A big, wallowy whine

I’ve been careful to try to focus on the positives in my life during this illness. Mostly because I don’t want it to define me, but also because I believe that thinking positively can affect things. I also want to be the kind of person who can accept trials humbly and gracefully.

But.

When I had my first baby (colicky), I got hit with major post-partum depression, though at the time I didn’t know that’s what it was. I thought was that I was a horrible, ungrateful mother who sometimes, late at night in a crazy fog, didn’t like her child (her red-faced, screaming child), and I carried around a lot of guilt about these feelings—which guilt, of course, made things worse. But if I had known how normal those feelings were, I could have eliminated the guilt and recovered sooner.

So later, when it was all behind me, I felt a sense of mission about telling people how hard things had been for me, so that they could at least know they weren’t alone if they ever felt that way, too. I came to bemoan the cultural norm in the church of hiding difficulties and presenting a positive front. I really believe that more openness about struggles would be only good in our society.

So, out of respect for that belief, I’m going to gripe here. Once. And then (hopefully) be done.

I HATE HATE HATE this illness. Hate it. Hate it.

Hate what it does to my relationships. There are times (many) when I don’t want to be touched. When I don’t have the energy to be positive, make small talk, forgive immediately, control my emotions when I feel utterly spent, put up with pettiness or phoniness or argumentativeness. I hate having to go to bed early AGAIN and miss out on precious time with my family. I hate that my children and husband and friends have so much to forgive me for when I let them down because I don’t feel well.

I hate how it impairs my ability to serve. I feel muddled, and don’t recognize when others need me or how to help. I feel selfish about my energy and want to conserve it. I let sign-up sheets go by without signing them.

Which leads me to another thing I hate: this illness has changed my definition of myself. I used to be “a person who always signs on the sign-up sheets.” I am no longer. What else has changed? Who am I, really, if I am sometimes grumpy, often tired, often self-centered?

I hate how this illness has taken away the extra-curricular activities that used to help me define myself. This year, I am not a writer, or a teacher, or a thinker, or a critic, or a fosterer of connections in Mormon letters, or even much of a friend.

I hate the time this illness has taken from me. Not even counting the time I have spent in bed, I can’t imagine what I would have accomplished this year if I had not gone to a single doctor’s office, waited on hold for a single nurse.

And the money! With the money we’ve spent on medical testing for me this year, I could afford to reapply to the MFA program I dream about.

I hate how this illness has pitted me against my own body. I don't like or trust it anymore. I hate how my body’s faulty adrenalin system makes it impossible for me to feel peaceful for good chunks of most days. I’ve always felt that I can cope with anything as long as I can feel peace about it. Cancer? Death? Whatever. Bring it on. As long as I can feel peaceful, feel the Lord with me through the process, telling me that all is well. But that’s the one thing I can’t have, often.

And most of all, my biggest loss: I hate how this illness has taken away my ability to recognize the promptings of the Spirit. Because I have always relied on my body as a means to recognize spiritual feelings. In the past, wrong answers have left me feeling befuddled and nauseous. Right answers brought clarity of thought and energy. But what if I always feel befuddled and nauseous? What if there is no energy to be had, except an abnormal adrenalin rush that leaves me shaky and red-faced? I feel so lost and alone when I can’t rely on spiritual guidance anymore. This has been the most painful of losses and I am still mourning it deeply. Will I ever, ever get it back?

OK. The rant is over.

And now that it’s over I remember one of the biggest reasons I don’t let myself rant. Because it looks so ungrateful. I truly recognize the ways that I have been blessed through all this. I complain about the money, and yet we have always had enough. How big a blessing is it that we have been able to PAY those medical bills? HUGE. And I have been blessed with many sweet moments with friends, children, spouse, through all this, and with an added ability to recognize their sweetness. I have been able to fulfill callings, keep up the house (mostly), do all that is necessary, and many things that are nice (vacations, etc.). I have had enough, so it’s absolutely childish of me to complain about what I haven’t been given. I am grateful, and recognize God’s hand in my life in many ways.

(Still, I’m going to post this anyway.)

Blind Side

We finally saw Blind Side last night. It was a sweet-enough movie and enjoyable. But the ending really bugged me. Not the ending in which Michael goes off to college, but the very, very ending, in which the mother’s voice-over talks about the tragedy of another boy from the hood who showed great athletic promise but who dropped out and ended up dead of gang violence or whatever, and the camera showed newspaper clippings about the kid. She was comparing what happened to that kid with what happened to her own Michael.

What bugged me was the implication that it was such a tragic waste that an athletically kid was lost because no one cared to take him in.

But what about the athletically non-gifted kids, eh? Is potential athletic talent the indicator of whether a kid is worth being rescued by a wealthy woman with time on her hands? I couldn’t help thinking about how this story would have been different if Michael hadn’t happened to be talented (and large) and the woman hadn’t happened to be rich. I’m just saying.

I do have to say that I've always liked Sandra Bullock, and I especially enjoyed the character she created here. I wish I had the guts this woman had--the sassiness, the lack of fear of others. I wish I were less timid.

I'm just sad I wasn't invited to participate . . .

I don't get enough chances to sing this during the season.

Come Together

Friends of our were telling us how they met and how their courtship developed. I was charmed to hear that the moment they began falling in love was when they realized how much they both had loved one particular book: Winnie the Pooh. It seems so sweet to fall in love over a book. I wonder how their mothers feel when they hear this story—how amazed they must be that their own choice of what book to read to their children would influence their children’s future choice of spouses!

Several relationships in my own life have become closer because of a shared passion for a particular book—or music. I remember the day I looked up at the bookshelf of my brand new, previously unknown freshman roommate at BYU, and saw Salinger’s Franny and Zooey. That’s when I knew we would be kindred spirits. And we were, and we went on to share many more cultural experiences together, passing books back and forth or discovering new passions together, such as International Cinema and live jazz.

I made another discovery of a kindred spirit when Cheri led a book group discussion on one of her favorite authors, Anne Tyler. Any active LDS woman who loves Anne Tyler is going to be someone I want to hang with.

There was the time my friend Kathy referred in one of our many discussions about trying to live right to a book that has influenced me so much that I regularly re-read it: Terry Warner’s The Bonds that Make Us Free. Our friendship grew deeper because of that than many days of conversation could have caused. She gave it to me for a gift later that year.

Music, too, brings people together. In college I had a good friend, Justin, who entered my life when I stood behind him in line for dinner at the ward dinner party. He was softly singing to himself the da-da’s from U2’s “Surrender.” This was in the late 80’s, when everybody claimed to be fans of U2 because of Joshua Tree. But here was a guy who knew War. I joined in on the da-da’s, and we were instant friends.

My old high school buddy, Paul, endeared himself to me when we found that both of us were equally skilled at quoting The Sound of Music. And knew all the choreography to the “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.” We acted it out over and over (sans kiss).

And, most importantly of all, my relationship with my husband moved to a relationship instead of just a date when, on our first date, I told him we would be watching What’s Up, Doc? (a test of his sense of humor, of course) and he responded with lit eyes, a huge grin, and several quotes from the movie. Done deal.

Has this happened to you? What books or songs or movies have helped you grow closer to someone?

Make new friends, but keep the old . . .

(One is silver and the other is gold.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship lately.

In short: I’ve been alive for 40 years now, and I’m still not sure I know how to be a friend.

I remember how badly I wanted someone new to move into the ward when I was a kid, always sure that my best friend was the one I hadn’t met yet. Once I was at college and looked back, I saw that I was pretty blessed with a group of friends around me for most of my growing-up years. Why, then, didn’t I feel it at the time?

