How long does it take a heart to heal?
When I was young and "in love" with someone new every other week my heart was pretty resilient. When parents lose children it takes no less than two years to feel like they can even begin functioning fully again. When my Grandmother Mary passed away I grieved for my regrets. When my Grandmother Joy died I grieved for my loss. I don't know which was worse.
This wound in my heart, the one I try to ignore and hide, the one that catapulted my family from our complacency, is still open and raw. It's healing around the edges, but it still makes it difficult to be with certain people I love, the ones who aren't at fault for the wound, but were present when it occurred. They reside in little, tertiary tears surrounding the larger hole.
I try to reason myself healed. I would never have moved if I hadn't been forced to, and even though it is difficult at times, it is the right thing for my family. My sons are in such better situations, even though they don't recognize it. I think of these things, and I'm grateful. Still...at times the pain punches me in the stomach and doubles me over.
How long does it take a heart to heal?
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Sorrow in Death
I just woke up from a dream that my Grandmother Joy died. She actually passed away 22 years ago, at the age of 87. In my dream I sobbed and sobbed. I woke up with a feeling of sorrow and loss.
I believe that we continue to exist after death, that our spirits move on to the next step of our eternal progression. I believe that my grandmother was freed from the constraints that age had placed on her mind and body. However, even when we feel that it's a release, there is always sorrow in death.
My grandmother was born on October 31, 1901, Halloween. Happy birthday tomorrow, Grandma.
I believe that we continue to exist after death, that our spirits move on to the next step of our eternal progression. I believe that my grandmother was freed from the constraints that age had placed on her mind and body. However, even when we feel that it's a release, there is always sorrow in death.
My grandmother was born on October 31, 1901, Halloween. Happy birthday tomorrow, Grandma.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Less Words, More Colors
Sometimes I get tired of words and just want silence. Silence in my head and peace in my heart. And green. My soul aches for some green, with shades of red, orange, and yellow...and a slice of blue.
If I was feeling greedy (which I am) I would ask for crisp, cool air and the scent of harvest, with a promise of moisture. A spray of salt water would be sublime.
If I was feeling greedy (which I am) I would ask for crisp, cool air and the scent of harvest, with a promise of moisture. A spray of salt water would be sublime.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Warming the Cockles of My Heart
Last night my sister called me a "crazyass comedianphilosopher." That's the most heartwarming compliment I've been given in a long time. I think I'm going to cry.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Labor of Love
Everybody shows and accepts love in different ways. We tend to see love as passive, but in reality it takes action (and sometimes hard work) to keep loving someone after that initial spark. Whether it be that moment when you realize, "Yes, this is the person I want to grow old with," or the first time you look into your new child's eyes, if you don't keep accepting and trying to show your love for that person, it can tarnish and fade. I truly believe that loving is a choice.
Each of my children need different things to feel loved, but filling their tummies is an essential first step for all of them. Sometimes the task is easier than other times. It's always gratifying to cook for Davis, he will generally eat whatever I've made, and always tells me "Thank you." Clark is a picky eater. Although he has learned to be gracious, he would rather starve than eat something he doesn't feel is palatable. Isaac is somewhere between the two.
Yesterday I decided to show Clark my love for him through Whoopie Pies. They are yummy soft chocolate cookies sandwiched in the middle with a decadent lard filling. We all love them, but Clark begs for them, he negotiates for them. "Mom, if you'll make Whoopie Pies I'll clean the bathroom, including the toilet, mop the kitchen floor, clean up the dog poop in the yard, be nice to Isaac, fly to the moon, and pay someone to take care of you when you're an old lady."
As delicious as those cookies are, I really dislike making them. They are three times the work for half the cookies. Yesterday, without negotiations, without being on a waiting list for two months, I made a double batch.
All three of those boys better know how much I love them!
Each of my children need different things to feel loved, but filling their tummies is an essential first step for all of them. Sometimes the task is easier than other times. It's always gratifying to cook for Davis, he will generally eat whatever I've made, and always tells me "Thank you." Clark is a picky eater. Although he has learned to be gracious, he would rather starve than eat something he doesn't feel is palatable. Isaac is somewhere between the two.
Yesterday I decided to show Clark my love for him through Whoopie Pies. They are yummy soft chocolate cookies sandwiched in the middle with a decadent lard filling. We all love them, but Clark begs for them, he negotiates for them. "Mom, if you'll make Whoopie Pies I'll clean the bathroom, including the toilet, mop the kitchen floor, clean up the dog poop in the yard, be nice to Isaac, fly to the moon, and pay someone to take care of you when you're an old lady."
As delicious as those cookies are, I really dislike making them. They are three times the work for half the cookies. Yesterday, without negotiations, without being on a waiting list for two months, I made a double batch.
All three of those boys better know how much I love them!
Boys in the Band
Isaac has the opportunity to take band and learn how to play an instrument in school this year. I played the clarinet throughout junior high and high school. Aside from percussion, which is always the coolest section in any band, I remember the brass boys as being the hottest in every band that I was in, so I was more than supportive of Isaac's decision.
Last night Isaac got his instrument. His teacher says he's a natural. He can blow those notes out clear and strong.
I'm now wondering why I didn't consider the acoustical qualities of our home when this decision was being made. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, and an open floor plan all make it feel like we're in a concert hall.
