Essays on Life
I don't know if this happens to all writers, but it happens to me. I get hit with a cascade of thoughts and I can't rest until I've excised them from my brain. No matter what is on the daily agenda everything stops. It must be written and it must be written NOW. I call it, The Download. Maybe I keep my opinions to myself too often in conversation until they just have to drip and ooze out of my fingers. Who knows? What I do know is that they haunt me until they are written. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't work - they must be written. These are my essays on life - random perhaps - but for whatever reason they had to be. Some were written years ago and much has changed. Others are as fresh as today. My hope is that they will touch you in some way with love and reverence.
22 January 2014
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While spending a weekend with all of my grand-kids under one roof I had the chance to observe them from the vantage point of a delighted grandma who does not have to parent them. As I did so, I had a Star Trek based epiphany. (My husband would be so proud.) Children are The Borg!
The Borg are an alien collective society that share their thoughts and intended actions without any verbal communication. They think and act as one. Their complete existence is centered on assimilating others into their collective and will destroy any one or any thing that tries to resist them.
Defending oneself from the Borg requires constant vigilance and adaptation. Any weapon or defense exercised successfully instantly becomes obsolete because the Borg learn and adapt to defeat any such future efforts. Consequently new strategies must be devised and implemented constantly.
Sounds a bit like parenthood - doesn't it? I'm sticking with my theory - Children are The Borg!
TBC
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While spending a weekend with all of my grand-kids under one roof I had the chance to observe them from the vantage point of a delighted grandma who does not have to parent them. As I did so, I had a Star Trek based epiphany. (My husband would be so proud.) Children are The Borg!
The Borg are an alien collective society that share their thoughts and intended actions without any verbal communication. They think and act as one. Their complete existence is centered on assimilating others into their collective and will destroy any one or any thing that tries to resist them.
Defending oneself from the Borg requires constant vigilance and adaptation. Any weapon or defense exercised successfully instantly becomes obsolete because the Borg learn and adapt to defeat any such future efforts. Consequently new strategies must be devised and implemented constantly.
Sounds a bit like parenthood - doesn't it? I'm sticking with my theory - Children are The Borg!
TBC
Cold Turkey
20 January 2014
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It's no secret I think the wedding industry is a racket. I have always said the most important moment is when the marriage covenant is made. All the rest is fluff. Okay, that's my jaded opinion, but let's be honest, there are many tender moments surrounding a wedding and as a mother I am willing to sacrifice greatly to insure those moments are the stuff of dreams. Yet, beyond those heart-touching snippets there's still so much pressure to go over the top to create the best-ever day. Regardless of that reality, and my valiant efforts to focus on home-spun simplicity when my daughters are wed, the very nature of planning the day leads to an intensive season of mother/daughter communication. From heart-felt advice seeking, to finessing the exact shades of color, to double-checking lists, fittings, travel planning, dreaming, crying, laughing, stressing, etc. etc. etc. - it's safe to say that the mother/daughter relationship evolves into nearly a constant stream of communications. It is a life altering season filled with joy, questions, deep-seated concerns, and bliss with a mother's love wrapped up in it all. It's what makes us tick. Being needed at that depth is like a drug.
Yet, long-term drug use can be devastating and all good things must come to an end, we're told. In truth, we really wouldn't want it any other way. If life was maintained on that steady stream of communication you'd all go insane, and so would everyone around you. A mother feels nothing but relief and accomplishment as the tail-lights under the 'Just Married' sign fade away in the distance. But then...well...the next morning comes. Welcome to detox - Cold Turkey Detox.
All communications, all the planning, all the finessing have come to a screeching halt. The silence is deafening.
What's a mother to do?
Over the years I've watched countless women go through this moment. The answer to the question is as varied as the women who ask it. It can be a devastating loss, or an epiphany. A season of sorrow or a season of discovery, it's up to you, Mom. But, here's what I suggest. Be still. Listen. Enjoy the silence. Take time to reflect on the joy and success and capture it all in a journal before it fades away. Then...look for your next big project! Is it a room that needs a make over? A file cabinet that needs an overhaul? Is it you?
You have shown you have the ability to pull off an amazing event. Now channel all that skill and energy into something you want to do.
Fill the silence with joyful creativity you can tell your daughter all about when she remembers she has a momma she misses too.
TBC
============
It's no secret I think the wedding industry is a racket. I have always said the most important moment is when the marriage covenant is made. All the rest is fluff. Okay, that's my jaded opinion, but let's be honest, there are many tender moments surrounding a wedding and as a mother I am willing to sacrifice greatly to insure those moments are the stuff of dreams. Yet, beyond those heart-touching snippets there's still so much pressure to go over the top to create the best-ever day. Regardless of that reality, and my valiant efforts to focus on home-spun simplicity when my daughters are wed, the very nature of planning the day leads to an intensive season of mother/daughter communication. From heart-felt advice seeking, to finessing the exact shades of color, to double-checking lists, fittings, travel planning, dreaming, crying, laughing, stressing, etc. etc. etc. - it's safe to say that the mother/daughter relationship evolves into nearly a constant stream of communications. It is a life altering season filled with joy, questions, deep-seated concerns, and bliss with a mother's love wrapped up in it all. It's what makes us tick. Being needed at that depth is like a drug.
Yet, long-term drug use can be devastating and all good things must come to an end, we're told. In truth, we really wouldn't want it any other way. If life was maintained on that steady stream of communication you'd all go insane, and so would everyone around you. A mother feels nothing but relief and accomplishment as the tail-lights under the 'Just Married' sign fade away in the distance. But then...well...the next morning comes. Welcome to detox - Cold Turkey Detox.
All communications, all the planning, all the finessing have come to a screeching halt. The silence is deafening.
What's a mother to do?
Over the years I've watched countless women go through this moment. The answer to the question is as varied as the women who ask it. It can be a devastating loss, or an epiphany. A season of sorrow or a season of discovery, it's up to you, Mom. But, here's what I suggest. Be still. Listen. Enjoy the silence. Take time to reflect on the joy and success and capture it all in a journal before it fades away. Then...look for your next big project! Is it a room that needs a make over? A file cabinet that needs an overhaul? Is it you?
You have shown you have the ability to pull off an amazing event. Now channel all that skill and energy into something you want to do.
Fill the silence with joyful creativity you can tell your daughter all about when she remembers she has a momma she misses too.