It wasn’t until my freshman year in college that I really started to learn how to have a more intense relationship with a friend, and it was because I was blessed with an amazing roommate who patiently stuck with me as I stumbled along (all over her feet) learning how to be a friend. I’ll be eternally grateful to and for her. I still feel her in my heart like a sister, even though we aren’t really active in each other’s lives on a daily (or even monthly) basis.

When we were away at grad school, I had similar experiences with some of the women who were in the same situation. The intensity of being poor students and young mothers living in the same complex threw us together much like a room-mate situation, and my friends from Berkeley are still some of the dearest.

But now that I am living all-independent-like in my house, I find it harder to have (keep?) friendships that influence my daily life. I can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong. Maybe it’s that I feel so shy on the phone, always, even with my own relatives. Maybe it’s because I don’t know how to call people up “for no reason.” Maybe I’ve been too judgmental of others in my life, and have pushed people away. Maybe we’re all just too busy.

Usually I don’t mind this lack too much, because I have some people in my life that I really enjoy conversing with—electronically. (And you, dear blog reader, are probably one of them.) And I am very busy with my family, who get more and more interesting and friend-like to me every day. But sometimes I just miss that real-life, Café Rio- and canning-peaches-together female bonding that women need.

Do you have a best friend, someone you talk to, on purpose, at least once a week? How did you get close to her? What can I be doing to try to turn my new (ward, blog) friends into golden old ones?

Just Kickin' Down the Cobblestones

So, I’ve been slowing down.

I’ve mentioned here before how strange it is that my life seemed to be emptying out this fall. My ESL gig ended when my student moved away. My cub scout calling went away. I’ve passed off some of my AML responsibilities. I didn’t get into grad school. My schedule seemed to be clearing out, and I assumed it was because Something was Coming.

Turns out, the thing that was coming was Nothing. And the sort of creepy thing is that it has been OK.

I have had opportunities to put things back into my schedule, but I have had that sinking, dead feeling whenever I considered them. I’m not always great at being guided by the Spirit in my life, but one thing I learned rather early on (when I was deciding where to go to college, in fact) is that when something is right, I feel interest in it, can’t stop thinking about it, start getting itchy to make it happen. And when it’s wrong, it keeps slipping my mind, and, when reminded, I drag my feet, dreading it.

And I haven’t felt like doing a darn thing lately. I have been a blob at home, managing my duties but nothing else.

But a strange thing is happening. When I don’t have any reason to hurry through my duties, I find myself settling into them, actually (brace yourself) ENJOYING them, feeling like I’m living life right there and then, instead of hurrying to get to the next thing. I used to feel like I needed my writing (for example) in order to reward myself for getting through the other, boring things I needed to do. And now, without the reward, I’m starting to enjoy the doing of the tasks. (Well, except for planning and cooking meals. There’s no enjoying that for me.) I feel like, maybe, this slow time is teaching me how to live.

I recently got a very beautiful blessing from my next-door neighbor, who is in the stake presidency. He even mentioned this—that this is a time for thinning out my schedule. That I’ll be able to do the things I must, but many of the extras will go for a while. This is comforting to me because I have moments of guilt, especially when I’m around my very accomplished writer friends who run marathons, etc. “Is it really OK that I’m not doing a thing in my life?” I wonder. “Am I just being lazy?” I used to care so much about AML, Segullah, ESL, WIFYR, etc. and now I feel so apathetic about them.

But, rather than paralyzing myself with guilt about this, what if I see it as a gift? What if I decide that this apathy is God’s way of helping me to slow down? Because I know that if He really wanted me to be involved, he’d send me that energy and interest, right?

Which is why it’s so confusing that I felt so sure that it was right to apply for grad school last year. I’m finally to the point where I am actually glad that I didn’t get in (because that two-week flu last month would have forced me to drop out. Seriously.) but why did it feel so right to apply?

One possible answer came to me the other day: if God knew it wasn’t right for me to be in school this year, but wanted to send me the message that I’m capable of doing it, that I’m not a complete loser as a writer, having me be #1 on the waiting list was a pretty good way. I got to feel like I was at least good enough to BE there, without having to drop out later. Hmm, it’s a thought.

Parenting Mistakes

After some conversations I’ve had with friends—well-meaning, diligent, loving, heartbreakingly earnest friends--I think that most parenting mistakes—maybe even all—fall into one of two categories: 1) thinking you don’t have control when you do, and 2) thinking that you have control when you don’t. Both failings are dangerous, to the children and to the parents. Both require repentance.


People who fail in Category One are the ones who fail to put in the time with their children, give up on establishing expectations and consequences (or on enforcing them), or possibly aim for being buddies instead of an active force in the development of personality and good habits. On one end of the spectrum they might be just well-meaning people who, when they experience difficulties, give up on doing what they know they should (perhaps because they don’t know what else to try). On the other end of the spectrum are the people who simply put their own pleasurable desires ahead of their family’s needs (such as working more than they need to away from home or at home, or pursuing hobbies out of proportion to what’s needed at home).

Category Two also has a broad spectrum, with authoritarian abusers at one end, and, at the other, people who take undue pride in having produced “good children” (which leads, when their children finally do make bad choices, to the parents’ taking responsibility for those choices to the point of making themselves miserable with grief and guilt).

Many of us have been in this situation for short periods of time when our children are having rebellious times. It’s only normal to evaluate ourselves, asking, “What can I possibly do differently? What factors CAN I influence in my child’s choices?” And, of course, we should make what changes the Spirit prompts.

What I worry about, though, are the righteous, well-meaning parents in Category Two who, out of fear, take on themselves more responsibility than they need to, making themselves sick over trying to control things that they truly have no control over (their children’s choices). When the Holy Ghost is behind a prompting or even appropriate guilt, it feels positive, hopeful, energizing—not fearful and debilitating. Too many people are in danger of mixing these things up.

I worry when I see people take more credit than they should for their children’s choices. This is harmless enough until one of the children makes a bad choice. Sometimes this doesn’t happen until all the children are grown up, and then the parents, who have taken credit for raising “twelve kids and all married in the temple” are suddenly faced with the responsibility for taking credit for the screw-up, too (which, of course, they shouldn’t).

The truth is that we are all on this earth in part to make mistakes and experience the process of repentance. There is no way we can raise our kids in a way that will prevent them from doing so. The thing we are all to learn is that there is only one true, real mistake, and that is failing to repent when you fall short. Even if we could prevent our children from learning this while they are in our care, that wouldn’t be helpful to them in the long run, would it?

So what CAN we take credit for, then? How can we ever feel satisfied with our efforts? The answer is that we should be accountable only to God and only for the things He prompts us to do. If we can answer that we have done our very best, repenting when we’ve fallen short, then we are successful parents. Regardless of how our children turn out. We cannot compare ourselves to others who, perhaps, received different promptings than we did about how carefully to monitor their children’s eating habits, internet usage, etc., or how many hours they can spend on the internet themselves (or scrapbooking, or cleaning scrupulously, or returning to school) without being guilty of neglecting their children. We can never know the differences in temperament our neighbor’s children were born with and how, comparatively, our children might be harder or easier than theirs. We should never take pride in how our children turn out just as we should never take responsibility for their poor choices. We can, however, take pride in following through on what the Spirit has prompted us to do, regardless of outcome.

p.s. I said it is wrong to compare ourselves to others—and it is, if we are doing it to judge others. But I think it is perfectly healthy to be observant about what others are doing around us. It’s how we learn. It’s so hard to learn how to parent, and I don’t think people should feel guilty about observing what others are doing and then evaluating it for possible use in our own homes. The trick is to do it without feeling superior or inferior to the others you are observing, and with the understanding that you can never know all of the factors involved in their decision to act that way. There could be, oh, say, chronic illness in that family that leaves them with less energy. Or mental illness. Or a difficult spouse, etc. “Prove all things,” but never let go of charity.

End of sermon.