I was blinded by fond memories of Mark, Dean, and Germaine. How could I forget that a trumpet is a HORN? If nothing else, the shape should have tipped me off. It's made to project sounds to the furthest reaches of the galaxy, so it easily permeates each and every corner of our home, no matter how many walls or pillows are between my ears and the melodic notes.
Is it too late to convince Ike that flutes are girl magnets, and with all those keys, it's really much easier to play than the trumpet with its three valves?
Tonight we're going to get some exciting accessories for Isaacc's instrument. Heck, I might just have it ready for him when he gets home!
Last night Isaac got his instrument. His teacher says he's a natural. He can blow those notes out clear and strong.
I'm now wondering why I didn't consider the acoustical qualities of our home when this decision was being made. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, and an open floor plan all make it feel like we're in a concert hall.
I was blinded by fond memories of Mark, Dean, and Germaine. How could I forget that a trumpet is a HORN? If nothing else, the shape should have tipped me off. It's made to project sounds to the furthest reaches of the galaxy, so it easily permeates each and every corner of our home, no matter how many walls or pillows are between my ears and the melodic notes.
Is it too late to convince Ike that flutes are girl magnets, and with all those keys, it's really much easier to play than the trumpet with its three valves?
Tonight we're going to get some exciting accessories for Isaacc's instrument. Heck, I might just have it ready for him when he gets home!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Penguins and Pigs (Revisited)
A few weeks ago Isaac (my eleven year old) was reading aloud the book "Goodnight Opus" by Berkeley Breathed. It is a take-off of Margaret Wise Brown's children's book, "Goodnight Moon." The book begins with the penguin, Opus', grandmother trying to get him ready for bed:
"Which book, dear Opus, may I read you tonight?"
asked Grandma with love at the start of that night.
"Why, my favorite," I said, "the one with the rhymes,
the same one you've read me two hundred nine times."
And just as it is with all proper grannies,
she ordered me into my pink bunny jammies.
Then she sat and said, "Hush," and her voice filled the room.
"Goodnight," she read softly,
"goodnight to the moon..."
She continues reading, but then Opus gets an idea:
I can't really say how this happened next:
After two hundred ten times,
I departed the text...
"Goodnight," I yelled, jumping, "goodnight far away.
Goodnight to you all in my Milky Way!"
Opus' grandmother then scoldes him, and says:
"When your sight surpasses what's plainly in view,
pull your head from the clouds, keep the ground to your shoes.
"Now let's finish the story with no Milky Way.
It's improper that folks get so carried away."
Luckily for Opus, and us, his grandmother drifts off to sleep. He decides to continue the story, departing the text and wishing the Milky Way goodnight by going there himself to "wish it right to their kissers!"
He signs up the monster under his bed and a pillow with a balloon for a head to go on his journey with him. On their way, they encounter the Tooth Fairy sitting on mountains of old teeth, almost collide with a passenger plane, and skinny dip in the reflection pool at the Lincoln Memorial with Abraham Lincoln, himself (the statue).
I love the book, for many reasons, but the whole point of me telling this is because of Isaac's reaction to it. He accepted the Tooth Fairy trying to sell "an old Elvis molar," and the statue of a dead president stripping down to his union suit without batting an eye, but the next page gave him pause:
We flew past the sailors of Blue Mist Lagoon,
where for ten thousand years they've fished for the moon.
They've seen it up there and they just want to hook it.
They dream that one day they might baste it and cook it.
"Which book, dear Opus, may I read you tonight?"
asked Grandma with love at the start of that night.
"Why, my favorite," I said, "the one with the rhymes,
the same one you've read me two hundred nine times."
And just as it is with all proper grannies,
she ordered me into my pink bunny jammies.
Then she sat and said, "Hush," and her voice filled the room.
"Goodnight," she read softly,
"goodnight to the moon..."
She continues reading, but then Opus gets an idea:
I can't really say how this happened next:
After two hundred ten times,
I departed the text...
"Goodnight," I yelled, jumping, "goodnight far away.
Goodnight to you all in my Milky Way!"
Opus' grandmother then scoldes him, and says:
"When your sight surpasses what's plainly in view,
pull your head from the clouds, keep the ground to your shoes.
"Now let's finish the story with no Milky Way.
It's improper that folks get so carried away."
Luckily for Opus, and us, his grandmother drifts off to sleep. He decides to continue the story, departing the text and wishing the Milky Way goodnight by going there himself to "wish it right to their kissers!"
He signs up the monster under his bed and a pillow with a balloon for a head to go on his journey with him. On their way, they encounter the Tooth Fairy sitting on mountains of old teeth, almost collide with a passenger plane, and skinny dip in the reflection pool at the Lincoln Memorial with Abraham Lincoln, himself (the statue).
I love the book, for many reasons, but the whole point of me telling this is because of Isaac's reaction to it. He accepted the Tooth Fairy trying to sell "an old Elvis molar," and the statue of a dead president stripping down to his union suit without batting an eye, but the next page gave him pause:
We flew past the sailors of Blue Mist Lagoon,
where for ten thousand years they've fished for the moon.
They've seen it up there and they just want to hook it.
They dream that one day they might baste it and cook it.
In the illustration, some of the sailboats are in the water, and others are floating up into the air. For whatever reason, Isaac just could not wrap his brain around that page. I guess a funny looking penguin using a bicycle to fly to the Milky Way makes sense, but flying boats don't.
