what I'd done wrong. There was only the vaguest impression of it: had I run a red light? Yes, and the officer confirmed. Oh, but sir, I didn't realize! Oh! Ohhh! But moaning about it didn't divert the consequences. This officer wasn't rude, but he was bland and straight and I knew there would be no suspension of consequences. I broke the law. I wasn't paying attention to the rules.  It's a fair parallel for my life in some ways right now. And I know I've got to start reading the signs and responding more quickly to the lights around me. 

Many years ago I got a ticket for reckless driving. I couldn't keep my eyes open at the wheel and I guess I was driving unsafely. It was a good thing that squad car pulled me over. I think it's a good thing now. Thanks, Officer. 

A quick list of happies, and then I'm out of here:

• an enjoyable last meal with the lovely Thomases before they left for home
• (French toast, mangoes, Arizona grapefruit)
• sharing faith with others not of our faith
• learning that Bryce next door bought Peter's other traveling ukulele
• having new friends
• another sweet gift: a book about making books by the Thomases
• living with my best friend
• gaining some ground with the uke
• building new callouses with nylon instead of steel strings (don't care if you call me a wimp)
• beautiful stories still arriving from friends (love, love, love!)
• receiving a list of questions from our darling "daughter" in SF (we're her surrogate gringo parents), so we can help her with her homework
• a good meetup with my screenwritin' friends
• drawing the dreaded "Monster in the House" genre card for a take-home writing assignment
• excellent words
• great jazz and classical radio when nothing singable was on 
• (except for Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train" on the way to SLC)
• (which, by the way, would make a pretty awesome ukulele song—think about it)
• imagination
• making it home alive from Sugarhouse
• somebody warm and interested waiting at home
• late night toast

Looks like I'm not the first one to think about that Ozzy Osbourne tune being uke-worthy. PLEASE, can I have this kid?

Picking and Grinning

UKULELE UPDATE! Last night after a really delicious pot luck dinner with our guests and some family and friends, I confessed to Peter that I'd snuck a play on his ukulele book the previous evening, and declared I absolutely had to get a uke soon. He slipped out of the house a little later and came back inside with a wedge-shaped box which he handed to me. It was a gift—a ukulele! Peter told me he was a missionary for the ukulele and had brought it from home thinking there would be someone along the way to give it to. Perfect!

The Thomases pulled out their instruments and a small amp for Donna's bass uke, and Rob pulled out his guitar, and we made some music. I say "we," but the only rhythm I could keep up with in the room was joy. I don't function well yet without a basic chord cheat sheet ten inches from my face, so I played C and F when they came around (sometimes). Gary did a bang-up job on Flexatone. Fun! When the Thomases were sung out, we said goodnight and I felt so glad we'd be doing it again this evening.

Today we finished our broadside collaboration. It turned out great! A terrific Kerouac quote, letterpress, painting prints with colorful Utah dirts, a cheerful assembly line of Thomases, Rob and me, and Paul—how could it turn out any way but wonderful? We shared good meals again today, and laughed and created together. I'm feeling inspired to work on more art projects.

As I mentioned before, tonight we did pot luck and music again. Only this time we had a full house and more musicians, and it turned into a straight up hootenanny. Everyone present, even the kids, were engaged and had something to make music or noise with; our odd collection of small instruments came in pretty handy. Aside from ukes and guitars, we had among other things a thumb piano, an assortment of bells, a Clackamore, a Flexatone, a jaw harp, Thai wooden frogs, The McAfees brought homemade ukulele songbooks and shared them with us, then led us in some happymaking music. Dad B came over for supper and left early but Mum stayed and played with us. Chris and Amy arrived early and stayed late and were lots of fun. Gary claimed his corner chair and totally ruled the Flexatone again. The Knudsons got into with us. Debby let loose with her gospel choir training, and found she could still play the uke. We taught Donna a new favorite song: "I Am a Child of God," which she requested twice. The McAfee daughter can really belt. It was a terrific evening, and I so hated to see it come to an end.

I've come to the conclusion again recently that music needs to be a bigger and regular part of my life. I forget all the time that I am actually a musician, just one that's been lying dormant. Music feeds my soul, and it's a way to play. So is art. So is writing. So is... well, play. The other thing I want to do, again with music, is have more such hootenannies at our house. Spending time together this way is good for what ails people; I'm so sure of it.

That's it. for the sake of health and happiness I am officially starting a band: The Be Heres. If you want to play in my band, all you have to do is come over and make some noise with me. You're in.

If you need some persuading to turn off your television and start making your own fun, here's another great song from one of my favorite bands, followed by some lyrics—

Oh, that television ... what a bad picture!
Don't get upset, its not a major disaster.
There's nothing on tonight, he said, I don't know whats the matter!
Nothing's ever on, she said, so ... I don't know why you bother.

We've heard this little scene, we've heard it many times.
People fighting over little things and wasting precious time.
They might be better off ... I think ... the way it seems to me.
Making up their own shows, which might be better than t.v.

(chorus)

Judy's in the bedroom, inventing situations.
Bob is on the street today, scouting up locations.
They've enlisted all their family.
They've enlisted all their friends.
It helped saved their relationship,
And made it work again ...