TBC
That Ye May Have Light
When I was twelve years old Hurricane Agnes slammed into the eastern seaboard. Prior to that moment, the woods behind my house were the safest place I knew. We lived in Maryland on a hillside neighborhood. At the bottom of that hill was a swath of protected forest called Wheaton Regional Park. In my youth it felt vast. When you look at it on GoogleEarth it's not quite so impressive, but for me as a child, it was the ultimate retreat. A creek meandered through the woods. My friends and I would ride our bikes down leaf covered trails and search for crawdads in the creek and try to capture racoons. I'd sit on a rock overhanging the sun-dabbled brook and read. We'd suck honey-suckle from countless blossoms and make up fantastic scenarios for us to pretend to live. There was even a grouping of towering trees covered in kudzu vine that became the ultimate hideout. Once we'd squirmed our way through the vines we were in a cathedral of trees and shadow with an emerald roof and walls. It was always cool and shaded and people could pass on the nearby trail without a clue we were there. In the winter, after the leaves had died and fallen it became a sanctuary draped in lace. Further down the trail was a hard curve in the creek where the water pooled up a little deeper. When I was feeling really brave I'd swing out over that pool on the kudzu vines screaming with delight. I knew those woods like the back of my hand. I think you could have blind-folded me and I still could have led you through it. Hurricane Agnes dramatically altered all of that.
The storm turned my idyllic creek into a raging torrent. It was a hundred year flood that engorged my creek an easy six times bigger than it's previous maximum. My brothers had flooded their car in the deluge as they drove over the bridge. No small feat for a creek that was usually a good fifteen feet below the road level. I was drawn to the woods like a moth to a flame, I couldn't stay away. All of that water came sweeping into my woods and jumped the banks, flooded favored paths, and washed away well known banks. That curve in the creek where the water pooled became a great swirling whirlpool of water and debris that cut the banks away and created a churning mass of water and debris easily ten feet deep. For some unknown reason I decided it was a good time to swing across this mass of churning water on a vine. I'd done it countless times before. What could go wrong? I grabbed the nearest vine, took a running scream-filled leap off the edge and went sailing across the rushing turmoil below me. The rush was indescribable, I'd never done anything so crazy-fun before. The stinging chill of the rain on my face was nothing compared with the thrill in my heart as I flew over all that chaos. But the thrill turned to sudden dread when I heard the snap above from the breaking of the vine I was clutching and I suddenly dropped like a rock into the rushing water and debris.
It was one of those moments when a thousand thoughts go through your mind all at the same time. No one knew I was in the woods. I was there alone. No one would find my body for days. Would they even think to look along the flooded creek? How could I have been so stupid?!! I was a strong swimmer - in a pool, even the ocean. But this was swimming in a whirlpool. I didn't even know which way was up. It reminded me of our first summer in Maryland when I was seven and my father took me out on the Atlantic ocean on an inner-tube. I sat on the inner-tube while he swam alongside holding onto the tube. I had felt so safe on that sun-drenched summer day - until an unexpected wave ripped my tube out of my father's hands and engulfed me. I remember being rolled along the ocean floor unable to do anything but see the occasional glint of sunlight and rolling sand through the water as I jostled around and flipped over and over. I was absolutely helpless. I thought I was going to die, until suddenly my father's hand shot down through the water, grabbed my arm, and pulled me up above the crashing waves. There would be no hand reaching through the water now, I was alone.
I can't declare that I prayed actual words, but I do remember the thought coursing through my mind, "Your daddy's not here, only God can save you now." As soon as I thought the thought a calm washed over me. I stopped thrashing as light filled my head. "Relax, you'll float to the top." I did and suddenly realized the light in my head had expanded to light from above, I was floating to the top! Branches still clutched at my clothing, but I broke through the surface, grabbed a fallen tree and pulled myself to the edge of the swirling mess, gasping for breath, but alive. When I returned to the house, soaked and muddied and humbled to the core my father simply said, "Never trust your life to a weed, Teresa."
I will never suggest that my actions in that storm were good, or meant to be. But, that moment was the most powerful cautionary lesson of my life. I was wearing a watch that day that formerly belonged to a favored deceased Aunt. The moment I hit the water, the watch stopped. It never started again, regardless of numerous repair efforts. When my Aunt was a little girl, people would stop the clocks in the house when someone died. I kept that watch for years - a tangible reminder of how close my life had come to stopping. It was a preparatory experience, it gave me a life-altering moment to reflect on again and again. I came away with two very distinct understandings. When I trust my life to a weed, when I focus all my thoughts on how afraid and confused I am - all I see, feel, and hear is darkness and fear. When I turn my thoughts towards a loving Heavenly Father - all I see, feel, and hear is calmness and light. God can give me the direction, the answers, and the help I need to get through the darkest of moments. Even though sometimes, that answer is as simple as, "Relax, you'll float to the top." This understanding was tangible and real. Nothing could ever convince me that my experience was one of coincidence. My loving heavenly father reached out and lifted me up just as surely as my daddy lifted me out of the rolling surf.
I got a refresher course in this concept the summer I was sixteen. It was August and I was at a girls camp. On day four, those of us who were sixteen through eighteen left for a more adventurous experience backpacking the Appalachian Trail. It was cloudy and a little breezy, but nothing felt particularly ominous. There had been rumors about a tropical storm named Belle passing by in the Atlantic ocean but it was not expected to reach landfall. Confident that we were beyond the reach of the storm, we set out as planned. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to us, Hurricane Belle took a sudden turn and slammed into the eastern seaboard. The air grew muggier throughout the day, then the wind picked up, rain started pouring down, followed by hail. We were too far into the hike to turn back, yet we were no where near our designated campsite for the night. The skies went dark long before nightfall and we realized we needed shelter fast. The winds were an easy seventy-five to ninety miles an hour. We only managed to get a few little pup tents pitched in that wind. We ended up cramming six each into the two man tents. We'd had no option but to pitch on a slope. In spite of the uneven terrain we quickly had about four inches of rain rushing through the floor of our tent. We used our gear to elevate ourselves as best we could above the deluge of water. Towering oaks and maples were crashing down all around us. In the midst of the howling winds thunder and lightning crashed and flashed. The word fear seems inadequate. We were too scared to talk, to scared to pray, we just huddled en masse, holding hands, embracing the terror. Until as if by pre-arranged signal with shaky voices we began to sing the hymn, I Know That My Redeemer Lives.
I know that my Redeemer Lives. What comfort this sweet sentence gives.
Another watershed moment! The moment our hearts and minds turned to the Savior everything changed. The storm still raged outside our tent. We were still wet and cold and miserable, but a peace flooded over us reminding us that the Lord was mindful of us and we were loved and under His watchful care. We just kept singing until one by one, thoroughly exhausted, we drifted off to sleep in spite of the cacophony of the storm around us. No dawn has ever been more beautiful.
The Savior never promised there wouldn't be storms, but he did promise there would be light whenever the humble, and faithful, and even the fearful, seek it.
TBC
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21 April, 2003
I did not anticipate how much, how instantly, I would love her. The date was September 10, 2002 and I was a grandmother. I had always jokingly said I was having my kids when I was young so I could be a cool grandma. I was 42 and the moment had come. I confess I had been a tad concerned. I've never been one to coo over babies. I tended as a teenager - out of a drive for money - not out of any great love for children. I adored my own babies, of course, but I was never one to get baby hungry or pine away when my friends had babies. When a friend of mine became a grandma for the first time she'd plopped the new infant in my arms expecting me to feel instant joy and warmth, but all I felt was discomfort. So, I was uneasy about my first grandbaby. Would I feel comfortable? Would I feel a bond? Would I love her and know how to help her mother?
