Skin and Bones

Strange. I've been working outside, spring cleaning our clutter-challenged back patio. Wearing my big leather gloves. Hauling, sweeping, scrubbing, hefting, burning off an afternoon funk. That worked pretty well; I'm feeling better. The strange part happened when I came in just now for a drink of water and to write myself a note about things to pick up from Home Depot (hose reel, gas can). I slipped out of my work gloves and in the kitchen sink lathered up with dishsoap. My hands felt shockingly tiny, the merest most delicate bones. So insubstantial, fragile. I don't recall having that sort of feeling before. I felt as if I were washing a child's hands. Even now, as I sit here, typing, I stop and rub my hands and they seem so very small. They look fine. It's only how they feel. I'm trying to take it in. I'm sure I'm about to wax philosophical. But these hands have other work this evening besides blogging, so I guess I'll keep these ruminations to myself.

The Loaf of Love is Large and Wordy

Saturday we went to a wedding celebration. Happiness! Found out that our friend married her friend the day before the party, on March Forth. What an auspicious day. I say they are destined for connubial bliss.

Beautiful Andi hosted the party. Happiness! Pompons and popping flashes. Old friends, good food. Profundities baked into Andi's artful and ever-communicative bread, like so:

It originally said, "MARSHA MARSHA MARSHA" in honor of the bride. March forth, Marsha. Marcha, marcha, marcha! May your joys be plenty and your kisses long.

And now for the advice of the evening:

Funny, but even after reading the directions on this loaf of bread, one of the party guests felt compelled to ask a stranger's permission (mine, because I was the one standing there) to cut into the words. He never actually spoke to me, just looked at me helplessly with a worried question on his brow. I told him, "Oh, just go ahead!"

I wonder if he felt guilty eating the word "ENJOY"?

Forget the meaning and enjoy. Observe how it's done properly, this letting go and taking pleasure in a wonderful moment:

She's just blindly tossed a pretty green bouquet, launched it, laughing, not looking. And see what happens next?

More delight! Leaping and laughing. Where's the bouquet? You never saw it, did you? So either I'm not a great photographer, or it just doesn't matter—your choice. (Trust me, it was green.)

Look, aren't the newlyweds wonderful? Marsha and Clint. Full of meaning that they don't have to remember every conscious moment. Full of joy because they let themselves forget for a little while and simply enjoy.

At least that's my take on things. 

Check out this cake. After Marsha and Clint nodded to tradition and fed each other a piece (nicely, not stuffingly) for the crowd, they walked away to continue enjoying themselves. And The Cake became a help-yourself affair. I was amused at how long it took people to give themselves permission to furtively walk up and hack off a hunk. Guilt, guilt. But as we saw earlier in this post, even a label might not have been enough to help them with that. 

Glad I wasn't shy because that almond frosting rocked the house. (Forget the calories and enjoy.)

Nighttime questions

POP QUIZ:

1. How far would you walk if it meant you could get away from yourself?
2. If you found a Hostess Ding Dong lying in the grass (still safely in its plastic) would you take it home to share with someone, find a place where you could sit and enjoy it by yourself, or leave it on the ground for the next person (or hungry dog or bird), never looking back? What if it was raining?
3. If, up ahead of you on the sidewalk, there was a homeless man animatedly fuming and gesticulating to some unseen person while he made up his sleeping bag bed with great care on a city bench, would you approach and pause to wish him a good evening, or would you quickly jaywalk to the other side of the street, waving a stupid hello from the center line, taking no chances?

A Thesaurus Is a Girl's Best Friend

An experiment. In as few words as possible, encapsulate your biggest fear or torment. If you, like I do, find yourself fighting terrible battles with personal demons, try carefully turning your mind during some quieter moment to the taunts they consistently shout into your ears as they seek to wear you down. They are liars, but listen to them long enough to comprehend what they wish you to believe about yourself. Don't dwell here any longer than you need to identify their theme; the point is not to let them persuade you they're right. You're probably already half in agreement with them anyway.

Do you have some words in mind? Are they of a family? Can you consolidate them further? I came up with my own last night, one toxic theme to rule them all. When I feel my weariest and smallest, the lingering word on my lips seems to always be WASTE. It's the horror of my life. If I was standing at those proverbial pearly gates and was been given the opportunity to admit myself via the honor system, this would be the one curse of a word I might stupidly say to banish myself from heaven, if I allowed myself to listen to the rotten peanut gallery, who would surely be hiding behind some nearby (non-burning) bush, prompting me, as if I couldn't think or speak for myself—and hoping I'd forget that I could. 

Bullies. Cowards.