It reminded me of when I was a little older than him, maybe 12 or 13. "The Muppet Show" was a favorite of mine, and I loved Miss Piggy. I remember reading an interview of Miss Piggy in a magazine and it was just so confusing to me! Miss Piggy was asked questions and she answered them in the self-centered, egotistical way that only Miss Piggy can, but it didn't make sense to me. She was only a puppet, how could she possibly answer what her favorite food was, or what she did in her down time? She wasn't real, so did the answers apply to the Muppeteer? I don't know if I'm explaining it very well. I knew she wasn't real, so how could she be the one answering the questions? It completely boggled my mind. When I thought about that with Isaac, it made me realize how literal I was, even back then.
Because I'm so literal, sometimes it's difficult for me to see a bigger picture, I tend to focus on the details, or even "the text." In some ways that's really good, but it can also limit my view and make me fearful. I'm working on seeing the big picture and looking into the future, realizing that even when I'm doing things right, I might not get the expected result right then. There are always things that you don't expect and maybe can't even understand at the moment, like flying sailboats and talking pigs. I've been holding on to false ideas and fears for far too long. In the words of Opus:
I told [Granny] all of what happened that night --
that I stepped out for once and followed my sight.
And that sometimes it's good that we look for a way
to depart from our text and get carried away.
It reminded me of when I was a little older than him, maybe 12 or 13. "The Muppet Show" was a favorite of mine, and I loved Miss Piggy. I remember reading an interview of Miss Piggy in a magazine and it was just so confusing to me! Miss Piggy was asked questions and she answered them in the self-centered, egotistical way that only Miss Piggy can, but it didn't make sense to me. She was only a puppet, how could she possibly answer what her favorite food was, or what she did in her down time? She wasn't real, so did the answers apply to the Muppeteer? I don't know if I'm explaining it very well. I knew she wasn't real, so how could she be the one answering the questions? It completely boggled my mind. When I thought about that with Isaac, it made me realize how literal I was, even back then.
Because I'm so literal, sometimes it's difficult for me to see a bigger picture, I tend to focus on the details, or even "the text." In some ways that's really good, but it can also limit my view and make me fearful. I'm working on seeing the big picture and looking into the future, realizing that even when I'm doing things right, I might not get the expected result right then. There are always things that you don't expect and maybe can't even understand at the moment, like flying sailboats and talking pigs. I've been holding on to false ideas and fears for far too long. In the words of Opus:
I told [Granny] all of what happened that night --
that I stepped out for once and followed my sight.
And that sometimes it's good that we look for a way
to depart from our text and get carried away.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Tootsie Roll Poker
Yesterday, Labor Day, our friends invited us to their home for a barbecue. The food was good and the company was great. In my opinion, our friends are pretty darn brave. There were 23 people, 12 of which are young men between the ages of 11-22. I've seen what my three boys can eat, it must have taken a whole cow, and then some, to feed all those boys.
As a little bit of a side note, there were three girls, 3, 7, and 16. Wanna guess which girl was surrounded by boys most of the day? She's a beauty too, I don't blame them one bit.
The best part of the day, for me, was when the party was winding down. A few people had left, a handful of boys were in the swimming pool, the adults were cooling off in the house, and the 7 year old girl, Laney, and I were on the patio playing Go Fish, with Clark and Jordan (17) sitting and chatting with us. Part way through the game, Jordan pulled up a chair and said, "Deal us in."
Incredulously I ask, "Really? You want to play Go Fish with us?"
"Yeah. Don't start a new game, just deal us in. Get over here, Clark."
Still not sure I understand, "You know we're playing GO FISH, right?"
"It will be fun."
Wondering what the catch is, I deal both Jordan and Clark their cards.
Laney is a little confused on the rules of the game. I'm not sure she's played Go Fish with a full deck of face cards. I keep explaining that she has to have four cards to make a set.
"Laney, do you have any kings?"
After handing Jordan a card, she said, "Dang it! Now I only have one left!"
We all teased her about trying to cheat, then Jordan took her cards. Looking at me, he asked, "Do you have any kings?"
"You don't know my name, do you?"
Red faced, "Umm....Clark's mom?"
"I'll tell you if I have any kings if you can come up with my name."
Whispering across the table, "Clark, help me out here, dude." After procuring my name...."Denise, do you have any kings?"
"Go fish!"
Clark's turn. In his most mobster sounding voice, "Jordan, give me all your kings." And that's a set!
After Go Fish, we played four-handed War. Clark went out first, but made sure he heckled the rest of us. At one point we figured out that Laney was automatically memorizing the cards that were played and what order they were in when she picked hers up. Essentially, she was counting cards without even knowing what she was doing. Jordan and Clark determined that she's the girl they'll be taking to the casino, as soon as she turns 21, that is.
I was the second to go out. It was turning into the 100 Years War between Laney and Jordan, so I suggested that the next hand should be an "all in." I could see that Laney had an ace on the bottom of her stack, and Jordan was riffling through his cards, looking for an ace, so I told Laney to pull her card from the bottom of her pile. She obeyed my suggestion, after first cutting her stack and putting the top half on the bottom. Laney's seven of spades couldn't stand up to Jordan's ace of diamonds.
After Jordan won both Go Fish and War, I challenged him to play some poker at our house. I'm not proud of the fact that I might have made some unfavorable remarks about his momma (who I truly like).
"Bring it on," said he.
Jordan helped Clark with his physics homework, then the two of them, Davis, and I commenced playing Texas Hold'em. (Brian was busy grading homework).