My fears were groundless. The first moment I held her my heart was awash with love. I'm not sure there are even words to describe it. She was beautiful, just like my daughter, her mother. I felt the same wave of gratitude and love and wonder I had felt at the birth of her mother, only deeper somehow. Pure joy. Her warm little head on my chest cause a flood of memories and gratitude and absolute awe at the passage of time. I was able to care and nurture both her and her mother with ease. I had never felt wise or experienced until I became a grandma. All of a sudden all of my years of parenting and being a wife held deeper value than I had ever considered. I had not just survived I had been tutored and prepared for this day.
I guess the biggest surprise of it all wasn't the love I felt for my grand-daughter it was the love I felt from my grand-daughter. This little body and spirit somehow conveyed to me a depth of love that was overwhelming. Like a mainline to heaven. Eternity was vibrantly real each time I held her or snuggled her close. I had no idea how desperately I needed that love until I had a heart attack.
Just five short weeks had passed since she came into the world. Two of those weeks I had spent with her. Now I was laying in a hospital bed just hours after a heart attack. I felt completely loved and nurtured by my husband and children and friends. I had not felt a lack of love or support in any way. I did not know I was not complete until my daughter, her husband, and my grand baby walked into the room. They'd driven for six hours as soon as they'd received the news. It is a moment I can't think of without tearing up. Their love and support and sacrifice felt so overwhelming. Yet, when they placed that beautiful grand baby on my chest, I was overcome. Like pure love pouring out from heaven touching my soul and my heart. That was the moment I knew everything would be okay. That was the moment my heart started to heal.
I had not anticipated the purity or reality of a grand child's love. TBC
21 April, 2003
I did not anticipate how much, how instantly, I would love her. The date was September 10, 2002 and I was a grandmother. I had always jokingly said I was having my kids when I was young so I could be a cool grandma. I was 42 and the moment had come. I confess I had been a tad concerned. I've never been one to coo over babies. I tended as a teenager - out of a drive for money - not out of any great love for children. I adored my own babies, of course, but I was never one to get baby hungry or pine away when my friends had babies. When a friend of mine became a grandma for the first time she'd plopped the new infant in my arms expecting me to feel instant joy and warmth, but all I felt was discomfort. So, I was uneasy about my first grandbaby. Would I feel comfortable? Would I feel a bond? Would I love her and know how to help her mother?
My fears were groundless. The first moment I held her my heart was awash with love. I'm not sure there are even words to describe it. She was beautiful, just like my daughter, her mother. I felt the same wave of gratitude and love and wonder I had felt at the birth of her mother, only deeper somehow. Pure joy. Her warm little head on my chest cause a flood of memories and gratitude and absolute awe at the passage of time. I was able to care and nurture both her and her mother with ease. I had never felt wise or experienced until I became a grandma. All of a sudden all of my years of parenting and being a wife held deeper value than I had ever considered. I had not just survived I had been tutored and prepared for this day.
I guess the biggest surprise of it all wasn't the love I felt for my grand-daughter it was the love I felt from my grand-daughter. This little body and spirit somehow conveyed to me a depth of love that was overwhelming. Like a mainline to heaven. Eternity was vibrantly real each time I held her or snuggled her close. I had no idea how desperately I needed that love until I had a heart attack.
Just five short weeks had passed since she came into the world. Two of those weeks I had spent with her. Now I was laying in a hospital bed just hours after a heart attack. I felt completely loved and nurtured by my husband and children and friends. I had not felt a lack of love or support in any way. I did not know I was not complete until my daughter, her husband, and my grand baby walked into the room. They'd driven for six hours as soon as they'd received the news. It is a moment I can't think of without tearing up. Their love and support and sacrifice felt so overwhelming. Yet, when they placed that beautiful grand baby on my chest, I was overcome. Like pure love pouring out from heaven touching my soul and my heart. That was the moment I knew everything would be okay. That was the moment my heart started to heal.
I had not anticipated the purity or reality of a grand child's love. TBC
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9 June 2004
The irony does not escape me. He was born in the midst of a blizzard, his umbilical cord wrapped twice around his neck. Each time I would have a contraction his heart rate would drop horrifyingly low. He was literally dangling between life and death by a cord! The Dr. wanted him delivered by cesarean section. The blizzard kept the surgical team at bay. Finally, after hours of waiting, tilting the table I lay on to let gravity help keep him from birth, and literally holding him in so the cord would not strangle him, the Dr. reached inside with both hands and pulled him out - cord and all. What a rush - from mounting fear to extreme intervention, birth and terrifying silence...finally pierced by his lusty cry. Mere words cannot adequately convey the experience or the accompanying emotions.
Now, eighteen and a half years later, he hangs between life and death on a sixty meter cord held in place by bolts and quick-draws - by choice. You see, my son is a climber. It started about three years ago. He bought a carabiner and runners and started hanging from trees. I thought it was a passing fad. How wrong I was. It is a passion. The physical challenge, the sheer height, the very act of dangling from a cord fills him with such joy. He touches the sky. It inspires him, and it inspires me. It makes me want to try.
So now he's celebrating his High School Graduation by climbing vertical feet. His father and I watch from the base. My heart rate drops each time his fingers search for a new hold. My stomach contracts with each new placement of his feet. Sometimes, I think I forget to breathe. My son's life hangs in the balance as he dangles from a cord - it makes him feel more alive. The irony of it all does not escape me. TBC
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10 June 2004
He gave me the bouquet of flowers with a sly grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye. "Here mommy, I picked you this "bo u cute." (I can't begin to write it like he said it.) The funny thing is he said it just like he did when he was a little boy. I don't think he realized it. He was just goofing off, but he does it still the same. I have always been a sucker for wildflowers presented to me by those dirty little boy hands. It has been years, but he used to do it all the time. I doubt he remembers that either. But still, the hands of my 'man-cub' son are dirty and today he gave me flowers. Years from now he'll probably stumble across my journal and think I'm quite silly for pressing and cherishing a fist full of flowers. Maybe, just maybe, then he'll understand the place he holds in my heart.
Daughters are a joy, but there is no real surprise as they grow and develop - they walk a path I have walked before. But a son, well each moment is an adventure and mystery. They go through cycles of needing mom desperately, to pushing her away; "...stay close but don't touch me..."; "...you are so dumb..."; "...you are always right!" From baby soft cheeks and sound effects for everything to whiskers and a sort of constant simmering growl. He plays with abandon, then goes deeply serious. He's fearless, then self-deprecating. Testosterone and the male ego - what a ride!