Here's what you do. Take that black magic word of yours to the best thesaurus you can find. Explore all your word's possible shades of meaning. Live with them, feel them, let yourself comprehend which ones "fit" your fears. Acknowledge how this word affects you, how it directs your beliefs. Keep in mind that there are underlying needs at stake here that want attending to. Your demons have amplified their accusations of you so you'll look where they want you to look: at the stagnant bleakness of self-condemnation rather than the bright opportunity for healing and growth. 

Taking notes helps.

Now look for the antonyms for your word. There should be a few listed along with the synonyms. Dig deeper; one by one, take the synonyms that resonated with your darkness, look them up, and hunt until you discover their beautiful hopeful opposites. These are to be your medicines. Don't leave any out. This new list of words will uplift you as you concentrate on them. Feel them. Imagine them. See yourself living fluently with them. Make healthy plans. Take more notes. Pray for help in establishing this new vocabulary in your mind and heart. 

Stop paying attention to the jerks in the bushes, the life-mucking voices in your head. Invest in some earplugs. Choose not to engage and let the war go on without you. Read your thesaurus. Listen for better words. Listen to a better spirit.

WASTE conserve, flourish, thrive, manage, make good use of, save, keep, preserve, protect, save, safeguard, look after, sustain, prolong, perpetuate, store, reserve, husband, flourish, grow, thrive, prosper, do well, burgeon, increase, multiply, proliferate, spring up, shoot up, bloom, blossom, bear fruit, burst forth, run riot, be in good health, be vigorous, be in its heyday; progress, make progress, advance, make headway, develop, improve, evolve, make strides, move forward (in leaps and bounds), expand, be in the pink, go places, go great guns, get somewhere, mushroom, succeed, boom, wanted, moderation, restraint, necessary, essential, restore, worthwhile, usable, profitable, cultivated, fertile, vibrant, habitable, in good repair, livable, settled, tame, calm, tidy, civilized, disciplined, considered, sensible, practical, hospitable, temperate, look after, nurture, provident, valuable, fullness.

Pardon my heavy musings

Believing is seeing. You've heard the phrase the other way 'round all your life, as have I, but this is the order that makes real sense. It suggests the need for action and personal responsibility. It frames belief as a choice, rather than a passive payoff. It is seeing that is the ultimate consequence of believing; belief is the steady trek of faith toward the desired destination: seeing and knowing.

A dear friend visited me yesterday. She has Stuff to deal with. She asked me what came across as a very broad question. I asked her to try to hone in on what it is she really wants to know; I think good questions are tremendously important. I'm not sure you can be genuinely prepared to receive a soul-satisfying answer if you don't give careful attention to honestly facing and articulating your true questions. It's too easy to be afraid or lazy when looking for enlightenment or comfort. Far too easy to passively wish to be automatically, wordlessly, magically understood and handed an easy revelation.

(This is not an indictment of my friend, but the stream of thought that has been trickling through my head lately, and our conversation yesterday made me want to roll up my pants legs and stick my feet in the bone-chill water for a little refreshment.)

One of the more specific questions she came up with had to do with why I believe in God. That's a good question. It invites me to do some pondering and I'm actually looking forward to taking a lengthier private inventory of my experiences. I fumbled around to put together an initial response—I'm no great conversationalist—but my friend was patient with me (as she typically is).

Last night the thought came to me and I woke up with it this morning too: I believe in God because I choose to. That might sound somewhat lame or ignorant to you. Does it? What I mean is that, independent of all the evidences and persuasions and moments of peace and enlightenment and pure understanding that have come to me over the years, apart from those quiet personal sacraments that whisper to me there is a God, the main reason I believe is that I will myself to believe. I don't take away the importance of faith-encouraging influences; I only acknowledge that the choice to believe has always been and always will be mine and mine alone to make. It's not possible that belief could ever have been forced upon me; it's ultimately independent of both the uplifting and the destructive influences of others (family, friends, enemies) and all they've invested (or blasted) in my spiritual education. I don't wish to be a separate entity; I'm no island, and I'm happily part of the whole. The influences are there. The connections are there, for good or ill; I acknowledge them. I'm not fully me without you. Still, I'm autonomous. It's a paradox. I'm an agent. Will is mine to wield. And I can't blame you or anyone or anything for getting in the way of my exercising that will. No matter what's come in from outside, and likewise, no matter what my choices have been to this moment, my power to choose belief and life right now remains untainted, untouchable. It's mine. And there's no lasting reason for me to live feeling oppressed or resentful at having been trodden upon, even spiritually, if that's been my lot. I am perfectly free at every point to choose. And I choose to believe.