Their show gets real high ratings, they think they have a hit.
There might even be a spinoff, but they're not sure 'bout that.
If they ever watch t.v. again, it'd be too soon for them.
Bob never yells about the picture now, he's having too much fun.

(chorus)

Judy's in the bedroom, inventing situations,
Bob is on the street today, scouting up locations.
They've enlisted all their family.
They've enlisted all their friends.
It helped save their relationship, 
And made it work again ...

So think about this little scene; apply it to your life.
If your work isn't what you love, then something isn't right.
Just look at Bob and Judy; they're happy as can be,
Inventing situations, putting them on t.v.

(chorus)

Judy's in the bedroom, inventing situations.
Bob is on the street today, scouting up locations.
They've enlisting all their family.
They've enlisted all their friends.
It helped save the relationship,
And made it work again ...

G C E A

There's a gypsy caravan parked in front of my house.

Guess what's been my dream since I was a little girl?

That's right. To live in a gypsy caravan. How did you know?

It'll be here until Thursday morning. You should come by and see it. Then you and I can talk about how romantic it is, and how all our lives we've dreamed of traveling light, playing wild music, and maybe selling a little snake oil on the side to fund our adventures.

It's very hard to sleep at night, knowing that bright, dreamy, hand-built, hand-carved, hand-painted caravan is out there. Not that I'm blaming my insomnia on my gypsy dream.

The people that came along with the caravan are not themselves actual gypsies, but are book artists Peter and Donna Thomas, and we are doing a broadside project with them. It's been a pleasure to spend time with these lovely new friends. They are making their way across the U.S., peddling wares, giving lectures, and making connections and art. Yesterday we drove all down to Thistle together and collected soil samples in a gorgeous rainbow of reds and browns. Today we sifted them to get at the fine particles that can work for making pigment. Ooooo! I'd like to know just who it is that thinks Utah is not a colorful state. You need to come over and play in the magic dirt with us—you'll certainly change your mind.

Last night I tried playing a few quick songs on one of their ukulele books. (Click the awesome link. Do it.) My most successful tune was "Rubber Duckie." Man, that's got satisfying chords!

So now I'm determined to get a ukulele.

And one day, if I'm very very lucky, my own gypsy caravan.

*sigh*

All I Have to Do Is Dream

Last night was a stupidly late one. I went to sleep, knowing I'd more than borrowed from today's energy supply. When I hear people talk about living within their means, I think of other resources besides money. Sleep is one of the main areas of my life where I'm almost always in debt—too often I burn up all my reserves and dip into tomorrow. This is a pattern that's got to change.

As I was going to sleep (always tricky once I've ventured so far beyond the witching hour), I prayed a while about this and a number of other chronic hang-ups that are getting me down. It was a more natural, more raw conversation than I've had in prayer for a while; it felt like the questions and frustrations were flowing out of me quickly and honestly. No answers came, except for the feeling of having been heard. That helped me slow my mind down, let go, and sleep.

This morning I woke up from an interesting dream. I had a large clear glass vessel with a rounded shape, some pumpkin-esque seams, and a small non-threaded neck without a lid. Backstory from my waking life: some years ago when I lived in another part of town, I served my first tour of duty as ward Young Women president. In preparation for summer camp, our camp director led the girls and adult leaders in making campfire/secret stash seats from plastic food storage buckets, cushions, and fabric. She brought all kinds of different paints for us to use to personalize our projects. She and I also brought line drawings and designs the group could tape to the insides of their buckets and use as guides, if needed. So in my dream, I had this glass vessel, clean and new, a nice shape. In the dream's backstory, I had apparently been trying to figure out how to get a pattern into the bottle. I needed to do this foundational step of placing and tracing the pattern in preparation for personalizing the piece, before I could begin to lay down beautiful colors on the outside. One problem was the size of the bottleneck; it was impossible to fit my hand into the bottle for any reason. The second problem was the shape of the thing. It had no flat surfaces except for the very bottom, so even if I could have slipped a pattern into the bottle, it wouldn't have taken on the right shape to be useful. I couldn't have made any necessary adjustments. This situation already existed at the start of my dream. 


So I had this vessel and this problem. I was stuck. But I was busy doing other things, focused on parts of my life other than the impasse. Then right in the middle of some thoughts about a different subject a solution came to me. I could clearly see the answer to the problem; it was to get a large uninflated balloon, draw the pattern onto it with a black Sharpie marker, slip the balloon into the bottle while keeping the lip of it accessible outside the bottleneck, blowing the balloon up until the breath pushed it into every part of the bottle, tying off the balloon, tracing the inside pattern to the outside, then letting the air out of the balloon in order to to pull it out. I was astonished and overjoyed by this unexpected inspiration. The feeling of victory was in strong contrast to having pretty much given up on figuring out how to finish my glass as beautifully as I was supposed to. 


As I was waking up, I realized that it was only the first step, and that there remained more problems to solve in this process, like how to get the pattern right on the balloon, all the way around so it would properly fill the glass. Or where to get a balloon already patterned that way. I began to feel anxious and wonder if I really had gotten a good answer after all, but then I decided to shelve the worry and feel confident in my little vision; the other parts would come. I was excited to wake up and get to work on my glass.


