Spanish Dancer

This is one of my favorite paintings.    It is Spanish Dancer by Pino.  I once saw the original.  It was huge and it moved me.  Just wanted to share.

The Everythingist

(from my Little Basil Blossoms blog.  It is exactly how I am feeling again today.)

In this world there are scientists, dentists, fascists, Bunburyists, and a host of "ists".

I am an everythingist. I want to do everything. I want to do it all at once, all the time and all the way. Perhaps this would work if I was also a rationalist. But, alas, I am a perfectionist and an idealist. This is a frightening combination. Frightening AND depressing.

This afternoon found me brooding about this. You see, I chose to exercise this morning. That takes up a significant chunk of my high-energy, super-productive time. This means that other things must go. This is hard ... tough ... excruciating!!!!

"Ah," says the voice of wisdom in my head (my voice of wisdom has a Chinese accent and sits in lotus position wearing a white robe) "but you have chosen what is best."

"But best is not everything" my everythingist side protests.

"True," says the voice of wisdom.

That's it. Nothing more from the little white robed voice. It must be waiting for me to put the rest of the pieces together. That, or it doesn't have any more of an idea of how I am going to un-burry the kitchen table and put laundry in the washer than I do.

Choosing the best is great.

Letting go of the good and the better stinks.

But, I believe it is worth it. I feel good. I have had more patience today. I have been happy. And that is worth a lot; possibly even worth more that a clean kitchen table.

Names

Our culture has an interesting phenomenon of taking boy names and making them into girl names.

There are Ashley, Jody, Tracy, Taylor, Payton, Jaden, Courtney, Leslie, Michael, Laurie, Whitney, Kim, Ariel, Paris ... just to name a few

There are a few names, however, that I think are completely safe from the grasping hands of innovative parents of baby girls.

Take Ralph for instance.  Boys, that one is all yours.  And Mortimer?  Well you're welcome to that one too.  The same goes for Bob, Doug, Hank, Bruno, Cesar and Hercules.

Speaking of names, my cousin made a youtube video about how inventive Utahns have become with their names.  It's pretty funny.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BfIehCrO4Zs

Because

(from my Two Sassy Lasses blog)

So, today I watched some bits of a show about body image that has an ... ahem ... questionable title. It was called "How to Look Good Naked." (note: this is not a recommendation.  If you just need to chill, I'd say White Collar is a better bet.) I watched pieces from the original British series and a few bits from the American knock-off. The show features a style guru who helps plus-size women with body issues to love the skin they're in. He teaches these ladies how do dress for their body type, how to wear their hair etc. As I saw women who were roughly the same size as me, look into a mirror and feel beautiful for the first time in years, something clicked. I can be beautiful now. And because I am beautiful and strong I am capable of even more greatness in my life. I am striving for slimmer and healthier NOT because I am lacking, but because I am capable of more. I can eat healthy because I am fabulous and I deserve to treat myself well. I can exercise because I love to move. These changes do not add to my worth. I am doing it because I am worth it.

This is a big step for someone who hasn't taken a good look in a full-length mirror for the last six months. So, can I maintain the fire to be better and look better and accept who I am at the same time? Can I stop making excuses for my bad habits and make time for better ones? Can I stop calling myself "chipmunk cheeks" every time I look in the mirror? I don't know, but I sure want to try.

Picture Perfect

I will forever remember a story my mother related to me.  She was chatting with the mother of one of my friends when she noticed that this woman had a beautiful, new family portrait hung on the small, shadowy wall in the bend of their stairs.  My mom complimented the beautiful photo and asked why it was hung in this out of the way place.  The mother of my friend said that in trying to make this picture as perfect as it could be the entire family had a miserable day.  There had been yelling, crying, hurt feelings and general grouchiness.  She said that every time she looked at that photo, she remembered the awful feelings she had that day.

Fast forward nearly 20 years to the present.  We needed a family picture - one where everyone was in front of the camera.  That hasn't happened for us in two years.

Due to my Nutcracker rehearsal schedule and Daylight savings, we only had a 15 minute window in which to catch the light.  Of course child #3 would take a late nap.  Child #3 wakes up 1/2 ogre and  1/2 wet dishrag.  Then there is child #2.  Child #2 is a diva when it comes to his clothes.  If he can't wear a dirty tee-shirt then life may not be worth living.  Well, his picture approved shirt had a collar, and the fit of his pants (which were admittedly a bit big) distressed his style sensibilities past the point of endurance and he flopped onto the couch, enormous tears trickling down his cheek.

I squashed the desire to administer a well-placed, swift kick.  I banished the impending sense of photographic disaster.  I wanted to be happy.  Okay, so not everyone else was going to be happy, but I was not going to let this picture matter more than being nice.   A quick dig through last years box of clothes produced a pair of pants, that while three inches too short, did not make my son cry.  As for the shirt, with only love and good will I told him he needed to buck up and stop clutching his collar and turning red.  I wanted smiles in my picture.  I would even let him keep his shirt un-tucked (another stylistic sticking point).  However,  if he could not manage calming down and smiling in the picture, he would go to bed without dinner the moment the picture taking was done.  Despite my calm demeanor he must have sensed the seriousness of that threat.

When my brother in law arrived with his fabulous camera, we all ran outside into the freezing cold.  We stood on the sidewalk.  "Forget placement, everyone just clump," was the rallying cry.

Child #3 was fine as long as she was facing backward and cried every time we faced her forward.  We took a few pictures.  We looked at a few of them and found that Child #1 was crossing her arms and making "I am FREEZING" faces in the pictures that were good of everyone else.  Child #2, bless his heart, stood there in his floods and untucked shirt and tried to muster a smile.  He managed to look stoic.

Not even photoshop would save this one.  And you know what?  I felt fine with that.  That photo will document my reality.  It will also document a proud moment for me - despite the stress and dysfunction, I managed to maintain a happy heart, a happy voice and had done everything I could to maintain a happy home.  That smile on my face was real.  I can look at that picture with no regrets.

We'll go for picture perfect some other year.

Snow!

Snow!  Nearly a foot of it!  Heavy, wet, packable snow!