It's so easy to wish to go back and re-do life, start from scratch on choices, even erase the detested influence of people we imagine have done us developmental harm. But it's not necessary. Also, not possible. It can turn into a bottomless distraction that succeeds in keeping us from living in the present. That's tragic. I've busied myself with such pointless pursuits, maybe spent years of my life on them, but I've stopped counting. I don't mean to make light of pain and disappointment, but I see now I could have given myself permission to be free a long time ago if I'd understood how, and soothed my soul with good questions and other choices: reading more books, exploring more canyons, spending more time laughing with and loving people, licking an ice cream cone rather than my wounds. I didn't know then. But I do now. And I choose to believe and be happy.

Here's a different scenario. A couple weeks ago I found myself in a deep funk. I was so far down in the hole I couldn't see any light, and for the life of me I couldn't connect the depression to an event, or a dumb thought process, or hormones, or anything at all. I can usually find a loose thread if I really search for one (not that I always want to search when I'm down in the hole). It didn't make sense. I was thinking fine. But some weird black desperation came over me, so heavy and thick I couldn't move from the couch all evening. I just sat. I tried to get myself up—Come on! Get up! Shake it off!—but I literally felt unable to move my body. Rob was working late in the shop. All I had to do to call for his company was walk across the room, pick up the phone, and speak into the intercom. Too much. And I felt awful thinking of crying at him over nothing. I didn't want to suggest to him in any way that I was asking him to fix me. After a couple hours of this paralysis and many confused tears and prayers choking in my throat, I opened up my laptop (which luckily was so near to me I barely had to reach for it) and looked up a neglected blog I used to visit daily, one I adored for its unsinkable good cheer and hopeful outlook, and I read a few posts by way of catch-up. This one caught my attention in particular. It's so sweet and so simple, nothing I hadn't considered before on my own, yet it had a profound effect on my mind as I read it. It was as if I discovered a key in my hand that unlocked the door shut before me, and now I was free to walk into a different room, or any room at all. I felt a strong impression that I believe came from God: "Rob can't make you happy. No one can make you happy. Not even I [God] can make you happy, nor would I want to. The power to be happy is yours alone. It belongs to you. No one, not even I, can ever take it away." And I understood absolutely. There was no sense of correction or discipline in those words that filled up my head, only joyful acknowledgement, a sense of elated sharing. It was if God was saying to me: "In the end, it's all up to you. Isn't that FABULOUS?!" I got it. I agreed with it. I loved it. I was overjoyed. I wanted to shout! I felt an enormous surge of energy—power in the very finest sense; it was astonishing and it didn't leave me the rest of the evening. Just one brilliant little idea put me on my feet and back into my right mind. I could think, I could move, I could laugh. What a thought—even God can't make me happy. Of course He has the power to bless and help and heal and more; His is no insignificant power. But He, the greatest we know, even our anchor and salvation, cannot rule my will and desires never to trespass against my agency. And that is as exciting to perfect Him as it is to in-process me. I haven't adequate words to describe the entire experience, but I believe I was in communion with the Divine Nature. Mine and yours and His is the power to love and serve and give all we have and are, but not one of us is or can be responsible for another's happiness.

I knew it before. But now I know it in a way that makes me feel electric.

Can you see how it ties in with the first part of this post? I hope so. I am typed out.

I'm having other Big Thoughts (big to me anyway) about healers and healees and motes and beams and how all they relate to this recent landslide of thinks, but I've spent way too long already writing here, and it's time to make lunch.

Here's a reward for you if you made it to the end of this near-endless navel-gaze:

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.)

Night and day

My epiphany at around 2:30 a.m.—
I need to learn how to sleep.

Rob's profound reply later in the morning after I described my epiphany—
If you want to learn how to sleep you need to learn how to be awake.

Just so.

Who is my neighbor?

The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbor's glory should be laid daily on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken. It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would strongly feel tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no 'ordinary' people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendours . . . . Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses.

—C. S. Lewis, from The Weight of Glory

I've turned into one of those women

who occasionally post a message like this:

Hey! Head on over to Segullah! I'm a guest blogger today!

Thanks for your kind indulgence.

Most sincerely yours,
Geo

"And the more she focused on it, the more she had."

In typical Nie fashion, the New York Times also chose to focus on beauty today. God bless them—and us too—with more of it! I hope Alex Williams' article will go far to bringing the Nie and Mr. Nielson story to more of at least two kinds of people: (1) those whose hearts are ready for an infusion of light, and (2) those whose pocketbooks are eager to open and help others.

What a positive, lovely write-up. And C Jane's quote at the end will stay with me. Truth is beautiful, don't you agree?

