Changing seasons

Yesterday, the last day of winter—
Minutes after my forlorn little blog post, I was sitting on my front porch with Moxie, pausing after our stroller walk, when completely out of the blue, she projectile-vomited, twice, with a force so powerful I later had to clean the INSIDE of a closed wooden chest which holds our shoes. As I sat there in astonishment, at the epicenter of the spew, I stripped mucky Moxie down and yelled for help from Rob, who just happened to be in the house at the time. Careful to keep his feet on dry land, he laughingly reached across the gorge and rescued our little puker from the great puddle that was once my lap. He kept on laughing as he took her into the bedroom to change her diaper and get her comfortably pajama-ed while I took care of the damage.

About the time I got the floor mopped up and the furniture clean I heard a loud exclamation. Still covered with barf, I ran in to find Rob hunched over a naked, startled baby Moxie on our bed, and pulling all four corners of her changing pad up around her. He was paralyzed. I knew exactly what had happened. "Geyser?" I asked. "She's in a pool of pee!" he cried desperately. "Grab something! Help!" I brought in a towel. We managed to make a less than devastating transfer; the bed only got wet on his side. Heh.

So this was a first—it was Moxie's first complex blowout. I know there's still room for another level of achievement, but hey, a 2-in-1 is impressive. And a funny way to conclude Mama's bout of personal melancholy.

Today, the first day of spring—
I got the last paper, a medical form, filled out and signed and turned in to the agency. There's nothing more to do now except drive to the courthouse Monday with my people, pay some legal fees, stand before the judge and smile and cry as he pronounces us a legal family. WHAT!

Moxie and I went a-thrifting, and found us each a good outfit to wear to court on Monday, and only spent $12. Hey!

Rob and Moxie and I attended the annual Book Collectors' Conference luncheon at BYU. Rob prints their keepsake every year, and this year he also taught a workshop on lino cuts. It was nice to see some friendly familiar faces, and to introduce them to our little party crasher.

We three spent the afternoon together. We visited the South Valley pound and pondered dog ownership AGAIN, considered adopting a hulking backyard bunny that looked like a dalmation, and watched with great interest as a prison inmate and one of the medical staff chased down a hellcat that flew out of its cage when someone opened the door to refresh its water. Have you ever watched an angry cat go insane escaping and run up walls?

We went on a ramble down Spanish Fork way. First, we got hooked by a promising sign that said HUGE ESTATE SALE and gave directions. We drove and drove, following more signs in this series, and after about a dozen arrows and maybe that many meandering miles, we found ourselves in Woodland Hills, up against the mountain. A nice place, forested, with a beautiful view and some good houses. But the estate sale? Cruddy leather couches, an old Pfaff, lampshades and worn out Mormon vinyl lps: Osmonds, MoTabs, Carpenters. Lots of beige and plaid. We were duped! But it was fun anticipating the treasures we didn't find. And it was interesting exploring that area.

We found an antique store we hadn't been in for some years, bought a small cheerful treasure. Discovered that Moxie seems to like creepy old dolls. Anything with a face, maybe, but the antique dollies appeared to capture her interest most. What does it mean? We'll have to pay a visit to Cat's Cradle Antiques soon to test her tolerance.

Finished off our time with BYU Creamery burgers and fries then headed for home. Rob and Moxie were both such great company today. Our little girl was bright and in great spirits all day and we all laughed together a lot. The world is beautiful right now with all its blooming and bursting. The only downside to this kind of fun day is that it has to end—Rob has to work late, and Moxie is peeved that she is called upon to sleep. Oh well, still worth it. A few rounds of reading, singing, fighting against the zzzs, succumbing, waking, crying and yelling, and I got her settled, for the night, finally, with kisses and promises that we'll have another day in a few hours.

I worked on a project while my people both worked on their own, and at the end of my day, I dipped into my "creative account" and ordered two instruments online. If you're still reading this travelogue, can you guess what they are?

It was a good first day of a new season. It feels like a party when the world begins coming to life. Makes me want to sing. Or make something sing.

Around my heart in 181 days

This is fun:

http://www.timeanddate.com/date/duration.html

I always liked playing with calculators. My folks bought me a fancy one for high school that did all sorts of great higher math tricks, plus it could spell—it was during the time when it was a popular game to make words out of numbers. Did anyone else do this, or am I the only one who geeked out making a Texas Instruments Scientific say HELLO?

Key in 0.7734 and turn your calculator upside down. See? Fun. Sadly, this probably won't work with your smartphone, but if you can find an old calculator in your parents' junk drawer, you can teach it to say words like hillbillies, legless, oozes, and—hey!—even my name, Geo.