Those boys made me laugh so hard, somewhere between a hyena and a witch cackle, I'm told. We played for Tootsie Rolls and Double Bubble. Clark and Jordan cleaned up. That was my ploy...lure them into a false sense of security. I'm just waiting for the rematch!
As a little bit of a side note, there were three girls, 3, 7, and 16. Wanna guess which girl was surrounded by boys most of the day? She's a beauty too, I don't blame them one bit.
The best part of the day, for me, was when the party was winding down. A few people had left, a handful of boys were in the swimming pool, the adults were cooling off in the house, and the 7 year old girl, Laney, and I were on the patio playing Go Fish, with Clark and Jordan (17) sitting and chatting with us. Part way through the game, Jordan pulled up a chair and said, "Deal us in."
Incredulously I ask, "Really? You want to play Go Fish with us?"
"Yeah. Don't start a new game, just deal us in. Get over here, Clark."
Still not sure I understand, "You know we're playing GO FISH, right?"
"It will be fun."
Wondering what the catch is, I deal both Jordan and Clark their cards.
Laney is a little confused on the rules of the game. I'm not sure she's played Go Fish with a full deck of face cards. I keep explaining that she has to have four cards to make a set.
"Laney, do you have any kings?"
After handing Jordan a card, she said, "Dang it! Now I only have one left!"
We all teased her about trying to cheat, then Jordan took her cards. Looking at me, he asked, "Do you have any kings?"
"You don't know my name, do you?"
Red faced, "Umm....Clark's mom?"
"I'll tell you if I have any kings if you can come up with my name."
Whispering across the table, "Clark, help me out here, dude." After procuring my name...."Denise, do you have any kings?"
"Go fish!"
Clark's turn. In his most mobster sounding voice, "Jordan, give me all your kings." And that's a set!
After Go Fish, we played four-handed War. Clark went out first, but made sure he heckled the rest of us. At one point we figured out that Laney was automatically memorizing the cards that were played and what order they were in when she picked hers up. Essentially, she was counting cards without even knowing what she was doing. Jordan and Clark determined that she's the girl they'll be taking to the casino, as soon as she turns 21, that is.
I was the second to go out. It was turning into the 100 Years War between Laney and Jordan, so I suggested that the next hand should be an "all in." I could see that Laney had an ace on the bottom of her stack, and Jordan was riffling through his cards, looking for an ace, so I told Laney to pull her card from the bottom of her pile. She obeyed my suggestion, after first cutting her stack and putting the top half on the bottom. Laney's seven of spades couldn't stand up to Jordan's ace of diamonds.
After Jordan won both Go Fish and War, I challenged him to play some poker at our house. I'm not proud of the fact that I might have made some unfavorable remarks about his momma (who I truly like).
"Bring it on," said he.
Jordan helped Clark with his physics homework, then the two of them, Davis, and I commenced playing Texas Hold'em. (Brian was busy grading homework).
Those boys made me laugh so hard, somewhere between a hyena and a witch cackle, I'm told. We played for Tootsie Rolls and Double Bubble. Clark and Jordan cleaned up. That was my ploy...lure them into a false sense of security. I'm just waiting for the rematch!
Friday, September 3, 2010
Brooke Shields v. Jennifer Aniston
My husband is watching a show called, "Who Do You Think You Are?" It is apparently a show which chronicles celebrities as they search their ancestry. This week Brooke Shields found out that she is a direct descendant of French royalty. In my normal, cynical way I said, "They wouldn't televise it if she found out she had nothing more than poor farmer stock in her pedigree."
Brian (who can be even more cynical than me....shocking, I know) said, "They wouldn't be showing it if it wasn't Brooke Shields."
"You wouldn't be watching it if it wasn't Brooke Shields."
"True. She's even hotter than Jennifer Aniston."
"Really?! Jennifer Aniston?! But she's at the center of all your fantasies! You honestly would take Brooke Shields over Jennifer Aniston?"
"Absolutely, but Jennifer Aniston has self-esteem issues. I have a better chance with her."
"Sweetheart, I'll give you a free pass. If you are ever in a position that you can have sex with either one of them, I say go for it."
I'm not too worried.
*********
P.S. I just read the above to Brian. He said, "Thanks. Now I have self-esteem issues."
Anything I can do to help him feel good about himself.
Brian (who can be even more cynical than me....shocking, I know) said, "They wouldn't be showing it if it wasn't Brooke Shields."
"You wouldn't be watching it if it wasn't Brooke Shields."
"True. She's even hotter than Jennifer Aniston."
"Really?! Jennifer Aniston?! But she's at the center of all your fantasies! You honestly would take Brooke Shields over Jennifer Aniston?"
"Absolutely, but Jennifer Aniston has self-esteem issues. I have a better chance with her."
"Sweetheart, I'll give you a free pass. If you are ever in a position that you can have sex with either one of them, I say go for it."
I'm not too worried.
*********
P.S. I just read the above to Brian. He said, "Thanks. Now I have self-esteem issues."
Anything I can do to help him feel good about himself.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Small block of cheese; Big blessing
We have a neighbor that the boys call the crazy cat lady. She does have three cats, along with two little yappy dogs and three birds, and she is a little crazy, since she had a traumatic brain injury eleven years ago and now only has half her brain, so I suppose it’s fitting. I, however, call her my friend. As with her pets, she does everything in excess. Her yard is overflowing with rocks, cacti, and kitsch. Her house is packed with furniture, decorations, clothing, and sacks full of whatever she purchased during her latest shopping spree. I actually understand her need for “things.” She is desperately trying to fill the void of something more substantial in her life…healthy human relationships.