It's all about Nie if you read long enough

A few days ago I did sort of a purge. I spent an entire day eating nothing but vegies. I was feeling the need for some retrenchment after spending a couple days testing out a really great no-bake cookie recipe. I know you thought there wasn't a great recipe for those, but I struck culinary gold with a combo of roasted almond butter and carob. No, really. They are great cookies. I know you hate carob. You will love it now. I'll eventually get around to posting the recipe at Pizza Dreams so you can try them and I can say I told you so.



I'm really supposed to be following a regimen that fights Candida. I did that for a while and was my healthiest and slimmest ever. But then I go and get called again to work with the Young Women (which reintroduced Krispy Kremes to my life), I subscribe to Tartelette, and I let my guard down. You know what happens next—my resistance to all that is blissfully sweet crumbles, cookie-style.

Anyway. Here's what I ate to do a gentle, drop-in-the-bucket, one-day purge:


Corn—it's the breakfast of champions, I'm telling you. Does this ear remind anyone else of Bill the Cat from Bloom County? Really scraggly. I'd say this corn did not quite live up to its potential. Now the ear in the background—that one made the most of its opportunities. Filled the measure of its creation. Yeah, that's the kind of corn I want to be.

These are the kinds of deep thoughts I never get to have when I'm eating cookies.

Now for the rest of breakfast and beyond:


See the steam rising? Summer squash + sweet onions + peppers = YUM.




The evolution of my gorgeous tomato collection (thanks to Gary of the Tiaras and our local farmer's market) into delicious soup with basil and mint (thanks to the Boston Globe).



Sometimes cucumbers knock me out with their gorgeous cool whiteness. I wish you could see just how this one glowed, but the lighting was all wrong and I was too hungry to fix that.

Which brings me to a very important point: vegies burn off fast.


But home fries! Now they stick around for a few minutes. I love mixing up different varieties together—this batch was yellow, red, and yam. Though I didn't count this as anti-vegie, I confess I did make some kick-butt cayenne fry sauce a la Guru's. But just a little.

And when I went to bed I was thinking about the Nie-worthy oatmeal I'd get to eat in a few hours.

Part of my deal with vegie day was that if I stuck it out the whole 24 hours, I would treat myself to a new lipstick. I'd have rather had an almond croissant from Eliane's, but I figured that would have quickly defeated the purpose of vegie day. Lipstick seemed fair—still somewhat attached to my digestive system.

But I didn't have time till today to shop for cosmetics. And I really didn't have time to visit Aveda or some shmancy beauty counter, so I settled for Walgreen's. The new one. Because I have loved drug stores all my life, almost as much as I have loved office supply stores.

One thing you should know about me is that I have been hunting for the perfect red lipstick forEVER. I can never find it. I can find everybody else's perfect red, but not the one that really does it with my weird skin color. Today I even found a special batch of about a dozen red lipsticks, each named for a different actress. All wrong. Do you know how many shades of red exist? I don't believe there's any other color in the visible spectrum that presents so many gorgeous, but in this case, impossible possibilities.

But I keep trying.

And today, I found it at Walgreen's. Luckily, it was L'oreal, because that means I can actually stand the smell of it. (I've become something of a makeup snob, which is probably ironic since I wear so little of it.) I looked at every single red in the place, and there it was: #339, Red Rhapsody. An appropriate name.

I've been thinking, like all the rest of you, almost constantly about Nie and Mr. Nielson and their families since last weekend's accident. Today was very much Nie Day in my mind because of this evening's big, loving balloon launch and gathering. To find my one perfect red lipstick on Nie Day (one of many to come, I'm certain) and then to wear it while whispering my wishes for her and Christian in the park as I released a fistful of green and orange balloons—well, that really made me smile.

And so, like I said, it's all about Nie if you read long enough.

But wait, there's a little bit more.

What's even better than seeing Cirque du Soleil's Delirium for free instead of having to pay forty bucks for the both of us, plus sitting in our favorite seats, plus sharing the theater with next to nobody?


Ripe Brandywine tomatoes from the farmers' market (and even better still with bitter Asian greens and quinoa polenta with pecorino cheese).


Coming home from errands to find Rob giving the dog a bath.


Getting to see lovely friends (really wish I'd taken photos of them all).

Visiting later in the evening with the wonderful Wileys. (Please click that link—they are ever so pretty.)


AND. Best of all, watching a lively, colorful milky way of love spread itself across a beautiful blue sky and climb up to the sun, to honor and bless Stephanie and Christian.