Dear Dr. S.,

I just want you to take a moment today to be grateful for your wonderful health. I could tell today that you have never spent a significant amount of time ill, or struggled with an illness that is difficult to diagnose. Do you know how I could tell?

Because you kept calling me sweetheart.

I am 40 years old. I don’t believe you are much older than 45, if even that. Granted, I look younger than I am. But I am not a young girl.

But something about our relationship made you think of me that way, and it is exactly the thing that I find most frustrating about most of the doctors I have seen in the last four years. You see me as a child because I am ill, and because I am paying you lots of money to help me find my way through this maze. Somehow, that makes you feel older than me, and makes you talk down to me. You forget that I am a whole universe, just as you are—-a complete person with passions, skills, intricacies, a sense of humor, opinons.

And, yes, fears.

One of which is doctors who make me feel ashamed or less than a whole person for being ill. Doctors who seem to think that a failure in my physical self indicates an immaturity or shortcoming in my actual self which, believe me, is not in any way the same thing as my body.

Nver, ever mistake a person's body for her real self.

But you’ll learn all this someday. That’s one thing I know for sure—everyone, even those who are so proud of their vibrant health as you are, will someday sit with their feet dangling off an examining table and feel like a slab of meat. And maybe you’ll remember us, your patients, when that day comes for you. Trust me, sweetheart, you’ll know this feeling someday.

Repenting

I’m a big advocate of journal writing, though I don’t do it as steadily as I wish I did (and blogging interferes with it, but then I print out my blogs and put them in my journal to ease my conscience). When people tell me they are too overwhelmed to journal, I tell them that’s because they are believing, falsely, that they need to tell everything or—heaven forbid—catch up before they can benefit from it.

So I have to chide myself for putting off blogging with the excuse that too much has happened and I can never move forward until I report on the past. Not true.

So I’m going to listen to myself and move forward.

But, since I can’t resist, let me just say that big things have been happening for me, mostly in the form of a renewed encounter with the medical establishment that proved, well, devastating. But not in the way you might think—I have no bad news to report. Just dashed hopes.

Moving forward . . .

I remembered something suddenly the other day. Several years ago when I was last redefining my testimony, I formulated for myself a new definition of faith. To have faith in something, I decided, is to put trust in it. Trust like a financial trust—where I let something of value be held for me because I believe it is a safe place. And so for me, having faith means that I invest in it, put my belief (value) in that thing, and then ACT AS IF I KNOW WITHOUT A DOUBT THAT MY TRUST IS SECURE (justified). The key word there is act. It is integral to my definition of faith. Faith is an acting upon belief as if it were sure knowledge.

I can’t believe that I had been forgetting this definition of faith in situations regarding my health. It took a comment from my wise friend Angela to remind me. She said that “fear is a temptation to be resisted,” and that it is wrong to view anxiety as an acceptable response to things. (In her defense, I must point out that she said these things are reminders to herself, not to criticize anyone else.) I realize that I have been indulging myself when I succumb to fear about what my symptoms mean, instead of investing my faith in the blessings I have received that tell me that all will be well. Each time I act afraid, or dissolve into frustrated tears again, I have not been ACTING as if I truly believed in these promised blessings.

Also, the fear has made me way too self-centered.

I am repenting.

One of those questionnaire thingies

Honestly, when I read it on Mark's blog, it didn't seem nearly so long. I'll never know if you don't finish it all.

1) Do you always answer your phone?
Almost always. It’s still hard for me to believe that I’m allowed to let it go if I want. And we only recently got caller ID, so I never remember to check it anyway.

2) It’s four in the morning and you get a text message who is it?
I don’t have texting on my phone.

3) If you could change your eye color what would it be? I wish they were a much more vivid green (they’re kind of a murky brown/green/hazel right now).

4) What flavor drink do you get at Sonic? I never get drinks. I always order water because I prefer it. I do, occasionally, get a cookies-and-cream flurry or something like that. Rarely.

5) Do you own a digital camera? Yes, and thanks to my very, very sweet DH who researched it, chose it, and bought it. I HATE purchase research.

6) Have you ever had a pet fish? No, but we had a series of polliwogs at one point. None turned into frogs; all turned into slimy messes that really, really stank.

7) Favorite Christmas song? I could never, never choose. First, there’s the ones I love to sing (“Lo How a Rose,” “The Messiah,” “The Holly and the Ivy”). Then there’s the individual singers and groups (Lenon Sisters, Roger Whittaker, Singers Unlimited, Utah Chamber Artists). Then there are moods (for present opening, for watching the snow coming down, for singing along with in the choir. Let’s just say I love lots and lots of it. (There are some, however, that I hate. Not big on the modern singers singing renditions of things that have already been done well. Not big on “Holly Jolly Christmas” and some of the others that are just silly.)

8) What’s on your wish list for your birthday? Amazing, shining, vibrant good health.

9) Can you do push ups? Not now (coming off of some bad health issues), but a couple of years ago I made it to 100 (girl-style).

10) Can you do a chin up? No. How I would love to be strong, though.

11) Does the future make you more nervous or excited? Currently, nervous. Once I get feeling better, things will look up, though.

12) Do you have any saved texts? No texts.

13) Ever been in a car wreck? Hallelujah, no. One or two tiny fender-benders.

14) Do you have an accent? I don’t think so, but once I was a receptionist on BYU campus, and a professor came in, waiting to see someone in my office. After watching me for a while, he said, “One of your parents was raised in Philadelphia.” Amazing! I think, but I’m not sure, that it was Don Norton.

15) What is the last song to make you cry? Some sappy music at the pre-trek seminar in Wyoming for those of us lucky enough to be planning trek.

16) Plans tonight? Sit the kids in front of the tube and lie down with a book.

17) Have you ever felt like you hit rock bottom? Several times. (Guess I keep being wrong, then, eh?)

18) Name 3 things you bought yesterday? A co-pay at the ER. Apple juice and a bagel.

19) Have you ever been given roses? Yes. The very best time was when my husband showed up at the airport with them after we had been apart for about six weeks.

20) Current worry? Health.

21) Current hate right now? Cold.

22) Met someone who changed your life? So many! It makes me happy to think about it.

23) How did you bring in the New Year? I think we went to bed and let the kids stay up without us.

24) What song represents you? These days: “I Need Thee Every Hour.”

25) Name three people who might complete this? Are there even three people who read this blog? Then I name all three of you.

26) What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up? bathroom (duh, I’ve had four kids)

27) If I were 10 yrs younger: I would never ever ever take my health for granted.

28) What is your salad dressing of choice? Newman’s Italian or Brianna’s poppy seed.

29) What is your favorite sit-down restaurant? Sad—I have no idea. For us, it’s Café Rio as often as anything on a date. We’ve enjoyed some nice ones in the past, but it’s been so long that I can’t remember them . . .

30) What food could you eat for 2 weeks straight and not get sick of it? Probably Café Rio’s chicken enchiladas.

31) What are your pizza toppings of choice? Veggie (but no pineapple or olive), although I almost always end up eating cheese because no one at my house wants veggie and the alternative is pepperoni, which I don’t like. You can’t even pick it off, because it leaves its greasy little oil taste behind.

32) What do you like to put on your toast? Butter and cinnamon sugar.

33) How many televisions are in your house? Two in use, plus one in a closet for genera conference and one in the spare room for only Grandpa to use.

34) What color cell phone do you have? Silver. Is this really interesting to anyone?

35) Are you right-handed or left-handed? Right.

36) Have you ever had anything removed from your body? Yep. Various, usual items.

37) What is the last heavy item you lifted? A bookshelf (with hubby).

38) Have you ever been knocked unconscious? No, but I’ve passed out.

39) If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die? Absolutely not.

40) If you could change your name what would you change it to? Anne.

41) Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000? No way. There is no way I would ever do something on purpose to make my body sick. Can’t even justify extreme amusement park rides anymore. Illness will do it to ya.