Here's a list of possibilities to get you started:

http://www.presentandcorrect.com/blog/250-words-you-can-spell-with-a-calculator

So there's this beautiful baby in my life—my ladyfriend, my small woman, my seedling, my Mighty Mox, my daughter. I wake her up in the morning and she smiles hilariously. I spend the day feeding and caring for her, teaching her, playing with her, and trying to solve the great puzzle of mothering, and she accepts many of my efforts. I sing her to sleep at night, poor little thing! She practices talking (through a megaphone?) in the middle of the night. She is a funny, intelligent, delightful creature. And today she turned six months old! That's 181 days! I've been there for every one so far. She's circled my heart countless times since September and I am bound, captured. It's joy to love this child and to watch her become herself. I do not have words to express the depth of gratitude I feel for the opportunity to be a wife and mother. I'm glad my husband and I are making this journey together.

Next Monday morning, Rob and Moxie and I will go to court and be able to finalize this adoption. We thought we were going to have to wait till late April, but we just learned that we can shave a month off that expectation. Standing before the judge will be a small moment, but one that changes history for all of us, forever.

This is a great age, six months. There's so much discovery. I'm amazed at the rapid, solid way little humans grow and learn. Moxie's projects today were, with my help, practicing pulling herself up to sitting and balancing, and, without my help, finding new items to snatch while playing in her walker. Yesterday it was just a dish towel that hung on the fridge door. Today it was the dish towel, an outgoing box of thrift store donations, magazines, books, and her daddy's bathrobe. Luckily, I got to the bathroom garbage can before she did. I'm surprised to have to start babyproofing so early, but hey, it just means she's becoming capable and independent, right? Naps and spoons are becoming more familiar. Drinking (or something like it) from our water glasses, and tongue-scrubs are favorite fascinations. Nose-wiping results in thrashing wails, but the nose-sucker, now that's entertainment. I give her a chance at the piano most days, while she sits on my lap. Today she attacked the keys with enormous enthusiasm, giving them her best pounding yet and throwing her whole little force into making those sounds. She likes to dance with me and ride around on me, supervising and grabbing at whatever I lay my hands to. She gets excited about books as well and would like to devour them.

This is typical; all babies do these kinds of things. But HOW INCREDIBLE IS IT THAT I, OF ALL PEOPLE, GET TO BE HERE, EXPERIENCING THIS. My mind is forever blown and I want to savor all of it I can.

I can't count as high as my amazement. I'm going to need one powerful calculator to help me add up all the good words: belle, bibs, blesses, bliss.

Cross-eyed and scrambled

A long good day. Zzz.

A new world here

Out of small [and sometimes seemingly impossible] things proceedeth that which is great.

Hello, 2013. You've renewed my faith in love at first sight. Thanks for a sweet Day 1.

Leftover New Year's ceviche, cilantro, perfect avocado and Good Earth chips. Even tastier than it was last night. Adding fresh orange to the mixture of lemon and lime juices and herbs was inspired. To think how much more fine a flavor fresh rather than dried oregano might produce... oh! I might have to grow a potful just to make this dish.

Dancing for Rob while he played my guitar. Stupid, happy grins.

Dancing with Rob to twangy Pandora. Remembering the holiday season we spent with my family in North Carolina when we were still newlyweds. On New Year's Eve we went dancing at The New South with my gram and her new (4th) husband. Tell ya what, there were some real hot dogs doin' some fine steppin' in that dance hall. Near to midnight, that tricky Ladybug stole my partner and wouldn't give him back, not even for the countdown or Auld Lang Syne, and she left me doing the Twist with dear Tom, who was cheerfully stiff as a board and half as coordinated.

Walking in the bright sun, inspecting the new Front Runner station till the cold wind pained my ears. Being snatched up unexpectedly and carried over little snow drifts and slick spots.

Cleaning the house together.

Cooking for people I love.

Little traditions. Last night's gleeful Good Riddance ceremony for pyromanic pagan purification. New Year's Day soul food prescription: black-eyed peas and collard greens for success and wealth.

For the first time in ages, wishing to make resolutions for the new year, and then actually articulating them, writing them down. Many resolutions. And I added a few more just now. Maybe I'll keep adding all year. Could be this is really a bucket list taking shape. P.S. I'm abandoning perfectionism.

Rebooting my Morning Pages practice.

The beautiful dream I had early this morning, which not only broke a chronic, exhausting stretch of nightmares, but also acted as a kind of antidote to one particular recurring night terror I experience, the very worst of them. When I woke up I was filled with a sweet hopeful feeling that this year is going to be very good—lucky, even. The 13 I didn't realize I was waiting for! It's always been my number.

Guests. Family. Friends. Children, grownups. A stranger who isn't anymore. Pot luck. Easiness. Sharing a table, breaking bread. Plenty. Amazing my small nephew and niece with a tiny treasure—a hummingbird egg. Teaching them to make the sound of a galloping horse with fingersnaps and hand-pops. Shooting off bottle rockets in the front yard.

Cleaning the house together, again. Anticipating the gratitude I'll feel in the morning when I wake up to order.