I don't care that Cirque du Soleil featured a guy floating for an hour and a half from a fantastical balloon (although that detail sure worked with the theme of the day). They got nothin' on our park performance. It was simple and real and full of light and I'd see it again and again, if I only could. Thank you so much to the Clarks and all the rest of the family for letting us share that time with you. It meant so much. Thank for sharing this whole experience with us. I send you all my love and continued prayers, a whole skyful of them.

See? I told you it would all eventually be about Nie.

Just another manic Sunday

Hold on, isn't it Monday that's supposed to be manic? Tell that to the butterflies in my stomach, which are beginning to flutter away now that my main stress event is past.

But not all stress is bad. This was actually good stress—it was my turn to teach today at church. I work with a small group of girls ranging in age from 12-18. I've had assignments in many different capacities with this organization for most of the last fourteen years. I've been president three times in two different congregations, and I've worked as counselor to another president, and I've had umpteen jobs as camp staff. Right now I'm the low woman on the totem pole, so to speak, the expendable assistant camp director, but I join the girls for their class on Sunday and their mid-week activities. Last Friday we went to a university production of James and the Giant Peach, performed by a traveling troupe that specializes in American Sign Language theatre. (Sad to say, they reworked Roahl Dahl's plot almost more than I could bear. Rrrrr!) Today I got to present the lesson, a free-style one, not from our usual curriculum. I seem to keep getting handed free-style weeks. Maybe the other leaders know how [ahem] great I am at following directions and so let me do my own thing. Suits me fine.

I had a really interesting week leading up to this class. I felt a queasy undercurrent of panic every time I thought of it. What am I going to teach them? What do they need to know? Honestly, I am at my ease when I write, but I am out of my element when it's time to open my mouth and make something comprehensible come out. I often get trapped by fear of failure, of dropping the ball. We don't get that many moments to work with these kids before they're grown and flown.

At any rate, I was given a very general topic to focus on: Individual Worth. I began to notice last Sunday that I was getting little bits and pieces of . . . something. I could feel my lesson floating around out there. Sometimes I could see it with my peripheral vision, but as soon as I'd turn to look at it straight on—poof! Gone. But every day I'd get a whisper, a hint, a puzzle piece. Drinking a cup of Yogi Tea on Wednesday, I read a dangling fortune that said: "Your infinity in you is the reality in you." I'd be in a conversation and something would grab my attention and I'd go frantic to find a piece of paper to write an idea on. My lesson was more like a scrap heap of thoughts till yesterday morning, when a Big Idea hit me while I was in the shower. Everything finally made sense, and I was excited. I spent most of yesterday and part of this morning working it out.

I've still got a whole lot to learn about teaching, but I think it went well enough. We had some good discussion and a sweet feeling attended us. I think some valuable concepts were spoken about with enough clarity to hit home. We taught each other.

My girls are such fine people. I know it goes against the grain a bit, but I love young people, hormonal misfortunes and mood swings and mystery notwithstanding. I wasn't wildly successful at being a teenager myself, so I guess it's something of an irony that I love them now that I could be their mother. I'm a survivor of adolescence at least; maybe that means something.

So, that's the way March rolled in for me. All in my head instead of out in the sun. Now it's time to roll up my sleeves and get to work—on renovating my house, on visiting with out-of-towner company, on beefing up the Morning Stories Blog, on enough work and reckless whims to overwhelm me if it wasn't suddenly spring, and everything a-popping with new life, and fresh air, and renewed energy for come-what-may. My husband is now down very sick like I was with the flu (don't know what took him so long). I will sand and paint the living room floor this week, then our new windows will arrive, and then it will be time to paint. I'm glad I'm busy. It feels like the right time to go a little too fast. But that means today I'll have to get organized if I intend to keep myself on track.

But before I break out my pencil and my at-a-glance calendar, I need a Sunday nap.

Happy March.

Happy Valentine's Day

I'm back from Texas, but I got hit with a killer bug last night. So for now, since I'm feeling too rotten to write an original post, and since I'm too sick to even kiss, I will stall for time and share with you a very worthy historical letter that I think is fairly appropriate to the occasion of Love Day, especially considering world events. Get your tissues out; this one may make you weep.

Camp Clark, Washington
July 14th, 1861

My Dear Sarah,

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days perhaps tomorrow.

Lest I shall not be able to write to you again. I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure, and it may be one of sever conflict and death to me. "Not my will, but Thine O God be done." If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my Country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged and my courage does not halt or falter.

I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution, and I am willing, perfectly willing to lay down all my joys in this life to help maintain this Government and to pay that debt, but my dear wife when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows, when after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself I must offer it as the only sustenance to my dear little children, is it weak or dishonorable that while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze underneath my unbounded love for you my darling wife and children, I shall struggle in fierce though useless contest with my love of Country.