Then I wasn't sleeping anymore. I felt excited until I stopped to ask myself, "What glass?"

Many thoughts on that subject today, but now it's late, past the witching hour again, and I've got to sleep.

I Gather Armfuls

So disorienting: the Primary kids didn't sing their annual mother-songs in church today. What?

That's why I have to post this song. Even though it's the same one I posted two days ago. No dancing with a floor lamp this time, just beautiful people.

Oh, I love these kids. Love. Them.

Good things happened today. (Happy Mothers Day, y'all, that is, if you haven't already checked out and gone to bed.) For instance:

• a dream of about a dozen or so women, all in gorgeous maxi dresses
• a nice warm wakeup call from my favorite person
• "the perfect diner egg" and hash browns, eaten on the run
• wearing Grandma Daphne's orange bakelite necklace with the magic black $8 dress and not feeling like Halloween
• feeling nurtured by Vincent love, empathy, and laughter (I could write a lengthy post just counting up reasons I adore them)
• being blessed by a friend's beautiful dream (she even let me act in it)
• little girls in bright summery maxi frocks 
• getting to see my Kim who's home from USU for the summer
• Rob's delicious shortbread (so good in fact that he should be made an honorary Scot)
• not being handed a funeral carnation at church for Mothers Day
• lunch AND dinner at Tribal Headquarters
• creating paper rose wreaths
• the Blueberry Hackworths finally drying to their perfect point of readiness (i.e., wearing and not melting the confectioner's sugar)
• making frosting with Amy
• helping Jeanne through a migraine

Other good things happened this weekend too, including:

• an elegant bouquet of tall irises from my honey
• sharing our refrigerator roulette lunch and some good conversation with Suzanne's painter
• scrubbing the bathroom of a young friend on her moving day (the fun part was amusing myself with self-talk like, "You're a Christian martyr, yes, that's what you are, a Christian martyr!")
• promotional free eats at Orem's new Café Paesan Italian Bistro on Friday—good food from the people who opened Café Rio—tastes like a winner
• laughing too loudly with Rob while looking at travel books in the public library
• Dad B, despite being in so much pain he can hardly walk this weekend:
• coming over with Mum and surprising me with a a visit
• bringing me a pot of beautiful dark lilies because he wanted to help "make it a better Mothers Day"
• giving me great bear hugs and love-yous
• actual squirrels! with long bushy tails! 
• walking by Utah Lake
• yellow-headed blackbirds and the way they land and go for rides on tall phragmites 
• tiny yellow warblers
• the sax player who was out on the airport road, improvising jazz while accompanied by peepers, ducks, coots, and all sorts of noisy creatures
• giant bulls in a field that look just like our former stake president's family
• partying with the cousins to celebrate 6-year-old Bethany (and if you want a piece of genuine Mothers Day sweetness, you WILL click that last link)
• toxic Cheetos
• everybody's pregnant (well, I'm not, but nearly everyone else is and really, truly, I think that's wonderful)

Hurdles I got over:

• baby weepies (several rounds)
• fatigue
• missing my matriarchs
• missing absent in-laws
• burning both hands all over while catching a great ol' big blob of hot glue (saved the table though)
• not being able to stop smelling the pernicious phantom must for two days after scrubbing my friend's toilet (see: moving day, above)

This next part doesn't belong on any of the above lists, but I want to put it somewhere for safe keeping. I'm warning you now that if you want to avoid reading a real piece of sadness, stop now and visit the next blog on your list. 

A woman who was a member of our church congregation for a time moved across town a few short months ago to an apartment complex for retired people. Sylvia was 61, divorced, a nice and gentle lady, also I think very lonely. She dealt with some sort of mental illness I could never quite get my mind around—nothing dangerous to anyone else, but it made her quite odd at times. And the woman could talk, boy howdy. Rob was her home teacher for a while, and I like to think we were friends. Apparently, she died just recently. It seems that no one knows what caused her death. Her new bishop, who was her current home teacher, tried phoning her and couldn't connect with her as usual, so he went to her apartment to try to get in, thinking she might be in trouble. But she was already ten days beyond her trouble by then. He found her seated in her living room with her coat on. Her front door was unlocked. Ten days, no one looked for her, no one knew a thing. It rips me to pieces. 

No funeral. No obituary. No family?

I trust she's okay now, that she's having a marvelous reunion with people who care for her, and she's able to feel light and well and happy, since she's left her pains and illness behind. I believe with all my heart she was welcomed home with beautiful brilliant love, more than enough to let her know how important she is. But those ten awful days, they haunt me. They make me ache. After I heard the news today everyone around me looked different and I felt a fierce surge of interest in them. The desire to be more aware and attentive in my relationships doubled, tripled, quadrupled.

Where I feel the yearning most is in my hands. I want to be touching people more. Knocking on doors. Dare I say it?—picking up the telephone. (That's how I know this is serious.) Working, helping, holding. If a day set aside to honor mothering isn't the time for those kinds of desires to increase, I don't know when is the time. My hands need to be busier with nurturing. I only have these two hands and they're not always as strong as I'd like them to be, but they weren't stuck on the ends of my arms so I'd get good at standing around and wringing them. 