Believing in the incredible, taking the long view of what's possible. Warming an egg that's gone cool and quiet because an even quieter whisper says, "Something beautiful may yet hatch, so get comfortable." I dedicate this year to whatever beauty inside is ready to come to life.

Sometimes Monday evening looks like this

Family Home Evening with Rob & Georgia

Peasant picnic on the living room floor
• Red lentil dhal soused with tender corn and fresh cilantro
• Whole wheat pitas w/spreads
• Crunchy Fuji apples
• All-u-can-drink tap water
• After this we were too full for the ginger-pumpkin pie, phoo.

Opening hymn: #96, "Dearest Children, God Is Near You"
• Piano accompaniment was sight-read and played badly by Georgia.
• Verse 1 was sung nearly twice through by Rob before he skipped on to verse 3.

Opening prayer

Intro

• "As he thinketh in his heart, so is he." (Proverbs 23:7)

• "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." (2 Timothy 1:7)

• Thinking = being. How can we change negative, unhealthy patterns of thinking and become more discerning? 

Scripture

• Explore the scriptures for a few ideas on the subject of discernment, thinking well, good judgement, perception, etc. and share reflections. (Our quick picks: Romans 8:26-28; 3 Nephi 22:11, 12; 2 Nephi 21:1-3; Ether 4:12; Doctrine & Covenants 88:67, 68.)

Discussion

• Review the basics of reframing, cognitive distortions, negative and positive explanatory styles. 

• Choose a shared concern and brainstorm ways and times when this concern can actually be a good thing. (Our pick: money worries. We came up with almost a full page of positives available through this challenge, and could have named more.)

Fun

• Explain a new game: "Good, Bad, Interesting." To demonstrate how it works, watch Demetri Martin comedy videos on Attention and Control.

• Go for a late walk while playing "Good, Bad, Interesting." (Our plan was aborted, due to Crazy Monday Exhaustion.)

Closing hymn: #95, "Now Thank We All Our God"

• One-handed piano accompaniment played admirably by Georgia.
• Both verses were sung without mishap by Rob.

Closing prayer

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Good, Bad, Interesting"

Rules: 

1. A player introduces a topic.

2. Another player repeats that topic and presents three scenarios which fulfill the topic—one good, one bad, and one interesting.

3. That player then introduces a new topic for the next player to fulfill. 

4. Please keep it family-friendly, folks.

5. Repeat 1-4.

Want to play?

Here's a topic to start: CLIMBING THROUGH A WINDOW.

If you chance to meet a frown(ing salad)

No one likes a frowny face.

Change it for a smile.

Make the world a better place

by smiling all the while.

One of the benefits of self-employment: Rob and I get to eat together—not every meal of every day, mind you, but we share a fine majority of our repasts. Family meals, being with people at table—so healthy. I'm convinced, and there are studies that back me up on this, that breaking bread together heightens the nourishing impact of food, especially when the folks gathered 'round the board allow themselves to relax and invest in good conversation. Do you believe in shared meals? The simplicity or complexity of the spread make less difference to the experience than the seasonings of love and friendship and goodwill. Certainly it's great to aim for food that's interesting and flavorful, but I for one will take a communal PB&J over lonely gourmet just about any day of the week, any meal. It's the company that makes the meal truly delicious.

Rob and I aren't very good at routine—often our meals take place at odd hours—but we do follow a few constants. One of them is our breakfast pattern. When we sit down together for this meal, we pray and ask for a blessing on our food, and another on our shared study time. We eat and visit, and then when the food's gone and we're sipping our Pero or smoothies or chamomile tea or what-have-you, one of us will bring up some point or principle or story from the scriptures and we'll have a small discussion about it. We pull from our personal studies to prepare for this morning time. Then we wash up dishes together (sometime this step gets neglected, ahem), and start the day in earnest with a kneeling prayer. It's a really grounding habit that has helped us come to know ourselves and each other better, and learn about the nature of life and happiness and truth. We are stronger, closer as a couple, and closer to God because we observe this practice. We're not perfect in our process—sometimes one or both of us are stressed or fatigued, or anxious about the day, but even when we carve out the merest moment to slow down and focus on something made of light, we are blessed.

I highly recommend that you give ideas like these a try with your own family. If you live alone, or have other circumstances which require adaptation, then you have a perfect opportunity to exercise your creativity. A shared meal can be so good for the soul. And adding the element of spiritual feasting makes mealtime exponentially more sustaining.

Bon appétit.

Enlightening

Jake gets up at 4:00am and works. He says, "I like mornings," and asks me, "You're still a night owl?" He brags about seeing the perfect moon glow fully over the eastern horizon and dangle Venus, clear and lovely, as if from a string. "I love mornings," he says, and Rob agrees. "They're so quiet."