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer Sabbath night when two thousand men are sleeping around me many of them enjoying the last perhaps before that of death; and I am suspicious that death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart while I am communing with God, My Country and Thee. I have sought most closely and diligently and often in my breast for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of all those I loved and I could find now. A pure love of my Country and the principles I have often advocated before the people another name of honor that I love more than I fear death has called upon me and I have obeyed.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me in mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break and my love of country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.

The memories of all the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me and I feel most deeply grateful to God and you that I have enjoyed them so long and how hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years when God Willing we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us.

I know I have but few and small claims upon Divine Providence but something whispers to me perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah never forget how much I love you and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield I shall whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you how thoughtless how foolish I have often times been. How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness and struggle with all the misfortunes of this world to shield you and my dear children from harm but I cannot I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more. But Oh Sarah if the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they love, I shall always be near you in the gladdest day and in the darkest night amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours always, always and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheeks it shall be my breath or the cool air cools your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah, do not mourn me dead, think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

As for my little boys, they will grow up as I have grown and never know a father's love and care, little Willie is too young to remember me long and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood.

Sarah, I have unbounded confidence in your maternal care and your development of their character and feel that God will bless you in your holy work.

Tell my two mothers I call God's blessing upon them.

Oh Sarah I want for you there come to me and lead thither my children.

Sullivan

Gandhi's Seven Blunders of the World

Wealth without work
Pleasure without conscience
Knowledge without character
Commerce without morality
Science without humanity
Worship without sacrifice
Politics without principle

His grandson later added:
Rights without responsibility

What would YOU add to this list?

Smart cookie

Epiphany, buffet, bubbles & living snow globes

3BT:

1. When I was struggling with intense feelings of loneliness this morning, an impression came like a voice in my mind: You can always talk to ME. So as I did slow laps in the fieldhouse before my walking partner showed up, I began to talk to God (very quietly and discreetly, so my track neighbors wouldn't become alarmed if they discovered I was having a conversation but not wearing a phone headset) about what I was thinking of and anticipating for the day. It felt a little awkward because I am not practiced at being . . . chatty, for lack of a better word . . . in prayer, but I realized that free-form open-ended communication with God, like the kind that happens between good friends, is a simple and accessible strategy for overcoming one of the particular effects of depression. The realization that I am never alone was very welcome.

2. I was invited to an impromptu lunch with two friends who blow me away with their beauty and goodness and grace. I feel incredibly fortunate to know them.

2-1/2. I got to see with my eyes and hear with my ears and feel with my heart that my prayers in behalf of a friend are beginning to be answered.

3. Rob agreed to go with me when I accompanied the YW to Salt Lake to see the Christmas lights at Temple Square. That made the evening even more lovely. Because he is an alpha driver, he relieved me of my designated chauffeur status, and I was free to sit farther back in the big van and play a game with another leader's 9-month-old daughter: I blew a bubble with my watermelon Extra, she watched the process with big eyes and great interest and then lifted her index finger to touch the bubble, the bubble popped, I chewed my gum and she mimicked me. Rinse. Repeat. When I took too long with a bubble, she squawked. Fun!

3-1/2. The Salt Lake Temple was marvelously beautiful as the snow, which danced and glowed in the spotlights pointed toward the angel Moroni, fell quietly upon it.

Does any other Mo out there find it snortingly funny

. . . that this movie which is currently showing at this dollar theater is being billed on this movie listings page as Passage to ZaraHERNIA?

Get a wife

One of the treasures I found in my basement during our recent purge was this [ahem] book I wrote for a friend of mine. An old boyfriend, actually, but the terrific kind you end up wanting to keep as a pal forever and who gets along famously with your husband. I'm guessing it's been a decade at least since I composed this piece of chummy chutzpah. I base so much of my time reckoning on my dog—Was that the pre-Izzy period? Or did it happen after he came to live with us?—and in this case, I can't quite recall if we were with or without our pet. At any rate, Dave (that's the friend who was the lucky object of my concern) was living in Las Vegas, and we were in frequent contact by telephone and computer. Dave was living the life of a swingin' but lonesome bachelor, and seemed both eager and reluctant to settle down. After a long string of melancholy communications from him, I decided it was time to lay the lecture on the line.

But I couldn't do it in the usual way. Regular old rude finger-waggling just ain't my style. So, armed with way too many magazines, a pair of scissors, some bond paper, a glue stick, and tongue in cheek, I commenced with my sage advice.