42) How many pairs of flip flops do you own? One, and they’re really cool because they actually have arch support (sketchers).

43) Last time you had a run-in with the cops? I don’t think I ever have. Oh yeah—when we somehow miscommunicated and I showed up with my cub scout den for a tour of the department on the wrong day.

44) Last person you talked to? Yet another “helpful” employee at my credit union-of-perpetual-banking-errors.

45) Last person you hugged? My cute littlest before he skipped across the playground.

46) Favorite Season? Autumn, though I think that’s changing because I can’t shake the sense of impending doom it brings.

47) Favorite Holiday? Thanksgiving.

48) Favorite day of the week? This, more than probably anything else, tells me that I am finally exactly where I want to be in life. I like every day equally. This has only been the case in the last year or two.

49) Favorite month? September.

50) First place you went this morning? 5:30 a.m. dropping oldest off at running practice.

51) What’s the last movie you saw? Toy Story 3, although I’ve watched a few old episodes of 30 Rock since then.

52) Do you smile often? Not enough, which is a great disappointment to me. I’m disgusted with myself about that.

Nothing interesting--just a little update

So I think I mentioned here that my schedule was being cleared for me in weird ways. (My ESL student moved away suddenly and unexpectedly. I was released from my cubscout calling.) I was wondering what was around the corner for me . . . and now I have at least some idea.

I was called to head up trek along with my husband.

I have mixed feelings about this. Hubby had already been called, and it seems to me that it makes sense to have both of us doing it (rather than having me nag him). Last weekend, after much extremely difficult and stressful arranging, we were able to farm out the kids and attend the pre-trek training in Wyoming (which was assigned to us to do, along with the weekend we had to do it). While there, hubby and I both got lots of ideas—almost all of them the same as each other’s ideas—and it was so nice and even a little romantic to share the experience. I can’t imagine how much harder it would be if one of us were co-chairing this thing with someone outside of the family, all the polite dancing around.

And right after we got back I got sick. Sick sick. As in the flu, but some killer flu that has had me flat in bed all week. I’m finally (obviously) able to sit up some, but this one is going to take a few weeks to get over, I think. It was very, very nice to have a clear schedule and the kids in school while I have been recovering. I’m frustrated about my loss of strength, though. I am not a vibrant, strong person in general, and it takes me weeks to progress in my exercising where other people can see progress over a few workouts. And now I’ll be starting over, after this horrible flu. Sigh.

But I never forget how blessed I am, that I can lie on my bed in my pleasant, quiet bedroom, and listen to the breeze outside in my very pleasant back yard. I don’t have the financial stress of those who live in poverty when they are sick and have to take a week off. And I’m not even missing any classes, which I would be if I were in school (though I won’t go so far as to say I’m glad about that one—but it is nice to have peace about it).

The hardest part for me about being sick is the guilt, the lying there listening to my poor husband, tired from work, trying to make dinner and settle all the fights. Even my guilt has been minimized this time since I was so darn sick I couldn’t have sat up or made myself heard anyway. It was a good time to use my free trial of Netflix, so I’ve been watching shows I’ve always wanted to check out—Mad Men, 30 Rock—and catching up on The Office. General Conference has been nice, too.

And I haven't minded a little guilt-free postponement of the trek planning. But I'll have to hit it here soon. I'm sure a few of you have done it--any suggestions?

Book Report

So I promised I wouldn't do a whole year at a time this time. So here's about five weeks worth of reading.

A Visit From the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. This was a collection of inter-related short stories, one of which I had read before in New Yorker. Confession: I don’t often really enjoy the fiction in the New Yorker. To me it’s usually “OK,” and sometimes “pretty good” and sometimes “what?” (I feel the same about the poetry.) The Jennifer Egan story I had read was of the “pretty good” variety. But put into a collection with other stories that relate somehow, it was much more enjoyable to me. I really like this kind of story cycle. The characters in this book are all sort of tangentially related to the punk music recording scene, or had been at one time. Interesting. Oh, and I need to give a warning—this was quite raunchy at times. Steer clear if you’re sensitive.

Nicholas Nickleby by you-know-who. Well, I’m also not a huge fan of Dickens. I listened to A Tale of Two Cities last year and The Mystery of Edwin Drood a few months ago, so I thought I’d give this audio a try. To sum up my feelings: you can tell when reading or listening to this one that Dickens was paid by the word. Sheesh! So many meanderings and sidetrips. It was quite exasperating. All in all, I think this one wasn’t worth the time. The one good thing about Dickens is you always know that it’s going to be a mostly happy ending.

Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery. I know some of you have raved about this book, so I hope I’m not offending you when I say that I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. There were some interesting moments, and I enjoyed it the way I enjoy Remains of the Day, only not to the same extent (by a long shot). I liked the interesting characters, and the moral of the story (and there was one, and it was not even subtle). But the forays into philosophy were rather dry and nothing very new or interesting, I thought. I found myself getting impatient with all those sections. If the author had kept to just character and plot and skipped all the philosophical stuff (or integrated it into action better), this could have been a breathtaking book.

Tinkers by Paul Harding. This was a very literary, semi-experimental (read: no arc) “novel” about two men, one who is the son of the other. There are some interesting musings and some interesting scenes, but they just don’t build a story. It reminded me, well, of my own shortcomings as a novelist, and then I laughed when I read that it is the author’s first novel—he is a writing teacher with an MFA from Iowa in poetry. I guess all of us poets struggle with that—making a STORY out of those great scenes and characters and telling details we imagine.

Pop Goes the Weasel: The Secret Meanings of Nursery Rhymes by Albert Jack. I’ve been curious about this subject for years and finally got around to picking up something about it. Occasionally, I was disappointed at the lack of definitive history, but for the most part this was full of interesting stories about the background or possible origins of various nursery rhymes. There was also an interesting section in the back about famous songs like “Yankee Doodle” and “God Save the Queen.” Some of the more interesting things I learned:

“Baa baa black sheep” originally said, “And none for the little boy who lives down the lane,” and was a protest against a tax on wool that impoverished the shepherds who produced it in 1275.

“Hickory Dickory Dock” is about Richard Cromwell, son of Oliver, who reigned ineffectually for one year (“clock struck one”).

The real “Humpty Dumpty” was not a person (or egg!) but a cannon used during the English civil war (1642-51).

“Little Jack Horner” is about Thomas Horner, the servant of the Abbot of Glastonbury. The Abbot, Richard Whyting tried to bribe the king to keep him from dissolving the Abbey. The bribe came in the form of some deeds of land in a pie. Horner was charged with delivering the pie, but he took one of the deeds out for himself before he delivered the pie (abt. 1535).

Old King Cole’s pipe and bowl were actually musical instruments, the bowl being a type of drum used by wandering minstrels.

What has God got up His sleeve now?

So I didn't get into school. (You know this by now.) And I've been wondering what it is I'm supposed to focus on this year. Yeah, my family. But I learned at the track meet that I need something else as well to put my soul into, so that my children don't carry the whole burden of my self-esteem. So I'm sort of searching, sort of waiting to figure out what this year will be for me.

Meanwhile, God has been clearing my schedule. Within two days, I was released from my cub scout calling (freeing up Tuesdays) and my ESL student moved (freeing up Mondays).

What gives? What should I do now? Should I get a new ESL student? I don't want to do that because I'm hoping to have to drop tutoring next fall to enter school. Should I just bump up the volunteering at the elementary school? Take up genealogy in a major way? Serve at the temple? I just don't feel settled or satisfied by any of these options. I already do a little of each of these, and feel like that's great for this time in my life.

So, what?

I'm open to suggestions.