Someday soon, he will melt someone's heart. I know, because he melted mine long ago. So I'll keep the silly little bunch of flowers. They remind me of the little boy still dwelling inside the heart of my son who is well on his way to becoming a man. TBC
9 June 2004
The irony does not escape me. He was born in the midst of a blizzard, his umbilical cord wrapped twice around his neck. Each time I would have a contraction his heart rate would drop horrifyingly low. He was literally dangling between life and death by a cord! The Dr. wanted him delivered by cesarean section. The blizzard kept the surgical team at bay. Finally, after hours of waiting, tilting the table I lay on to let gravity help keep him from birth, and literally holding him in so the cord would not strangle him, the Dr. reached inside with both hands and pulled him out - cord and all. What a rush - from mounting fear to extreme intervention, birth and terrifying silence...finally pierced by his lusty cry. Mere words cannot adequately convey the experience or the accompanying emotions.
Now, eighteen and a half years later, he hangs between life and death on a sixty meter cord held in place by bolts and quick-draws - by choice. You see, my son is a climber. It started about three years ago. He bought a carabiner and runners and started hanging from trees. I thought it was a passing fad. How wrong I was. It is a passion. The physical challenge, the sheer height, the very act of dangling from a cord fills him with such joy. He touches the sky. It inspires him, and it inspires me. It makes me want to try.
So now he's celebrating his High School Graduation by climbing vertical feet. His father and I watch from the base. My heart rate drops each time his fingers search for a new hold. My stomach contracts with each new placement of his feet. Sometimes, I think I forget to breathe. My son's life hangs in the balance as he dangles from a cord - it makes him feel more alive. The irony of it all does not escape me. TBC
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10 June 2004
He gave me the bouquet of flowers with a sly grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye. "Here mommy, I picked you this "bo u cute." (I can't begin to write it like he said it.) The funny thing is he said it just like he did when he was a little boy. I don't think he realized it. He was just goofing off, but he does it still the same. I have always been a sucker for wildflowers presented to me by those dirty little boy hands. It has been years, but he used to do it all the time. I doubt he remembers that either. But still, the hands of my 'man-cub' son are dirty and today he gave me flowers. Years from now he'll probably stumble across my journal and think I'm quite silly for pressing and cherishing a fist full of flowers. Maybe, just maybe, then he'll understand the place he holds in my heart.
Daughters are a joy, but there is no real surprise as they grow and develop - they walk a path I have walked before. But a son, well each moment is an adventure and mystery. They go through cycles of needing mom desperately, to pushing her away; "...stay close but don't touch me..."; "...you are so dumb..."; "...you are always right!" From baby soft cheeks and sound effects for everything to whiskers and a sort of constant simmering growl. He plays with abandon, then goes deeply serious. He's fearless, then self-deprecating. Testosterone and the male ego - what a ride!
Someday soon, he will melt someone's heart. I know, because he melted mine long ago. So I'll keep the silly little bunch of flowers. They remind me of the little boy still dwelling inside the heart of my son who is well on his way to becoming a man. TBC
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12 March 2013
In seventeen days, my daughter will marry the man she loves in a little town in Illinois, called Nauvoo. Twenty years ago, I walked the streets and hills of this town searching to know more about my great great grandma, Tobitha. Over a hundred and seventy years ago, she had arrived as a refugee with her mother and sister in this new town being carved from a swamp. She was only eight years old when her mother and sister died, leaving her to fend for herself in this fast growing village. Sadly, the growth attracted unwanted attention. Misunderstanding and envy and fear lead to violence and destruction. She was only 12 years old when she was driven from her home. She was only 13 years old when she was forced to turn her back forever on this sweet town and drive a team of oxen across the plains to a new life. She left behind a village in chaos and a temple she would never be blessed to enter. I feel as if my daughter's choice to be married there completes the journey somehow.
Dear Grandma,
Today, I will close the circle you began, oh so long ago.
Today, I will marry the man I love, in the building you sacrificed to create.
Today, I will celebrate in the village your young eyes saw destroyed.
Today, I will walk where you walked, because your courage led the way.
Today, I will feel you closer than ever before, because I know your story.
TBC
12 March 2013
In seventeen days, my daughter will marry the man she loves in a little town in Illinois, called Nauvoo. Twenty years ago, I walked the streets and hills of this town searching to know more about my great great grandma, Tobitha. Over a hundred and seventy years ago, she had arrived as a refugee with her mother and sister in this new town being carved from a swamp. She was only eight years old when her mother and sister died, leaving her to fend for herself in this fast growing village. Sadly, the growth attracted unwanted attention. Misunderstanding and envy and fear lead to violence and destruction. She was only 12 years old when she was driven from her home. She was only 13 years old when she was forced to turn her back forever on this sweet town and drive a team of oxen across the plains to a new life. She left behind a village in chaos and a temple she would never be blessed to enter. I feel as if my daughter's choice to be married there completes the journey somehow.
Dear Grandma,
Today, I will close the circle you began, oh so long ago.
Today, I will marry the man I love, in the building you sacrificed to create.
Today, I will celebrate in the village your young eyes saw destroyed.
Today, I will walk where you walked, because your courage led the way.
Today, I will feel you closer than ever before, because I know your story.
TBC
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10 February 2000
I wish my children didn’t have to listen to the harsh voices around them. I wish they could truly believe, no, KNOW, that that only person they have to please is the one that looks back at them from the mirror. I wish I they could hold on tight to the fact that their self-worth can only be determined by what they believe about themselves. I wish they could see now – not 20 years from now – that the things their schoolmates judge them by have very little to do with the adults they will become. Twenty years from now, it won’t matter if they wore name brand anything. It won’t matter if they ran the fastest, or pitched the best, or could set a volleyball. In truth, it won’t even matter what they scored on the SATs or ACTS – of if they were “Honors” anything!
What will matter? The simplest of most basic of things will matter. It will matter if they got where they are honestly. It will matter if they were decent to their fellowman. It will matter if they weren’t afraid to chase their dreams. It will matter if they stayed true to their core-values. It will matter if they found ways to love, serve, and feel gratitude each and every day. Long after the catcalls, jeers, or cheers from their youth are faded away. Long after the bullies of the past have dried up like dust. Long after the award ceremonies are over. They will still have to look themselves in the eye every morning.
We put so much pressure on our kids. Run faster! Study harder! Excel, achieve, perform, comply – do we leave them time to learn the very most important things? For example: The wonder of a flower, the blessed silence of snowfall, the inner fulfillment of doing something kind without being asked, the joy of reading a book that is so captivating you can’t put it down, the satisfaction of a job well done where no score or reward awaits at the end, the indescribable smell of fresh dirt under your fingernails, or the awesome wonder of a star-filled sky.