Today I woke up before the sun and crawled out of bed, choosing the birth of the day over neutralizing another wakeful night with sleep. I said to myself, "I like mornings. I don't want to live my life missing them."

It's overcast so I'll get no peek at the waning moon nor attendant planet, but the light, however diffused, still grows, and the world feels quiet enough for thinking. I'm glad for a new writing app, Momento, even though the tiny typing on an iPhone is hunt and peck. My words are coming back. I believe they've been there right along, circling and watching for me to rise and enjoy them. Just like the sun.

Giving Thanks, Day 9

Parking the car in the sun, eating J Dawgs, and listening to John Cage & Lou Harrison with Rob. That's a feast.

Giving Thanks, Day 8

Gratitude du jour:

• the joy of movement, esp. walking fast on a crisp afternoon
• messages from faraway friends
• sweet irony: Last night a friendly neighbor sent over an ENORMOUS plate of gooey black magic box brownies, the kind that can turn deadly if you overindulge. After Rob and I cautiously sampled them, we decided we were in danger, so I loaded up the rest to share with a family I met with today. They were excited, and we were relieved. Hey, no emergency room trips for us! On my way home I received a text from a different neighbor friend, telling me she'd just left brownies on my porch and giving me full disclosure about her ingredients list, all healthy in the extreme. Those we finished off. 
• fresh flowers in the house (love gifts)

Giving Thanks, Day 3

So, ha ha, I posted this on Facebook for Halloween:

This image may originate here. (So much for attribution.)

Early this morning, after Rob got up but before the sun and I did, I was lying in bed, minding my own sleepy business, and something with a lot of legs RAN ACROSS MY FACE. Ear to ear, straight over my cheekbones. I am a light sleeper, even when I'm dreaming, so in a nanosecond I was bolt upright and freaking out, shaking my head and slapping myself around to make sure that spider was OFFOFFOFF! Talk about an adrenaline rush. I sat there in the dark, my heart pounding. I did not, did not dream that! I pictured this spider running for his life, away from the big flailing thing he'd just mistakenly used as a highway. But no. Suddenly, I felt a tickle on the back of my shoulder and this time I stopped, dropped, and rolled like I was on fire. Good thing Rob was up already or I'd have probably knocked him out of bed by accident. I was taking no chances. A few years ago I got fanged by one of those pale green house spiders with the googly brown eyes that Rob used to tell me don't bite, and now, well, you know what they say... I'm twice shy. Exponentially shy. I can't stand spiders in the house. We are not amused.

After that, no more tickles, no more feet. I was able to catch a few more zzzzs (a testament to how much sleep I've lost lately rather than to how courageous I am). But when I woke up (after the sun) this is what I found:

Aieeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!

scattered body parts!

I am still creeped out, many hours later. Augh! It's going to be a little tough to sleep tonight.


BUT. Here's my big gratitude for the day: I won that battle. No googly-eyed spider bites for me today. And I'm sure his ancestors in spider heaven welcomed him home with many many open arms. Thankful!


Other things that didn't bite today:

• giving away the rest of the Mexican chocolate brownies
• getting to see an old friend, somebody I love like family, and meet her new baby, Niles (love you, Jamie, and it was so good to see you and Addie and the baby chunk and your sweet gram)
  
• helping my in-laws' neurotic cat with her worried peevish old lady cat thoughts (no, really)
  
• watching Neil Thornock drive away with a giant accordion loaded into his fabulous cargo bike
  
• perfect timing: at the very moment I decided I needed to find somebody with a truck to help me move a couch to Lu's house, I looked out the window and spotted the bishop, home early, and he and his truck and one of his landscaping worker bees helped me deliver Big Pink in five minutes, round trip
• new space opened up in the living room
• shuffling pictures on the walls
  
• the rest of the Harry Potters, on loan from my cuz
• Gary bringing me a gift he knows I'll appreciate: a tragic handwritten poem he found while deep cleaning his basement—it was hidden behind some duct work (sad subject matter, but it's great to have a friend who'll think to give me something like this)
• Rob's glee at having a P.A. system to play with
• Brian's songs with a little more reverb
• sweaters from the UK
• digging out the Italian book of Hanon Virtuoso-Pianist exercises and beginning to break in my fingers again (ow)
• vegetables
• praying with perspective
• looking forward to tomorrow
• my pumpkin and his Jack-o-lantern:

Giving Thanks, Day 2

Another list.

• a new recipe for a Dutch baby (apple)
• sitting in the sun by the lake and writing the opening of a new story
• hot water (Mary, you are so, so right!)
• moving furniture
• laying plans to pass on Big Pink to a friend who has the crappiest couch in town
• Simple Green + microfiber cloths
• listening to an enlightening interview with Dr. John Gray
• wearing Rob's sweater
• not watching Kung Fu Panda
• being raised by people who loved to give
• Mozart's Requiem Mass in D Minor
• finally locating a sweet spot in the house where we can play records on the German Telefunken without our steps causing the needle to skip across the vinyl
• take-out bean and cheese pupusas + that magical pickled cabbage-jalapeño stuff
• KUER's nighttime jazz
• swapping love letters
• more Mexican chocolate brownies
• cold, clean night air
• feeling well enough to attend teacher training
• being taught a new way to deepen gratitude: Each day, write down three things you're thankful for... and then ask yourself, "Why/how did they happen?" 

