An End. And A Beginning

i am going to share a story that begins seven years ago.

wait, i take that back.  this story really starts twenty-seven years ago, when a boy met a girl and was captivated by her eyes, her energy, her strength. 

his love, kindness and attention to her was persistent enough to win her heart...a heart that had been waiting eighteen years to be won by precisely those characteristics. 

soon they were inseparable, each receiving something they needed from the relationship, and each making assumptions about what it all meant.

three years later they got married. this event occurred during an inauspicious time, in suboptimal circumstances, but their friendship helped them to press forward, mostly together, but in some ways unbeknownst to her at that time, they were also moving somewhat apart. they were quite young. this is not uncommon.

six years passed and the loveliest daughter was born to them. 

after nine years of marriage, the dearest son arrived.

life was busy, school and work demands were neverending.  there was a feeling of disconnect between them in many ways.  the girl struggled to make things better, to keep the boy's interest, to raise their children, to fill life with love and wonder. the boy loved the girl as well as he could, and worked hard to be kind and supportive, but he always felt like he was letting her down in elemental ways that he couldn't change. the girl always believed that the challenges they faced would eventually disappear. 

they did not.

time passed.  seventeen years had passed since they'd wed. one day, (we now arrive at the seven years ago part of our story), without knowing about the other, they each sat down at the very same moment, and wrote letters to the other, sharing their feelings. they had both decided that they should part ways.  

this was not what the girl expected to happen. she had put much prayer, fasting, thought and tears into this decision. she didn't know why it felt like the right thing, because she loved the boy and still wanted things to work out, but the answer in her heart was unequivocal...

...it was also without a sense of urgency.  no "when" was attached to it. she thought maybe sharing her feelings would be the beginning of a new era, a catalyst that would bring them together.  so she was surprised to learn he'd written her and come to the same conclusion.  

as they shared their feelings, they were kind. they were supportive. they decided to wait several months to proceed til it wasn't quite so challenging for the boy, who was in medical school at the time.

during that time, small shifts in their interactions happened that helped things enough that eventually they decided to call off parting ways.  the answer had been clear, but the girl thought maybe the shifts had changed the right course of action. she had hope.

things went well enough for a while, but then began to grow even more difficult. twenty two years into their marriage, they again arrived at the point where things were untenable. for six months they were separated, ultimately deciding again to part ways.  but then for a variety of reasons, she decided to stay. it was the right decision at that time, and as long as she was staying, she redoubled her efforts to do everything she could to love, cherish, serve, and support the boy, and nurture their relationship as they continued raising their darling children.  

it was a good experience, and the girl grew a lot in the process.  but there was still a part of her that was so sad. a part that simply couldn't reach the boy. and a part of the boy that couldn't reach her. but it was livable. 

by early this year, things were essentially as good as they had ever been when one day, the answer came; "now".

"now" it was time to part ways.  the girl was not prepared for this. it seemed like she could hang on a mere three years at least, til the boy was done with all his training, and their children were done with school. she would be much better off financially if she waited. they were in a reasonable place with each other. they had never fought or been acrimonious.  there was obvious logic to waiting. the girl questioned and resisted. she fasted, prayed and begged god for a new answer. the whole idea consumed her thoughts for weeks as she wrestled with it. 

one day in response to her petition to god, the words D&C 6:22-24 came to her mind.  she looked it up and read those verses, and from that moment forward, a peace filled her and carried her forward through the hardest thing she had ever had to go through.

until a solid month after it was done and over.  

only then, when things were actually official, and she and the boy were no longer legally tied one to another, did the grieving process set in. 

it occurred to her that our wise god knew if she'd glimpsed the mourning that was to come, she would have probably just decided to go back to the familiar again.  go another round or two. we have our systems for coping, we humans. she had them growing up, she had them in their marriage.  even if a situation wasn't a good one, it was known.  she was surviving. there were moments when she even seemed like she might be starting to thrive.  she could keep living that way. it wasn't a bad life.

but none of that hit her until it was over, and the boy had moved out and moved on. there hadn't been any real question in his mind about him leaving in the next few years during his training, but he admits he felt it would eventually happen.  it's certainly not an easy experience, but he admitted he's grateful she set him free. he had felt like he was living a lie for a long time but couldn't bring himself to move on because of how it would hurt her. and despite all their struggles, the boy loves the girl. still.  instead, he slowly changed, and these changes were too hard for her to assimilate, and brought them to this point. 

it was always going to be easier for the boy, she knew.  he's so beautiful. he's so fit, healthy and strong, he's intelligent and kind, talented and good. and he's a doctor who will be financially sound in a few short years. she knows his combination of traits are as rare as a unicorn in a non-magical world. girls will flock to him.

he knows she's sad, but he also believes that someday she'll be happy. he hopes someday she'll find someone who is a much better match for the person she is and the type of life she wants to have with her partner. and they both hope to make it through this transition and come out on the other side still friends. he will always be family to the girl, and she will always be someone the boy loves in a way. but it's hard right now.

so the girl is grieving. the girl is trying to move forward. the girl has noticed the hand of god in her life. it's especially manifested in the lives of their children, who have managed to navigate this transition with astonishing peace. they are thriving and progressing and not letting the situation with their parents undermine their lives.  this is the most significant blessing the girl could have ever hoped for. she has moments when she feels peace, followed by moments of being pulled under the rogue wave of grief over losing the boy. it's like a death but not as bad because he's still here and still being the wonderful father to their children that he's always been, which is of course much preferable. but it's also more complicated. 

this is the story of the past. this summer was the end of a chapter...maybe the end of a book. but it's also a beginning.  the girl and the boy spent nearly 27 years wrapped safely in a cocoon of their own making, becoming new creatures. they've finally emerged, and while his wings have dried and he's taken flight, the girl is getting there.  soon, this little blue girl will fly. 

