Brutal day, excellent day. A serious climb. There's so much to say, but I feel deeply quiet now at the end of it all. More tomorrow, maybe.
But there is this: Thanks, Diane O., for praying to keep me safe on the road to Salt Lake and back. I'm giving you some of the credit for the fact that our meeting was canceled and we didn't have travel, but instead were able to join our incredible neighbors at the temple. Way to represent, Diane!
I'm going to my sleep tonight grateful for love, and for the renewal of my belief that no one is forgotten. Not a soul at any time or in any place is forgotten. All are known by name and by heart, and loved.
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.
This is not a great photo, but I had to really crank the iPhone to get all of this baby in the Hipstamatic frame.
Our friends bought a limo for their family car, fer cryin' out loud! How fabulous is that? This is what happens when you have triplets before your Irish twins turn three. You need a real family wagon. With cupholders. And a privacy screen. And leather seats. And decanters! And a TV/VCR! And just enough curb space to park the thing!
It is a thing of laughable beauty. I hope our friends keep it and don't chicken out on this crazy wonderful eBay deal. Beats the pants off a minivan. They are a very special family and I think anything that helps them keep and share their great sense of humor as they navigate the winding roads of parenting five children three and under is a keeper.
I'm looking forward to my first ride in... what's its name, anyway? A 'mobile like that has simply got to have a classy name. Any suggestions? I'll pass 'em on.
Exhibit A.
You flew in the sky from there to here, to see your family, but you came to see me too, and I got to wrap my arms around you, and you are still you are still you are still my dear darling girl, my friend, my you-know-who. That's the sweetest blessing and benediction to a week that began with my getting dumped (thankfully not by Rob). That was the worst. You are the best. I love that we are still heart and soul friends and I hope I hope I hope that will always be our joy. I believe I believe I believe it will be.
Exhibit B.
You, amazing person who also flew in the sky from there to here, are exactly the person I expected. I don't brag like lots of people do that I am a good judge of character, because really, who can suss out that sort of information without a great deal of work and actual revelation? Such a declaration always embarrasses me. What I do claim is that it doesn't take long to love people, and every once in a while that feeling seems to predate the friendship itself. So when did I start knowing you, anyway? Logic says it must have been the first time I studied you in photos. But even then I felt a sense of recognition, so it must have been earlier still. Huh. Well, nice to meet you and finally get to say I like you out loud and to your face.
Exhibit C.
Thunder and rain. Comfort sounds.
Exhibit D.
After my third hamburger in less than 24 hours, I am completely ready and can hardly wait for The Great Garden Produce Purge of September. I wish I was starting my juice fast tomorrow, I am that tired of food, but I still have some prep to do. I am so ready to wash my brain and my whole system with veg and fruit. A full month of harvest season relief and bliss! It was that final devastating hamburger, the one at the ward picnic this evening, that pushed me over the edge. I don't care if I eat meat again till autumn. Or maybe ever. Ack!
This morning a mysterious box appeared on our porch from some of our favorite people on earth. I laughed when I discovered it. I brought it inside and set it on the dining room table. I waited all day to open it. All night too, nearly. Wasn't that nice of me not to rip right into it when mine wasn't the only name on the package? Wasn't I the epitome of self-control? I had to pretend it wasn't there, had to ignore it. Wasn't easy. I mean, these are best beloveds we're talking about. And a history of interesting packages from said beloveds.
Hey, it's a coffee machine! (Wait, we don't drink coffee!) Hang on...
It's a box of John's incredible pickles! Party time! (Could you hear me wishing for some of your okra spears? I've been craving them since October. Seriously.)
And a bee-YOO-tee-full Christmas photo of the kiddos and one heckuva lucky red cat, but I'm not sure if I should post it. What do you say, pickle pals? Mugs or no mugs?
Now we are waiting for one very special occasion to crack open these bottles. We are waiting for, say, tomorrow. That's special enough, or will be once the beets and okra start flying.
Thanks, friends! We love you and are working on a plan which will allow us to take a tuck in the western U.S. so we can be close enough to see you once or twice in a while, at least.
I've been hearing this song in my head since we opened the box:
Green pickles, red pickles
Send 'em to Utah with a stamp
The stamp of love (the pickle stuff)
People people
Paper paper
Paper paper
People people
People people
Pickle pickle
Pickle pickle
Paper paper
Put the pickles in the package
Send the package to the people
Let the people eat all of the pickled beets
And okra baby
Yeah
For those too young to recognize what you're looking at, may I present the great-grandma of that vibrating cell you carry in your back pocket—otherwise known as the telephone. Voilà!
This one bears a resemblance to the last phone I had a good relationship with, many years ago. Notice the rotary dial? It's not as speedy to use as buttons, but makes for a more interactive calling experience, and requires extra seconds of patience. Slow Phone. It's organic. It also used to make for interesting dream symbolism; my mom used to have visions in the night about rotary phones—always they were out of order. A dial that wouldn't stop spinning was a problem that frequently vexed her in Slumberland. I used to interpret those dreams for her when I was little. She asked me.