We try to pack so much into every moment of their lives we forget to schedule in time for discovery, for daydreaming, or for pure play. Yes, our children need many skills to compete in society today. Yes, they face a tough future where planning is paramount to success. However, I am very concerned that my children see in the mirror the eyes of a fulfilled soul. I want them to see someone who knows what their strengths and weaknesses are and knows it is okay. I don’t’ want them to worry about the outer shell of their appearance nearly as much as they worry about their inner-selves. The inner self that can only be nurtured by free-time, soul-searching, and imaginative play. If the power went out tomorrow, the Internet crashed, TVs exploded, phones vaporized, and stereo’s ceased to function – Would they still be comfortable in the silence?
That’s what I wish my children knew. TBC
10 February 2000
I wish my children didn’t have to listen to the harsh voices around them. I wish they could truly believe, no, KNOW, that that only person they have to please is the one that looks back at them from the mirror. I wish I they could hold on tight to the fact that their self-worth can only be determined by what they believe about themselves. I wish they could see now – not 20 years from now – that the things their schoolmates judge them by have very little to do with the adults they will become. Twenty years from now, it won’t matter if they wore name brand anything. It won’t matter if they ran the fastest, or pitched the best, or could set a volleyball. In truth, it won’t even matter what they scored on the SATs or ACTS – of if they were “Honors” anything!
What will matter? The simplest of most basic of things will matter. It will matter if they got where they are honestly. It will matter if they were decent to their fellowman. It will matter if they weren’t afraid to chase their dreams. It will matter if they stayed true to their core-values. It will matter if they found ways to love, serve, and feel gratitude each and every day. Long after the catcalls, jeers, or cheers from their youth are faded away. Long after the bullies of the past have dried up like dust. Long after the award ceremonies are over. They will still have to look themselves in the eye every morning.
We put so much pressure on our kids. Run faster! Study harder! Excel, achieve, perform, comply – do we leave them time to learn the very most important things? For example: The wonder of a flower, the blessed silence of snowfall, the inner fulfillment of doing something kind without being asked, the joy of reading a book that is so captivating you can’t put it down, the satisfaction of a job well done where no score or reward awaits at the end, the indescribable smell of fresh dirt under your fingernails, or the awesome wonder of a star-filled sky.
We try to pack so much into every moment of their lives we forget to schedule in time for discovery, for daydreaming, or for pure play. Yes, our children need many skills to compete in society today. Yes, they face a tough future where planning is paramount to success. However, I am very concerned that my children see in the mirror the eyes of a fulfilled soul. I want them to see someone who knows what their strengths and weaknesses are and knows it is okay. I don’t’ want them to worry about the outer shell of their appearance nearly as much as they worry about their inner-selves. The inner self that can only be nurtured by free-time, soul-searching, and imaginative play. If the power went out tomorrow, the Internet crashed, TVs exploded, phones vaporized, and stereo’s ceased to function – Would they still be comfortable in the silence?
That’s what I wish my children knew. TBC
========
4 October 2012
Over the past few weeks I have crossed paths, at different times, with two people I loved and cherished decades ago. We hadn't seen each other in years. It was a delight to see them and reconnect. Having never experienced my own high school reunions I couldn't help but wonder if this joy was part of what I was missing. Of course, it should be noted that these reunions took place within an LDS temple. What that means specifically is that we all have independently made moral choices that assured we are living up to certain expectations. Just like you can't get into grad school without completing a specific list of academic expectations, you can't enter an LDS temple without living a specific moral code. The fact that our reunions took place within the walls of the temple already told us much about each other's lives and choices. It's pretty cool to stand in such a place and look into the eyes of a long lost friend and know much of who they are. Of course, that doesn't mean you know what they've been through over the past several decades. It just tells you where they are today. As I reconnected and shared experiences with these dear friends I witnessed an interesting phenomenon.
The first friend focused purely on the moment and joy of the reunion. The discussion was about personal light and appearance and grounded solidly in the present. We planned to meet again outside of the temple where we could visit in depth for a longer period of time. We shared mutual enthusiasm for creating a new friendship in the here and now. The second friend downloaded a lifetime of trial in a matter of moments. Every bit of information shared was tied to a heartache of some kind. As we discussed other mutual friends from long ago, their tragedies were shared too. Our discussion was heartfelt and joyful, yet the information shared weighed heavy on my heart. Uncharacteristically, I even found myself drawn in to sharing some trials of my own because of this approach.
The saying, "you reap what you sow," comes to mind. These two experiences stand in stark contrast for me. Both involved a joyful reunion and an obvious understanding of renewed trust. Yet, my perceptions of these beloved friends were greatly influenced by what they chose to share. Their perceptions of me are greatly influenced by what they chose to share, because of my response to them. I have experienced within my own life the power of telling a positive story. The way we view our situation and share it with the world informs our psyches on a cellular level exactly what we think of ourselves. Are we victims? Are we heroes? Are we triumphant? Are we over-burdened? We physically respond to the stories we tell ourselves in very powerful ways. Pain and trial are real, don't get me wrong, but how we deal with them in our own heads has a powerful impact on how our bodies react. So it is with friendships, it seems.
This experience has made me realize I want to be more purposeful in my interactions with others. I want to tell them the stories of my success. I want my heart to believe my words. I want the world to believe my heart.
What story do your words tell about you? TBC
4 October 2012
Over the past few weeks I have crossed paths, at different times, with two people I loved and cherished decades ago. We hadn't seen each other in years. It was a delight to see them and reconnect. Having never experienced my own high school reunions I couldn't help but wonder if this joy was part of what I was missing. Of course, it should be noted that these reunions took place within an LDS temple. What that means specifically is that we all have independently made moral choices that assured we are living up to certain expectations. Just like you can't get into grad school without completing a specific list of academic expectations, you can't enter an LDS temple without living a specific moral code. The fact that our reunions took place within the walls of the temple already told us much about each other's lives and choices. It's pretty cool to stand in such a place and look into the eyes of a long lost friend and know much of who they are. Of course, that doesn't mean you know what they've been through over the past several decades. It just tells you where they are today. As I reconnected and shared experiences with these dear friends I witnessed an interesting phenomenon.
The first friend focused purely on the moment and joy of the reunion. The discussion was about personal light and appearance and grounded solidly in the present. We planned to meet again outside of the temple where we could visit in depth for a longer period of time. We shared mutual enthusiasm for creating a new friendship in the here and now. The second friend downloaded a lifetime of trial in a matter of moments. Every bit of information shared was tied to a heartache of some kind. As we discussed other mutual friends from long ago, their tragedies were shared too. Our discussion was heartfelt and joyful, yet the information shared weighed heavy on my heart. Uncharacteristically, I even found myself drawn in to sharing some trials of my own because of this approach.
The saying, "you reap what you sow," comes to mind. These two experiences stand in stark contrast for me. Both involved a joyful reunion and an obvious understanding of renewed trust. Yet, my perceptions of these beloved friends were greatly influenced by what they chose to share. Their perceptions of me are greatly influenced by what they chose to share, because of my response to them. I have experienced within my own life the power of telling a positive story. The way we view our situation and share it with the world informs our psyches on a cellular level exactly what we think of ourselves. Are we victims? Are we heroes? Are we triumphant? Are we over-burdened? We physically respond to the stories we tell ourselves in very powerful ways. Pain and trial are real, don't get me wrong, but how we deal with them in our own heads has a powerful impact on how our bodies react. So it is with friendships, it seems.