~the end. and the beginning.~

grateful for:  god

Letter To My Younger Self

Letter To My Younger Self

Dear Little Blue,

You don't really need this letter, because you'll eventually figure all these things out on your own, but if I could share a few insights with you, I'd let you know that even though it feels like there's not a soul on earth who would really care if you ceased to exist, in just a little while that will change. Some angels will appear in your life, in the form of a school teacher, new friends, and a church leader or two. Their kindness will carry you through the next few years, and you will start to feel what it's like to be nurtured and cared for (and believe it or not, someday your sisters will be your dearest friends; maybe consider being nicer to them in the meantime).

Your sense of your identity is going to drastically evolve.  There's no way you could know yet that you're not utterly worthless, or that that's even how you think of yourself. Eventually you'll start to notice some of the internal beliefs you have, and question them. This is good.  Examining everything we believe is an important exercise in life, and requisite for growth. You'll start to feel something inside--called resonance--when things are true for you.  If you honor that, you'll be led and directed in ways that will be good for you.

Despite being told (and accepting as fact) that you're the ugliest girl in the world, in a few years you'll to meet people who don't hold that opinion of you.  It'll mess with your head a bit, but just hang in there.  In this world, appearance does matter, but really, it doesn't. Your dearest relationships will be based on the only kind of beauty that counts, that of the heart.

It's going to take years, but someday you'll forgive your parents and older sibling. They probably won't ever be a significant part of your life, but you'll find peace with that situation. Be okay with that.

Even though it's really scary sometimes, you're going to learn the most from the hard stuff you're going through, so I'm not going to tell you much, but someday you'll understand that even though you love them, some friends will move on without you. They get to. Also, you might just want to turn and walk the other way when you meet a dude named Kevin.

Throughout your life, a lot of the people you love most will lose their faith in God.  You'll struggle for a long time with your faith, too, and part of it will just be the shock that this even happens.  No one ever told you, nor did it cross your mind, that that was A Thing. Now you know, so just remember to trust what resonates within you, prove all things, and hold fast to the good. Proving requires study, thought, prayer, and righteous living. That's just how it works. Be fastidiously honest with yourself, no matter what other people believe. Eventually you'll find your own, bona fide faith, and it will be worth the effort. God really is always there with you...even when you're hiding from him.

Depression. You're going to deal with it, but it's not the boss of you. Ditto for the things you're anxious about.

When you're 18 years old, you'll meet a truly wonderful boy who will be nice to you and care for you and accept you, loose ends and all. You'll come to love each other and provide a safe harbor for each other to heal, evolve, and grow for a long long time.  Despite all that, sometimes he'll break your heart, and you'll break his...that's just how relationships go. Hold on when it seems bleak or hopeless ~ the end of this story hasn't been written yet, but no matter what happens, you will have a happy life.

The best thing about your entire life is you'll have the privilege of raising two amazing, precious children. You have no idea...I'm so excited for you, just thinking about them. I don't know how this story ends yet, but it'll be so great to experience it together!

You won't believe this now, but you are not going to be lonely. Or alone. There are unbelievably fantastic people in your future, and you will many times be simply overwhelmed with gratitude for the goodness and beauty in your life.  You're going to discover some things about yourself that will surprise and delight you, including fun interests and talents that haven't even crossed your mind yet. You're going to bless the lives of many others, and that will give you the most satisfaction of anything you do.  

It'll be a wonderful life, on a glorious planet (which you will get to explore, by the way). So be brave and strong.

With so much love,
Blue 2013

First Flight

First Flight

“Can we puhleeeeeeeeese stop and watch the planes take off?!” 

For a few years as a young child, we passed the John Wayne Airport while driving to and from church.  Week after week I'd plead with my parents to stop so we could watch the planes.  I was mesmerized by all of it: the roar of the engines, shimmery mirage-effect the jet exhaust made in the air, and the miracle of these massive machines taking flight.   

I don’t understand why my parents ever indulged me.  Perhaps because it was something to do that didn’t cost anything, or just to get me to stop pestering them. Maybe because they concluded it was a suitable activity for the sabbath…because one day they obliged, but rather than satisfy me, it just whetted my appetite for more.  I was hooked.  

Despite all this, it never occurred to me that I would ever go on a plane myself, because I had this notion that only rich and famous people got to fly…something we decidedly were not. 

So I honestly have no idea how this all came about, but the summer I was eight years old, my parents asked if I would like to fly to Idaho and spend the summer with some former neighbors of ours.  The Morgans had moved there two years earlier and had agreed to have me come stay them.  For two months.  

“Of course I want to go!”   

Now lets pause for a moment here. I can’t fathom why anyone thought this was a good idea.  I had never been away from home before, wasn’t a particularly mature child, and I hadn’t seen or talked to these people in two years--a quarter of my life.  They were retired, their children were grown, and they lived on a small farm in a small town in the middle of nowhere.  

But they had me at fly on a plane.  I didn’t actually think the trip through beyond the flight itself.  

The big day arrived and was it was fantastic!  Everything my eight-year old mind had imagined it would be.  I got a new outfit for the occasion (a rare occurrence), and was treated to a special breakfast. It was a big deal for someone in our family to be going on a trip of any kind, but this was especially significant. After snapping a quick picture of me on the sidewalk in front of our house in my new duds with my favorite stuffed animals, all seven of us loaded into the car and drove to the airport.  