I had known it was coming; I just didn't expect it to hurt

Well, I’m understanding Sharlee’s fabulous essay (the title essay in Segullah’s latest, Dance With Them) a little more now. I got the first “you’re standing too close” attitude from my teenager today. I had been braced for it—really, I swear!—but it still blindsided me somehow. He explained that though he enjoys my coming to his meets, I don’t need to stand right by him the whole time.

Of course.

And two things smashed into me at once: first, memories of my own teenage years, the yearning to be separate from my parents and feeling so justified in that yearning—duh, it’s what’s supposed to be happening during these years; I’m trying to be a person here!—all mixed in with discovering my parents were sorta cool and feeling very close to them at times.

And second, the feeling, which probably peaked during my own junior high years, of being a misfit, a leper, the person people don’t want to be seen with, possibly contagious in my nerdiness. The feeling that kept me from associating much with my younger sister in school hallways lest I doom her to contamination.

A feeling of shame.

When I was in high school, I was matched up for ten minutes at a seminary mixer with a guy I had a crush on. It was a great success: I was vivacious and charming, and we had a great conversation. But later the (oh so sweet) boys in my ward told me that they had heard from this boy how disgusting his time with me had been because of the food in my braces.

The horrible, sickening shame, made worse because I had so confidently thought I was succeeding when all along I had been failing miserably—that’s what I felt when my son told me I had stood to close to him during that last meet. I had been so thrilled to be there with him, meeting his friends (and their parents), so happy to show him support. But . . . well, of course.

Stupid, stupid me! I had told myself I had a thick skin and sharp memory, that I wouldn’t take it personally when my son went through this very healthy phase. How stupid for it to hurt!

And so I begin Sharlee’s dance, the push and pull, the holding close but not too close. The showing up at the meet but cheering from a ways back. How I adore that boy—but more than that, I love his whole soul and what it can become. I will let my love and trust give me the strength to stand back a little more. I will be so mature about this.

But, darn it, while he’s at school today I’m going to go have me a good cry.

Letter to Myself

Dear self,

I know you’ve been struggling lately, so I just wanted to send you a little note to remind you of some things.

Sweetheart, you’re doing OK. I know you feel sometimes like you fall so short of what you want to be, but that’s because you have your eyes afar off—and that’s a good thing. You are carrying around with you an ideal of patience, intuitive kindness—yes, that dratted angel mother you roll your eyes about when someone refers to her in church—but it’s not wrong that you do. She’s a good thing to aspire to, and you know that her particular qualities (serenity, mercy) are things you especially need and long for. But you’ve got to quit beating yourself up for the ways you fall short. You’ve got to take each situation one at a time and then, if you think you’ve handled it wrong, apologize and move forward. Contrary to popular interpretation in the church, it’s NOT true that each time you fall short, all your previous shortcomings return to your shoulders and you are suddenly unforgiven of them again. God doesn’t care about the past—only about where you are this very minute, and which way you’re facing.

I know you’ve been forgetting, so let me just remind you that you do a lot of things pretty darn well. Your kids have come to expect and even take for granted that they will read scriptures with you and pray with you every morning. They would think it a travesty if you missed family home evening two weeks in a row. They are read to from soul-building and heart-softening great books daily. They talk animatedly about their days when they get home, knowing they’ll be listened to with interest and love. In this home that you’ve created, they hear beautiful music often, and experience quiet often as well. The physical space is relatively orderly, and so is the schedule. Each child has had many opportunities to explore and improve his talents. Every single one knows how to repent and how you feel about the atonement.

Are these the works of a failure mother?

You’re doing OK. Why won’t you let yourself feel it? As soon as you get good at feeling at peace about your own pace of spiritual and personal progress, you will find that your children pick up on it too, and your home will be even better for the sense of acceptance and peace here. What would happen if, for just one week, you concentrated on accepting everyone and everything, but YOURSELF especially and first of all, as being already OK?

Give it a try.

Love, me.

Shakespeare with my boy

The past six weeks have been crazy, I tell you. We’ve been going, going, going. I could tell you about all of them (cabin, Yellowstone, Durango) but I’ll spare you. For now, let me tell you what I did this week.

B turned 12 this spring and thus was entitled to the Deluxe Vacation Alone With Mom. His older brother benefitted from the fact that I had a sister living in Boston the summer he was 12 and we actually got to fly there. But sister lives in Utah now (hurray!) so we didn’t have anyone cool (free) to visit far away, and besides, B isn’t a big fan of airline travel. So, I had my mind open to ideas from the cosmos of what to do with B this summer, and when I saw how much he loved being involved with his class production of “Macbeth” (which I put in quotes on purpose because it didn’t have much at all to do with the real play and was actually a spoof) and then noticed that the Utah Shakespearean Festival was featuring the Scottish play this year, I knew we had a plan.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but tickets to those plays down there are dang expensive. I splurged and got tickets both to Macbeth and Much Ado About Nothing—because we might as well do a thorough job of enjoying Shakespeare and Much Ado is actually one of my favorites (love that sexual tension). And I knew a long evening of Macbeth might not solidify Shakespeare as being worthwhile to an energetic 12-year-old, but a good comedy might.

So on Thursday morning we got the little ones off to school (yes, they’ve been in school a few weeks now; I know: sick and wrong) and filled the car with snacks and were off. It’s about a four hour drive from our house to Cedar City, but we took our time. We stopped off in Cove Fort and did the little tour, which B hadn’t remembered from the last time we did it. It was the PERFECT day for a drive and a picnic, which we had under the giant shade trees at Cove Fort. (I think that would be a fun place to serve a mission, by the way. Those missionaries serve for six months and live in their own RVs.)

We got into Cedar City in time to take a little snooze/TV surf before dinner. B was in heaven to discover that there were cable stations that show sports ALL THE TIME. He also got a little too interested (IMO) in “The Sweet Life of Zach and Cody.” He takes after me and his dad in that the lack of TV around here makes him awfully susceptible to zoning out in front of the tube when he’s on vacation.

Cedar City, I’m pleased to announce, has a Café Rio, which happens to be one of B’s favorite restaurants as well as mine. We were careful to order large so that we could have leftovers for lunch the next day.

Then it was time for the greenshow and our first play, Macbeth. It was, as I had suspected, awfully long. Not my favorite. But at least B learned that it actually is a tragedy. In his school version, many of the best lines (from the witches) had been left out, so I made sure he caught them. Good acting all around but, you know, it was Macbeth. We sweetened the experience a little by splurging on official Shakespeare Festival tarts, which are, I believe, always worth it.

Next morning we lay around a while, then took a little outing to a nearby park to get some sunlight and exercise. After a snooze and our leftovers, we drove to St. George for Baskin Robbins and a swimming outing with cousins. (I keep mentioning the food—that’s because we’re awfully stingy and almost never buy treats at home. I wanted this to be a really special outing in as many ways as possible.) Throughout our drive to St. George and our drive to and from Cedar City, we listened to some great books on cd, which was in itself one of our favorite things. We heard some Greek myths (very popular around our house since Percy Jackson), some Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and some Empire Strikes Back.

We got back in time to order pizza in our room (more TV) and then hit the greenshow and Much Ado. It was a great production; my only complaint was that the same actress played Beatrice who had played Lady Macbeth. She was a good LM, but I did not like her as Beatrice—although she did a fine job. Benedick (David Ivers) was great.

On Saturday we headed home, but, not wanting the fun to end too soon, stopped in Provo to see The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. It was a perfect movie for a 12-year-old and a great way to prolong the adventure just a little longer.

The best thing about the whole trip was that I didn’t get sick at all—no migraines (they tend to come on vacation for some reason) or anything. All in all, it couldn’t have been more delightful. B is a pleasant, grateful, easy-to-please boy and always has been. For that reason, he sometimes gets less attention than others, and it was so nice to focus on him for a few days. He goes off to scout camp tomorrow and then starts middle school shortly after that, and I know his life will be a whirlwind from here on out. I’m so grateful for the chance to hold on to him for a few days.