Thirty Days of Thanksgiving

When I woke up this morning, it was unmistakably November. The weather was grey and wet and blowy, as if it just had to distinguish itself from October. It's funny how often this kind of big announcement seems to come on the first day of month anymore.

But despite its dismal halloo, I am committed to loving November. It's good, this advent of Thanksgiving. I think I'll join the ranks of bloggers who'll spend the month pouring out some gratitude and celebrating the cup that runs over with blessings.

Simple tonight—an attempt at a list, since I'm not feeling my best today (I'm looking at you, moon), but nevertheless a decent start. I'm thankful for:

• a near-perfect breakfast smoothie
• Ibuprofen (always and forever, always and forever)
• Mirjam's hot water bottle
• horizontalilty + cushions + gravity
• the digital projector we're babysitting for the next few weeks + a white wall + decent speakers
• Napoleon Dynamite for bazillionth time
• baked winter squash
• Mexican chocolate brownies
• a kind housemate, husband, and friend (rolled into one)
• lonely train whistles
• remote control
• answering machine
• Debby showing up with a rented DVD (Thor), fried potatoes, and fresh pineapple
• a clean bathroom
• quiet
• a working furnace
• learning that friends in dire straits are being helped and supported
• understanding that it's not the end of the world to lose a day to illness
• one of my new blog ideas becoming a reality
• sharing good things
• chasing after change (a right healthy sport)
• evening chapter of The Hobbit

Caves aren't everything

I didn't sleep much last night, and from morning till night I've had a splitting headache which did its best to become a sick migraine in the late afternoon. I had a ton of stuff to get done today, most of it sit-down work, and most of it Relief Society business that I just couldn't feel good about putting off. I wanted to crawl into a dark quiet cave and wait for sleep to ambush me, but it just wasn't a realistic option. I chucked from the to-do list many details that didn't truly matter, but there were still so many people deals left to help with or respond to, and more came rolling in throughout the day. It was one of those days that kinda make you wonder what is going on, like maybe somebody planted a big Grand Opening sign in your lawn.

It was a good day in one very big way—people are important to me and I appreciate the opportunities to interact with them. But, yikes! It's hard to think and talk and write and troubleshoot when your head is throbbing.

I bring this up because there were some moments of sweet compensation today, tender mercies. Our breakfast smoothie was terrific today. Go ahead, laugh, but I'm grateful for it. Look, on a day like this, the last thing in the world I want to greet me is a tall glass of swamp nog. (I had a bad run for a couple days there, failed experiments. Not all green smoothies are created equal.) I was too sick midday to go out for a scheduled lunch with a girlfriend, but before the lunch hour was over, a different friend showed up hungry, treated Rob to El Salvadorean food, and brought some home for me too. Then! When I was hitting the lowest point of the day, another friend called and invited us out for supper. I absolutely could not accept, so she brought food over and ate with us. I noticed she even kept her voice down so as not to pain my head. That takes concentration for her, because she's got a big musical theater voice.

Food doesn't usually appear at my doorstep. It was such a welcome blessing that it showed up today, and from such gracious friends. Thank you.

Other tender mercy: First thing this morning one of my duties was to interview a dear woman in our church congregation and help her prepare a welfare order for her family. I was so ill that I texted her and asked if I could visit with her by phone rather than have to dress and go to her house. It hurt to move. She was very kind and came to me instead and didn't care that I stayed in my robe (hey, at least it's pretty and red). We had a good visit, and when we were through with our business she gave me a sweet gift: a relaxing head massage which really did help for almost half an hour.

Another one, which ties back into the first: Getting to work with women who are willing to give needed help, who network, who care, who make smart plans and follow through, who create good things, who aren't afraid of work or commitment, who express gratitude, who can laugh at themselves, who are willing to serve others without passing judgement, and who talk it out appropriately and are able to move forward rather than bog down in the muck when a serious offense has been given. I saw some of all of that today. Mercies. Beautiful ones.

Oh, also: We got to watch three doves walk around in our big plum tree this morning, just like it was a network of sidewalks.

And: My book on companion gardening arrived.

And: Firming up plans with great friends.

And: A concerned husband who keeps urging me to drink more water.

And: Oh, those crazy wonderful flowers in the dining room.

And: I'm too tired to keep counting them up.

Now I will go to my cave and hope for the best. But wait, I had that already today.