Going in to the tiny shoebox of a terminal (as it was in 1977), we handed over my suitcase and they gave me my ticket. Fairly jumping out of my skin with excitement, I said good-bye to my family. And then for the first time, I got to venture past the chain link fence onto the tarmac.  Walking to the aircraft stairs, I paused to look back up at my family who were on the second-floor observation deck waving goodbye. 

My ride was a sweet, solid yellow Hughes Airwest Boeing 727. I'd dubbed them “Flying Banana” jets and they were my favorite planes at the time. It was a thing of beauty.  I considered myself super lucky because the stewardess directed me to the place of honor on the front row!  Wearing my new sweater, and with beloved teddy bear in hand, off we went into the wild blue yonder, leaving all my troubles behind. That first lift off was a complete life-rush. What a feeling!

During the flight the stewardesses were kind and attentive to me. I was amazed that they just gave you stuff, like food, for free.  Food was always a tricky issue in my childhood; it was kind of hard-scrabble a lot, so someone making me a meal always made me feel cared for.  I adored the tiny lavatory--I'd always loved small spaces...like the forts I regularly built out of boxes, in cupboards, closets, or in the shed out back.  Everything about the plane just seemed so cool.  I stared out the window at the top-side of clouds, and was amazed at the patterns on the land below. It looked like a beautiful, cozy, patchwork quilt was wrapped around the earth. I fell in love with the view.

You know how time seems slow down to a crawl when you’re a kid?  Well I discovered that that phenomenon doesn’t hold true on planes, because all too soon the fun was over.  Toward the end of the flight I thought up one of the two complete lies I made up as a kid. I was otherwise a very honest child, but decided I could use a whopper of a story to tell my friend, who had visited Vegas many times before. ("We had to switch planes in Las Vegas on the way, and because there was so much time before we took off again, the flight attendants and pilots took me over to Circus Circus to see the show, and I got picked from the audience to feed the elephant peanuts.")  Had no idea Circus Circus was a hotel.  #busted

We landed and I told my nice stewardesses and pilots goodbye.  Mrs. Morgan was waiting for me in the terminal and helped me claim my baggage before heading out to her car. I was just getting seated when I suddenly realized that I’d left my new sweater on  the plane.  Security being slightly different back then, I raced at top eight-year-old speed straight back out to my favorite Hughes Airwest Boeing 727 Flying Bannana, where the stewardess handed me my sweater and sent me on my way again.  

We got to the farm and put my little suitcase in the attic room that I would be sleeping in with the 1970's bead curtain door.  Mr. Morgan was a character.  His name was simply the letter “K”…and was one of the few adults I wasn’t required to address in more formal terms.  They showed me around the house and then sat me down for a talk.  

“When we lived near you, we noticed that you were a pretty hyper kid.” K said.  “We think it’s because you eat too much sugar, so we’ve decided that during your  visit, we’re going to put you on a no-sugar diet.”  

Huh?!  No sugar?  No treats at all?   But Mrs. Morgan explained that she would make me special carob treats to eat when everyone else was having chocolate, for example.  I had no idea what carob was, but when she showed me it looked like chocolate, and sounded something like caramel, so I thought it might not be too bad.  I had no idea.

When they sent me outside to play, I ventured into the heat and started poking around their property.   There were a few chickens, and I made a game of hunting for their eggs…Easter in July!  It was scorching hot...a kind of heat I was totally unaccustomed to. So hot that I decided to see if I could actually cook the eggs on pieces of scrap metal lying on the ground.  How twisted would you think I am if I told you it worked, and that after they were cooked, I fed them to the chickens?

Chicken-fun aside, there just wasn’t much to do. There was a new kind of silence out there in the country.  Miles up the road I could just barely make out the farmhouse of their nearest neighbor.  It looked smaller than my fort at home from that distance.  I was an extreme extrovert from a large, noisy family, growing up in a suburban neighborhood chock full of kids, and suddenly I was very alone.  As I gazed off into the endless horizon that hot summer day, I experienced the first pangs of homesickness in my life.  

Letting Go

she could have just told me

"you're wearing me down

with your nonstop struggling

to find and feel joy".

she could have 

but she didn't.

and i am a slow learner

especially when it comes to my strong attachments

to the people who matter the most.

i don't know if i would have

ever moved on

without the grace she finally extended

to snuff out my miserable wondering.

"that's it?!" i thought.

relieved. oddly.

surprised by the peace finally knowing bestowed.

i would have predicted a feeling of loss

but i guess i'd already grieved what once was

a beautiful friendship

that blessed my life

and hers...

(let's be fair.)

but she gets to move on.

and blessedly

so do i.

at last.

Perchance To Dream

Last Friday, Doc took the day off work and the two of us flew to Long Beach for a little overnight get-away for my birthday. It was absolutely wonderful! 

Dodge Charger

We got this ridiculously amazing deal on Hotwire.com at the five-star Island Hotel in Newport Beach, so our accommodations were superb in every way, particularly because one thing on our agenda was going to the 103rd annual Christmas Boat Parade around Balboa Island...which was just a mile away.  Perfect!

I always reserve economy rental cars, but when we got to Alamo, they upgraded us to a sweet set of wheels. I've never had a car without a key before.  And talk about acceleration! This was a fun ride.

Tunnel through the rocks

Saturday we went to Treasure Island Park, which is a beautiful stretch of coast in South Laguna. We loved exploring the beautiful gardens and rocks along the shore. It was low tide, so we hiked out on the rocks where we were surrounded by ocean, and just talked for a couple hours with the air and the smells and sounds of the sea filling us up and making us feel peaceful.  Ahh, dear ocean, I love you!

Looking inland from the rocks, accessible because it was low tide.