Book Report

I keep promising I'll report my reading monthly because these book reports get so darn LONG. But you all know how reliable any sort of a regular blogging commitment would be from me. So here we are again with a way-too-long report. Sorry. Asterisks indicate that I especially enjoyed them.

Fiction:
A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore, about a college-age girl who becomes a nanny. I know there are a lot of people who adore Lorrie Moore. And I have to say that her voice is enchanting, and her writing is full of little insights and tidbits of humor that are a delight. But I'm not sure that long fiction is her forte. I felt the book lacked narrative arc, that it was more just a place to put voice. The main character did nothing, really. I think Lorrie Moore is more a poet (or maybe short fiction-writer?) than a novelist.

The Convalescent by Jessica Anthony. Can't remember why I picked it up--someone said it was hilarious. It's about a hairy Hungarian midget--really. I actually couldn't get past the first three chapters or so, so I can't say much more than that.

The Soloist by Mark Salzman. I read this because I absolutely love Salzman's other book, Lying Awake; it's one of my all-time favorites. This one was interesting, but not in the same league as the other. In this one, a cellist sits on the trial of a man who killed his guru because of a riddle. Worth a read.

*The Ghost Writer by Philip Roth. Believe it or not, this was my first time reading Philip Roth. In this one, a writer meets his mentor in a cabin in the middle of the woods. Interesting twists of imagination and reality.

Too Much Happiness, short fiction by Alice Munro. Although I enjoyed these stories quite a bit (she's my type of writer--heavy on character), I actually couldn't finish the very last one, the title story (which seemed more like a novella). The rest were very enjoyable.

*English Creek by Ivan Doig. I really enjoyed this sweet, slow-moving rural story. Sort of a "River Runs Through It" sort of thing, and a coming-of-age story. Cowboys, family dynamics.

The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood. An intriguing dystopian tale of "gardeners" who want to preserve species during a plague which kills off people and plants. Fascinating and a little dark, as all Atwood is. I actually listened to this on my mp3 player and I recommend doing it this way because they actually included music tracks when the group participates in hymns. Interesting.

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwen. A little bit explicit for me, but I stuck it out. It was an extremely interesting account of one wedding night (you might remember he did a similar thing in Saturday) which encompasses all of the couple's past and future in it. That idea, alone, made this book worth reading to me. I love moments that are frozen and yet telling like that (the poet in me).

*Stones for Ibarra by Harriet Doerr. This reminded me of Death Comes for the Archbishop, in a way. Episodic little vignettes of life for a couple who moves to rural Mexico. I really enjoyed it.

The Seamstress by Frances de Pontes Peebles. A long, involved tale about a female Brazilian bandit in the 1930's. The history and setting were fascinating. I enjoyed listening to it but am not sure I could have sat still to read it all. Maybe.

The Marriage Bureau for Rich People by Farahad Zama. The jacket said it was Pride and Prejudice in India and I say, well, sort of. Yeah, there was some matchmaking, and a surprising marriage for the poor but kind and smart girl to the rich man. And there were some quirky characters. But I think it's sad that the editors felt they had to retain such poor writing in order to keep the voice (I'm assuming that's what the problem was). You might like this if you liked The Ladies #1 Detective Agency--same gentle narrative, colorful setting and characters, only this time in India.

The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens. This is an unfinished book, but I listened to it so that I could more appreciate Drood (below). I got the recording from LibriVox and was delighted with it, unfinished as it was.

Drood by Simmons. This was a little dark and a little long for me, but it made OK listening. Fictionalized account of the friendship between Wilkie Collins and Charles Dickens, and the situations that led to Dicken's writing of Drood and his death. Centers mostly around Collins's drug addiction.

*Dispensation: Latter-Day Fiction, ed. Angela Hallstrom. What can I say? Fantastic, and an important addition to LDS literature. I'd like to see it used as a textbook in classes. Some of the stories weren't my favorites, but others knocked my socks off. Angela's own story is among the best of the best.

Crow Lake by Mary Lawson. Very slow, gentle story about a family in rural Canada in which the parents died. Deep on character and family dynamics.

*The Light of the Day by Darren Cozzins. I lucked out on this one--it's a collection of short stories that I got to proof-read for the publisher (Zarahemla). It's just coming out now, and well worth picking up. Cozzins is, as my friend puts it, "Yet another LDS guy writing about older, rural, white LDS guys." But he does it so well.

The Swan Thieves by Elizabeth Kostova. I really liked Kostova's other book (The Historian) and this one came highly recommended but, alas, I found it to be about three times too long. It's a sort of mystery having to do with artists and their obsessions. I know several people who LOVED this, though, so it's probably just me.

The Turtle Catcher by Nicole Helget. I couldn't finish it. It seemed as if the really awful stuff (woman with a sexual deformity accuses a mentally-handicapped boy) probably got over in the first couple of chapters, but it just didn't get better enough to redeem itself and I quit.

The Double Bind by Chris Bohjalian. The twist ending of this story about a post-traumatic girl involved with a homeless guy, and its entwining with The Great Gatsby, made it a worthwhile read for me, even though I felt there were some extremely cheap shots and betrayals of the reader's trust.

The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid. The idea of this book was more interesting than the actual rendering. Told in second person, it is the story of a young Muslim who goes to America for school and work, then returns to Pakistan. An interesting, quick read, which didn't quite pull off the sense of ominousness it was striving for, I thought.

Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show (audio). A delightful audio experience, read by several different narrators. Very enjoyable.

*Belong to Me by Marisa de los Santos. A rich, filling novel that intertwines the stories of a young couple trying to conceive, a woman whose friend is dying of cancer, and a teenage boy looking for his father. I loved the characters, and the descriptions (particularly the scenes with the dying friend) were rich and full of emotion. Beautiful book.

*The Sweet By and By by Todd Johnson. I can't believe a guy wrote this. If you liked The Help, I think you'd like this. It's about Lorraine, a matronly black woman who works at a rest home, and the old white ladies she takes care of.

The Condition by Jennifer Haigh. An interwoven story about a family in which each child has a condition--one is homosexual, one has Turner's syndrome, and one has ADHD--and how they come to accept and deal with these things. Pretty good.

YA/Children's
42 Miles by Tracie Vaughn Zimmer. A sweet little novel in verse about a girl whose parents are divorced. Delightful read for an afternoon. I really enjoy novels in verse.

Schooled by Gordon Korman. YA about a boy who grew up in a commune, homeschooled by his grandmother, but who has to enter society and attend high school. Clever, interesting characters, but some sloppy writing, which might be just a symptom of an author who has published many, many books (WAY too many adverbs).

Ida B. by K. Hannigan. A fluffly little feel-good book about a homeschooled girl who has to return to school while her mother fights cancer (I know--feel good? but it is).

The Invention of Hugo Cabret by Selznick. The idea of it, the gimmick of it (a novel that is more than half pictures) makes it a quick read and keeps you going. I know some people loved it but I felt it was rather empty, just a series of plot events. The pictures that were actual stills were fascinating, though. (Loosely about the 1920s inventor and movie director Melies.)

When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead. Sharon Creech meets Wrinkle in Time. Interesting, fun read.

Non-fiction:
*What the Dog Saw, essays by Malcolm Gladwell. Most were originally published in The New Yorker. Very entertaining. One that still sticks in my memory was about the history of oral contraception, and a look at why the Catholic church's resistance to it as being "unnatural" is sort of ironic because its effect on a woman's body is actually more natural than a modern woman's regular cycle is.

Einstein's Dreams by Alan Lightman. This was supposedly fiction, but was really just musings about time and possibilities, so I've filed it in non-fiction. I couldn't finish it, but I imagine it would be fascinating to a certain kind of person who loves to muse about time.