Luckily, I made myself a photocopy of my masterpiece of motivation, and sent him the technicolor original. It's fun to relive this little moment of our lives.

By the way, not too long after my ransom note-style discourse, Dave pulled on his trunks, dove into the gene pool, and surfaced with the woman of his dreams. They were married in Boston, and I'm assuming they lived happily ever after, but I can't say for sure; it's been a while since we've heard from them. Time to do a people search.

Enjoy. (Don't forget to click on the images for a larger view if you aren't able to read some of the microscopic details.)

P.S. The parenthetical statements are supposed to be Dave's muttering responses to my sermon, more or less. Just an FYI. Also, the "calcium-enriched"/medical page references a sobering sort of health scare Dave passed through (and eventually vice versa) during that time, which, shall we say, served to get his attention as touching all issues manly and procreative. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

Negative, positive

We'd just finished enjoying a late lunch of coastal Carolina-style fish stew on Wednesday when the phone rang. It wouldn't have done any good not to answer it. Results from the nurse on my latest hCG test. News I was unprepared for. The number isn't rising, is retreating, has given up doubling, has doubled back, has doubled-crossed us. There are no ifs ands or buts about what this implies; been there, done that before. It can only mean one thing. No miracle baby hatching in April. Sophie's flight has been cancelled.

I don't understand!

That was all I could think, all I could say, all I could choke out with my tears.

(I'm telling you this now, because I let you in, I invited you to the mad-happy celebration, and because of that you are now part of the story too. And I'm glad you have been. And still are. That said, it's really okay with me if you feel like you need to stop reading this.)

I thank God that Rob was with me in that moment. That I didn't have to ring him on the intercom or drag myself the twenty steps to the shop just to hurt him.

Holding me, he said, "Let's go for a drive." Forget work.

The gas tank was blessedly full. Rob aimed the car north and soon we passed out of a melting city into a blurry autumnal canyon. I don't care how fast you go.

He took me to Heber, to a small antique shop we'd tried on other occasions to visit always to find a "CLOSED" sign aggravatingly propped in the window. This time we were lucky.

On any other day I would have said the boutique was a little disappointing. It's got nothing, of course, on the place here in town run by our own dear Gary of the Tiaras and his business partner. The new place had mostly ho-hum antiques, with a lot of girly stuff thrown in—chenille cakes, cheap costume jewelry, lots of gingham chicken-scratch aprons, ladies' straw hats, and the DIY Network blasting from a small teevee screen in the back room. But it was a relief to have something frivolous to look at, bits and pieces of fluff to pick up and put down again, a direction to walk in.

I happened to spy a small stack of old black and white photographs in a box on a corner shelf, and was drawn to go through it. Photos are nearly always irresistable to me. I was able to smile a little at some of the family shots, images that look just like what's in everyone's grandmother's scrapbooks—frumpy, birthing-tough matrons; stringy men smoking cigarettes; precocious boys in woollen knickers; young bucks posing with their cars, each with one foot planted on the running board; women, young and old, huddled together in front of flowering bushes, wearing drop-waist frocks and fur collars; small girls with Clara Bow bobs; almost everybody in a hat.

I was nearly through distracting myself with bygone lives, and considering the circumstances, was doing a pretty admirable job of overcoming gloom for Rob's sake, when I found a wonderful photo, a beautiful little girl holding a bird cage. It made my breath catch. Quickly finishing the stack, I also found the photo's negative. I've got to have these, I said to myself.



Most of you won't recognize what about this picture grabbed me, because I haven't yet related much of the symbolism that has long been and recently become tied up in this epic baby acquisition project of ours. I would be writing for hours if I were to try to get you up to speed with a single post; it's something I'll need to spread out over time, and some of it, naturally, isn't suitable for blogging anyway. I wish you could just lean your forehead against your computer monitor and I could osmote some history through cyberspace to you.

I'll tell you this much: My personal sky has over the past few years become filled with birds. It started with a Dream I had, of two beautiful hummingbirds. That will ring a bell for some of you who've known me a while and know me well, and who have even grown comfortable or brave or nuts enough to refer to those little birds by name. Sophie. Mercy. (If I'm going crazy, then I guess I'm taking you with me. It is a small comfort.) The bird motif has broadened in the past while to include a number of other magnificent wingéd creatures, even small shining fireflies. This is where I think I'll leave the point for now, though I want to come back to it in some other post.