I actually have many good phone stories—look, here's one now!—however, it's been 23 years since the telephone and I had a serious falling out, dating from a deep provocation which inspired me to despise the ol' horn—but that's not the story I want to tell today.
Generally, I don't hold grudges, but somehow this aversion of mine to all things telephone never passed, but instead grew, slowly, steadily (admittedly, with much care and feeding), till here I am, two decades and some change later, so practiced in my disdain that I can go for days and often weeks without picking up the receiver and saying so much as, "Hullo?" Some of you already know this.
It's not productive behavior, I agree. It's anti-social. I know, I know. You nut, are you phobic? you might ask. And I'd answer, Well... maybe. Okay, yes. Moderately. I have been known to run from ringing phones. But only on occasion.
So it was brought to my attention early in December (and several times since, oof) that our home message machine was full and rudely turning callers away. I yam ashamed to consider how long it's been since I last listened to voice mail.
Today I finally did something that probably none of you will think is brave, because it isn't, really. In fact, I guess it's even a smidge chicken-hearted. I emptied our machine, without listening to the old messages... messages numbering in the triple digits, I might add, completely neglected, collected for months. I did not attempt to muster the courage to play them and take notes and vow to respond. I knew it was a do or die project—erase the lot, crash and burn, declare bankruptcy—but also in the process reboot, forgive and forget, wipe the slate clean.
That's right. I lobotomized my phone.
Here's the one redeeming part: I didn't do it to ignore anyone. I did it to make room for change. I'm ready to bury the hatchet with... what? It's more than just the telephone. I'm not sure I want to delve too deeply into the psychology at present; I'd much prefer to post some YouTube vids and scatter some photos around, thus:
I love people! I mean, honestly love them! See why? That's why it's time to quit singing this (admittedly very catchy) reclusive tune.
Yeah, this is more like it. See the friendly pink Hungarian lady? This is exactly what I should be doing. It's what I vow to do! Ring-a-ding-ding, world! And another vow: I will answer the dang-blamed phone. I will. I haven't missed a call yet since the message blitz. (Okay, there's only been one, but my intention is fixed.)
Here's the plan: my rehabilitation starts immediately—I'm not waiting for the new year to roll around. I'm inviting you to be part of my reformation effort, and it'll be a comfortable rather than a hair-shirtless repentance, if you don't mind. A daily call. Like this:
Looks simple enough, doesn't it? I call, you answer. I mean, if you'd like to. If you're not singing the Cake song and screening your calls. I guess you're still helping if you don't answer your phone, aren't you? You're still my intended destination, and dialing your number is still a journey for me.
You do realize this is a Sign of the Times.
So, dear ones, if you want to help me get this leaf turned over, email me your phone number. Yes, even if you believe I have it. Chances are I can't find it, because hey, I've almost never used it. (Ouch. This hurts.) I'll start filling up my calendar with one call a day (gotta start at a moderate pace). If you want a specific day, say the word. If you want repeat days, say those words too. Ha. I will beat this confounded bugaboo. Oh, and if you are Rob and want me to call you, go ahead and sign up, because I can always go next door and borrow the neighbors' phone. Contact me at:
Melody's offspring, Luke (who seems like a lovable guy in his own right, but automatically warrants a place on this list because he's got his mama's blood and steadily merits her approval)
This post has to do with people and their stories, which I have just spent two days recording. It has everything to do with listening. And telling. And being here, now. So we can carry each other.
Thank you, Becca. Thank you, Grandpa Joe. Thank you, Mickelle. Thank you for sharing your voices and letting me simply sit and adore you. Our sessions were over much too soon!
A minute before ten and I'm going to bed. Early. That's not early for you? It is for me.
I would have gladly punched the clock at nine tonight, if I hadn't had a screenwriters' meetup in Sugarhouse, and then a series of stand-still traffic clots on the freeway. Nighttime road construction—it's all the rage. (Can you find the hidden joke in that statement?)
My fatigue has really caught up to me. I've been dumbheaded and drowsy for days, but kept on driving anyway. Tonight exhaustion is pulling me over like the policeman in my dream early this morning. When I saw those blue and red lights and got that awful sinking feeling inside as I recognized they were flashing at me, I searched my brain to discover what I'd done wrong. There was only the vaguest impression of it: had I run a red light? Yes, and the officer confirmed. Oh, but sir, I didn't realize! Oh! Ohhh! But moaning about it didn't divert the consequences. This officer wasn't rude, but he was bland and straight and I knew there would be no suspension of consequences. I broke the law. I wasn't paying attention to the rules. It's a fair parallel for my life in some ways right now. And I know I've got to start reading the signs and responding more quickly to the lights around me.
Many years ago I got a ticket for reckless driving. I couldn't keep my eyes open at the wheel and I guess I was driving unsafely. It was a good thing that squad car pulled me over. I think it's a good thing now. Thanks, Officer.