"What are your dreams?", Doc asked me as we sat, mesmerized by the ocean.  I paused for a while before answering, because I wanted to check in with myself.  Do I currently have any dreams? I wondered.  Growing up, my greatest dream was having a happy marriage and family. Really, that was all I wanted in my life, and while it takes effort to maintain, that dream has pretty much come true. But I never really had aspirations beyond these two things.

Sometimes opportunities have presented themselves and I've seized them.  Like when I became a flight attendant eleven years ago - that has been a very happy thing in my life. I also tend to get excited for other people and their dreams, happily signing on to support them in lieu of chasing my own dreams.  For example, it's taken a lot of effort to put Doc through his Ph.D. and then, later, going to medical school, but I don't regret any of the sacrifices it's taken to help him get to this point.

Doc & my sis. They're actually so much alike it's scary. And wonderful.

YMMV but it seems like there has almost been a movement towards not just having dreams, but having BIG DREAMS. People SHOULD have an admirable dream! You are wasting your life otherwise. 

So lately I've almost felt guilty about not having a big dream that I'm actively working towards.  Everyone around me seems to be, so what the heck is my problem?!

Doc didn't ask this question to pressure me. He's just genuinely curious, and supportive of me in pursuing worthwhile things.  He recognizes that some people (me) tend to be more process-oriented, while others are seem to need a specific goal that they're actively pursuing. Their dreams may fulfill any number of purposes, such as:

• Making their lives meaningful - by making a difference in the world whether large-scale or small. Starting a charity, volunteerism (eg: school, community counsel, church, soup kitchen), doing God's work, finding a cure for the common cold, etc. They want to leave a legacy behind them.
• Self-improvement - eg: become healthier (lose weight, work out more, eat healthier), acquire education (get a degree, take piano lessons, learn to scrapbook, bake, cook etc), find a partner (romance goals), all things that make them more accomplished and self-confident.
• Have lots of fun - such things as travel the world, go in a hot air balloon, be a guest on Oprah.  The pursuit of fun, unique, interesting experiences. (It seems these kinds of goals are wildly popular.)
• Negative motivation - like proving to someone else that you could do something, eg: those kids who were mean to your nerdy self growing up, doing something impressive so you can show them. This kind of goal can still bring about positive results, even though it's not the best starting point.
• Goals that you set because you need to - like learning to walk and talk after a stroke, quitting smoking BECAUSE it's KILLING YOU, or training as a stenographer for a new career as a court reporter. 
• General goals or aims, such as "eat healthier" or "spend quality time with my spouse and kids", or "be an optimist - accentuate the positive in life"...and doing these kinds of things can help improve one's overall life, but they tend to be less accountable. (These are the kinds of "goals" I've generally had.)

Though once upon a time I was a person with modest aspirations, they have all either come to pass or didn't come to fruition, and I never zeroed in on new goals. Hence, I've landed in this place of not really doing much good with my life the last while (few years?). 

Now granted, during this time I've been working hard to heal from the past, and fending off depression can be a major goal/dream/aspiration/pursuit killer. But there's no point in waiting till I'm "better" to have dreams I'm working on. I love how Leonard Cohen put it in his song Anthem:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

So I've (again) begun thinking about goals and dreams.  I've watched this gorgeous message, and am hoping to identify what it is that I actually want. There are lots of things I'm pretty good at or that other people have suggested, but they haven't moved me to action. I'm sure that fear is the primary reason I am kind of stuck. Some of my dreams have been dashed, but rather than move on, I've felt sorry for myself and stopped trying, so as to avoid failure. How crazy is that?!  Also, I can be pretty lazy. 

I'm not yet sure what my dreams are. But I'm starting to zero in on the subject. I think I have a pretty good sense of the person I want to be generally (those General Goals mentioned above)...thoughtful, grateful, nice, honest, loyal, faithful to truth. I want to turn weaknesses into strengths, create happy memories for people I love, be a parent to and friends with my kids forever, and grow really old with my sweetheart while never losing the spark of love that we have. That would be a life well-lived. But in addition to these basics, I know there is room for me to soar.

Holiday Crimson Amaryllis

My darling bestie Keri sent me a gift this week for my birthday. Her note said "Sometimes beauty takes time. This is your year, Blue" 

It's an amaryllis, and it didn't come with instructions on how to make it bloom. Neither did I, but between all the resources out there, and the lovely people around me, I know that if I choose to, I can find and reach any dream I make.

Shakespeare asked well when he said: 
To be, or not to be, that is the question. 
I want to be.  And, perchance, to dream. 

Merry Christmas to you!
xoxo 

PS: (Did you click that first link? If you click nothing else, promise yourself that you will take just 10 minutes of your life and watch it. You won't regret it UNLESS YOUR HEART IS A PETRIFIED ROCK. I've watched it at least 15 times so far. Thank me later...preferably via a comment.)

Miss Ryan

Happy Saint Patricks Day!

I committed yesterday to share my very first journal entries from little, eleven-year old Blue. So here you go, exactly as written 31 years ago today (Gives me great hope for Gator, frankly!):

March 17, 1980 - Saint Pactricks Day Monday

Thay anounced the winners of the play and I was suposed to be Miss Hanigan

I hate Miss Hanigan and Miss Ryan my Mean fith grade teacher kicked me out

Kim Pricherd got the part I wanted, Annie

Boy I hate Miss Ryan

Miss Ryan Hates Me so Much

she wouldnt even tell me who grace was

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March 19, 1980

Mrs. Ryan Likes me now and

Im in the play as Miss Hanigan

But I dont care that much

Im in math right now But i'm done.