I want to have some kind of personal memorial for Sylvia. Maybe it'll just be a walk & think. Maybe a Mcdonald's chocolate shake (her favorite) with a friend. Maybe I'll try to make a new friend. That's it. That's what I need to do. Awkwardness, be damned.

I'm reminded of a really beautiful talk I've listened to several times already, by one of my modern heroes. If you didn't catch the LDS General Conference last month, this will be new to you, and likely a real uplift. Give it a listen. 

Day Three

Day Two

(Celebratory Cinco de Mayo wall art done by Bec o' my heart. 

If you don't know what "Sophie" means, maybe I'll let you in on the secret sometime.)

We attended our first Adoptive Couples Education Workshop this evening. By the time the two+ hours had passed, my brain was ready to explode. But it was good. The topics for tonight included (but were not limited to) presentations and discussion about open vs. closed adoption, adoption tax credit, and gift ideas for birth mothers. Both our heads were buzzing when we left the BYU Law School tonight. I think all the cute scrapbooking stuff at the end is what finally did Rob in. (Okay, and me too.)

I didn't make it to Social Security today for my replacement card. I was feeling too raunchy today for an errand I knew could wait till tomorrow. I'm guessing it's perfectly normal to feel as if I'd been hit by a truck, under the circumstances. On our way home and after an emergency stop for a hospital cheeseburger with fries, Rob swung by Smith's and bought me an adoption-sized bottle of pot pourri-flavored chewable sidewalk chalk tablets to kill my rot gut. It's helping a little, but I may be up a while yet, waiting for some "Peace, be still" to happen.

By the way, did you know the law says you may only ask Social Security for three replacements per year, and ten total your entire life? Even though I've gone for many years with the same card, learning there was a limit sent me into a small panic. Suddenly I'm thinking of scenarios that might make it necessary for me to repeatedly order replacements and reach the dreaded quota. What then? Would I be assigned a new identity or simply exiled? 

Neurotic Question of the Day: What if the child(ren) we adopt can't stand us? I mean, we are from Planet 10. That makes us high-risk parents.

And since I think I missed asking my Neurotic Question of the Day yesterday, here's the most basic one I can think of: Will anybody choose us?

You don't have to answer those. I just need to get them out of my system, one by one. If they get too personal, I might have to go underground.

Inspiration of the Day: It's time to start praying for the protection of our kid-to-be, whether in or out of the oven already. It's also time to pray for the birth mom.

Haps Du Jour:

• Clean sheets and pillowcases 
• Loving messages from people I adore 
• Being treated to another mini-concert by our neighbor the rockstar 
• Birds of my neighborhood 
• Listening to The New Pornographers on Lala (you'd better get your fill of Lala by the end of the month, y'all) 
• Cooking my first Pad Thai 
• Inventing a new sweets recipe in honor of a new friend—I call them "Blueberry Hackworths," and they're a cross between fruit snacks and Turkish Delight. They didn't set up in time for delivery this afternoon, but might by tomorrow. They need time to breathe. 
• Looking at proofs with Mum and Justin and talking about beautiful Haitians 
• Getting the hang of the budgeting program 
• Jeans getting loose, even if it means having to make alterations 
• Becca's bright color wall—better than a lava lamp! better than Consuelo's door-to-door chicken tamales! 
• Clean sheets and pillowcases (oh yeah, those—time to sleep)

But first, this, to empathize with my ailing guts (and thanks so much for the loan of your cute baby Henry's face, YouTube user oregone)—

(Becca, I vote that you try living with that red for a while. 

I'm betting it'll win you over in no time.)

Day One

Some joke, that post title. Day One, my eye! It's Day Six Thousand and Something, at least. Maybe Seven Thousand Plus. But I suppose it is Day One in a sense, since today's the day we signed our names and laid our money down, so far down. By tomorrow we'll have an official file—after I go in the morning to stand in line at the Social Security office and get a replacement card, then I will drop off a photocopy to LDSFS. And our initial paperwork will be complete.

Now that we've made it through our orientation/intake meeting, the sickness I've been feeling begins to melt away. Might take another day or two to feel normal, but it's better than it has been for several days. As soon as the meeting was over we went for ice cream at The Creamery on 9th and overdosed on sugar. Not too smart, but it was right there, and both of us were in the mood for some emotional eating.

The meeting was run by two social workers from the agency. We were there just one hour but covered a lot of ground. I am still having something like an out-of-body experience as we go through this process. Is this happening? Is this real? It felt real enough at home when I was scrambling for some addresses for our references at the last minute. We were undoubtedly the oldest couple there at the meeting. Ha. We might have been able to adopt a few of the young hopeful parents present. Should have thought to ask.

When it was time to hand over a check to the secretaries in a different part of the office, I said, "We're here to make a downpayment on a person," and the two mild women at the computers laughed and laughed. "We've never heard that one before!" And after we made the transaction, they smiled and said, "Congratulations, you two!" as if we were walking out with our child right then.