Child #1 was the first to take up the cry this morning.  She roused child #2 and #3 and soon all three were pressed against the window.  After breakfast the search for mittens and snow-pants began.  Once every child was booted and hatted, zipped and cinched they tumbled outside.  Snowballs flew.  Tongues tasted the whiteness.  They churned the pristine blanket which had covered the yard into a wonderland of snow-angels and laughter.   Before long, my eldest started tugging on the branches of the apple tree, hoping to make the snow fall on her.  In one of those perverse moments that I am sure the angels set up just to entertain themselves, the snow fell off the other side of the tree directly on top of child #3 - who had just pushed back her hood.  Priceless.

Note to the recording angels - I want this morning on the home-video of my life.   

Definition please?

The state of my house does not define me.
The state of my house does Not define me.
The state of my house does NOT define me.

The state of my house says a lot about the number of children I have and the kind of day I had, but please, oh please do not say the squalor that surrounds me is an extension of me.

Yesterday we had so much fun.  I made two batches of play-doh, home-made pizza and jello and did homeschool and a Halloween craft and did sparkle nails with my girls and my house looks like a bomb went off.  Apparently, if I am not bending every ounce of effort to containing the chaos around here, then before too long the floor disappears.

Am I alone in this?

People always say that no one's house is perfect all the time, but I actually know someone whose house is actually perfect all the time.  She is a dear friend and as much as I applaud her amazingness, I find it totally depressing.  (Hmmm, petty much Bethany?)  Oh, and she somehow manages to do the fun stuff too.  No, really.  She does.  Of course, she does have more energy than all the other people I've ever met combined.  Maybe that's her secret.

But you know what?  The fact that I am blogging instead of clearing a path to the kitchen sink IS and extension of me.  That choice marks me as the wordy, quirky, incongruous individual that I am.  I like clean.  I like it when my house smells of lemon and elbow grease, but for me, choosing play-doh and sparkle nails means not choosing dishes and vacuuming.

Okay, Miss Wordy, Quirky Individualist, time to go get the children and just maybe do a dish or two.

Eliminating the "Should"

This week I am sorting out my library shelves, which is necessary because I am a book junkie.  At yard sales I usually hit the book table first and more often than not come away with arm-fuls of fifty cent treasures.  Also, I have just discovered Amazon.

So I set my back to the task of weeding out the okay books from the books I absolutely love.  This brings us to the formidable "should."  One really should have Dostoevsky in their library.  Shouldn't they?  Confession - I can't stand most Russian literature - too dark for me.  And shouldn't a well rounded library include Pilgrim's Progress?  Another confession, I will never read that book again.  It was a good book, it's just not Wodehouse.  That's all I'm saying.

But I have not one inch to spare on those shelves, so out came all (or at least most) of the "shoulds."  There is only room for what brings me joy.  For the record, Othello does not bring me joy.  Even the Bard got axed in this sort-out.

The "shoulds" in my life are like the wilted flowers that good gardeners pull out of their flower beds.  I would like to get more specific with that analogy, but I can't because I don't grow flowers yet.  That feat will come after all offspring are potty trained.  Anyway, a "should" has the general shape and appearance of a flower, but all the life and joy and color have been sucked out of it.

The things in my life that I should have or should do, look like things that will brighten my life just like a flower, but in the end they drain my life and joy and color.  Now I am quite grateful for some of my "shoulds".  I like the way they tug me into action.  The problem is when I start accumulating other people's "shoulds."  And in this age, one can accumulate a whole pile of 'em faster than you can say google, or pinterest or neighbor-with-a-perpetually-imaculate-home.

I would like to live like I sort, holding on to a few of my own peculiar "shoulds", and tossing the rest in battered cardboard box bound for the thrift store.  Perhaps someone else will have a use for them.

Fall

Deep autumn has arrived.  The air nips pleasantly.  The tops of the mountains are dusted with snow and the leaves in the valley are still a riot of color.

This is my favorite autumn poem and I just had to post it again.  

A Vagabond Song

By Bliss Carman

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood -- 
Touch of manner, hint of mood; 
And my heart is like a rhyme, 
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. 

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry 
Of bugles going by. 
And my lonely spirit thrills 
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. 

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; 
We must rise and follow her, 
When from every hill of flame 
She calls and calls each vagabond by name. 

Happy Autumn!

To Protect and Serve

Stuff.  I get a warped view of my stuff which comes straight from my pioneer ancestors.  Stuff is to be saved, preserved and protected.  It's usefulness should be eked out over a lifetime.

Why do I allow my favorite red shoes to collect dust in my closet?  Because I am saving them.
Why don't I use my gorgeous stoneware bowls with the blue stripe?  Because I'm saving them.
Why don't I make apple turnovers today?  Because I'm saving that for a special occasion.
Why don't I use that silky eye cream that sits on the third shelf of the mirror cabinet?
Why don't I wear that perfume?  You get the idea.

That mindset does not jive with my season of life.  I need my stuff to serve me.  I need it to protect me.  I need to use my stuff till it frays, breaks or disintegrates.  Sure it's nice to hold onto a few precious items and keep them nice ad infinitum but most stuff is meant to bring joy NOW.  How did I miss that?

Child #2 did not miss that. Take his blue sneakers for example.  They were his favorites.  I bought them three months ago and already he has worn gaping holes through the toes and managed to separate the rubber sole from the rest of the shoe.  That kid put some serious milage and memories into those shoes.

Tonight I made the most glorious apple turnovers.  I painted nails with my children.  Now I am off to use luxurious amounts of "satin hands" skin cream.  There may be hope for me yet.

Mixed Bags

The longer I live, the more I realize that everything in life is a mixed bag.  Of course some bags are more evenly mixed than others, but nothing is so very, very bad that some good cannot be found in it.  And nothing in life is so very, very good that it does not come at a price.

Children are just such a mixed bag.  My baby grins cherubically as I shower his face with kisses.  He snuggles and coos and clutches my finger.  I try to remember that as I drag myself from bed at 2:00 and again at 4:00 every night, and again when I see a chunk of the grocery budget go toward diapers that only work about 50% of the time.

When my two year old employs her excellent lungs in an hour long screaming fit and then uses marker to express her artistic side on the living room wall I have to remember her fierce little arms around my neck and the way I grin as she showers my face in kisses.

