A little introspection

Been in a contemplative mood the past few days.  Having people near and far from me struggling with their health, their relationships, wondering what’s ahead.  It feels personal.  As  much as I’ve tried to avoid the thoughts, they’ve come to me in the quiet evening when everyone was gone, as I weeded and sorted through yard refuse in the twilight, tears just trickled down my cheeks without warning.  It hit me driving in traffic just the other day.  Out of nowhere, but I think it was my heart, my tears came again.  In the quiet and peace of the most beautiful room in the temple, when I was finally alone with myself, I couldn’t hold them back.  Defining moments over the years that come without warning. Todd making it home after a near collision with another truck last winter, what could’ve been worse deer accidents.  Only a knee injury from Andrew’s dirt biking wreck last summer and another near-miss with the car.  Here and there you get news that jolts you.  You notice how close you came to losing it all.  You still wonder if you might.  It’s been that kind of week.  News around me that has woken me up.  Till I’m sitting straight up.  Wide awake from my dream-like state, causing me to question what I’ve been doing all along and if I’ve gotten any of it right.  And what I would change about even just yesterday if I knew I might not have too many tomorrows.

I played two-square with the kids.  I drew them with chalk on the driveway.  Like we used to do when we were that size.  My kind of play.  I really do feel like I’m one of them, a kid for a bit, a pal instead of the bossy mom.  A card game with Bronwyn.  And Callum and his friends.  Met Todd for lunch.  I had them help me with dinner.  I made Todd’s favorite oatmeal raisin cookies.  I found books for Mitchell at the library.  We watched some comedy.  Way past our bedtime.  I sat on the porch alone with Bronwyn in the dusky evening.  With mint chocolate chip ice cream cones.  While everyone else was in town.  Made jam with Todd.  I suppose it’s not all that unusual, we’re simple by nature and so our pleasures are simple.  But I notice that it’s fleeting.  The time between times.  You look up and realize it’s been three weeks since you just sat with a book during the day.  Or penned a journal entry.  Or sent a text not because you need to plan the cross country pasta party, but just to tell someone how much she means to you.  Or cuddled up on his bed and just let him talk.  Or took her out to lunch.  But a lot of times we get it right and take our dinner outside and we linger.  A gloriously simple way to slow down and meld with one another.  Going on walks.  Making pretzels.  Reading stories.  Eating our Sunday sundaes.  Taking a break together, relishing the simple times.  Making time for the simple times.

Because you just never know when your day to say goodbye will come.  It could be in a flash, or you could have some time to finish up loose ends.  But inevitably we will pull together all the tiny ordinary moments we’ve spent with people we love.  And that we’ve shared with people we don’t even know.  A smile to a little kid, a courtesy in busy line, letting two cars in when the traffic’s especially thick.  Small and simple kindnesses, ordinary acts, regular days.  Every day has made a difference.  It’s a million days—more or less—that we’re given as gifts.  To make a difference.  To love.  And be loved.  To show others how cherished they are.  To skip the dumb stuff like worrying about what to wear or finishing the list.  And pay attention to the real stuff like eating dinner together and hugging the kids as much as we can.  Even if they’re taller than us.  I wish I was better at all this.  I’m trying.  But I’m not there.  I need more time.  It’s taking so long to get it right.

The only resource I’ve come to covet is time.  I long for for more years, more days, more minutes.  Because the only thing I do that matters to me when I really boil things down is what I do with people, mostly those in my home, but others too.  I poured out my heart to Him.  Even though He already knows what’s in it.  I’m not ready to move on.  I don’t know many who are.  But I pleaded with Him to let me keep doing what I love.  Let me raise my kids.  Let me stay exactly where I am.  Because even though I’ll be anxious for heaven down the road, I’ve found my heaven for now.  Right where I am.

Create

My 13 year-old daughter shares all sorts of ingenious decorating and organizing tips with me; Pintrest perusal, a favorite hobby.  Even Todd was checking it out the other night, looking up yard ideas.  It’s not like I haven’t peeked; I just don’t have an account or board or whatever it is.  I just don’t want to be dependent on other creative women for my inspiration; feeling that with a little mental time and space we all have the potential to come up with ways to beautify our homes and lives in ways that feel like us.  With a little ingenuity we can corral our possessions in unconventional and attractive containers and displays.  We have it in us to come up with interesting party decorations on our own.  I suppose it’s pride that prevents me from giving in.  But maybe it’s an innate desire to be original, to create on my own, to use my unique perspective and strengths in distinctive ways.  If we’re honest, we’ll admit we all have those stirrings within in us. But it’s easier to tell ourselves we’re not creative, to lean on someone else’s ideas, to believe our contributions are not worth mentioning.  I wonder if the obstacle in not recognizing our own creativity is that we limit our definition of what it means to be creative.