Twice I heard a social worker telling some couple that adoptive parents have been chosen as soon as three days after being approved. While I'm sure that's true, it's a crazy thing to have to hear when you're just starting. It's too easy for hopes to rise too high too fast. I won't be a pessimist though; you never know. But I do imagine it's very likely Rob and I will have to wait longer to be chosen than some younger couples.

The thing I keep saying to myself is God's hand will be in this, whatever the result. I have great confidence in him to help us find the right souls to receive into our family. I mean, hey, if the hand of Providence was kind enough to bring the two of us together, then why not kind some more in continuing to bring together the right people at the right time? A precedent's been set. I'm not afraid to put my faith in that kindness. (That doesn't prevent me from feeling the wait and the mystery in my stomach though.)

Chris and Amy came by this evening to show us their sweet rides: terrific new bikes. I shared the Day One report with them. It's nice to not be keeping this a secret anymore. While they were visiting, another set of dear ones (who shall remain nameless till they're ready to reveal their own secret) came by... to tell us they're pregnant with #1. After a few rounds of bear hugs and big hurrahs, I shared our own family-growing news with them, and we were all happy for each other. Nothing's certain at this point for either of our families, of course, but it's good to be on the road, traveling.

And now, I'm pooped. Time for sleeps, time to head for tomorrow.

Human Beans, Indigestion

Do this:

Go to Pandora.
Scroll down and click on "Genre Stations."
Select "Latin."
Then select "Mexican."

Now you can celebrate Cinco de Mayo with me while doing your day's work.

Sick at my stomach. Umpteenth day.
Nerves.
Adoption orientation/intake in a few hours. Step one.
Budgeting.
Paperwork.
Self-doubt.
Kneeling. Praying.
Pep talk.
Pepto-Bismol?
Aiee!
Couldn't eat a taco now if I tried.

¡Gracias al cielo de Pandora!

And gracias to our dear ones who are sending prayers and happy thoughts our way.

P.S. Thanks to you-know-who for paying more than we asked for the guitar amp. You are sneaky and crazy and we love you.

Since Yesterday

I promised you bullet points, and I mean to deliver. I'm especially grateful for—

• birthday eggs from Joh Pokeysmith: blue, green, buff
• Stephanie Nielson's "Mormon Message" 
• big fat blueberries, even in so-so muffins
• rediscovering the word "honkey," thanks to Justin
• iWork's budget template
• someone worth working for to work things out with
• figuring out a recipe for honkey lasagna to help out friends who don't like vegies or spices
• a toddler who stays inert indefinitely for tickles and backrubs
• Johnny's Mary (I heart you)
• Really? Somebody actually wants to dress like me? Well, that's a first! (Okay, here's how, just not at thrift store prices. Sorry, Darly, I just got lucky.)
• Asics
• kid-pronunciations: "crotch-eting" (crocheting) 
• my dear friend and her two little girls are still alive and safe after a man using his cell while driving hit their double-stroller on 3rd South today (thank you, thank you, thank you, Father)
• a friendly pair: one cop, one channel 2 news guy
• Cher & Evan
• being given a stolen pink tulip by a beaming child and wearing it proudly, Billie Holiday-style
• houseplants with an unconquerable will to live
• continuing to do despite being terrified (see: adoption process)
• "Ya can't steer a parked car."
• change
• eavesdropping on conversations while walking along Center Street (especially on Tuesday night, after a City Council meeting)
• a pair of sugary elephant ears from Shirley's bakery given as a love offering after patching up an argument (elephants never forget to listen sweetly?)

Stephanie Nielson: My New Life

We pause now from our previously-scheduled narcissism to bring you this message of beauty and truth:

What gifts.

Want more?

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

Stephanie Nielson

"Mormon Messages" YouTube Channel

Yes, You May (part 4)

Last installment!

The dress-up direction I received from Justin in preparation for the 30 Strangers shoot was (and I'm paraphrasing him very loosely here): Dress dark and come as you are, unless you're a slob. Fair enough. I went a-thrifting to see what sort of new-to-me black beauty of a top I could hunt up that would work with jeans. I figured if I couldn't have my mom there with me too, I could at least carry on her indigo legacy. Symbols—I like them. What I found instead of the perfect shirt was the perfect dress, retro J. Peterman, in mint condition. Eight bucks. And just right as an expression of the classic style handed down to me by my mother and her mother—one I love but often lay aside. Finding that piece of them felt like a particular blessing. And the dress paired well with the shiny red slingback pumps I'd picked up for I think six bucks during an earlier second-hand spree. I bought those shoes with two special people in mind—my darling vivacious gram, known throughout her life as Lady Bug, and my dear friend Caitlin, who once convinced me that every woman needs a pair of red shoes. The shoot was my first time wearing them. A red bracelet my mother bought for me years ago and enough red lipstick to last me a week completed my simple ensemble, and then it was, "Alright, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my closeup." Well, more or less. Mum told me as we drove to the studio that she got married in red slingback pumps. That's a nice connection.