The Liar's Club by Mary Karr. Memoir is always just a little too long for me; I always feel like, "OK, I get it, let's move along." This one was no exception, but was an enjoyable read, if reading about the daughter of an alcoholic mother can be enjoyable.

A New Hunger, poetry by Laure-Anne Bosselaar. I came across her because she is the wife of the guy I took a poetry workshop from last year (Kurt Brown). She speaks (writes in) English as a second (more like eighth) language, and I think that gives her a little quirk that's interesting. My favorite of hers wasn't in this collection--she read it aloud at a reading. It was about English itself, and how it seems to someone who is learning it.

Committed by Elizabeth Gilbert. I actually enjoyed Eat, Pray, Love quite a bit, but this one just dragged for me. It was less a memoir than musings on the history and sociology of marriage in general, only not as fascinating and intellectual as Malcolm Gladwell would have made it.

I am Scout by Charles J. Shields. This is a biography of Harper Lee meant for Young Adult audiences. I chose this one instead of his longer one for adults because biographies are always too long for me (like memoir). I'm hoping I would have liked the adult one better, because this one was very sloppily written.

Marley and Me by John Grogan. An example of why I'm no longer in my ward book group. I just can't finish books like this. Cute, episodic, probably delightful for somebody.

*Little Heathens by Mildred Armstrong Kalish. OK, here's another cute, episodic book that I actually adored. What's the difference? I don't know. This one is a memoir of a family growing up in the depression. The details fascinated me.

*Dance with Them, the latest Segullah anthology. Very good, of course. Some of those essays had me crying.

Children of a Lesser God by Medoff. A play about what it's like to be deaf. Very interesting, but dated.

Some of my favorite commercials

You gotta see the first to appreciate the second.

A couple of things I have been struggling to accept

1. I may never be a noteworthy writer. In fact, I might not ever even publish my own book.
2. I may always be sort of sick, low-energy, unable to get strong no matter how willing I am to get up and exercise.

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I can’t tell you how much these two things affect me, how I keep circling around them, dodging them, trying to prove that they cannot be so. There is great fear involved, and as I try to analyze what it is I’m afraid of, I come face-to-face with prejudices I have had about myself and others, about where value comes from. My greatest hope (besides of getting completely well) is that I can figure out how to access the source of true worth—God’s love, and my value as His daughter. The more I become able to feel His love and approval, the more I can learn to find joy in simply being the best wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, daughter-in-law, visiting teacher that I can.

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I’m not saying I’m giving up on writing (or on finding a diagnosis and cure, for that matter). But I am sick and tired (and I mean those two words in their very literal senses) of the quest, the constant reaching, and the accompanying guilt, shame, depression that comes in each day of not making progress in either.

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I’m determined to find a way to focus on the present, and on the many tiny (and some huge) joys I already have in my life.

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Some examples:

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--Through all of this, I have always slept well. I know that most people who struggle with any kind of chronic illness don’t sleep well. I know I’m truly blessed. I also don’t have pain. These things are HUGE.

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--I will never stop loving to read, and God has blessed me with a return in ability to concentrate. I can read and judge and discuss what I read with great satisfaction.

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--Even though I get too easily exhausted, I CAN walk. I know people who can’t, because of knee issues, etc. I can take a mosey with my husband at twilight.

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--I couldn’t have a more patient husband.

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I had a tough week because of some interactions with people who didn’t understand. It’s so easy to say the wrong thing when you are healthy and strong, especially if you feel you have earned your good health and strength—by getting up early, working out, etc. I guess that’s one lesson I can say that I’ve learned from this: what not to say to sick people--or to anyone at all, really, since you can’t always tell by looking whether someone is struggling with a health issue.

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And here are a couple of poems just for you, loyal readers, which I wrote about dealing with an illness. Maybe they will help you understand. Thanks for sticking with me, my friends.

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In Their Fifteenth Year of Marriage, Illness Strikes

copyright Darlene Young—don’t copy without permission, please (but I almost always say yes)

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Loathe the smell

of myself, these

sheets, the constant

ragged termite whine:

I might die and

leave things undone . . .

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or, a thousand times

more harrowing:

I might live

and leave things undone

trailing behind me

in the dust

like a lame limb.

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Loathe the walls

and ceiling: my own

body inside out,

.

this body that you

still, strangely, reach for,

loathsome, fickle

prison that you

.

--unbelievably--

stroke with reverent

tenderness.

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Love was once

the lightning;

it has become

the bread.

.

While loathing clots

my lashes, coats

my teeth, grits

between my fingers,

.

love

holds my hair

back from my face

as I wretch,

appears before me

despite my raging:

kind,

still.

.

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Fierce Passage

copyright Darlene Young—don’t copy without permission, please (but I almost always say yes)

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Today I was researching my ancestors, sifting through the nested

petals of internet pages for names that belong to me,

people who’ve left their bloody signatures in my genes.

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I found Melissa, some sixth great-great of mine, tucked into a corner

of a census under her husband’s name, with only one word to describe her:

invalid. Besides her children, that one word is all she left behind.

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It’s been three years since I first got sick--three-and-a-half,

really, but who’s counting?—long enough that when I meet

someone I wonder if I should tell them. “You really don’t know me,”

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I could say, “unless you know this one thing.” Instead I play

with being a different person, one who is whole in the eyes

of strangers, simply a human being, anyone. After all, three years

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is hardly any time, is less than a tenth of my life, is not my life.

I am not my sickness. I won’t wear the label or watch any kindly soul

lower her eyes while filing me into the box marked invalid.

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But

while I’d like to be considered complete, I can’t deny

that any account of me isn’t complete without

.

an accounting of those days, those long afternoons

listening to people talking in other rooms, people

walking by outside the window, people on talk shows who,

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while full of other problems, still have energy enough to jump

around the stage--which simply shows how easily we forget what matters.

After so much time in bed I have no time for weight-loss ads,

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wrinkle creams, advice columns, tips for success. How much

of a relationship is based on what we think we know?

Which toothpaste tips the scale from “glance away” to “come closer”?

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Those pea-green, seasick days in bed have changed forever

the flavor of my days, helped me see that it’s a sin to assume

anything. We can’t ever see at first the whole of anyone,

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and yet we each and all have come through some fierce

defining passage. Everyone has come from somewhere.

Some Sort of Random Stuff

I saw Eclipse last night and enjoyed it more than the others. It has my favorite part of the story in it—the scene where Jacob warms up Bella in the sleeping bag and Edward sits outside listening to Jacob’s thoughts. It’s much better in the book, but it wasn’t bad in the movie. The biggest problem with the movie remains the same for me: poor casting of Jacob and Edward. Bella is well-cast but unlikeable, as she was in the book. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Bella’s relationship with Edward has all the signs of an unhealthy one, the kind of thing any caring parent would be frightened about. (Constant moodiness, total obsession, loss of interest in anything else, etc.) Yep, I’m team Jacob all the way.

Roger bought me a hat last night at Target. I love to kill time with him at stores, because he buys me stuff. I just have to sigh and glance at something, bat my eyes a little, and it’s mine. Good thing we don’t window shop much together. This is one of those cute little black hats that are almost derbies. I’m excited to wear it.

My little P (now seven) shows such musical aptitude! He loves music of all kinds and has finally been granted his heart’s desire of starting piano lessons. He spends time composing his own songs. Listening to him, or seeing him rapt with earphones on (his latest favorite is the soundtrack to The Secret Garden—thanks again to Rachel for sharing this with me originally) brings me huge joy.

My health has taken a downturn the past several months. I am trying to keep my eyes on God and let Him fight my battles for me. Sometimes I get discouraged.

There is nothing sweeter in this world than reading to my boys—unless it’s reading to my boys in the middle of a forest by the light of our lantern in our tent trailer.