(Sadly, the next entry was seven months later so we will ever be deprived of further detail about the glories of playing Miss Hanagan which were increased by the casting of my younger sister as one of the orphans I got to pick on.)

I've written before about Miss Ryan (no, she didn't get married between entries). She was my all-time favorite teacher and had an invaluable impact on me at a critical time in my life. So I was surprised when I read that first entry to Gator. My childhood was a field of extremes...love, hate, good, bad, ugly, pretty, all, nothing. It's taken a lot of work to embrace the middle, the myriad shades of gray.

Two months ago while on a layover in California I decided to track down my beloved teacher. She's been married for decades now, but she always will be Miss Ryan to me because I refuse to grow up.

I had so many questions for her. I wanted to know if she knew, or even suspected, anything about my home life and how things were going for me. I mean, it was 1980...a different era in terms of awareness of neglect and abuse. But still, was that why she took an interest in me? Did she know what a huge impact she had on me?

It was a Sunday evening when I finally met up with her. Ever the superhero teacher, she was in her classroom at the school where she now teaches, preparing for her week.

I only had an hour before I had to head back to the airport, but it was such a sweet visit for me. Miss Ryan's had thousands of students in the course of her career, yet she absolutely remembered me (I must have a way about me).

Miss Ryan and me...31 years later

We had a nice visit, filling in the gaps in our lives. I was able to thank her for what she did for me...after telling her how important she was in my life. Despite what I wrote on March 17, 1980, she really has always been one of my heroes...one of my life's angels. And being in that play was the start of some fun experiences for me...despite not getting to wear the red afro wig!

So the moral of these stories is (this really should have been part of yesterday's post), keep a journal, kids! You never know but what it might come in handy in enchanting your beloved someday. And it's like free therapy when you're struggling...but be honest and thoughtful about what you write. Show the whole picture. We can't learn and grow from our mistakes and follies, or see how far we've come, if we don't acknowledge them. And your kids won't be able to laugh their heads off at how ridiculous you use to be if you don't put in all the good stuff! Put the date on each page. Don't bother with stuff that really doesn't matter, but do include feelings and thoughts that are significant. Remember, venting on paper is better than being mean to others. You can always tear a page out if you really don't want words you've written to be remembered...but you can't take actions or spoken words back.

Have you ever gotten in touch with someone you'd lost touch with from your past (not counting Facebook)? Did you have any heroes as a child? Were any of your teachers exceptionally important in your life?

Grateful for:

1) Education. Gracious, I had no idea how atrocious my grammar and spelling use to be!

2) Perspective that comes through the passage of time.

3) Chances to thank those who have blessed my life.

The Usefulness of Journals

Recently, the value of keeping a journal has been on my mind, and Gator, my eleven year old, pointed out to me that he didn't have one. 

I know...Major Momma Slackitude!  (If that were only the worst of it...)

Bunch has a robust collection of pretty blank notebooks and journals, and loves writing in them.  It's kind of an odd thing to collect, but she loves them and has been journaling for years.  (She also collects pencils. They pair nicely with the journals.)

While I began keeping a journal as a 5th grader, the ever-overachieving Doc started keeping a journal when he was in 3rd grade.  He was a special child.  In fact, it was this very journal that made me fall in love with him.  I am absolutely serious about this, even though you might think it was his handsome looks, his winsome personality or keen intellect. Nope. It was his journal that hooked me.

Doc and I were already close friends.  He'd been knocked for a loop by my certain charms from the very start, but I had kindly told him "I just want to be friends." He surprised me by saying that was fine, and quickly proceeded to become my favorite person. But I hadn't yet been caught up by his tractor beam.  It's possible I might have had trust issues. 

So one night Doc announced that he wanted me to read his journal. The journal he'd vowed early on that no one would ever read so he could be completely honest in it.  About everything (including me. As it turned out).

It took some arm twisting, but I finally agreed to it.

By the time I turned the last page, I was done for.  My heart was captured and confirmed his.  In those pages it was as though I came to know the soul of this young man, and in knowing him I couldn't resist just loving him.  (I believe that's where that expression actually originated.)

He was just eighteen years old, and that journal had started when he was nine.  Half his life was represented.  And unlike my journal, which I was suddenly very self-conscious of, his was focused on things actually worth remembering. 

To clarify: I'd spent years faithfully writing about my days...what I ate (fascinating!), what time it was when I went to bed, how much sleep I got or didn't get, what I wore that day, who gave me rides to things, how much homework I had, and wondering why if I was defective.  Every now and then I tried to include something with the intent that if someone ever DID read select entries, you know, AFTER I WAS DEAD, they'd maybe think I was kind of awesome.  So there I was, writing to my invisible audience. 

It was painful to realize what a waste of time and what a missed opportunity my journal was.  Doc hadn't written as often as me, but when he did write, it was to record significant experiences, things he was thinking about as he grew from a boy into a man.  He wrote down spiritual experiences, answers to prayers, things that were important to him, his hopes, plans and dreams.  He didn't omit things that might show his frailties and shortcomings...it was the whole picture.  And I was dumbfounded by his honesty and trust (in letting me read it). 

I wished someone had taught me the why, what and how of keeping a journal. I had no idea how useful and worthwhile keeping one could be.  Mine is truly so awful that I've only glanced through it a couple times in the past 30 years. 

But this past weekend I finally bought Gator a journal, and in an overcompensating attempt, I even had his name inscribed on it. (I think Bunch was jealous.) 

After he'd written his first entry, he asked if he could read my journal from when I was a kid.  In case I needed to edit out any parts Because my penmanship was positively terrible, I decided I'd read it to him and use my fifth-grade self as a kind of what not to do when it comes to journaling. 