This month my wonderful hubby and I were trying to get away for the weekend.  At least, as away as you can get taking a three month old with you.  We tried making plans for our other three children, but all in vain.  I began longing for the day when we could pick up and go without arranging for sitters.  Or even just to have the children old enough to tend themselves so I could have room in the shopping cart for the groceries.  Then, as I got into bed I found a love letter from my eldest hidden under my pillow.  Then child #2 came and pressed his cheek next to mine and said "I love you mom."  How could I wish away a moment of this?

If childhood were all snuggles and smiles and songs it would be a tragedy for anyone to grow up.  But it  is also poop and screaming and whining and laundry.

Life is one great mixed bag.  So bring on the next stage and the next and the next.  It makes little sense to clinging to the past or to wish away today while yearning for the future.  I am still going to do that of course (it's the irrational, impatient, sentimentalist in me) but a mixed-bag perspective makes it so much easier to live in today and love it for what it is.

A Great Lady

This woman is amazing.  I want to be a spunky character like her when I grow up.

http://www.lolbucket.com/video/KN5K8Y4S1AMA/100-year-old-Idaho-woman-on-Jay-Leno-show

True Love

The most powerful force in the world.

I loved this.

I hope you love it too.

http://www.karmatube.org/videos.php?id=3235

Fairy Gardens

This weekend my children made fairy gardens.  Admittedly, my motivation was to buy a little quiet time during general conference, and it worked.  But what began as a desperate bid for silence became something magical.  To see my three oldest children working at the table, sharing, laughing and creating filled my soul. There were no lines to stay within.  No pattern to follow.  No pre-planned outcome.  Unbridled creativity reigned and they stayed captivated for a solid hour.  

Supplies came from yard sales and thrift stores.  They included: trays for each child to build on, colorful stones, river rocks, plastic jewels, silk flowers and leaves, flower pots, rose petals, acorns, plastic ferns, little bird houses etc.  

Using those supplies and some homemade salt dough (best salt dough ever, I'll post the recipe) they created homes, beds, gardens, pathways, fountains and forests on their trays.  They built and re-built and re-built some more.  

We will be making fairy gardens again.

Play-Dough
2 cups flour
2 cups warm water
1 cup salt
2 Tablespoons vegetable oil
1 Tablespoon cream of tartar (optional for improved elasticity)
a few drops lemon juice
1 packet Kool-Aid (we used orange) for color and scent.

Cook all ingredients together over medium-low heat.  Stir lots.  When the dough starts to pull away from the sides and form a ball stir continuously till you can touch it without it glopping onto your finger.  Then wait for it to cool a bit and KNEAD.  Kneading is the secret to great dough and it is fun to let the kids help.  Knead it till it is smooth, elastic, and not sticky.  Store in a ziploc-bag while not in use.

Handcart Days

Some days I feel like a U-Haul.  When I am mentally and physically healthy, when I have the resources I need and my support system is intact I can cover huge distances.  I move mountains.  Other days are covered wagon days; fewer resources, less distance covered, but I can still move a solid chunk.

Today is a handcart day.  I need to be very careful what I choose to put into today because there is no room for anything but essentials.

What is essential?  Not totally sure on that one.  I am pretty sure feeding the masses is on the list.  Finding out what stinks in the kitchen should definitely be considered.  Actually, this day looks like a half played game of Jenga - you know, at the point where the balance becomes a bit precarious.  I feel like if I choose the wrong block the entire tower will com crashing down.  That sounds dangerous.  But really, most Mondays are dangerous that way.  Hmmm, so if this is a dangerous adventure, does that make me James Bond?  Batman?  Nancy Drew?  I would like to be Marjorie Hinkley.  She trumps Batman any day.

But I am me - pajama clad, mussy haired, racoon eyed (no energy for make-up removal last night) me.  Maybe there is a flock of angels up in heaven made up entirely of former house-keepers and Merry-Maids.  I'm going to start praying for a visit.  And I am going to start doing child #2s homeschool.  The letter D is going into the handcart

Be Still

"In the midst of movement 

and chaos, 

keep stillness 

inside of you."

~Deepak Chopra

Haven

Home ... a haven from the storms of life, a place where kind words are spoken, stress evaporates and love abounds.  Right?  Right?  

Well, that's what I want it to be, but too often stress abounds, order evaporates and frustration is spoken and the house looks like it's been hit by all the storms of life at once.

I have been sick for days.  No mommy temp. has shown up to deal with the back-log.  My amazing husband has stepped into the breach and is doing all he can, but the debris of life accumulates at a pace that simply can't be managed in a few hours after work.  

So here I sit, getting better by the minute, but very conscious that I had better not do too much too fast.  The  road behind me leads to a very ugly place and I don't want to go back there any time soon.  

I know, I know, tackle the elephant one bite at a time.  I hate one bite at a time.  I want a sparkling, Donna Reed like masterpiece of a home.  But, I don't have that.  And I won't have that for ... let's be honest the flu isn't the only problem here, it's adjusting to baby #4 too ... so that means I may have a semi-handle on a few things by August and Donna Read may be attemptable in 2032.

In the meantime, even if I can't serve up a three course breakfast with a fresh pressed apron and perfectly coiffed hair, I want to do what I can with kind words and smiles.  

Maybe I can start by creating an emotional haven - a happy place - for my family.  

Wish me luck.  The swirling flotsam tends to madden me.  

Oh, oh, my blood pressure is rising.  I have been trying to write this to the background noise of Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, high pitched shrieking and nine requests for snacks.  Child #2 just started singing a loud made up song about potty subjects (a no-no and he knows it) and now he wants to invite friends over ... and more squealing ... and here comes the complaining.  

And I am re-committing to making this a happy place.

The trouble with genetics

The trouble with being part Italian is that I occasionally fly into passionate fits of rage.  Honestly, it feels like dragon fire comes broiling up out of nowhere.  And I don't have quite enough of the endearing Italian personality to pull it off.  

However, I do have enough of the sensible Dane in me to know I am doing it and I feel very sorry afterward and try to make everything better.