Listening, thinking, stitching, rambling

I was supposed to be at a very friendly knit night this evening but instead I'm home, sick with a fever, but my sticks and string are flying as I flop. I've got a gift to finish by Saturday. I'm set up in the shop, where my Rob is working late on an art project... a sound sculpture, to be exact. He's given me a chair to sit in near the center of the action. I'm surrounded by speakers and my ears and head are filling up with the nicest stuff. I'm excited to see (and hear) him seriously working in this new medium; I'm pleased and proud. It feels really right. He's preparing for a show and I think you should join us when it happens. Yes, you.

Late last night we went out for a walk downtown. We heard the most delightful squeaky fuss coming from high up, next to the alley behind the art store. It was sweet, funny bat music. What's a group of bats called? Surely not a flock, or a gaggle. What about a bite (megabite?), or a siphon, or a strangle of bats? Anyway, there was a crowd of them, making a tight little home together behind a sign. We stood there, peering into the dark, listening to them fret, hoping to see them fly out for their nightly hunt. Eventually, they began to emerge, one at a time, each one winging out crazily, many of them buzzing our heads. Bats! They're fabulous! They made me think of skydivers leaping from a plane, only they never fell to earth.

I think I'd like to build some bat houses with Rob. I don't want them in MY house but I'd love to have them as neighbors. I feel pretty sure their voices would end up in a sound sculpture somewhere.

That's Entertainment!

This evening we went to BYU for a terrific lecture and screening of Chapter One of the old serial, The Mysterious Doctor Satan, followed by a true cinema classic, Billy Wilder's Sunset Boulevard. What a great time. Rob and I discussed afterward cancelling our Netflix account, at least for the next few months, and taking advantage of the plentiful and diverse offerings at the university, all for free. American classics, new documentaries, all sorts of foreign films—there's more than enough going on to keep us busy. If we need a Harry Potter fix before the end of Winter semester, maybe we can hit up one of my lovely cousins. Oh, and did I mention that my cousin manages a Cinemark in the next valley up? If we get desperate to see something new, all we have to do is drive to his theater on a day he's working, and voila, it only costs us gas money.

I like the idea of going out for films and seeing them with an audience. We almost never do that now unless we catch one at the dollar theater. Going out for a show was still the only option when I was a young child—unless you got lucky and a movie you actually wanted to see was being aired on teevee. I remember with great fondness Saturday matinees in the summertime, the Northwoods Rocking Chair Theater, getting a black eye once when I was peeking between the doors waiting for the last showing to end and a guy coming out swung the door hard into my face, tossing Red Hots at people, welding my teeth together with Jolly Ranchers from the concessions stand, getting to go in for free because my dad did the newspaper ads for all the theaters in town. I like treating a movie like a special event. It's like James D'Arc said in his lecture this evening: A film is a cultural campfire where we come together to tell our stories. I believe that. I love that.

And I love BYU's wonderful cinematic venues. The only thing they're missing (according to Rob) is: popcorn. Check out their scheduled screenings if you're near enough to come and enjoy them.

Motion Picture Archives Film Series / Current and Upcoming Films

 Documentary Film Series

International Cinema

Why I'm Here, Today, Blogging

Heather. Heather, you're the reason. Because it's your birthday, and because you are moving to my old home state long before I'm ready for you to go (which would be: never) and because you said something by way of sad goodbyes like: "We can still be friends!" and "I love you!" and "I'll read your blog!" Yep, that did it. You'll read my blog? That means I need to post something for you to read, right? Write?

Since I'm not a stellar communicator when it comes to telephones and letters and such, keeping in contact with people I love was probably the main reason I started this blog anyhow. That, and exhibitionism (the inhibited kind). We won't talk about which of the two reasons exerted the stronger pull on my psyche. 

I'm determined not to go all navel-gazey over this question of why I've been blog-ditching, or why I've considered so often pulling the plug for good. I'll just start blogging again. Write more, pre-edit less. Easy, right? Write? Keep in touch. Keep. Touch.

Okay, so today I got to hang out with Heather. For two hours! Who gets to do that, waltz in on somebody's birthday and steal their time? It was pretty presumptuous of me to just barge into her big day and ask for a chunk of visiting. I love it when I'm presumptuous. I love it more when there's no objection. Thanks for reinforcing my bad manners, Heather. And thanks for the bagel date. I had fun even though there was that sad thing happening in my heart every time I looked at you and thought about how you'll soon turn into a Tar Heel, many miles from here. *sniff*

So I guess I'm lucky I was here to crash Heather's birthday today. I had a bad mushroom experience last night. No, not that kind of mushroom. It wasn't a magic mushroom. It was a soccer ball-sized brain, I tell you, a western giant puffball. Leland and Charla hunted it down over the weekend in the wilds of the Alpine Loop and brought it to us as a Love Gift of Pure Intentions. I've never seen anything like it. Rob has been saying for years that he used to find and eat puffballs back east when he was a kid. So he was our veteran. And Leland and Charla did their homework, to make sure it wasn't a dangerous kind of fungus. It was 100% edible, this fungus, their reference books and expert sources agreed. Apparently, their sources didn't mention that western giant puffballs need to be 100% white inside when you eat them, not ivory, not pearl, not eggshell, not beige, not even the teensiest bit antiqued, in order to avoid stomach upset. (Thank you for the belated clarification, Wikipedia.) You can, of course, see where this is going?