From time to time she will show up at our door with some food product, like half of a bag of potatoes, or stale bakery cookies. She does the same thing with at least one other neighbor. I realize that not only does she use it as an excuse to visit us (I try to assure her that just her visit is treat enough), but also to try to feel like she’s doing something for someone, so I’m always grateful. “These potatoes are great. They will save me a trip to the store!” “The boys will scarf those cookies right down!”
Yesterday I stopped by her house for a few minutes just to chat and check on her. In the short time that I was there she offered me a can of Diet Pepsi, which I gladly accepted. I mean really, I would have to be crazy to turn down my favorite beverage, especially since I was going through caffeine withdrawal. As she rummaged in her fridge looking for the soda, she offered me some mustard (“I have so many bottles of mustard, are you sure you wouldn’t like to take some?”) and two brown bananas, all of which I politely declined. She then offered me a brick of sharp cheddar cheese. Bingo! My friendship can be bought for a brick of cheese. “I would love some cheese! I can make homemade macaroni and cheese for dinner tomorrow.” My friend then said that she loves homemade mac and cheese, so I invited her to come have lunch with me today. I made a big batch of the cheesy goodness, baked a little pan of it for the crazy cat lady and myself for lunch, then fed a big ol’ pan of it to the boys for dinner.
I had quite a nice time at lunch. Between my friend’s constant anger, self-pity, and depression, we even laughed. I don’t expect her to change or be any different than she is. All I can do is love and accept her, and be grateful for the blessing she is to me.
From time to time she will show up at our door with some food product, like half of a bag of potatoes, or stale bakery cookies. She does the same thing with at least one other neighbor. I realize that not only does she use it as an excuse to visit us (I try to assure her that just her visit is treat enough), but also to try to feel like she’s doing something for someone, so I’m always grateful. “These potatoes are great. They will save me a trip to the store!” “The boys will scarf those cookies right down!”
Yesterday I stopped by her house for a few minutes just to chat and check on her. In the short time that I was there she offered me a can of Diet Pepsi, which I gladly accepted. I mean really, I would have to be crazy to turn down my favorite beverage, especially since I was going through caffeine withdrawal. As she rummaged in her fridge looking for the soda, she offered me some mustard (“I have so many bottles of mustard, are you sure you wouldn’t like to take some?”) and two brown bananas, all of which I politely declined. She then offered me a brick of sharp cheddar cheese. Bingo! My friendship can be bought for a brick of cheese. “I would love some cheese! I can make homemade macaroni and cheese for dinner tomorrow.” My friend then said that she loves homemade mac and cheese, so I invited her to come have lunch with me today. I made a big batch of the cheesy goodness, baked a little pan of it for the crazy cat lady and myself for lunch, then fed a big ol’ pan of it to the boys for dinner.
I had quite a nice time at lunch. Between my friend’s constant anger, self-pity, and depression, we even laughed. I don’t expect her to change or be any different than she is. All I can do is love and accept her, and be grateful for the blessing she is to me.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Back to School
Today the boys began the new school year. Here is an update on how the day went:
Davis is refusing to go to early-morning seminary, saying that even if I take him, he will just leave, so I told him that if he won’t go, he and I are going to get up early and study the scriptures. I was pleasantly surprised that he didn’t argue with me this morning. We read for twenty minutes, and prayed together. It was a really great start to the day. I know that not every morning will go as smooth as it did this morning, but I’ll take it when I can get it. He started his junior year seeming calm and confident.
Clark was so anxious that he surprised even himself. He spent a sleepless night, but got ready to face the day with a great attitude. He dressed in old, worn jeans and an old t-shirt. When I dropped him off at seminary he said, “Look at all these kids in their new clothes.” He was pleased with himself for not conforming and submitting to the lure of wearing brand new clothes the first day. I’m curious to see what he will wear tomorrow. What a funny kid.
The emotional part, for me, was taking Isaac to his first day of junior high school. He is only in sixth grade, but in this school district, sixth grade is in junior high. I don’t remember feeling this tenderness when Davis and Clark started junior high, but Isaac seems so young and innocent, and so awkward. I drove him today, but he will be riding a school bus this year, for the first time. He’s pretty nervous about that, but he’ll be okay. He’s pretty good about taking things in stride.
All three boys came home happy and chatty. Even Isaac said, “I actually had a pretty fun day.” What a relief. One day down, nine months to go.
Davis is refusing to go to early-morning seminary, saying that even if I take him, he will just leave, so I told him that if he won’t go, he and I are going to get up early and study the scriptures. I was pleasantly surprised that he didn’t argue with me this morning. We read for twenty minutes, and prayed together. It was a really great start to the day. I know that not every morning will go as smooth as it did this morning, but I’ll take it when I can get it. He started his junior year seeming calm and confident.
Clark was so anxious that he surprised even himself. He spent a sleepless night, but got ready to face the day with a great attitude. He dressed in old, worn jeans and an old t-shirt. When I dropped him off at seminary he said, “Look at all these kids in their new clothes.” He was pleased with himself for not conforming and submitting to the lure of wearing brand new clothes the first day. I’m curious to see what he will wear tomorrow. What a funny kid.