A quick list of happies, and then I'm out of here:
an enjoyable last meal with the lovely Thomases before they left for home
(French toast, mangoes, Arizona grapefruit)
sharing faith with others not of our faith
learning that Bryce next door bought Peter's other traveling ukulele
There's a gypsy caravan parked in front of my house.
Guess what's been my dream since I was a little girl?
That's right. To live in a gypsy caravan. How did you know?
It'll be here until Thursday morning. You should come by and see it. Then you and I can talk about how romantic it is, and how all our lives we've dreamed of traveling light, playing wild music, and maybe selling a little snake oil on the side to fund our adventures.
It's very hard to sleep at night, knowing that bright, dreamy, hand-built, hand-carved, hand-painted caravan is out there. Not that I'm blaming my insomnia on my gypsy dream.
The people that came along with the caravan are not themselves actual gypsies, but are book artistsPeter and Donna Thomas, and we are doing a broadside project with them. It's been a pleasure to spend time with these lovely new friends. They are making their way across the U.S., peddling wares, giving lectures, and making connections and art. Yesterday we drove all down to Thistle together and collected soil samples in a gorgeous rainbow of reds and browns. Today we sifted them to get at the fine particles that can work for making pigment. Ooooo! I'd like to know just who it is that thinks Utah is not a colorful state. You need to come over and play in the magic dirt with us—you'll certainly change your mind.
Last night I tried playing a few quick songs on one of their ukulele books. (Click the awesome link. Do it.) My most successful tune was "Rubber Duckie." Man, that's got satisfying chords!
So now I'm determined to get a ukulele.
And one day, if I'm very very lucky, my own gypsy caravan.
Paradox: In spite of its underlying melancholy, my day has been one of joy.
I got a Facebook message last week from an old friend Rob and I knew and loved when we were first married. We lost contact eons ago, and I've tried several times to find him over the years. What a happy surprise it was to have him just show up and want to reconnect. But as if that wasn't enough, he shared some news today that made me whoop loud, smile long, and cry a little. It came in parts: (1) he's decided to be baptized into our faith (and close enough for us to attend), (2) he's got a plan in the works to marry a friend he knew in high school way way way back when, and (3) he's moving back to Utah, and will be only half an hour from us. SO FABULOUS. I almost can't stand it, it's so beautiful.
And then. AND THEN. I find out THIS: La Yen is preggers! So so so so so so so so so very glad for her and hers. You just never know when it's going to be your turn for a miracle. I love that La Yen is now a Fertile Myrtle. I love that Jooj is going to have a baby Waldo or Walda (or both!) to teach some tricks. I love that La Yen and W get to pass on their superior genes to some lucky hatchling(s). They've got the Nurture part down pat as far as I can tell, and now they get to add Nature to their repertoire. Lovely every way you look at it.
So now I'm on a roll and since my friend who's getting baptized, hitched, and relocated has always been deeply connected with Thanksgiving in my memory (I will offer photographic evidence of why when I can find the pictures), I hereby declare that the holiday has begun. Tomorrow I hope to find some black olives to wear on my fingers to really get it started right.
Heidi Egan, if you're reading this, I'm talking about STEVE MIKE. (I know!)
So here are a few other items for the gratitude list today:
• I managed to squeeze myself into some long-disabled cords, thanks to the ol' elastic band trick. I may get my wardrobe back this year after all, and even ditch the elastic bands.
• Got half my mountain of laundry done. Kilimanjaro, just for reference.
• Saturday music: Anna Moffo singing "Summertime," Derek & the Dominos covering "Little Wing," and an hour of bluegrass on Pandora
• Still eating black kale from the garden.
• My hair's beginning to grow back and fill in some of its crop circles.
• Had an unlooked-for chance to help Rob make an activity successful for a regional gathering of single adults which was held at our church meetinghouse.
• Got a nice big kiss planted on me in front of said singles after whispering to Rob that I'd been getting heavily flirted at by several of the fellers present.
Today I was lucky model #48 for this great project by artist Steven Waggoner. More details about the experience tomorrow, but for now, how about an invitation to the opening reception that's happening in THREE DAYS? Please come and enjoy food and folks and, if you're so inclined, even take part in the silent auction which will benefit the Food and Care Coalition. Steven is delightful and has done an impressive job with his "one-hour" portraits.
It's pretty much guaranteed that if you live in Provo you'll know at least one of Steven's models. No, really. You doubt me? Okay then, what about Mayor Billings? What about ME?
Please bring your friends, your interest, and your wallet too if you can spare a dime.
Not whomped as in decisively defeated, but as in struck heavily, or thumped. Like the way my head feels tonight. That kind of whomped. Sorry, my candidates, if I made it sound like you were any more than inched out by your opponents. Every race was a close one. Thanks for your clarification, Jessie. And like you, I'm ready to move on (and not move away, at least not after sleeping on the impulse). Hopefully the drama really is done. Anyway, here's to future days~
Meanwhile, back at the brain hatchery, check out this online Set® game. Remember, it's good for your left and right hemispheres. Like Wheaties for the mind.