Anyway, it was fun to have the fungus hunters come over yesterday, watch Rob and Leland slice up this amazing soccer brain into sticks, egg it, bread it, fry it with green onions and garlic, and then eat the finished product in good company. Leland said, "I don't taste anything. I don't like it." (But know this about our friends the fungus hunters: they never want to eat the mushrooms. They hunt for sport.) Rob said, "It tastes like it's a little past its prime." The menfolk put their noses up at our puffball. Charla was more open, and had a few pieces: "It's not my favorite, but it's alright." I said, "Sure it has a taste! It tastes like mushroom!" It wasn't bad. I generally approve of mushrooms and harbor kind of a weird affection for them, so of course I wanted to like this one. I practically proselyted for the fungus. Give it a chance, I wanted to say. Come on, people, it's Found Food, wild and wonderful. I think I mentally rolled my eyes—just a tad, and with all the love in my heart—at the pickiness of the fellows. Add to my enthusiasm the fact that I was pretty hungry. Sunday afternoon post-church is generally a busy time at my house, and not the most well-fed stretch of hours in our week. Remember that: empty stomach + slightly antiqued western giant puffball interior. A forest growth that came with no cooking or eating instructions. Fungus gusto. 

When we all went over later to join Rob's folks for dinner at Tribal Headquarters, my stomach was aching. Pretty soon Charla was saying she needed to go home and lie down. My mum-in-law asked repeatedly, "Are you poisoned? Do we need to take you to the E.R.?" No, no, just to the Home for Careless Fungus Eaters.

It took me till this morning, about the time that Heather and I went out for bagels, to feel normalish. I hope Charla's doing better; last I heard she was still with us.

I would eat another puffball, yes, I would. But the next time that soccer brain's gonna have to be pristine inside. White as angel food cake, and a perfect texture to match.

Okay, that's it. One profound post. Still want to read my blog, Heather?

I have to say that when I opened up Blogger to write this post, there were close to a dozen wonderful comments waiting for me to moderate and publish. I never received any notification about them, so they've been piled up for weeks, waiting around to jump out at me and yell, "Surprise!" But how did that happen? My blog settings don't require comment moderation, at least not at my command. Huh. I guess that proves my blog and I need to get reacquainted.

And Heather, you and I must always stay acquainted. Happy birthday!

(And thanks, friends, for the kind comments you left for me on earlier posts. Wish I'd seen them when you left them so I could've responded right away.)

Surely Shall Show

3 (of many) beautiful things today:

•Meeting the sweet, darling three-year-old version of a little girl who is dear to me. I used to babysit her when she was just a tiny wide-eyed grub, and each time she was with me at my house I'd sing her songs and whisper into her ears, "You and I will always be friends." (It was also great to see this little girl's mama again and meet her new baby.)

•Building a small rug loom with Rob.

•Coming up with a fresh, money-conservative solution for at least part of our bookshelf shortage, and in the process of bringing all my old music books and sheet music upstairs and making them accessible, releasing some vital energy in myself that wants to fix the felts inside the piano and get practicing. I rediscovered my love of Mozart sonatinas today!

P.S. Try this five times, fast:

Surely Soren's shirtless sunburned shoulders shall show some soreness soon.

So May I Introduce to You the Act I've Known for All These Years

Sgt. Robert's lovely free verse poems.

I'm very proud of my dearest friend. I couldn't be prouder of him if he was reading tonight on that prestigious stage in NYC, and enjoying the trip that almost was. His sensitivity and talent shine and I applaud him as adoringly as any slick city audience could, and more. I just hope he isn't quietly disappointed somewhere down deep inside by this crowd of only one, and that one not too smartly dressed for the occasion.

Congratulations, Rob, on making a beautiful contribution to what I hope was a perfect evening for our friends, the Lunatics.

About a Plant

Here we are, almost two years ago, just after learning I was pregnant again. Happy, thankful people.

A short time later we traveled to SoCal to spend some time with my dear uncle, who was in the process of wrapping up his mortal sojourn.

One day Rob and I went to the beach with my cousin. We went out onto the big pier and watched people fish and throw mackerel to the seals. (It isn't called Seal Beach for nothing.)

Later we poked around in a few shops downtown. My cousin bought a gigantic fake diamond for his wife, a piece of cut glass large enough to fill up my hand. 