This experience has made me realize I want to be more purposeful in my interactions with others. I want to tell them the stories of my success. I want my heart to believe my words. I want the world to believe my heart.
What story do your words tell about you? TBC
===========
14 February 2000
I am called to be a witness. For all of my life I have filled this role. What do I witness? Satan's success in numbing the hearts of men and women. I am not a professional therapist or counselor. I have not been trained in the ways of the world of counseling. Yet still, I am constantly placed in this position. I once complained to my LDS Bishop that I didn't recall being called or set apart for this position. He smiled and said perhaps that was because the calling and setting apart took place before I came to this life - before I passed through the veil of forgetfulness. His insight stunned me, I had never considered it before. A warmth spread through my bosom - Confirmation?
It started long ago. In grade school, junior high, high school and beyond. The trials have been as varied as the individuals -
"Is there a God?"
"How do you know?"
"Why did my parents forsake me?"
"Why did my daddy leave?"
"How so I tell my parents I'm pregnant?"
"I'm so worthless."
"I'm so depressed."
"I'm going to kill myself."
"Life holds no joy for me."
"I'm so lost."
"I can't lose weight."
"I can't exercise."
"Why would God take my child?"
"Why do I put up with my husband?"
"Why doesn't the Bishop know what I need?"
"How can God leave me yet take my husband?"
"Why doesn't anyone understand me?"
"Why get up at all?"
"What's the use?"
"Why can't you take care of me?"
"Why do you need more friends than just me?"
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
With all of the questions comes desperate clawing at the earth for a response, pounding on the doors of heaven, and abject depression when demands are not met. They try relying on the perfect drug, the perfect therapist, the perfect toy, the perfect cosmetic, and the quick fix. The details could fill volumes, but it is not the details that matter, the cause doesn't even matter. What truly matters is the cure. In every case, and I do mean every case, there are three major things missing.
1 - Trust in God
2 - Faith in His unwavering Love
3 - Hope and reliance in the power of Prayer
I hear it all the time -
"You have too much faith in prayer."
"How can I pray when I don't know anyone is there?"
"Why would He listen to me?"
"Nothing can be that simple."
That's just the point. Without God we struggle, fail, and grow numb. With God we can overcome anything! Numb hearts are numb because they have blocked out the light of Jesus Christ. There is not a heartbreak that cannot be overcome, a deficiency that can't be met, a wound that cannot be healed, or a weakness that can't be turned to strength, through prayer. Why is this so hard to realize? Why do so many souls recoil at the thought of kneeling down before their Maker and admitting, "I can't do this alone."?
I am at a loss. So I will keep calling out my rallying cry -
"Have you prayed about it?"
"I know with prayer you can find the strength you need."
"If you pray, it will come."
I've seen the power so many times, in my own life and the lives of others. With prayer, constant and sincere prayer, the numbness fades and healing begins. When the wounded open the door to the Savior the light pours in. Depression is lifted, answers come, light chases away the darkest of fears. So, here I stand as a witness. A witness to the dangers that come with a numbed soul and a witness to the power of prayer. Perhaps I was called and set apart for this. I pray someday I can recall that event, but in the meantime, I will continue to listen. I will continue to comfort. I will continue to plead, whisper, and shout the answer ~
PRAY!
What on earth is keeping YOU from the loving embrace of the Savior? TBC
14 February 2000
I am called to be a witness. For all of my life I have filled this role. What do I witness? Satan's success in numbing the hearts of men and women. I am not a professional therapist or counselor. I have not been trained in the ways of the world of counseling. Yet still, I am constantly placed in this position. I once complained to my LDS Bishop that I didn't recall being called or set apart for this position. He smiled and said perhaps that was because the calling and setting apart took place before I came to this life - before I passed through the veil of forgetfulness. His insight stunned me, I had never considered it before. A warmth spread through my bosom - Confirmation?
It started long ago. In grade school, junior high, high school and beyond. The trials have been as varied as the individuals -
"Is there a God?"
"How do you know?"
"Why did my parents forsake me?"
"Why did my daddy leave?"
"How so I tell my parents I'm pregnant?"
"I'm so worthless."
"I'm so depressed."
"I'm going to kill myself."
"Life holds no joy for me."
"I'm so lost."
"I can't lose weight."
"I can't exercise."
"Why would God take my child?"
"Why do I put up with my husband?"
"Why doesn't the Bishop know what I need?"
"How can God leave me yet take my husband?"
"Why doesn't anyone understand me?"
"Why get up at all?"
"What's the use?"
"Why can't you take care of me?"
"Why do you need more friends than just me?"
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
With all of the questions comes desperate clawing at the earth for a response, pounding on the doors of heaven, and abject depression when demands are not met. They try relying on the perfect drug, the perfect therapist, the perfect toy, the perfect cosmetic, and the quick fix. The details could fill volumes, but it is not the details that matter, the cause doesn't even matter. What truly matters is the cure. In every case, and I do mean every case, there are three major things missing.
1 - Trust in God
2 - Faith in His unwavering Love
3 - Hope and reliance in the power of Prayer
I hear it all the time -
"You have too much faith in prayer."
"How can I pray when I don't know anyone is there?"
"Why would He listen to me?"
"Nothing can be that simple."
That's just the point. Without God we struggle, fail, and grow numb. With God we can overcome anything! Numb hearts are numb because they have blocked out the light of Jesus Christ. There is not a heartbreak that cannot be overcome, a deficiency that can't be met, a wound that cannot be healed, or a weakness that can't be turned to strength, through prayer. Why is this so hard to realize? Why do so many souls recoil at the thought of kneeling down before their Maker and admitting, "I can't do this alone."?
I am at a loss. So I will keep calling out my rallying cry -
"Have you prayed about it?"
"I know with prayer you can find the strength you need."
"If you pray, it will come."
I've seen the power so many times, in my own life and the lives of others. With prayer, constant and sincere prayer, the numbness fades and healing begins. When the wounded open the door to the Savior the light pours in. Depression is lifted, answers come, light chases away the darkest of fears. So, here I stand as a witness. A witness to the dangers that come with a numbed soul and a witness to the power of prayer. Perhaps I was called and set apart for this. I pray someday I can recall that event, but in the meantime, I will continue to listen. I will continue to comfort. I will continue to plead, whisper, and shout the answer ~
PRAY!