Well, last night what should send me off into a tirade, but a darling newsletter, complete with digital scrapbook effects sent from an elementary school teacher I adore.  Now, to be clear, I find no fault with the newsletter or the teacher.  What has me enraged is a concept.

You see, child #1 arrives home around 3:40 every afternoon.  After getting changed, having a snack and doing her daily chore it's about 4:00.  Two days of the week she has planned activities after school (dance etc.). Those activities notwithstanding, I like for her to have lots of playtime after school.  This is her run in the sunshine, imagine and develop friendships and social skills time.  Well I am being thwarted.  She has come home with two pages of math homework every day since kindergarten.  There is a 1 minute nightly reading assessment.  There are weekly spelling words.  There is a 15 minute nightly reading requirement.  And the latest newsletter says that she is to be working on a habitat report at home AND doing an additional online reading program AND doing an additional online spelling program.  These may be termed "optional", but I know from experience that I will be hearing about it at parent teacher conferences if she does not do them.

Well, the online reading program is the most uninspiring, sorry excuse for literature I have ever seen.  The spelling site thinks that "fill-in-the-blank" is a delightful child's game and if there is not time during the EIGHT HOURS my child is in school for her to draw a penguin then WHAT IN BLAZES IS SHE DOING THERE ALL DAY LONG!!!!!

The sister of one of my friends tells her children's teachers that their family does not do ANY homework after Memorial Day - and then they don't.  That is their play time.  That is brilliant.  Way to take control of her children's lives and education.  Sunshine and play are the best education at this age. 

When I have my life and health a bit more in place (sleeping through the night being the biggest part of that) I intend to begin homeschool for her.  Until then, I need to come up with a plan.  I am thinking of giving her ten minutes every afternoon for homework which she may devote as she chooses and telling the powers that be that they can lump the rest.

One should be able to get an education and sunshine.

Important

It is tough to suss out the important parts of life from all the urgent ones.  I live in the land of urgent.  At any given moment there are three or more things that all NEED doing NOW.

Take this morning for example.  Twenty minutes before my hair-cut appointment, I jumped in the shower.  Before the soap on my pouf had lathered the baby started screaming, the phone rang and child #2 and #3 began squabbling.

I looked at my legs.  They looked urgent, in a foresty sort of way, but not important, so no shaving.  A quick shampoo and towel dry later I turned on the television, which stalled my chidren's "fighting and quarreling one with another."  Great parenting, no?  I then picked up the squalling one, who had been fed, changed, burped and snuggled, and I realized that he could go to my appointment screaming, but I could not go naked.  So, for the moment, clothing trumped crying.  And voila!  We have a winner.  Getting dressed was the most important way for me to spend that particular five minutes.

Life, however is not always so clear.  Sometimes the important things start to compete too, and then I have to figure out which ones are importanter and importantest while holding my finger in the dike of the urgent.

And sometimes I get it wrong.  Really wrong.

I was hoping that some pithy bit of wisdom would come to me at this point, but ... I've got nothin'.

When in doubt, turn to 1930's British political propaganda.  The motto "Keep Calm and Carry On" was written to raise morale in event of a Nazi invasion, but I think it applies to every day of this crazy ride.

Ahhhhhh.  This was a nice moment of calm.  Now, to close the computer and carry on ... calmly of course.

Gifts

When I had baby #4, my life exploded.  I am still unsure how all the pieces will fit back together and that stresses me out.  I see the immense load that needs lifting and I begin to loose heart.  

This weekend God gave me a gift.  He gave me the ability to see my efforts as gifts to the people I love.  When precious child #3 brings me a foot tall stack of books to read and I read her two - that is a gift.  When I make child #2 yet another snack because he has apparently not been full for more than 10 minutes at any point in the last five months - that is a gift.  When child #4 goes down for a nap and I can choose to fold laundry or help child #1 with her homework it doesn't matter what I choose because they are both gifts from me and I get to choose which one to give.

This perspective has also made me realize that I am not Santa Clause.  Well, of course I am Santa at my house, but I don't have a magic sack that appears at the foot of the bed every morning.  I have a limit to the number of gifts I can give.  Somehow that was news to me.  You mean I can't do eveything and I still haven't learned that lesson?!?!  No, Virginia.  You are not Santa Clause.

I am loving this idea.  I especially loved it on Sunday afternoon everyone when everyone needed me (even my amazing husband.)  And they all managed to needed me at the same time for much of the afternoon.  For the first time in forever, I thought about what gifts I wanted to give.  I met the needs I could with all the love I could and then I went and took a nap, because I get to give gifts to me too.  

When I view my life as an attempt to dig my way through a mountain of "to dos" armed only with toothpicks I feel powerless.  When I see my day as a series of gifts I feel powerful.

I'm still not making a whole lot of progress.  
But, maybe the progress isn't the point.  
Maybe I am.  

Pinky Promise

I think my children got together up in heaven and solemnly promised to do certain things while here on Earth.  Here are just a few:

If it is gross, I will lick it.

If something is put away, I will put it on the floor and stand on it.  I will not play with it, but I will pull it out and stand on it as many times as it takes to get mom to say those funny words.

If it is wet, it should be wrung out on the floor.

I will only make messes in clean rooms.  Why should I make messes in messy rooms?  That would be silly.

I will be fabulously cute and precocious until the camera turns on or until out of town relatives arrive.

If it is flat it needs to be colored on.

I will curb the family's  attachment to material goods by targeting expensive items.

If mom doesn't respond right away I will take that as a cue to repeat myself continuously.  Having a phone on her ear often impedes her hearing and she will need help.  Volume plus repetition equals help.

If a movie has even one inappropriate line I will memorize it and quote it in public.  (i.e. While You were Sleeping:  "Nice underwears.")

I look forward to finding out what their future children have up their sleeves.  It  had better be good.

Dirt and Worms

Few things are as beautiful and the black, loamy, worm-rich soil I shoveled out of my compost heap last Saturday.   Turning those rich, black shovelfuls into the hard, dry planting rows of our garden I felt something of the agricultural strains of my ancestry playing through my veins -  a unique mix of hope, sweat, purpose and a belonging to the land that belongs to me.