The emotional part, for me, was taking Isaac to his first day of junior high school. He is only in sixth grade, but in this school district, sixth grade is in junior high. I don’t remember feeling this tenderness when Davis and Clark started junior high, but Isaac seems so young and innocent, and so awkward. I drove him today, but he will be riding a school bus this year, for the first time. He’s pretty nervous about that, but he’ll be okay. He’s pretty good about taking things in stride.
All three boys came home happy and chatty. Even Isaac said, “I actually had a pretty fun day.” What a relief. One day down, nine months to go.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Plea for Help
I've noticed a terrible development when I look in the mirror these days. I think it happened one night while I was sleeping. Someone implanted butt cheeks on my forehead!
Does anyone know a good butt cheek surgeon?
Does anyone know a good butt cheek surgeon?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Joy
The first thing I always think about when I come across the word “joy” is a petite, white-haired lady who helped to form my core attitudes about the world. Named Velma Joy by her parents, my grandmother chose to go simply by the name Joy. Just like the hats that she insisted on wearing, her name fit her perfectly. Up until the time that Alzheimer’s made her forget even the people closest to her, Grandma Joy felt she wasn’t properly dressed unless she was wearing a hat.
When I was growing up my family moved numerous times. Throughout my adolescence I never knew what to say when people asked me where I was from. I was from many places. Grandma Joy, in her little red brick house, was the anchor to my family’s wanderings. Home for me wasn’t so much a place, but a person, my Grandmother Joy.
Joy is the scent of lilacs, warm summer evenings, red sunsets, birds on the windowpane, and a little grove of sassafras trees. Joy is in the minutest details of the colors of a rock, the smell of rain, the sound of the leaves rustling in the trees, the taste of orange marmalade, and the feel of the wind on my face. In everything she did, my grandmother found and gave joy. She taught, by example, how to love and accept people, without exception.
Our society teaches us to rely on possessions and social status to make us happy. We are daily bombarded with messages of immediate gratification. The philosophy of finding personal fulfillment is waved in front of us like a flag of freedom. We search for new ways of being entertained and more extreme experiences to astound our senses. The small action of being aware of our surroundings is lost in the noise and tumult of the media. Gratefully, I continue to have a small harbor of peace within myself that was originally placed there by my grandmother. All these temporal things are transient and fleeting. We might find momentary pleasure in the trappings of the world, but deep, lasting joy is found within ourselves and our appreciation for what we have. The rest is miniscule in comparison.
The lessons of Grandma Joy were nearly forgotten with adulthood and the responsibilities and concerns of raising children. With three small sons that I frequently referred to as “Destructo Boys,” I rarely had time to stop and smell all flowers, as my grandmother always did. One early morning, as my sons lay sleeping, I mused how peaceful they were, and wondered why I couldn’t find peace when they were awake. All of a sudden I had complete understanding as to how fortunate I was to have children that had full, unrestricted mental and physical abilities. I felt joy at the knowledge that my beautiful, bright-eyed sons were capable of wreaking the havoc that gave me daily angst.
Gratitude and humor are companions of joy. My grandmother could always find the positive side of things, something to be grateful for. When she wasn’t feeling well, or was reminded of her age by the reflection in the mirror, she would smile and say, “It’s better than the alternative!” She had a great sense of humor, and was frequently the instigator of practical jokes. There is a story that is legend with my family. One day my cousin, Jill, was helping Grandma Joy in the kitchen. Grandmother was holding an egg in her hand and pretended to crack it over Jill’s head. My cousin said, “I bet you wouldn’t dare really crack that on my head.” Without blinking an eye, that egg was all over Jill’s head and dripping down her face. My grandmother never took a situation more seriously than was warranted.
I have tried to remember the things I learned from my grandmother. I know that I am doing well when I can find joy in the details. When I can stop stressing about the bills that need to be paid and the dishes that need to be washed, and find joy in watching how my children interact with each other, I know that I still have some of my grandmother in me. When I can see past the homework that is due and the pile of assignments on my desk at work, and I notice the color of the sunset, hearing my grandmother’s voice saying, “Red skies at night, sailors delight. Red skies in the morning, sailors take warning,” I feel deep, sublime, enduring joy.
When I was growing up my family moved numerous times. Throughout my adolescence I never knew what to say when people asked me where I was from. I was from many places. Grandma Joy, in her little red brick house, was the anchor to my family’s wanderings. Home for me wasn’t so much a place, but a person, my Grandmother Joy.
Joy is the scent of lilacs, warm summer evenings, red sunsets, birds on the windowpane, and a little grove of sassafras trees. Joy is in the minutest details of the colors of a rock, the smell of rain, the sound of the leaves rustling in the trees, the taste of orange marmalade, and the feel of the wind on my face. In everything she did, my grandmother found and gave joy. She taught, by example, how to love and accept people, without exception.
Our society teaches us to rely on possessions and social status to make us happy. We are daily bombarded with messages of immediate gratification. The philosophy of finding personal fulfillment is waved in front of us like a flag of freedom. We search for new ways of being entertained and more extreme experiences to astound our senses. The small action of being aware of our surroundings is lost in the noise and tumult of the media. Gratefully, I continue to have a small harbor of peace within myself that was originally placed there by my grandmother. All these temporal things are transient and fleeting. We might find momentary pleasure in the trappings of the world, but deep, lasting joy is found within ourselves and our appreciation for what we have. The rest is miniscule in comparison.