What on earth is keeping YOU from the loving embrace of the Savior? TBC
===========
5 May 2004
When my youngest daughter, Taunalee, was a newborn she had a truly unique characteristic. She would lock eyes with people. Her penetrating glances were not an illusion or a trick. This was not a case of unfocused newborn eyes only looking as if they were looking at you. Her looks were soul-searching and intense. I witnessed it occur for the first time only hours after her arrival on earth. My father, her grandpa, was introducing himself to her, then he grew silent. It's the silence that attracted my attention. When I looked towards them I witnessed it - eyes locked, souls searching, tears misting my father's sky-blue eyes. It was an incredibly powerful moment.
She was our miracle. Several years before we'd been told I should not have any more children due to some unique post-partum side effects. Yet, we'd felt so strongly during those years that we were missing someone. When it no longer became necessary for me to address the problem with medication, it became powerfully clear to us we needed to fill the void. I spent the better part of a year working to make myself healthy enough to become pregnant. Now, she was here, our little miracle, our milagrosita. (Not that I speak Spanish or anything, but I think it means "little miracle" so that's what we called her.)
I discovered quickly the soul-searching eye connection happened most often when I sang or hummed sacred hymns to my newborn daughter. I remember one day specifically. She and I were the only ones at home. I nursed her, then crossed my legs, and placed her snuggled into the crook so she was facing up at me. She was so beautiful. I loved the calm features that stole across her face when I sang. So I started to sing softly a few hymns. WHAM! Those little eyes of hers locked onto mine forcefully. I would not have had the power to look away if I tried. But who would want to look away? We sat like that for an easy half-an-hour. She never looked away and I just kept singing. I remember the moment perfectly. The clothes she was wearing, the position of the couch in the room, the sun cascading in through the open door. (She was a summer baby.) I can still close my eyes and return to that moment. I had the very real sense she was trying desperately to teach me.
~ Time Flies ~
She's pushing fourteen now. She is a truly unique young woman. There are moments she is the most loving creature on the earth. Yet, in a heart-beat her anger is a flash-fire. One word describes her - PASSION. Whatever she feels she feels intensely. I confess years have passed since I thought about the soul-searching stares of her infancy. I guess the noise of daily life tends to push aside such moments. Yet, the soul that resided in my infant daughter still resides within her teenage frame. Deep down she is still spiritually wired on a deeper level than most. This should not come as a surprise to me. When she was no more than three or four she announced over dinner that she had played in the street that day. We asked her why and she said it was because it wasn't fair that she couldn't play in the street. We asked her, "Then what made you get out of the street?" She locked those blue-green-gold-flecked eyes on me and stated quite matter-of-factly, "Jesus told me I need to get out of the street, so I did." When she was baptized at the age of eight she wrote in her journal that she'd heard her grandpa Clark whisper, "I love you," as she'd entered the baptismal font. Her grandpa had promised her he'd be at her baptism, but he'd passed away a few weeks before. Evidently, he found a way to keep his promise. To this day, she has never altered her recollection of that moment. As a teenager, she is still the driving force behind many family prayers. I truly believe she is a wise old soul. So, you'd think I'd remember her penetrating stares from infancy. However, they had retracted from my conscious thought, until last Sunday. We were in church, singing hymns, I glanced over at her and WHAM - our eyes locked. It was like a free-fall back in time. I doubt she'd remember the moment, but it forcefully reminded me there is much deep within my passionate, emotionally charged teenage daughter. I must hold fast to this truth as she rockets wildly through her teens. TBC
5 May 2004
When my youngest daughter, Taunalee, was a newborn she had a truly unique characteristic. She would lock eyes with people. Her penetrating glances were not an illusion or a trick. This was not a case of unfocused newborn eyes only looking as if they were looking at you. Her looks were soul-searching and intense. I witnessed it occur for the first time only hours after her arrival on earth. My father, her grandpa, was introducing himself to her, then he grew silent. It's the silence that attracted my attention. When I looked towards them I witnessed it - eyes locked, souls searching, tears misting my father's sky-blue eyes. It was an incredibly powerful moment.
She was our miracle. Several years before we'd been told I should not have any more children due to some unique post-partum side effects. Yet, we'd felt so strongly during those years that we were missing someone. When it no longer became necessary for me to address the problem with medication, it became powerfully clear to us we needed to fill the void. I spent the better part of a year working to make myself healthy enough to become pregnant. Now, she was here, our little miracle, our milagrosita. (Not that I speak Spanish or anything, but I think it means "little miracle" so that's what we called her.)
I discovered quickly the soul-searching eye connection happened most often when I sang or hummed sacred hymns to my newborn daughter. I remember one day specifically. She and I were the only ones at home. I nursed her, then crossed my legs, and placed her snuggled into the crook so she was facing up at me. She was so beautiful. I loved the calm features that stole across her face when I sang. So I started to sing softly a few hymns. WHAM! Those little eyes of hers locked onto mine forcefully. I would not have had the power to look away if I tried. But who would want to look away? We sat like that for an easy half-an-hour. She never looked away and I just kept singing. I remember the moment perfectly. The clothes she was wearing, the position of the couch in the room, the sun cascading in through the open door. (She was a summer baby.) I can still close my eyes and return to that moment. I had the very real sense she was trying desperately to teach me.
~ Time Flies ~
She's pushing fourteen now. She is a truly unique young woman. There are moments she is the most loving creature on the earth. Yet, in a heart-beat her anger is a flash-fire. One word describes her - PASSION. Whatever she feels she feels intensely. I confess years have passed since I thought about the soul-searching stares of her infancy. I guess the noise of daily life tends to push aside such moments. Yet, the soul that resided in my infant daughter still resides within her teenage frame. Deep down she is still spiritually wired on a deeper level than most. This should not come as a surprise to me. When she was no more than three or four she announced over dinner that she had played in the street that day. We asked her why and she said it was because it wasn't fair that she couldn't play in the street. We asked her, "Then what made you get out of the street?" She locked those blue-green-gold-flecked eyes on me and stated quite matter-of-factly, "Jesus told me I need to get out of the street, so I did." When she was baptized at the age of eight she wrote in her journal that she'd heard her grandpa Clark whisper, "I love you," as she'd entered the baptismal font. Her grandpa had promised her he'd be at her baptism, but he'd passed away a few weeks before. Evidently, he found a way to keep his promise. To this day, she has never altered her recollection of that moment. As a teenager, she is still the driving force behind many family prayers. I truly believe she is a wise old soul. So, you'd think I'd remember her penetrating stares from infancy. However, they had retracted from my conscious thought, until last Sunday. We were in church, singing hymns, I glanced over at her and WHAM - our eyes locked. It was like a free-fall back in time. I doubt she'd remember the moment, but it forcefully reminded me there is much deep within my passionate, emotionally charged teenage daughter. I must hold fast to this truth as she rockets wildly through her teens. TBC
=========
20 January 2000
I have killed every house plant I have ever owned. It drives my mother insane. I seem to be incapable of remembering they require care. Yet, for nearly two years now, I have kept an azalea bush alive in my home. Its blossoms are white and it came from LaMar's, my father-in-law, gravesite. My mother-in-law, Carol, told me to pick one of the plants to take home from the funeral. I assured her whatever I chose would die. She assured me I was not leaving without one. So, I chose the azalea. It was in full bloom and reminded me of home - Maryland. I haven't been back since 1981. Azaleas grow naturally there. The blossoms are an unexpected splash of surprise in the woods or a lovely enchantment on a garden path. The plant reminded me of my mother and I planting azaleas with many other girls and women around the LDS Washington DC temple grounds and surrounding woods. It reminded me of my wedding day four years later at that same temple and seeing all of those azaleas in bloom. It reminded me of LaMar and his sweet soul. So I took the azalea bush home. The first six weeks the plant nearly died. All the blossoms withered and fell off. The leaves cascaded to the floor in droves. In some weird way it was like losing LaMar all over again.