There was nothing for sale that enticed me (except when we stopped in an Italian deli which nearly overpowered my will with its wall of olives) until we came upon a beautiful little open air garden shop. So many gorgeous growing things. I think Rob and my cousin Brett grew an inch of beard standing around, waiting for me to look at every last flower and succulent in the place. Twice. When I left, I had in tow a panda plant,

a few rescued pearls from a string of beads plant,

and a plant which is the one I want to tell you about. It's known as a mother plant.

This is the one I loved the best. Is it any wonder that I wanted to buy a mother plant to celebrate our big (but still secret at that point) joy? This plant is the succulent equivalent of a possom, carrying its "babies" till they're mature enough to drop to the ground and make it on their own. See the spiky edges of each leaf? Comfy lodging for a baby on each of those points. This kind of plant is so pretty to see when it's fruitfully full of its tiny riders. 

So, when our stay in Seal Beach reached an end, I carefully packed up my mother plant and the others and brought them all safely home to Utah. 

I expected to share some real maternal solidarity with the mother plant in the months ahead, but it wasn't meant to be. In the early summer I miscarried the baby I'd been so sure about. It was devastating. And the mother plant suffered. I never out and out tried to kill the plant, but I neglected it like I'd never neglected any other in my life. It remained in its tiny starter pot, with only the merest plug of soil to protect and sustain it. It dried out. Its babies died and it dropped most of its leaves. It stretched desperately toward light, toward any kind of nurturing, and grew spindly. It became deformed, almost two feet of thin green crisis. I might have watered it a few times (or Rob might have) in the beginning, a nickel's worth of a drink, only enough to be insulting. Then the soil really dried out, hard. The mother plant fell over and got pushed behind a junk pile. I never really forgot it; I began to ignore it. The sight of it depressed me but I couldn't persuade myself to throw it away... or take care of it either.

This non-story goes on and on. Months, many months passed. During those months Rob and I began working through the long process of preparing for an adoption through an agency, LDS Family Services. You'd think, wouldn't you, that I'd have made my peace with the mother plant then? Nope. Despite my own renewed pursuit of motherhood (possomhood?), the mother plant suffered on. 

Now Rob and I are facing a deadline that's less than two months away; we must complete our preparations so that once and for all we can qualify to become viable candidates for adoption. Do you know what people mean when they say they've been on an emotional roller coaster ride? I do. I'd like to say I've done nothing but push on diligently toward our goal for ten months, but I admit I stalled out here and there, scared and unsure, about irrational stuff. Or maybe rational stuff, depending upon how you look at it, but still irrelevant if you factor in faith. Yeah, what about miracles?

For instance, here's one: that crazy mother plant lives on. It's not a zombie, not undead; it's alive! It's been devastated, but it hangs on. It doesn't even seem to hate me. If my life was a Hitchcock film, or maybe a Kubrick, the mother plant would have strangled me in the night long ago, wrapped its horrible glow-in-the-dark tough skinniness around my neck and choked. But this show's got a finer director, so rather than whomping me with Mother Nature's curse, this little mother plant has shown me that survival is what we're made for. 

So March Forth, my very own holiday, came. A lot of good things happened that day, which I mentioned in my last post. The event that seemed the most celebratory and symbolic was finally caring for my mama possum plant. It felt like time, time to march forth in mothering and peacemaking. I found in our storage shed a pretty pot, never before used, and a new bag of potting mix. I put a magical rock from the day's hike in the bottom to cover the drainage hole. I kissed and clipped that mother plant. I cut her down again, and again, with my sharpest knife and steadiest hand, till there seemed to be almost nothing left of her. Then I carefully planted and watered her, and decorated her new home with more magical rocks and remnants of a beautiful old wall in Salt Lake, and set her on my favorite old plate to catch the extra water.

This is a lot of talk about a plant, isn't it?

The mother plant was curled and bent when I planted it two days ago. Today it's standing straight (already!) and that's an encouraging sight. I'm doting: Need a mist, love? Here you go! Such a forgiving thing, this plant. How did it go on so long in the face of my grudge and manage to survive on air? How? 

I have a habit of looking for symbols everywhere. Maybe I'm projecting too much onto this plant. Whatever happens with my own mothering, I'm through with killing-by-degrees this eager green life. I'm hoping it will soon feel well enough to possum up and make a few happy vigorous babies. If anybody wants a succulent start, I can certainly vouch for the strength of the stock. 

How I Celebrated March Forth

I went with Rob to visit another planet.

We brought home souvenirs. (I carried so many in my pockets that my pants wanted to fall down.)

Spied a tree growing rosary beads, but decided not to harvest any for my prayers (wrong religion). 

Listened to jazz (and you can too, right here), loved it. Loved my friends.

The pièce de résistance was rehabilitating this (nearly two feet long prior to surgery):

and giving it a fresh chance at living. This is significant.

I'll tell you why in the next post. (Must sleep now. Tired out from all this Marching Forth.)