On the way to our appointment, I revealed a secret to Mum, one that went right along with the generational theme of the day. Now I'm ready to tell it to you too, the nutshell version. On Wednesday of this week, Rob and I will go to an adoption orientation and intake meeting with LDS Family Services. We are laying down real money. Non-refundable money, even. Who knows if anyone will choose us as adoptive parents, but we are determinedly heading down that road of searching. I feel very emotional when I think of it. Inspired. And absolutely terrified. I'm forty-what? (Don't answer that.) And I know how much? Next to nothing? I guess we'll find out if the opportunity presents herself or himself. Anyway, you are all very cordially invited to celebrate the  strange and wonderful step we're taking on Cinco de Mayo 2010. Wherever you are, if you'll include us in your prayers and/or thoughts, and if you'll eat some beans and rice and dance a little salsa in solidarity that day, we will be much obliged.

I still sometimes can't believe I'm saying and doing these things. That we are, Rob and I. It's so surreal.

Isn't life one surprise after another?

So, here we are, finally at Hackworth Photography ready to shoot some photos. Mum and I creep up the stairs and slip into Justin's office and... well, he is just lovely, as I knew he would be. So gracious and engaging. There was nothing forced or difficult or irredeemably awkward about the experience. Justin put the two of us as much at ease as two camera-phobes can get, I believe. I can truthfully say that I had fun, in spite of myself. Plus Mum struck me as just so beautiful, and it touched me to get to do this with her.

But this is the thing I most want to say about Justin—and whether he meant to do this or not probably doesn't matter—he shot my bad side. I mean after he'd been snapping us a while in different positions both together and apart, he sat me down in a chair and aimed that camera right at my beaky half. Do you have a good side that you try to position to face the world? If you do then maybe you know what I'm talking about. It's funny, but if you check out my nose from the left the line of it is clearly my dad's, and not bad at all. I look more like my idea of myself from the left. It's the side on which I part my hair and open my face to view. Check out that same nose and same face from the right, and it's my gram's nose, completely different, a stranger's profile. How can the two sides be or at least feel so different? No one thinks about it but me, I know that. And that's why I imagine Justin didn't consciously make a choice about good side/bad side. He merely shot the side that showed when he sat me down in a chair by the window. I felt my anxiety rise immediately—Oh, don't shoot her! She's the stranger, and she's got a wonky nose! I even laughed out a mild protest, but Justin paid it no mind and kept on shooting. Good for him. And I let him. Good for me. For that hour and a half that he and Mum and I worked together, I let him shoot into my bad side all he wanted. I let him really look at me, and approve of me, and I looked back at him, through his lens.

It was an oddly liberating experience. Something akin to surrender on my part, but a positive kind of surrender. It reminded me of the time, years ago, when my then-boyfriend's sister paid for the two of us to attend an Impact Training course. In those meetings we did a lot of things which took us beyond our comfort zones, but one evening especially made me cringe. That was the time I was assigned to sing a solo in front of the entire class of strangers (except for my boyfriend, of course), a capella. The National Anthem. For me at the time, it may as well have been a command to parade naked down Center Street, I dreaded it that much. I clearly remember though the way I felt once I began to sing, not as melodically as I wished, but not as monstrously as, say, Animal from The Muppet Show. Something began to happen inside me, likely the thing my boyfriend's sister paid too much money to have happen: certain fears shrank in size, leaving space for feeling brave and beautiful.

I suppose I'm actually offering kudos to two people. First, to Justin, for being the sort of interested observer and sensitive responder who subtly encourages his subjects to allow themselves to simply be beautiful. Second, to myself, for permitting someone—a stranger at the outset—to get close enough to take a long analytical look at me, then get closer still by peering into and capturing my foreign, so-called bad side. Somehow my "sides" don't feel as divided after that experience. On May Day, when Rob and I went out for a drizzly afternoon walk by the river, we snapped a few pictures of us together, and I felt a greater sense of ease with just being, and just smiling.

I wonder if any of this sounds sensible to anyone other than me, or if it reads rather like an endless flurry of narcissism. Can't worry over that too much; it is what it is. And part of what it is, is a metaphor for the rest of my life. I love patterns, and here I have a nice personal one to consider: Let go of fear, and beauty naturally increases.

After the shoot, I went to sleep that night and dreamed till morning that I was painting one canvas after another—large, loose, creative, vibrant, saturated images. Hour after hour I painted. I can't clearly recall now any specific subjects; I only remember all the wonderful color.

I felt so ready for May Day this year. I woke up with the words "beauty" and "joy" flying, untethered, in my mind. I felt ready to claim my queendom again.

And this is where I stop. I think I won't write any more serial posts for a while. Back to bullet lists for me, maybe.

Yes, You May (part 3)

So here's another diversion from the subject I am so disjointedly treating this weekend. Or maybe it's another layer of the story. Probably that. If you want to get right back to the story(?), skip this italicized part.