I witnessed him die. I had watched helplessly over weeks and months as his mental capacity withered and died. His physical abilities had become non-existent. I missed his quick smile and wit. I missed his laughter. It was a painful parting. There were no words of farewell from him. My husband and children were far from me. Yet I was there as a witness. The night before he passed away I'd sat in the room alone with him, holding his hand. I told him it was okay to go, he didn't need to be trapped anymore. I told him we all loved him. I promised him we'd all take care of Carol. He couldn't respond. He couldn't even really focus on my face, but I felt overwhelming peace and love in that room that night. The next evening I stood at the foot of the bed trying to warm his cold, cold feet in my hands as he passed away. His final act was to look up and smile.
Now the azalea was dying. I got mad. I prayed over that plant. I watered it more. I fertilized it. I plucked the blossoms off before they got ugly and brown. Oh it's still straggly - but it's alive and it is always in bloom. Sometimes there are more blossoms than leaves. It brings me joy. There's a little bit of where I came from in that plant. There's the promise of spring and of resurrection in those blossoms. There's the sweet memory of LaMar in its existence. I've come to look at each day the plant survives as a gift. It's personal - I'm sure no one else in the family notices or much cares. But - I care. It reminds me that even the most beautiful of relationships need nurture and care. It reminds me that joy and pain can, at times, be as fleeting as the blossoms. But the plant also reminds me that just as each blossom withers and falls to make way for a new pure blossom - each joy fades while making way for a vibrant new joy. The azalea is always in a state of death and birth, loss and renewal. Then again - so is life.
I love that azalea. It reminds me to nurture what and who I have. It reminds me of home. It reminds me of my wedding day. It reminds me of LaMar.
TBC
20 January 2000
I have killed every house plant I have ever owned. It drives my mother insane. I seem to be incapable of remembering they require care. Yet, for nearly two years now, I have kept an azalea bush alive in my home. Its blossoms are white and it came from LaMar's, my father-in-law, gravesite. My mother-in-law, Carol, told me to pick one of the plants to take home from the funeral. I assured her whatever I chose would die. She assured me I was not leaving without one. So, I chose the azalea. It was in full bloom and reminded me of home - Maryland. I haven't been back since 1981. Azaleas grow naturally there. The blossoms are an unexpected splash of surprise in the woods or a lovely enchantment on a garden path. The plant reminded me of my mother and I planting azaleas with many other girls and women around the LDS Washington DC temple grounds and surrounding woods. It reminded me of my wedding day four years later at that same temple and seeing all of those azaleas in bloom. It reminded me of LaMar and his sweet soul. So I took the azalea bush home. The first six weeks the plant nearly died. All the blossoms withered and fell off. The leaves cascaded to the floor in droves. In some weird way it was like losing LaMar all over again.
I witnessed him die. I had watched helplessly over weeks and months as his mental capacity withered and died. His physical abilities had become non-existent. I missed his quick smile and wit. I missed his laughter. It was a painful parting. There were no words of farewell from him. My husband and children were far from me. Yet I was there as a witness. The night before he passed away I'd sat in the room alone with him, holding his hand. I told him it was okay to go, he didn't need to be trapped anymore. I told him we all loved him. I promised him we'd all take care of Carol. He couldn't respond. He couldn't even really focus on my face, but I felt overwhelming peace and love in that room that night. The next evening I stood at the foot of the bed trying to warm his cold, cold feet in my hands as he passed away. His final act was to look up and smile.
Now the azalea was dying. I got mad. I prayed over that plant. I watered it more. I fertilized it. I plucked the blossoms off before they got ugly and brown. Oh it's still straggly - but it's alive and it is always in bloom. Sometimes there are more blossoms than leaves. It brings me joy. There's a little bit of where I came from in that plant. There's the promise of spring and of resurrection in those blossoms. There's the sweet memory of LaMar in its existence. I've come to look at each day the plant survives as a gift. It's personal - I'm sure no one else in the family notices or much cares. But - I care. It reminds me that even the most beautiful of relationships need nurture and care. It reminds me that joy and pain can, at times, be as fleeting as the blossoms. But the plant also reminds me that just as each blossom withers and falls to make way for a new pure blossom - each joy fades while making way for a vibrant new joy. The azalea is always in a state of death and birth, loss and renewal. Then again - so is life.
I love that azalea. It reminds me to nurture what and who I have. It reminds me of home. It reminds me of my wedding day. It reminds me of LaMar.
TBC
==========
2 February 2000
My son says, "America isn't a melting pot, it's more of a tossed salad." I love that, and it's true to a degree, but then again - I'm a melting pot. Within my veins runs the blood of French monarchs, German aristocrats, Norwegian miners, British child woolen mill laborers, and American colonists. My ancestors fought in the Revolution. They clear-cut hardwood forests to plant grain and corn. Yankee blood gives me the desire to live frugally. Southern blood gives me the ability to see the value of an idyllic life by the river. My ancestors broke trail, busted sod, broke horses, and herded sheep. They could look at a field of cotton and guess its market worth. The could tan leather and speak Shoshone. I've always been fascinated with history - and why not? Every page of history has the footprints of my ancestors on it. From rich and noble to the poorest white trash, part Yankee, part Southerner, part Tory, part Revolutionist...Is it any wonder I can so often see both sides? TBC
2 February 2000
My son says, "America isn't a melting pot, it's more of a tossed salad." I love that, and it's true to a degree, but then again - I'm a melting pot. Within my veins runs the blood of French monarchs, German aristocrats, Norwegian miners, British child woolen mill laborers, and American colonists. My ancestors fought in the Revolution. They clear-cut hardwood forests to plant grain and corn. Yankee blood gives me the desire to live frugally. Southern blood gives me the ability to see the value of an idyllic life by the river. My ancestors broke trail, busted sod, broke horses, and herded sheep. They could look at a field of cotton and guess its market worth. The could tan leather and speak Shoshone. I've always been fascinated with history - and why not? Every page of history has the footprints of my ancestors on it. From rich and noble to the poorest white trash, part Yankee, part Southerner, part Tory, part Revolutionist...Is it any wonder I can so often see both sides? TBC