So, I found this picture and its source, its reverse, its negative. Even just that little detail was remarkable to me—both pieces were in my hands. But the photo! At first I only noticed the dark bird inside the cage, but then I realized there was also a smaller, lighter bird. Two birds, safe and cared for in the hands of a gentle, smiling, proud girl. I can't describe how the image spoke to and comforted me. I felt absolutely seen and understood. I know it makes me sound dreamy, but honestly, I felt it was a tender little gift from God. I know, honey. I know. Don't lose heart.

*************

I had strong feelings about this pregnancy. I was so sure it would work out this time. I have had some beautiful and sacred feelings and experiences—I do mean much more than just a heart full of longing wishes, although that has been ever-present—these all seemed to come together and point to a complete springtime nestful of YES. For once, I tried to put all my fears far away from me and give myself to believing the answer I felt I was being urged to embrace. Even now, in the depths of loss, I don't think that was a mistake.

I was told this pregnancy was a miracle, an answer to prayer. Is it any less so, now that it's ending in an unexpected way? I don't think so.

I have a long list of incredible moments that I've been intending for weeks now to write about—insights, interactions, inspirations, et cetera. Should I throw away that list now, and call it meaningless, or worse? I really don't feel that to be so.

At first I was completely bewildered. How could it be over, after all I've seen and heard and felt? (I wish this was the right venue for giving more details. But I guess I'm already in violation of some propriety code or other. What in the world possesses me to go on like this, compromising my own introversion?)

This is much longer than I meant it to be. Let's get to the bottom line:

I will not be shaken off my foundation by this. Apparently, there are some lessons I need even more than I need a child right now. I know God loves me. Deep down, I believe that this is an opportunity, not a punishment. It's an invitation to learn—to learn more patience, to learn to "wait on the Lord," and to examine the nature and healthy expression of faith—my own faith as well as others'. It's a chance to learn compassion, and to practice forgiveness. It's a time to keep going. I don't know what else this is, but I trust I'll find out.

If I manage to learn what I need to, then the sting of this investment will have been worth it.

What was sacred is still sacred. Yes will still ultimately be yes. I just need to open myself up for new and better interpretations of the mystery that is this moment. For now, I'm not in a rush to connect all the dots. I trust that it's okay to live with my frazzled, rapidly-changing feelings, that I'm not condemned for moving through the grief process, even the really ugly, sometimes almost dangerously angry parts. I trust that the answers to my questions are known to God, and that when the time is right I'll be able to know them too, but it isn't up to me to set the deadline. I trust that it all makes sense, even if I can't make sense of it yet.

I hoped this would be a more cohesive post, and a brighter one. Oh, well. I'm working things out, and I'm too tired to edit. You get what you get.

Thanks for reading along.

*************

My dear friend Debby came over today with a coupon and persuaded me to go shopping with her. I came home from BB&B with a bright yellow teapot. It's such a cheerful color; I thought it would help me feel better to drink water boiled in enameled-steel sunshine. My happy pot sings in four-part harmony when it's all ready to kiss tea leaves.

Early this morning I took a break from the heaviness and the processing and I danced and danced till I couldn't anymore to just one favorite song, a song that seems to perfectly capture my current state of mind. It's a sweet one. Would you like to try dancing to it as well? (The lyrics follow.)

The Littlest Birds

Well I feel like an old hobo
I'm sad lonesome and blue
I was fair as the summer day
Now the summer days are through
You pass through places
And places pass through you
But you carry 'em with you
On the souls of your travellin' shoes

Well I love you so dearly I love you so clearly
Wake you up in the mornin' so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin' blues
I got the wanderin' blues
And I'm gonna quit these ramblin' ways
One of these days soon
And I'll sing

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs . . .

Well it's times like these
I feel so small and wild
Like the ramblin' footsteps of a wanderin' child
And I'm lonesome as a lonesome whippoorwill
Singin' these blues with a warble and a trill
But I'm not too blue to fly
No I'm not too blue to fly cause

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs . . .

Well I love you so dearly
I love you so fearlessly
Wake you up in the mornin' so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin' blues
I got the wanderin' blues
And I don't wanna leave you
I love you through and through

Oh I left my baby on a pretty blue train
And I sang my songs to the cold and the rain
I had the wanderin' blues
And I sang those wanderin' blues
And I'm gonna quit these ramblin' ways
One of these days soon
And I'll sing

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs . . .

(I don't care if the sun don't shine
I don't care if nothin' is mine
I don't care if I'm nervous with you
I'll do my lovin' in the wintertime)

~Syd Barrett

This just in from Camp MIA Shalom

You can never change your nature;
It is quite beyond your reach.
When a girl is born a lemon,
She can never be a peach.

BUT.

There's a law of compensation
And that's the law we preach:
You can always squee-heeze a lemon,
But you'll only squash a peach.