It was enlightening to say the least...especially reading it out loud to my kid. I really was completely all-or-nothing as a child.
 

Turns out that tomorrow, March 17th, is the 31st anniversary of my first journal entry...and since this post is already too long, I will continue this tale, INCLUDING SHARING the very first two journal entries OF MY LIFE, complete with errors.  Which faithful readers will note means blog posts for 3 days in a row.  It's like a party. Without food!

 

HELPFUL TIP FOR THE DAY:

Don't forget to wear green to bed tonight...kids these days start the pinching early!

 

 

Catching the moments

"Will you tuck me in?!" his hopeful voice asked. 

At eleven years old, my baby is quite capable of putting himself to bed, and has been for a long time.  But he still regularly asks me, after prayers are said and teeth are brushed, if I will tuck him in.

For a lot of years, when I was struggling under the heavy blanket of depression, once my kids were old enough, I would often find a way to get out of making the trek downstairs to tuck them in.  It felt like a delay tactic, one way to prolong the bedtime routine.  

But for about nine months now, I've felt grand.  It's such an amazing thing, to feel happy, peaceful, alive.  And one of the best parts is the new, increased enjoyment of my sweet children.  I confess feeling regret that so many years of their childhood slipped quickly by while I was weighed down, unable to be present with them in the manner I wished I could be. I did what I could, and I'm not saying they've had a bad childhood by any means, but I wished I could have ALWAYS felt like I do now. That I had crammed even more love, magic and happy memories into their daily lives. I wish I had never missed a chance to snuggle with and tuck them into their nests at night.

I don't have a single memory of my parents tucking me in as a child. Tenderness from them would have been confusing for me anyway.  Of course like any person I wanted to feel loved and cared for, but when factored with the things that went on a lot of the time with them, it also made me uncomfortable.  So I was stuck.

There was a lovely British family that we got to know through my brother's soccer team, and one evening their mother, Sandra, was over at our house.  I had always liked her gentle ways and beautiful accent, and enjoyed any chance to visit with her, but I had a 6:00 a.m. class in the morning, and had to say goodnight before she had left.  I had just turned out the light and crawled into my bed when Sandra came into the garage, wove her way over to my bed, pulled my covers up and kissed my cheek goodnight, and wished me sweet dreams.  After she left, I lay there in the darkness, weeping because of the kindness she had shown me. It felt so strange and lovely all at once, to be cared for in that simple way.

So now, whenever I hear the words "will you tuck me in?" (and even on nights when I'm not asked) the answer is a definite yes.  Yes, my darlings, I would love to tuck you in...for as long as you want to be tucked.  It is my privilege and joy to take a moment at the end of your day to tuck you in. 

And with every tuck in, I hope I can infuse them with double loves, to make up for the nights when I missed taking the time to show them how much they really mean to me.  

Grateful for:
1) The fact that my children would even WANT me to tuck them in.

2) Kisses goodbye whenever we part ways.

3) Hugs. Lots of hugs.

A Bedroom Story

I've written about my room in the garage before, so I'll pick up from there.

For about a year I slept on the cot that started the whole thing, while systematically nosing my way through all the crap that surrounded me, consolidating and off-loading as I went. During that year I managed to clear out a good amount of the space, including the large, metal, industrial desk that I suppose was meant to serve as my dad's "office". He was always slightly protective of it, though never once in my life did I see him use it.

The place was just starting to look more habitable when I went to a school rummage sale one fine Saturday. As a 7th grader, furniture acquisition wasn't really on my radar, but while poking around the yard I saw a full-size wooden bed for sale. That would be a major upgrade from the cot, I thought, and I had saved up a my babysitting money for a while. But unfortunately, at $100, it was out of my range.

A few minutes later the principal made an announcement over the PA that for the next ten minutes, everything was half off. I dashed over to him, "Even furniture?" He said yes, so I pulled out $50 and said "I'm buying the bed".

And that's how I acquired The Bed. Never would I have guessed that I'd be sleeping in it for most of the next 30 years.

It was a double bed, and I felt like I'd landed in the lap of luxury my first night in it. I sprawled out like a giant letter X, arms and legs splayed every which-way. Oh the space! And as it turned out, there was a dresser that had belonged to my great-great (or was it great great great?) grandma, which was a really good match to the bed, so I eventually inherited it, too.

Years went by. The bed stayed in the garage when I went off to my freshman year of college. But three years later it joined me and became our marriage bed. It moved with us everywhere we went during the next 20 years. That bed has witnessed all my dreams and most of my tears, and heard almost as many prayers as God has through the years.

Because of it's headboard and footboard, my tall Doc couldn't actually stretch out flat in it. Through the years there were a number of times that I asked him if he wanted to get a new bed, but always he declined, saying it was fine.

And it was! It was a fine bed and I have been grateful for it.

But now, I've finally figured out what style I'm drawn to, and our dear little bed really isn't it. If I were looking for furniture today, I wouldn't have ever glanced at it. Plus, it is small, not even queen size. Don't get me wrong...I love snuggling with my sweetie, but there have been times when it would have been nice to have the option of spreading out, too.

So now that we're for sure going to be staying in this house for the rest of Doc's training, and since I'd given up on someone surprising me with one of those HGTV or TLC room (or house, or yard) make-overs, we decided to celebrate not having to move anywhere with a bedroom remodel!

Ikea finally came to Utah a couple years back, and I had come to really like the style and clean lines they're known for. Doc liked it too, so we headed out to pick our new look, and with the help of Davis, my oh-so-handy, awesome lil' bro and his tools, we transformed our room.