I’ve read many books lately. I’ll do a book report soon.

I haven’t heard more from BYU since I last reported. I suppose I could keep a little hope up until classes actually start (end of August)—but the effect of this is that my mourning is postponed and prolonged.

I have queried about 50 agents, had about 15 requests for fulls or partials, and currently have three fulls out. I’m really not optimistic about this novel ever getting an agent or being published, but I had to try. I’m thinking more lately about the possibilities of my picture books. That’s another long row to hoe, though.

I had a fabulous time at the Segullah writer’s retreat. I was petrified at the thought of teaching a poetry workshop and conducting individual critiques, but when it got down to it I had a blast and wished I had more time for both. Again I am reminded how much I love to teach and share.

(Me at my poetry workshop--do I look stressed?)

A new family moved in two doors down which was an answer to a few years of prayer—they have a boy P’s age—one who is even in P’s ALPS class! I know the value of good friends and have prayed and prayed for someone P’s age to move nearby. Not only that but the mom was an ENGLISH MAJOR at BYU!

Our fridge broke one week before the warranty ran out but when I unplugged it and vacuumed it and started it up again it was good as new . . . for a few more weeks, when it broke again and repeatedly after that. We were very stressed because we didn’t have $1000 for a new fridge. But a very nice person at Maytag did some checking and came back to say that the WOULD HONOR THE WARRANTY AFTER ALL. Such a tender mercy!

I have been trying to refocus my life on sweet, simple, faith-building, hope-building things. That includes analyzing my thoughts (I’ve got to do better at just letting go of things, constantly) and my activities (even the blogs I choose to read can make me less content or more appreciative) and the people in my life. I’m so grateful for the family and friends around me who love me and who are trying to live other-centered, appreciative lives.

Writing Conferences and birthdays and bad dancing

Whew.

While you've been waiting my next blog post with baited breath (ew. like anchovie breath? stale gum? like there's some sort of breath that is supposed to be bait?) for my next blog post, I've been Living My Life.

Barely.

Because my activities have been so exhausting that I sometimes couldn't tell if I were still living my life or whether it was living me.

So, let's see.

I. WIFYR.

I can't really post a detailed report because they asked us not to. No one made eye contact with me when they made this request. They said that they don't think it's fair for people to pay lots of money to get material that we then turn around and post, in detail, for free on our blogs. GUILTY! You know I'm the culprit they were thinking of because if you google WIFYR, my reports come up as some of the most off-visited sites.

I have to say, they've got a point. So, with apologies to all the wonderful speakers that I've shamelessly reported on in the past, I am gracefully respecting the wishes of the WIFYR Powers That Be and not reporting this year.

Sorry.

So instead, I'll just tell you about my emotional ride. Because it was rather emotional. I was on staff this year, and so did not choose my class but was assigned to Kristyn Crow's picture book workshop. I am not disappointed in this assignment--I had told them to put me anywhere, because I'm not currently working on anything in particular. I've been to WIFYR before and taken picture book before, so much of what I heard in Kristyn's class I had heard before--but that doesn't mean I didn't learn. Kristyn has some really great ideas about how to write picture books as opposed to magazine stories which, I discovered, are what I've been writing before now. She helped me over that rut, and for that I am grateful. She also has some amazing and valuable handouts, and a lot of wisdom about analyzing the books that have already been published.

She's also an extremely kind, pleasant person who cares deeply for her students and wants to help in any way she can. I'm so glad I got to meet her and spend time with her.

Besides helping out in her class, I had lots of other work to do in preparation for the conference. In particular, I did a lot of publicity work and helped organize the restaurant lunch for all the students. And, I got to sing back-up to Carol and Cheri and agent Mary Kole and author Alane Ferguson. You can see what a good job I did in this video. I appear in the background about the 3:00 mark (look for Brandon Mull at the book signing--I'm right behind him helping Kristyn) (and how silly is that, to think that you would watch a video with BRANDON MULL in it in order to see the true star, ME, in the background!) and then there is a scene with my picture book class and I am kneeling in front, and then there is the fabulous DANCE SCENE at which I am a backup singer (look closely).



II. My birthday.

Well, I turned 40. It was a sad day. But not really because of the age, but because it was the culmination of the illustration of my loser-ness. As you know, this year has been a little hard, with the unexpected failure to get into the BYU MFA program. Like a little mid-life crisis: What in the world am I supposed to do with myself now? So my birthday somehow became symbolic of that, because Nothing Happened. I had told my family not to bother celebrating on the day itself because I was at WIFYR all day and had a dinner meeting scheduled. It was a rather trying day in which I got a very specific rejection from an editor (I had sent this story in an earlier version as a lyrical, almost poem-like meditation to another editor, who liked it but told me to put in a plot, story arc, etc.) who told me that this story sounded like it should be a lyrical, almost poem-like meditation and that I should take out the plot.

So, feeling frustrated and exhausted ("I gave up a birthday celebration for this conference which is to help me in a career that is just a series of dead ends!") I went home, where there was no celebration or recognition of my birthday (as I had requested) and, skipping my meeting, WENT TO BED, with that sick, lonely, empty, nobody-likes-me-I'm-going-to-go-eat-worms feeling. Stupid, immature whiner who wanted a birthday surprise, I guess. But, really, it was 40! 40! Blah.

Of course, my hubby, who is so thoughtful that he always gives me a gift on my CHILDREN'S birthdays, for crying out loud, has plans to celebrate some other time. I am very glad that he takes me at my word. I WANT to be taken at my word. I just hadn't known, beforehand, how sad it would be to have nothing on my very depressing birthday.

III. Segullah retreat.
Again, I was on staff for this one, so it was some work. Not nearly the work that WIFYR was (although some of the others worked their fannies off), but my preparations were stressful. This time I had to teach a workshop on poetry and conduct some personal critiques--both of which were very nerve-wracking for me. I hold the responsibility of helping someone along the road to becomong a poet to be very sacred. I tremble at the power I have to destroy someone's hopes. I am so indebted to teachers who helped me along my path, editors who published me when I was lousy (still am, I guess, at least according to BYU), etc. I wanted to be helpful and encouraging.

I think things went OK. There was a little misunderstanding during my workshop that caused me to lose about 20 minutes of teaching time, and that had me a little flustered, but otherwise I felt pretty good about it (student surveys: "Seemed a little rushed"). The critiques went pretty well, too, I guess--although I suppose I'd never know the truth about how those women felt after meeting with me. I found that I wanted to spend more minutes with them than the time alotted; it was very enjoyable.

I LOVED Stefani Raff's presentation, which was our keynote workshop in the morning. Those skills--both the active listening and the imaging, are things I need to hear over and over again. They benefit my family life and my artistic life immeasurably, when I remember to incorporate them. I felt the Spirit speak to me during that workshop, giving me ideas for parenting and for my work.

I have to say that these chicks really know how to put on a shin-dig. I couldn't help comparing it to AML meetings as the day went on. Of course, it helped that we had a fabulous facility donated to us (the Rhodes office) and that we were able to charge significantly more money for participation than we could ever do for AML. But the FOOD was so fantastic! Breakfast of Rhodes sweetrolls and fruit Lunch was catered by Mini's Cupcakes (hope I got that right) and dinner by Cafe Rio and there was even an AFTERNOON SNACK! The offices were beautiful but quite hot (no one knew how to turn on the air conditioning)--hot enought to set off the fire alarm (that was our "get the blood moving" break) and perfect for the day.

The staff retreat the day before was also sweet. I'm pretty lucky to still get to hang with these amazing Segullah women, seeing as I don't do any of the day-to-day work any more. They're all so beautiful and smart and interesting. I don't take the blessing of my involvement with them for granted.

So that's my life. July looks to be just about as busy, so I may be checking back in with you, my readers (both of you), in August.