I woke up this morning from a dream of walking, walking, walking, up a straight canyon road. I wore a backpack. Toward the end of the dream I realized I was also carrying my purse (which is not pursey at all, but a very ethnic-stitchy casual bag) (but still... my purse?). It was now, this weird spring-clinging-to-winter season. I can't quite recall what my purpose was, but I was out for a solo day trip, and I had horses on my mind. I think I was looking for a horse to ride. Why? As I walked I saw some people up ahead, standing and talking together in front of their family ranch. There were two horses also standing with the group. I passed by as quietly and unobtrusively as I could manage and kept walking up the road, but I became aware that one of the horses, a trim one with beautiful clear brown and white markings, had recognized me as a familiar friend, stepped out after me, and wordlessly called me back. I turned around and went to the horse. His people began talking to me, then I was in their den with them, and what had been intended as a family meeting of some kind turned into a rather political discussion. I stayed quiet for the most part, realizing I was the lone moderate in roomful of tip-of-the-longest-feather-of-the-right-wing-ers. I felt like I had already intruded by interrupting their original purpose of enjoying some family time, just by my being there. As they talked on, I looked around and was surprised to find I knew one of the faces. He didn't know mine, however. As he talked on it dawned on me that this was a famous family (which I choose not to name here) that enjoyed an incredible heyday of fame during my growing up years, and whose name is still known—still respected as important and talented by some, but certainly not by all (if I mentioned their name here, I'm positive some eyes would roll, and I don't want to tempt you to snarkiness). One by one I began to recognize several other faces in the room, and had to smile inside. Why hadn't I known them from the outset? I made a promise to call up my best childhood friend and tell I'd met the ________s; she'd idolized them when we were kids. Nothing in me responded to their past or present VIPness. They seemed ignorant and lost in a has-been sort of way, and that made me really sad for them and especially eager not to give away the fact that I knew who they were. What a relief not to give a hoot about their name or their old famous faces. An hour passed while they ranted on about current events, then another hour, and I grew more anxious about having disrupted their evening together, so I slipped out. I kept walking up that canyon road. Did I have the horse with me then? I had some kind of creature with me. The canyon was so wintry then. I stepped up onto a rise to look out over the view, and all I could see was white everywhere. Snow, snow, snow. Earth and sky blended into one. I could just make out a hint of a distant cave opening here, and there, and there, but even those soon vanished in the white. It was as if the world was being erased. I could look over my left shoulder and still see part of the road and a dark mountain peak blocking the sun, but looking ahead there was nothing but a white world all the way to the periphery of my vision, and it became impossible to keep looking at it. It wasn't exactly blinding, but there was so much whiteness (I almost said nothingness, but that's not it) to take in that I couldn't maintain my focus or even keep my eyes open. They grew heavy and tired and so sleepy, so I closed them. And then I woke up.

Anyway. Back now to April 30th. Still care to join me?

The more pieces I chop this post into, the more story parts fall by the wayside. Maybe that's not a bad thing. I think the part I want to keep now is the lovely thing that happened in the Hackworth studio. (How many days in a row do you think I will continue to link to Justin? Any bets? I am not afraid to repeat myself, you know, especially when I have a good reason. I am my grandmother's girl.)

So, it's April 30th, the day of the shoot. I am good for absolutely nothing all day except for sipping red bush tea and trying not to throw up, tweezing my eyebrows, practicing standing in shoes taller than I've worn for umpteen years. Oh, and pep talking myself: "It doesn't matter how these photos turn out. The important thing is to enjoy the people you're with. Enjoy Mum. Enjoy Justin. Enjoy yourself. Just let yourself smile and be. You look how you look. It is what it is. Nobody will be surprised to see you as you are; you're the only one who doesn't know what that looks like." Remember that verse in Ecclesiastes: "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity"? King David sure got that right. I won't go into my neuroses much more now; I'll only admit that I have been self-esteem-challenged for a good long while, and how I look is just one of my many irrational bugaboos. If you can't relate, then I am truly glad for you, you well-adjusted person! Kiss your mirror, quick!

So. So, so. How about some more relevant background info about this shoot? I was fortunate enough to be given a slot in the 30 Strangers project. This is Justin's third year doing this great thing, which has evolved into both a wonderful and badly-needed fundraiser for our local Center for Women and Children in Crisis, and a way to celebrate the generational chain of women in thirty lucky families annually. That second purpose presented a difficult irony for me, because I am currently without living family members (of either gender) before me or after me. That makes it a little tricky to shoot since spirits and hopes, like vampires, tend not to show up on film. Or even digital. Ghost hunters and paranormal pundits, please just leave this point. I don't feel like arguing about it.

I asked Justin to schedule me for the last slot of the project, vowing to do my problem-solving best to find a baby, borrow a baby, or otherwise come up with some sort of reasonable mother-daughter arrangement that would fit the bill. Making a baby has been a hoped-for possibility right along, but there's no way to demand or put a rush order on a gestational period for the sake of some photos, or for the sake of anything else, for that matter. None of my (pro)creative ideas worked out. (More on this subject later, however.)

Those of you who know me might be wondering now, "So what about your in-laws? What are they, chopped liver?" Oh, honey, they are so much better than filter organs. They are truffles and hummus and and homemade peach ice cream and freshly-baked bread. I have a wonderful tribe of women I married into when I sealed my deal with Rob, and even more treasures joined the group after I did. Adorable people. People I never want to be without. A mum, and sisters. But... would Justin bend the rules for me, and let me bring my in-laws? It was either that or steal a baby when it came down to the wire.