The lessons of Grandma Joy were nearly forgotten with adulthood and the responsibilities and concerns of raising children. With three small sons that I frequently referred to as “Destructo Boys,” I rarely had time to stop and smell all flowers, as my grandmother always did. One early morning, as my sons lay sleeping, I mused how peaceful they were, and wondered why I couldn’t find peace when they were awake. All of a sudden I had complete understanding as to how fortunate I was to have children that had full, unrestricted mental and physical abilities. I felt joy at the knowledge that my beautiful, bright-eyed sons were capable of wreaking the havoc that gave me daily angst.
Gratitude and humor are companions of joy. My grandmother could always find the positive side of things, something to be grateful for. When she wasn’t feeling well, or was reminded of her age by the reflection in the mirror, she would smile and say, “It’s better than the alternative!” She had a great sense of humor, and was frequently the instigator of practical jokes. There is a story that is legend with my family. One day my cousin, Jill, was helping Grandma Joy in the kitchen. Grandmother was holding an egg in her hand and pretended to crack it over Jill’s head. My cousin said, “I bet you wouldn’t dare really crack that on my head.” Without blinking an eye, that egg was all over Jill’s head and dripping down her face. My grandmother never took a situation more seriously than was warranted.
I have tried to remember the things I learned from my grandmother. I know that I am doing well when I can find joy in the details. When I can stop stressing about the bills that need to be paid and the dishes that need to be washed, and find joy in watching how my children interact with each other, I know that I still have some of my grandmother in me. When I can see past the homework that is due and the pile of assignments on my desk at work, and I notice the color of the sunset, hearing my grandmother’s voice saying, “Red skies at night, sailors delight. Red skies in the morning, sailors take warning,” I feel deep, sublime, enduring joy.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
House of Blues I
I love live music. With a few exceptions, I don’t even care about the genre or group. Of course I have my favorites, but there is just an energy, and dare I say purity, about live musical performances that sing to my soul. Ever since we’ve lived here I’ve wanted to go to House of Blues, but haven’t had the opportunity. Last weekend Brian and I had tickets to go see Yonder Mountain String Band, a bluegrass band. Surprisingly, Brian loves bluegrass, so we invited some friends to go with us.
We had a great time. The band was good, and our friends are so much fun to be with, but one of the best parts of the evening was watching the interesting characters that were enjoying the music. Now there are generally some pretty colorful people to watch when you go to a venue that has music, free flowing alcohol, and covert puffs of smoke, but I have to say, House of Blues had more than its fair share that night.
House of Blues has a balcony with seating, but on the particular night that we were there, only the floor was open, so it was standing room only. During the band’s second set we decided to climb out of the pit and stand up off to the side near one of the bars. It seemed like a pretty good place to get out of the madding crowd. After a few minutes I looked over to my side and noticed a woman who was dancing to her own beat. I use the term “dancing” loosely. What she was doing was really more of a cross between dancing, exercising, and animal mimicry. Intrigued by what seemed a complete lack of inhibitions, I kept stealing looks at her. Before long I realized that her long, flowing hair was rivaled by the mane growing beneath her arms. I was truly impressed by not only her energy and stamina, but also by her ability to flail about with a glass of beer and not seem to slosh a drop on the floor.
After several songs, I made the mistake of turning my back, no longer paying attention to the chicken dance going on at my side. Without warning, I felt bare arms embrace me and a body, which most definitely was not my husband’s, pressed against me. I looked over my shoulder and found the free-dancer nuzzling up to me. I can only blame my reaction on shock, and the good manners that my parents ingrained in me. Not knowing what else to do, I said, “Wow, you have a lot of energy.” In a dreamy, slurring voice she said, “No, you’re the one with the energy. Believe me, I could feel your energy across the room. It’s beautiful.” I'm gratified to know that she found my head bobbing energetic.
I can’t recall the sequence of the conversation, if that’s what you can call it, but at some point we exchanged names. I wish I would have thought to claim to be Jennifer Aniston because surprisingly, her name is Drew Barrymore. She kept assuring me that she is very picky about people and who she becomes friends with, but she loves me and I’m her new best friend. Lucky me. It’s apparently fate that we both live in Vegas and were at the same concert at the same time. I didn’t want to be rude, although in retrospect I don’t think she would have noticed, so when she repeatedly said, “I love you” I just said, “I believe you.” Although, at one point I did tell her that she probably wouldn’t feel the same in the morning. I kept looking for help from Brian, but he was too busy laughing and taking pictures. Unfortunately his didn’t turn out, so I had to make one of my own.
We had a great time. The band was good, and our friends are so much fun to be with, but one of the best parts of the evening was watching the interesting characters that were enjoying the music. Now there are generally some pretty colorful people to watch when you go to a venue that has music, free flowing alcohol, and covert puffs of smoke, but I have to say, House of Blues had more than its fair share that night.
House of Blues has a balcony with seating, but on the particular night that we were there, only the floor was open, so it was standing room only. During the band’s second set we decided to climb out of the pit and stand up off to the side near one of the bars. It seemed like a pretty good place to get out of the madding crowd. After a few minutes I looked over to my side and noticed a woman who was dancing to her own beat. I use the term “dancing” loosely. What she was doing was really more of a cross between dancing, exercising, and animal mimicry. Intrigued by what seemed a complete lack of inhibitions, I kept stealing looks at her. Before long I realized that her long, flowing hair was rivaled by the mane growing beneath her arms. I was truly impressed by not only her energy and stamina, but also by her ability to flail about with a glass of beer and not seem to slosh a drop on the floor.