Next to great dirt, my favorite part of composting is a two line sentence I stumbled across at the end of a book on composting which I got at a yard sale for a quarter.  After chapters upon chapters on chemical decomposition, directions for aeration, recipes for getting dirt in 2 weeks, 6 weeks or 8 weeks, the author concluded with the thought "Dirt happens."  He expanded that thought by saying that if you just leave your leaves and grass clippings long enough, dirt will happen.  I liked that.  We give ours two years.


For me, much of life is like that.  Put the right ingredients together, give it time and good things will happen.  True, there are some parts of my life where I have the expertise to balance diverse variables in an equation of elegant complexity.  But those areas are few and far between.  In most of the areas of my life I create a pile of good intentions, good ideas, a few goals and as much work I can squeeze into a day and I watch to see what happens.  It is amazing what good results bloom up out in that kind of soil.


Once, a man was complimenting my grandfather on his full life and large posterity, and rather fatuously asked "How ever did you do it?"  To which my grandfather replied, "Clean living."  Now, anyone who knows my grandfather, knows that statement to be full of the wry, intentionally simplistic humor that comes so readily to a well read man like himself.  But under that snappy come-back is a great deal of truth.  A life of clean living can bloom out in surprising and wonderful ways.


The point?  Life is often less complex than we give it credit for.   Like composting, if you put good things in and give it time, good things will come out.

The world is won by those who let it go.
~Lao Tzu

The individuality of the one

Diversity.  For a word that encompasses so much, we give it a rather limited scope.  We generally think of it in terms of skin tone and nationality.  Lately I have been marveling at the infinite diversity of souls on this Earth - particularly the diversity of souls in the rather "homogeneous" group of North American Christians it is my privilege to interact with.  


My husband comes from a rural (RURAL) area in Oregon.  Just a few miles past Beet Dump Road sits the modest red-brick, steepled chapel of his youth.  The air inside smells of old wood, Pine-Sol and love.  The congregation is largely made up of farmers; their burly frames poured into well worn suits.  Sun reddened necks chafe against starched collars  while large, calloused hands turn the delicate pages of much used scriptures.  The refinement of the women stands in stark contrast to the geography just outside.  Despite living miles away from any sort of shopping establishment, they manage to bring grace and style with them to church, as well as a refinement of the soul.  I especially look forward to the chorister there.  She sings with exuberance.  Her face shines.  She lifts her gray haired head to heaven and with both arms flung wide she stirs the air enthusiastically in time to the music.  Oh sure, the grammar from the pulpit may slip a bit, (occasionally it landslides), but Christian charity flows through that group the way water pours between the banks of the nearby Snake river.  


Today, in our home congregation (located in an area where the occasional sighting of a chipmunk counts as a rural experience), church began with a young, teenage girl who loves to bead and go four wheeling.  She talked about the missionary experiences she has already had in her young life.  Then, a young missionary from Leeds, England spoke.  He was young and fresh faced and armed with the polished turn of phrase that is so typically English.  With unstudied, yet elegant language he bore bold testimony of what he knew to be true.  His companion (in my church they always come in twos) was a straight talking, snowboard riding, motocross racing fellow from Arizona who bore a similarly bold testimony.


I think of the women I have become friends with in my little corner of the world:
the glamorous individualist
the brusque, but deeply generous military wife
the former Gothic turned writer
the home-schooling mom who reads philosophy
the woman across the street who taught my husband how to change our breaks.
the professional opera singer
the pleasantly befuddled extrovert
the former model turned entrepreneur
the philanthropic, semi-professional decorator


The diversity found in such an "un-diversified" bunch boggles the mind.  


I get so bothered when people complain about a lack of diversity at a school or in a church or in a city.  Usually those folks are looking for the kind of diversity that exists on the surface, in the skin, in the accent or in the country of origin listed on a visa - that or they are not brave enough to see past exteriors.  Would they but scratch the surface they would find a limitless variety of personalities, pains, struggles and brilliance.  The individuality of the one transcends races and places.  


It seems to me that diversity is a well established fact, not a goal.  Perhaps the world would be better off if we focused less on external diversity and strove more for internal unity.


The Lord said, "If ye are not one, ye are not mine."  D&C 38:27


Ironically, the more we strive to become one with the Lord, the more gloriously unique we become.  That is a kind of diversity I can really get behind.

Ammendment

Okay, so I just realized that I only wrote down the depressing half of my theory on us not progressing much past five.  There is a rather gorgeous side to that theory.  While I do believe that our problems stay fundamentally the same (pride, selfishness, finding our identity, kindness, no hitting, braving new situations, wanting acceptance, etc.) I believe our greatest achievements fall into the same genres as our five year olds' too.  The Savior said of little children "of such is the kingdom of heaven."  I marvel at my children's capacity to love, forgive and accept.  I rejoice in their light and their abandon.  They show affection without affectation.  They create beauty daily.  They smile easily, perhaps as a result of the audacious optimism that comes naturally to children.  They explore and dream.  They inspire me with their remorse for wrong and their strength in goodness.  They show no fear in professing what they believe.  They are fierce and faithful and fabulous.  I aspire to be like the best that is in my children and I hope to learn from them as we battle our life-long challenges together.


How silly of me to leave out the best part of that theory.

Ta Da!

I just broke into my shed with two dandelion diggers.  I repeat, it was my shed.  Something in the knob had broken and this spring afternoon required the scooters that were in there.  When that door swung wide I felt like I had super powers.  I should mention that I can also mend fish-net tights with dental floss and can use a blow-dryer to start an 88 Chevy Nova with a jammed carburetor.  Super-powers indeed.

So far my duct-tape/popsicle-stick fix on the doorknob is not working.  But I have a Phillip's screwdriver that says this battle isn't over.

No this is not particularly elegant, but it qualifies as simple and daily for me.  Two out of three .... yeah, I'll go with it.

What Elegance Isn't

Today I wheeled child #3 and a basket of groceries out into a glorious morning. The persistent gray drizzle that pervaded the past three days had let up and the sun had just broken through the clouds. As I walked to my car, I felt marvelous. I smiled at the woman walking toward me and she gave me an ear-to-ear grin, full of warmth. Her fluffy peroxided hair and bright fuchsia 80's silk shirt drew a stark contrast to the lingering gray of the morning and to the gray of her sweat pants. Not exactly an "elegant" outfit, but who cares what a person looks like when they treat you like your very existence has brightened their day. Just behind her was a lady dressed in the season's latest from New York and Co. I, feeling full of sunshine and human kindness, smiled at her too. She looked past me with the squint eyed sourness of the self-proclaimed sophisticate. I shriveled a bit inside.