Things I love: After 9+ years of nearly always being in some stage of packing to leave or unpacking upon return, my luggage finally has a home! Now there is room for everything that used to be displaced. Little by little I'm making our space into a place I like.

I still haven't accented the room. It's just bare bones so far because I can't decide what color to go with yet. Doc defers to me, but says "of course you have to pick blue. You ARE blue!" and he may be right. But if I do, which shade shall it be? And there are so many lovely greens, browns, oranges and reds as well! I realize it's easy enough to swap accent colors, but which to start with?

Anyway, the old furniture is now in my garage and I'm not sure what to do with it. If I had a big house with a spare guest room, I'd refinish it and put it in there. I confess to feeling some reluctance to just sell it on Craig's List, since the dresser is a family piece that allegedly came across the plains with my great great (great?) granny...who I am actually named for. It was later restored by my grandfather who was a carpenter born in 1900. The bed is really old, too. Hand-carved cherry wood and they actually do match each other quite nicely. So, much to Doc's chagrin, it's now out with all the other stuff I've been storing for my siblings the past several years, and we're enjoying the new space and clean lines of our room.

Here's the old bedroom. And no, it was NEVER, not once, EVER this clean! I took these photos thinking I'd need pictures to list the furniture for sale...and then promptly began the remodel.




There have been times when making the bed included arranging up to 14 pillows. I will never go there again!

Funny tidbit. I bought this bedding in Vermont 10 years ago. Nine months later I visited my inlaws in Utah and discovered that out of all the possible bedroom sets IN THE WORLD, they had purchased the very same one! Neither of us had mentioned our purchases to the other...it was just the one we both liked. Only they have a king-size bed, so mine won't be any use to them.

Here's the new look so far, taken from each corner of the room.

Doorway view of our new lovely, spacious, queen-size bed!


My chic new bookshelf, where I am free to have any books I like on display. Note, the paintings I did haven't yet found their real home. They're just hanging out here for a bit.


From the next corner, facing the door. In addition to my little desk and chair by the door, you can see the major addition here...


...THE WONDERFUL WARDROBE! This beauty has more than tripled the available space. I'm in love with it.


Grateful for:
1) Finally figuring out what style I'm drawn to...and discovering that Doc likes it, too!.
2) Sales on already-affordable furniture, and Davis' amazing power tools.
3) A good night's rest.

Memories of Halloween

Memories of Halloween

A Personal Essay

As a child, I couldn’t wait for Halloween. It was my favorite holiday because I was in direct control of how much loot I acquired, whereas during other holidays, I had to rely on the generosity of Santa and others. Whoever invented Halloween was brilliant!

There was no limit to the amount of candy I hoped to collect, so as soon as I could possibly get started, I was out the door. Trick-or-Treating was a sport to me--and I ran from house to house to reach as many as possible, till there were no more lights on and I had to return home.

I felt justified in this marathon effort, because the amount of candy I collected, and the amount I was allowed to eat, were two different things. We weren’t allowed so much as one piece of candy before coming home, because my mom had to inspect it for poison or razor blades. Which confused me because it seemed to me if someone were devious enough to dip your Tootsie Pop in arsenic, they'd probably re-wrap so it would look untouched.

The driving force behind my quest was that we had to give fully *half* of our haul to, oddly enough, the kids at the State Mental Hospital. In all my life I never heard of anyone else who did this. It wasn’t advertised or promoted at school, church, or on the television. I honestly have no idea how they came up with this idea, but nevertheless, upon returning home we'd dump out the spoils, line them up in order of importance, and then skim off the top half to keep ourselves, sacrificing the rest to the poor unfortunates who couldn’t participate in this annual free-for-all. It should go without saying that the kids at the mental hospital never saw any of my chocolate bars.

I assume my parents wanted to teach us selflessness, or at the very least, curb sweet tooth development, but that clearly backfired. Deprivation has a sneaky way of making you want more of the item, and so I became a bonafide sugaraholic. Starting in 3rd grade I worked in my school cafeteria so I could get a free lunch, and I remember the cook telling me that I'd probably have diabetes someday because of all the sweets I consumed (hail the chocolate chip cookies, cinnamon buns, and those tasty grape Popsicles!) I didn’t know what diabetes was, but I definitely wasn't concerned…I was an immortal nine-year old.

One thing I was grateful for was that I never had to wear the cheap-o box costumes sold at stores in the 1970’s; if you’re old enough, you’ll remember these printed plastic-sheets that tied on, topped off with a mask with tiny nostril holes for breathing. Most kids wore the mask on top of their head like a hat because they were so uncomfortable, especially pokey eye holes. But fortunately, we had a good assortment of dress-ups at our house, including a few wigs which always added legitimacy to any outfit. We always came up with something so as to avoid resorting to the dreaded boxed costume option.

The year I was eight Halloween came on a Sunday. Nothing could have been more devastating to me, a church-going, newly baptized, commandment-abiding Mormon girl, than to have my favorite holiday fall on a Sunday. I knew there was no way we'd be allowed to trick-or-treat on the Sabbath. My parents were surrounded by a pack of sad-faced kids, wondering how we could make it through the next year without our annual stockpile of goodies. Their solution? We’ll let you go trick-or-treating on Saturday instead! That’s what they do out in Utah. Which was great, except that we lived in California.

Perhaps they were embarrassed to be seen out on the 30th, but for whatever reason, instead coming with us they got our teenage neighbor Peggy to take us. Peggy had struggled with her weight for years, which was, in this situation, to our advantage. We knew she’d be a respectable escort because she was as interested in the free candy as we were.