After several songs, I made the mistake of turning my back, no longer paying attention to the chicken dance going on at my side. Without warning, I felt bare arms embrace me and a body, which most definitely was not my husband’s, pressed against me. I looked over my shoulder and found the free-dancer nuzzling up to me. I can only blame my reaction on shock, and the good manners that my parents ingrained in me. Not knowing what else to do, I said, “Wow, you have a lot of energy.” In a dreamy, slurring voice she said, “No, you’re the one with the energy. Believe me, I could feel your energy across the room. It’s beautiful.” I'm gratified to know that she found my head bobbing energetic.
I can’t recall the sequence of the conversation, if that’s what you can call it, but at some point we exchanged names. I wish I would have thought to claim to be Jennifer Aniston because surprisingly, her name is Drew Barrymore. She kept assuring me that she is very picky about people and who she becomes friends with, but she loves me and I’m her new best friend. Lucky me. It’s apparently fate that we both live in Vegas and were at the same concert at the same time. I didn’t want to be rude, although in retrospect I don’t think she would have noticed, so when she repeatedly said, “I love you” I just said, “I believe you.” Although, at one point I did tell her that she probably wouldn’t feel the same in the morning. I kept looking for help from Brian, but he was too busy laughing and taking pictures. Unfortunately his didn’t turn out, so I had to make one of my own.
Finally, Drew released her vice-like grip and began to gyrate again. Without hesitating, I grabbed Brian and hissed, “We’re leaving NOW.” Gratefully, neither he nor our friends argued with me.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Words
I’m sitting on the floor in the living room with my laptop on top of the sofa table. The reflection in the video screen shows the image of a woman I hardly recognize. With my disheveled hair, baggy cardigan sweater, and pink cashmere scarf around my neck, I look like what I imagine an eccentric writer should look like. Unfortunately, I have nothing of interest to write, which is why I’m stooping to self-centered expression.
I feel like I’ve already used up all my insightful words and clever comments, never to be reclaimed again. I find that I have less to say as I get older. Sometimes I wonder if we are all rationed only a certain amount of words, and I’ve squandered mine foolishly. I’m destined to live my final years wordlessly, unable not only to voice my thoughts, but bereft of words, searching for them in the desert of my mind.
Carrie Fisher wrote in her book, "Delusions of Grandma":
I do love conversation in this way, but more than just talk, I love words. I love written word as much as the spoken word. When I read, I take each word in separately, swishing it around in my mouth, consuming it. If I get excited and skim, I have to go back and re-read what I might have missed. I feel like a traitor, a cheat, if I don’t read each and every word, no matter how insignificant.
My son, Clark, accuses me frequently of making words up. He’s 15, so he knows every word in the English language, which means if I use one he doesn’t know, I must be making it up. I think he accuses me now just to see my reaction. I have had people tell me that I use words they’ve never heard of, but it always surprises me. My vocabulary is ordinary. I know that in the recesses of my mind there are hidden storehouses of words, that if I could just recall, would make me seem to have an extraordinary vocabulary, but I have a terrible memory for them. Today I searched my brain for 7 2/3 minutes before I could remember “backlash.” And I frequently misuse words, such as …..hmm….what is that word I’m always using wrong? See what I mean about my memory?
When I was a child I used to read the encyclopedia and the dictionary. Not cover to cover, but I would leaf through them and find things that interested me. D was always my favorite letter in both books. It shouldn’t be any wonder, since my initials were D.D.; I’ve always felt that D is a superior letter.
I feel like I’ve already used up all my insightful words and clever comments, never to be reclaimed again. I find that I have less to say as I get older. Sometimes I wonder if we are all rationed only a certain amount of words, and I’ve squandered mine foolishly. I’m destined to live my final years wordlessly, unable not only to voice my thoughts, but bereft of words, searching for them in the desert of my mind.
Carrie Fisher wrote in her book, "Delusions of Grandma":
“Cora had a ravenous need to talk to people. To feast on the carcass of what they would figure out together. Vultures of reason, of the unsatisfactory why, glow in the eye, they gorged, stripped bones, sucked them scary white.”
I do love conversation in this way, but more than just talk, I love words. I love written word as much as the spoken word. When I read, I take each word in separately, swishing it around in my mouth, consuming it. If I get excited and skim, I have to go back and re-read what I might have missed. I feel like a traitor, a cheat, if I don’t read each and every word, no matter how insignificant.
My son, Clark, accuses me frequently of making words up. He’s 15, so he knows every word in the English language, which means if I use one he doesn’t know, I must be making it up. I think he accuses me now just to see my reaction. I have had people tell me that I use words they’ve never heard of, but it always surprises me. My vocabulary is ordinary. I know that in the recesses of my mind there are hidden storehouses of words, that if I could just recall, would make me seem to have an extraordinary vocabulary, but I have a terrible memory for them. Today I searched my brain for 7 2/3 minutes before I could remember “backlash.” And I frequently misuse words, such as …..hmm….what is that word I’m always using wrong? See what I mean about my memory?
When I was a child I used to read the encyclopedia and the dictionary. Not cover to cover, but I would leaf through them and find things that interested me. D was always my favorite letter in both books. It shouldn’t be any wonder, since my initials were D.D.; I’ve always felt that D is a superior letter.
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