Now I am not saying that stylish dress begets sourness. On the contrary, elegant dress and things and experiences often bring out the best in people. And marching to the beat of an off-beat drummer (stylistically or otherwise) does not guarantee a soul full of sunshine.

My point is, that this morning I was given a powerful lesson as to what elegance isn't. Style devoid of substance is empty, not elegant. Stripped of story and warmth and joy, no person or thing can attain true elegance. But the quirky, the off-beat and even the flat out odd exude elegance when they possess that "je ne sais quoi" that gives joy and light to those around them.

Equalish

I hold this truth to be self-evident, that all men are created equalish.

Obviously, all people have certain inalienable rights and responsibilities, but that's about the extent of it. Way too often I start comparing my life and myself to others under the false assumption that we are the same. In that sense, no person is equal to another.

My personality, priorities, proclivities, family history, health and talents are like a three dimensional fingerprint - unduplicated anywhere in the world. And get this, it is constantly changing. So comparing my self with the person I was 10 years ago isn't even viable.

I had the most amazing day yesterday. I got all the laundry done, folded and away (normally a four day activity). I did the dishes, made dinner, got my tires rotated and balanced, and even picked three bucketfuls of dandelions. Where did this day come from?! I don't know, but sign me up for another one.

Last night, I lay in bed remembering a day, just a few years ago, in the thick of my chronic fatigue when I spent most of my day laying on the couch. When the children wanted to go outside, I staggered to the back yard, lay facedown on the cement patio and stayed there inert till they clamored to go inside again and I could transfer back to the couch. Everything measurable in my life fell way below par. That was very much a "one talent" phase of life for me. I would think back to the super-productive, accomplishment-packed "ten talent" phase I had been in at the end of college, or even the "five talent" phase I experienced as the illness was just taking hold and I would feel desperately inadequate.

When surrounded by people in five and ten talent mode, it is nearly impossible to remember that the Lord only asks us to do the best with what we have. Sometimes, just enduring is the absolute maximum we are capable of. But, when we do what we can do, even if it is next to nothing, the Lord blesses us with an increase. I emerged from years of sickness with new eyes and a new heart. I viewed myself and my fellow man with increased tolerance and love. My empathy deepened, and my judgements gained generosity. I learned that what we do is fairly inconsequential, but who we are is monumental. Not a bad return on that one talent experience.

So before I pat myself too heartily on the back for my amazing days or get too down on myself for my less than amazing days, I'd better remember that the Lord gives what he will give. I just have to do the best I can and quit my comparing. Because in the end, I will never be "equal" to another person's accomplishments or challenges, but the Lord will make me equal to my own.

The Key to Simplicity

"When we put God first, all other things fall into their proper place or drop out of our lives. Our love of the Lord will govern the claims for our affection, the demands on our time, the interests we pursue, and the order of our priorities."

~Ezra Taft Benson,

Conference, April 1988

Quote II

At the end of the Bill Bryson book I have been reading, he included the text of a commencement speech he gave. In it, he gave ten brief rules for life. The last part of #9 spoke to me.

"You have your whole life ahead of you. But here's the thing to remember. You will always have your whole life ahead of you. That never stops and you shouldn't forget it."

Quote

I saw this quote on a blog that I like to read. It comes from someecards.com. It was too good not to share. It shows a mom holding a baby. The caption reads:

"I plan to give you love, nurturing and just enough dysfunction to make you funny."

Mascot

A while ago, I saw that my friend's son was playing for a team called the Thunder Ducks. What a marvelously incongruous mascot. That took some serious creativity. But what are you to do when the Fighting Tigers and the Rampaging Rhinos are taken? Get creative and hope you have one heck of a sales pitch. "Okay guys, all the animals at the top of the food chain are taken, but I think we could really do something with ducks. How about the saber toothed ducks, or the power ducks ... no wait I have it..."

After seeing that, I began to wonder what my personal mascot would be. I was thinking of something to do with owls or tigers, but what flashed into my mind was an image I will not soon forget. It had a geeky gloriousness that was too perfect to ignore. From the depths of my heart I wish my perfect mascot was a sleek panther or a noble eagle, but no, apparently my mascot is (.....drumroll.....) the Lightning Llama.

The Lighting Llama wears a track suit, holds a lightning bolt Zeus style, and has fierce look in his eyes that draws a stark contrast to his knocked knees and pigeon-toed hoofs. This Llama is all business - and that is what makes him so hilarious.

Someday I may be a brazen bobcat, or a svelte sphinx. Till then, I will Llama on (as elegantly as is humanly possible.)

Paper Castles

Some people build castles in the clouds. I build mine on lined paper.

I have been designing my dream home for years. Countless erasures and tweaks and total renovations later it is still a work in progress, much like me.

Everyone should have an outlet for big dreams. A place uninhibited by budgets, time, acreage or reality. I love the freedom of it. I can gather ideas and create blueprints for the minimal cost of pencil lead and a legal pad. I clip pictures from Home Depot adds, immerse myself in houzz.com and twice have even indulged in check-out line renovation magazines.

In this crazy world self-therapy is a must. Thank heavens for novels, chocolate, movies and paper castles.

Theories

I am my father's daughter. Growing up, no matter what topic came up in conversation, his eyes would brighten, and he would either lean forward meaningfully, or wave his finger through the air and say "I have a theory about that." His theories range from medicine to quantum physics to aliens. Now he does have four degrees, so most of his theories (with the possible exception of the ones about aliens) have solid backing.

Even without the four degrees, my genetics are showing. I find myself leaning and pointing and declaring myself to be in possession of a theory more often than not.

In my last post I mentioned one of my theories; that we never progress much past five - if that. Now, I admit, that sounds depressing - especially if you happen to be acquainted with anyone in the five and under age range. But the more closely I become acquainted with two, three, four and five year olds, the more they bear my theory out.