We started making our way around the neighborhood, but it was noticeably slim pickings that night. Many people weren't even home, and those who were wondered why this pack of kids was at their door a day earlier than scheduled. We boldly announced "we can't trick-or-treat on Sunday" (some suspected us of planning to go out both nights--which was, in my mind, not a bad idea!). A number of them hadn't bought their candy yet. We got a lot of apologies and pennies that year. It was awkward, but I was a devoted disciple to sugar and would not be deterred.

I looked forward with great anticipation to sixth grade, when I would start junior high school at TeWinkle, which was named for the first mayor of our town years before. But despite my anticipation, that was a difficult time for me. Already wildly unpopular in grade school, the problem only got worse at TeWinkle. I struggled to fit in with not only the kids I'd known during grade school, but also all the new kids. Most of them seemed to be from well-off families, and they had an air of confidence about them that I simply couldn’t seem to acquire. I thought if I could just get myself into the popular group life would be a dream, and spent hours wondering how I could achieve that goal.

The year I was in sixth grade, the Rubik's Cube became enormously popular. Everyone had one, and contests were held regularly among students to see how fast the puzzle could be solved. I had a stroke of genius one day to be a Rubik's Cube for Halloween that year! We got a big, square cardboard box, a half-dozen florescent, glow-in-the-dark paints and some black tape to divide the colors into sharp, perfect squares. Holes were cut out for my head and arms, and the bottom was left open for my legs. It was a beautiful costume and I couldn't wait to wear it. Though sitting in my desk was, admittedly, awkward. But my costume was a big hit with my classmates. It was a happy day.

In seventh grade, I had a horrible time trying to decide what to be for Halloween. I yearned come up with something clever, even better than the Rubik’s Cube of the previous year. But by the afternoon before Halloween, I still hadn't settled on anything and was feeling discouraged. A friend of my mother's from church was over visiting my mom that day. Honestly, she wasn’t my favorite person; her son was one of my primary tormentors but she never intervened which made me wonder if she had something against me. Plus she usually just ignored me when I was around her. But this particular occasion she was being so friendly that I decided I perhaps I’d been mistaken (after all, her husband was a bishop, and everyone knows that only men with nearly perfect wives are made bishop!)

While mourning over my plight, my mom’s friend (who was one of those who always seemed to have advice for every situation) began telling me about some wonderful costumes she'd heard of. The first one got me really excited. She knew a man who had made a costume toilet out of cardboard for his child! The child stood in the tank part, which had holes for his head, arms, and feet. The bowl of the toilet extended out front and had a lid on it, which the child lifted up for people to put candy into. The whole thing was painted white, and a plunger was used as a hat. She said it was just darling! I was very sad that I'd heard about it so late; I'd have to wait till the following year to be a toilet, because there just wasn't time to put it together that day.

But her next idea was even more wonderful because it was totally doable! “Take a garbage bag, cut holes for your head and arms to go through, write the word "GLAD" on the front with masking tape in big letters, and go to school as a GLAD Bag!” Why hadn't I thought of such an idea? It was unique, quick and easy, and I had everything I needed. Plus, I was an upbeat, Glad-kinda-gal! Boy, she really did always have an answer for everything, that’s for sure.

I decided to wear a leotard and black tights underneath the bag, and I could also carry an extra GLAD bag for trick-or-treating at night...which, BONUS, would hold a massive amount of candy! This was going to be a big hit at school the next day; I could hardly wait!

Morning came and I eagerly donned my costume and rode my bike to school. It was always such fun to arrive at school on Halloween day and see all the other kids, especially when you had a great costume on yourself.

It started in the bike rack where some boys were just arriving as I was walking out. Some comment was made about a garbage bag. I ignored them, knowing inside they were just jealous because my costume was better than theirs (after all, how original is dressing up as a girl?). But as I walked to class, several other comments were tossed at me (I would soon wish that was all that got thrown that day), and I started feeling frustrated that they couldn't see that I was a GLAD bag, not a garbage bag.

First period in English class I took my seat. There was a garbage can a few feet in front of me in the corner, but when you have a bag sitting three feet closer, why bother with the can? All during class little wads of paper, erasers, tissues, and other trash were surreptitiously tossed at me. I couldn't wait for class to end so I could get away from there.

By lunch time I was wishing desperately that I had worn something else, but I kept my chin up. Our lunch yard was outdoors, so I got my lunch in the cafeteria and went to find a seat. I was specifically looking for somewhere to eat that wasn't anywhere near a garbage can. I found a table near the front of the lunch yard, in hopes that the lunch attendant would be able to see me and ward off any attempts to "help keep America looking good" through proper waste disposal.

Sometimes when you're a kid it seems like responsible adults are never there when you need them (eg: wasn't that pretty much Harry Potter’s whole problem?), and this lunch period was one of those days. Butter, soft from sitting in the sun, found it's way into my hair. A spoonful of mashed potatoes flew through the air and emergency-landed in my lap. It rained chocolate milk that sunny afternoon, followed by a hail storm of peas. When a ketchup-covered hot dog chunk hit me in the face I could no longer ignore the attacks. Humiliated, I ran for the bathroom. After cleaning myself up as much as I could, I called my mom and told her I was sick, got released, and rode my bike home.

After that, my zeal for Halloween diminished appreciably. Since I’d come home “sick” I couldn't go trick-or-treating that night…but somehow filling my enormous GLAD bag with candy didn't seem as important to me anymore. Halloween had lost some of it's magic.

Oh, in case you were wondering, No, I didn't go to school as an eighth-grade toilet the next year either. After what I’d been through, I had new insight into what being a toilet at a junior high school named WeTinkle, I mean TeWinkle, might be like.