Lucky for me, Justin was willing. Since I couldn't figure out how to get all of the sisters (seven altogether, plus their daughters) to Utah by April 30th, I decided that great as it would be to get lost in a beautiful sea of in-laws, I would go for the small, simple, perfect choice: to be a twosome with Mum, the lady who is second only to my own mother in her contribution to my well-being and joy in life. (Mum made an especially fabulous number one son.) But that would mean no hiding in the crowd for either of us, and far more focused individual attention, something neither of us seems to crave.

I was worried Mum wouldn't want to do it. I asked for a date with her on the 30th but didn't tell her why for a long time. I finally got my courage up four days before the shoot, and confessed the plan. She replied, "Oh, is that it? I'm so relieved! I thought maybe we were going for pedicures—what a waste of time! But I would even do that for you." Those of you who fancy pedicures will not understand just how much love was expressed in her statement.

Well, I've done it again. I've talked myself all the way up to another stopping point and still haven't told you the great thing that Justin did. Next time. What a lot of words for such a little story. I'll just be talking to myself by the end of this, if I'm not already!

Still, I promise next time to stick with my theme of distraction and continue to derail the straightforward progress of this telling with far too many details. I want to talk about red shoes. And second-hand symbols. Then I'll work my way around to Justin, and to May Day.

Right now, I'm off to eat popcorn for lunch, go to church, take a walk, then enjoy a family dinner, but I'll eventually be back with part four. TTFN.

Yes, You May (part 2)

So, where was I?

Right, having lunch with my IRS-impersonating cousin, another cousin who wasn't pretending to be anyone else, and Rob, who is always and ever himself.

But before that... I left off back in 3rd grade, where I was doing a short-lived tour of duty as primary school royalty. Did that experience make a difference in my life? Sadly, the queendom for a day left no lasting impression on me or others, nor did it work the slightest of reversals in my chronic bashfulness. I wonder if that was the hope and I was mainly chosen with therapeutic intentions. More likely it was just for the sake of my round chipmunk cheeks. Not many adults successfully resisted the draw of the face-pinch when I was around. And, oh! I was a round!

I sort of lost my mojo with telling this story after being interrupted midday (by that IRS man), so I guess my cheeks and I will skip over the in-betweener stuff that no longer wants to flow, and we will fast forward to yesterday, the last day of April. The day I spent weeks anticipating, knowing I would be going to Justin Hackworth's photography studio with my mother-in-law to be his final strangers of 2010.

I guess now is as good a place as any for a confessional. I grew sick and sicker the three days before our shoot. That's right: if you want to suppress your appetite and lose a few pounds in a very short amount of time, schedule a photo session with a professional. Then worry about it. A lot. NOTE: This weight loss program will not work for people who (a) feel pretty, oh so pretty, (b) are naturally photogenic, (c) like their teeth, or (d) enjoy having cameras pointed at their faces, hips, or what-have-yous. I can vouchsafe that this program worked well for me. Finally broke through my plateau and I'm headed again toward an understanding with my skinny jeans. Thank you, terror.

Oh, fer cryin' in the beer! (Root beer, alright?) Now that I have the quiet time to finish writing this blog post, I am fighting sleep so hard my eyes are crossing. Rob is snoring peacefully beside me, and I should take a hint. I guess that means there'll have to be a part 3. Bear with me, people. I will git 'er done yet—tomorrow, Sunday, and that's a promise. Good night and good luck.

P.S. I'm cheating on the time stamp for this post. I'm calling it Saturday, but we're already well into Sunday. I'm sure my fellow insomniacs will find me out on their own.

Yes, You May (part 1)

There's a picture in existence, somewhere in the dark recesses of my basement (but not in the photo trunk, blast it), of little me, in 3rd grade but only old enough for 2nd, wearing a crown and my fanciest dress and sitting stiffly next to an awkward 3rd grade boy, also wearing a crown, and the two of us are surrounded by attendants. When I find that picture I will show you the proof that I was once named queen. I didn't understand what all the fuss was about that day on the elementary school playing field, though I was entertained by the dancing and sports and the flowery spectacle going on around the Maypole. I remember being feeling shy and nervous; the crown weighed so heavily on my head. I don't remember anyone explaining to me that—

The May Queen is also known as The Maiden, the goddess of spring, flower bride, queen of the faeries, and the lady of the flowers. The May Queen is a symbol of the stillness of nature around which everything revolves. She stands for purity, strength and the potential for growth, as the plants grow in May. She is one of many personifications of the energy of the earth.

Nope, my teacher simply told me I'd been selected and that I should stand up straight and walk just so in the procession, and then she gave me an inscribed book full of images of fluffy housecats to say thank you. What did I know? Only that some nebulous importance hung on me. Too bad nobody explained the lovely pagan aspect of the scene. A girl whose best friend at the time was a backyard oak tree surely could have better appreciated her role in that light. Certainly now, realizing I was actually an earthy queen from a young and impressionable age helps put the rest of my life into perspective....

[Just got a call from an out-of-town cousin pretending to be an IRS auditor—he's local today and wants to visit, so I'll have to finish this ramble later with a part two. Meanwhile, may I direct your attention to this post on the marvelous Justin Hackworth's blog? He captured two souls yesterday (and two hearts as well)—mine and my mum-in-law's. Just in time for May Day. More from me later. Peas out.]