Take the jargon away from the politics of the workplace or the political arena, and they look embarrassingly similar to the politics of the playground. Take a good look at the social dynamics of a kindergarten classroom, remove glue eating and the the phrase "poo-poo head" and compare it to the social dynamics of your work-place, church, social-club or political party. True, we adults occasionally exhibit a bit more external self control. But when was the last time that you had words like "Talk about an ego trip," or "Where do they get off?!" ringing in your head after an encounter with a fellow human? We simply choose these words over "stupid-face" and talk about them behind their backs rather than hurling the words at the offending individual. Now, this may push into the more advanced levels of socialization, possibly even into the third grade, but the general idea holds true.

One example in particular has been on my mind. I have a child who does not like to go to bed. No matter what the hour, she will howl like a banshee whenever she is put into bed. I, as the infinitely wise parent, can see that she is exhausted. I know that she needs to be in bed. I know that consistency, boundary setting and sleep have been scientifically proven to benefit children. I also know that putting her to bed is an act of great love. If I did not love her so well, I would not go through the hassle. But love and science notwithstanding, she screams and screams and screams. She does not want to be there.

How often does God put me into places where I do not want to be? Often, as it so happens. And what do I do? I send him a barrage of mental post-it-notes:

"Dear God, This is not what I had in mind. I have some great ideas for getting me out of this one. Bottom line, I do not want to be here. Sincerely, etc. etc."

I petition on my knees for the experience to end. I fume. I pace. I worry. I whine. And in the end, I end up experiencing it and growing and emerging a finer individual for it. I know He puts me in those positions to polish me. I know He loves me, or he wouldn't bother. I know he has infinite wisdom and power and His only purpose is to turn me into the best person I can be so that I can go home to Him again. But love and wisdom notwithstanding I fuss and bother because I do not want to be there.

Being a parent gives me greater insight into God. It also gives me a new and humbling view of myself, not to mention a lot of new theories.

Screen Doors

It has come to my attention that children do not like to "be" anywhere. Send two children out into the glorious sunshine, and do they stay out and play the way they do in tide commercials and home magazines? No. They do not. They do not want to be out. They want to be slamming through screen doors, perpetually halfway between in and out. Once outside, something in the air makes them need drinks and the potty and band-aids and snacks. After a good three minutes of hard play, they come in with eyes like marooned sailors, begging for a little something to eat ... and by the way the half dozen friends assembled on the lawn are similarly afflicted.

The same happens at pools. No child wants to be in the water. They want to be jumping in and out and running on the wet cement. There is something about wet cement that compels anyone under the age of 10 to run. What are they in such a hurry for? Well, if they are out, they must get in and the sooner the better.

This drives me crazy, but being the ever just Libra that I am, I had to stop to consider if I, in my infinitely quieter, more adult way, was not guilty of the exact same thing. You see, I have this theory that we never really progress much past two, five at most. Things are just defined more expensively and more eloquently. If this is true, then perhaps this physician should first heal herself. After some thought I realized, with chagrin, that I too was guilty. On an average day, my brain runs like this: If I am cleaning, then I should be reading to my children. If I am reading, then I should be cooking. If I am cooking, I should be exercising. If I am exercising, there is homework and practicing to attend to.

Yes, often I do multiple things at once, and while that is not an inherently bad way of living, I realized the need just be where I am. To just do what I am doing and allow my emotional screen door to stop slamming quite so much.

Best, Bester, Bestest

As we know, so much of life is not choosing good over bad, but choosing the better over the good and the best over the better. This is tough. What makes it even tougher is when the "best" list explodes. Here is a sample list of "bests", taken exclusively from the scriptures and things mentioned in general conferences.

Personal prayer, meditation, pondering, scripture study, family prayer, family scripture study, keeping a clean home, cooking healthy meals, growing a garden, reading the Sunday school lesson and Relief Society or Priesthood lesson in advance, family history, keeping clothes and children clean and presentable, continuing your education, helping children with their education, dating your spouse, creating opportunities for family work and wholesome recreation, visiting teaching/home teaching, doing more for your VTees than a monthly visit, serving someone, having a missionary experience, attending all church meetings and activities, reading educational books, fulfill and magnify callings, support other in their callings, exercise, turn everyday experiences into gospel learning moments, getting adequate sleep, bear testimony to family, ...

This list belongs on a blog called Complicated Hourly Chaos not Simple Daily Elegance. In contrast, I am struck by the Lord's invitation in Moses 6:34:

"Behold my Spirit is upon you, wherefore all thy words will I justify; and the mountains shall flee before you, and the rivers shall turn from their course; and thou shalt abide in me, and I in you; therefore walk with me."

Not "sprint with me" or "marathon with me", the invitation is to "walk with me." Not even half of the "best" things will fit into a simple, daily walk with Christ.

For me, my daily walk needs to include prayer (personal and family), scriptures (personal and family) and making sure my calling and visiting teaching are done for the month. Everything else comes on a day by day, prayer by prayer basis. If my essential things happen and my children are fed, then I think the day should count as a raging success. I loved the Ensign article from a few months back that encourages us not to look at our neighbors when assessing ourselves, but to only look up, to the Master. Life looks a lot more doable when I stop looking from friend to friend to determine what "best" things to include in my daily walk.

Here's to a simple, elegant walk today, full of personal "bests".

If I only had a brain/Organizational Principles

I have serious SERIOUS pregnancy brain. I can't even write. I forgot child #3s name. I dropped child #1 off at a lesson an hour early. I spaced a class I was supposed to attend. I backed my car into a rock ... I am going nuts. I have heard from several sources that pregnancy brain with child #4 is crazy and it is ... I am ... my life is .... I can't even punctuate.

So, the gist here is that I am having a hard time even writing, but In response to a friend's request, I wanted to post some of my guiding principles of sorting. Most of these I shamelessly borrowed and adapted from a professional organizer who taught a class for our Relief Society:

The space for what you want is taken up by the stuff you've settled for.

If it's crammed, the stuff you have won't bring you joy and the point of caring for and maintaining stuff is to have it bring you joy.

Is this item moving you toward or away from your family mission statement?

If you get rid of 100 things, chances are you will need two of them within the week and another 3-5 of them within the year. Chances are all of them will be available online or at Wal-Mart for $5 or less.

When sorting make three piles. This enables fast sorting. One pile is a "keep for sure pile." One is a "think about for a bit" pile. And the third is a "yard sale or give away now" pile. It is also nice to have a garbage bag handy.

If you want God to bless you, you can't be tight fisted with what He has given you. If you are holding on to boxes of blessings on the off chance that you might use them someday (even though you only look at them when sorting the dark, cobwebby corners of your house) why should He send you more? Those boxes of blessings could be passed on to those who need them now. This has a lot to do with trusting that God will take care of you and bless you with what you need, when you need it. Holding on to all three separate sizes of pre-pregnancy clothes (none of which you have been able to wear for the last 5 years) may not be the best idea.

Finally (and this one is all me) I love stuff. I have stuff that brings me joy. Some of it I only see when I sort, but I love my First Grade pencil box. I joy in my great-grandmother's candy dish (which will not see the light of day till my youngest is at least 12 years old.) I like a tidy house, but I like to have the corners softened by a little bit of "artistic dishevelment." I like the human, coziness of a little rumple, a little clutter, a little excess. Any more than a little and I go a little nuts, but I believe in softening the edges.

So, that's me on organization. I have nearly got the upstairs done. Truth moment - Everything I was not sure where to put is in piles in my basement. The basement is next and my knees tremble at the thought, but it too shall be conquered.

Poetry

Every once in a while, I find a poem that speaks to my soul. This one was read on the radio on Classical 89.

Gathering Up

by Duo Yu

Translated by Steven Riep

The winter rain gathers up all the tears

Damp fallen leaves, black, like burnt spirit money

A man on the upper slope

His raised shoulders

Gathers up all forbearance

The bird in the pine needles gathers up

The ash Gray threads of rain, like floating hair.

Gather up into a beautiful face.

I stand by the window

Looking at the water droplets on the pane

Gathering up to form a sea of sorrow.

What sort of sorrow will,

When gathered up

Become power

Depends on you love.

I regret I do not know how it was originally notated or punctuated. I have never read much Japanese Poetry before, but this one moved me. Talk about simple elegance.

Whacha!

"It's not the tragedies that kill us. It's the messes," said a very wise Dorothy Parker.

I freely confess that there are areas of my house that I dread and fear. You know, the kitchen drawer with piles of "useful" but unfindable information, the closet you affectionately refer to as the black hole ... well, as I've mentioned before, I want to re-claim my house and re-claim my life from my stuff. So I have been cracking my lion tamers whip and WHACHA! watching these areas of dark terror quail before me. Six down, infinity to go. Just kidding, it's more like 25. That feels like infinity sometimes.

The good news? I am realizing that the stringent, heart-wrenching sort-outs I did a few years ago are paying dividends. There is less to get rid of than I thought. Some areas have even stayed reasonably sorted.

On to elegance.

God Loves Me

I recently had one of "those" shopping experiences. Being a die-hard yard-saler, I have rarely have the experiences that come with shopping with children. Karma decided that I should get them out of the way all at once.

We have a family picture was coming up and I needed to find some specific colors, so we hit the mall.

Side Note: In my children's defense, a few days before we had hit half a dozen used clothing stores and they behaved beautifully. Yes, we did have to do some backtracking due to a forgotten jacket and a forgotten shoe and we visited three restrooms ... but that just comes with the territory.

Okay, so we arrived at the mall and my umbrella stroller refused to lock into place. I body slammed it into the asphalt. Problem solved. With child #3 finally buckled in, we sailed into the mall on wings of optimism. I shall present just a few highlights.

In the first store, child #3 learned how to get out of the stroller buckles, fell out of the stroller and bonked her head. Child #3 is the one with the lungs. I have never seen a cashier work so fast, or be so willing to part with so many stickers.

Child #2 decided that if child #3 didn't want to ride in the stroller then he would, and climbed in. Child #3 resented the intrusion and began beating her older brother while cursing in two-year-old-eese.

The second store was full of reachable, shiny accessories. Being denied such shine accessories in the first store, child #3 grabbed a bag and with a speed that any kleptomaniac would admire, filled the bag, dashed out the door and began to book it down the hall-way. Child #2 gave chase, tackled her, and held her till I caught up. This was no easy feat. He only has a pound or two on her, but he does have greater speed and agility.

In the third store, I gained greater insight to the definition of stymied (a situation or problem presenting such difficulties as to discourage or defeat any attempt to deal with or resolve it) The dictionary claims this definition has it's roots in golf, but I believe it originated with shopping excursions. The dilemma of finding a opponent's ball between your ball and the cup is nothing to being half naked in a dressing room and having all three of your children wiggle out under the door and begin a game of high-speed chase through the store.

Additionally, child #1 is incapable of standing still in a dressing room. If there is a mirror and an audience she must dance. If she happens to be wearing a new dress, then there is really no hope. Child #2 is compelled to touch naked mannequins. And I am not even going to start on the elevator/escalator debacle, but thank you nameless J.C. Penny employee for bringing my family back together again.

At the end of all this, I was doing a very painful pregnant waddle. I walked my crew out to the van ... and there were no keys. I remember hooking my keys to my purse with a carribeaner before entering the mall, but they were nowhere. I waddled back into the mall. An exhausted child #3 had been screaming for the last 10 minutes and continued to scream unless I carried her. We started to look for the keys, but I simply could not go on. I sat down on a bench, ignoring the narrowed looks being shot at me by the pushy salesman at the closest booth. The screams of nap-needy child #3 were sending all possible customers rushing past him at a trot. Using my last blinking bar of cell-phone battery I call my husband to come and rescue me. I sat there praying and encouraging my children to do the same. As I sat there, I had the idea to rummage through the bags that held my purchases. There, in a bag within a bag, under a pile of clothes were my keys.

I cannot fathom what combination of angels, physics, children, pregnancy brain or flat out miracles it took to get my keys there, but there they were. Considering the chaos we had been through, they could have been anywhere. I called my husband back and told him that God must loved me because despite my seriously considering using duck-tape on a few of His children, He still took the time to rescue me. With child #3's sleepy head dropped to my shoulder, we quietly and thankfully made our way out of the mall.