“The desire to create is one of the deepest yearnings of the human soul.  No matter our talents, education, backgrounds, or abilities, we each have an inherent wish to create something that did not exist before.  Everyone can create.  Creation brings deep satisfaction and fulfillment.  We develop ourselves and others when we take unorganized matter into our hands and mold it into something of beauty.  What you create doesn’t have to be perfect.  Don’t let fear of failure discourage you.  Don’t let the voice of critics paralyze you—whether than voice comes from the outside or the inside.  You may think you don’t have talents, but that is a false assumption, for we all have talents and gifts, every one of us.  The bounds of creativity extend far beyond the limits of a canvas or a sheet of paper and do not require a brush or pen or the keys of a piano.  Creation means bringing something into existence something that did not exist before—colorful gardens, harmonious homes, family memories, flowing laughter.”*

I’ll be honest with you, playing Pictionary or Telestrations with me is painful.  But I still love them.  I toyed with the idea of Interior Design at one point in college but abandoned it nearly immediately because I am so bad at drawing.  I am absolutely stunned by the artistic hands of some of my friends.  Truly.  Because it’s so awkward for me.  But that’s maybe the point.  We don’t just need sketchers.  We need people who make us laugh, who can find the humor in obscure places.  We need my friend who brightens weddings and funerals alike with her floral arrangements, another who has the absolute knack for cutting and styling hair, others who can coordinate paint and pillow combinations, my daughter who can make an outfit out of random parts and can re-make an old dress from the 80s into something she’d wear to church.  A friend from yesteryear is an accomplished chef on the side, creating works of art from foods I vaguely recognize.  Several children we’re friends with seem like prodigies to me as they gracefully share their affinity for music.  Others we know compose spontaneously on the guitar and piano, just naturally and seemingly effortlessly.  Others grow beautiful produce.  I think of my dad every time I sit on one of his chairs or couches, plush and durable, true works of art.  My sisters are whizzes in their offices, creating order out of chaos.  My mom is a magician, transforming homes to sparkling showcases in a few short hours.  My almost 80 year-old uncle and aunt assemble massive, yet intricate, colorfully coordinated quilts.  My other friend also manages to spurn out beautiful quilts, with a house full of kids by her side.  Amazing feats.  I think of my son’s ability to comfortably arrange words that help us understand his complex ideas and another son’s desire to work with his hands, making knives from old saw blades.  I love the sewing projects, the art work, the messes, the fishing pole holder, the quiver made out of old drainpipe, bound and laced with leather covering, the bike ramps, the foam moccasins, the hair accessories, the shop benches,  all the ways I see them simply enjoying the process of creating.  Rather than worrying whether their products will be good enough.

I wonder when we stopped believing that we have something to contribute.  When did we decide we aren’t the creative type?  Because as a kid I knew I wanted to be an artist when I grew up because I loved my coloring books so much.  I also wanted to sing.  And be a dancer.  I think I started to see those dreams fade as I started to notice how good other people were at things I wasn’t. I started to believe my small efforts weren’t worthy, they were so unpolished compared to what others were producing.  That mindset kept me from developing my unique gifts, from even trying, from feeling confident about sharing my small part.  But what if we decide to uncover the desires we have?  Take off the dust covers, shake off the cobwebs and just tinker.  Just try something for the pure fun of it, just to enjoy the process of creating?

I’ve been wanting to quilt again, it’s been on my list for the past several years since the kids have all been in school.  But I’m not very good at sewing, I’m still just a novice really.  I let that paralyze me for so many years.  But then I gave myself a pep-talk a couple of years ago.  Just start small.  Simple.  Go back to the basics and just start again.  I wanted a blanket, just something warm and homemade for my afternoon naps.  I felt like being creative, like using my hands again.  I love choosing fabrics, I like the feel of material and ironing out its creases.  I marvel how the random patterns and colors merge.  It warms my heart every time one of the family members curls up with one of the quilts I made.  The corners aren’t always exactly matched.  I don’t know how to do fancy anything.  I’m just getting my feet wet after all these years.  But a dormant feeling in me has woken up, it feels good to make something unique, to use my hands to create something out of nothing.  My quilts are hardly worth talking about and nothing like what my aunt and uncle or friend make.  Hardly works of art.  But, surprisingly, that hasn’t mattered to me.  It just makes me happy to do it.

And this feeling has propelled me to notice other small joys I’ve overlooked simply because they don’t seem very impactful.  I like to make bread for people, to cook for my family, to write, to clean, to work in the yard.  But seen under the umbrella of creativity, I can see why I’ve derived joy from these simple acts.  In tiny ways I’ve been creating.  We all are.

Our friend encourages us, “If you still feel incapable of creating, start small.  Try to see how many smiles you can create, write a letter of appreciation, learn a new skill, identify a space and beautify it.  As you take the normal opportunities of your daily life and create something of beauty and helpfulness, you improve not only the world around you but also the world within you.”

So maybe go back to when you were small, remember what creations brought you joy.  Maybe reframe what you’re already doing and consider how you’re already creating and contributing to the world.  You undoubtably feel something when you’re creating.  Stronger, happier, accomplished, pleased, joyful.  Help your kids experience those same kinds of feelings.  Help them find ways to create.  Allow them to experiment and make messes; because sometimes that's what it takes.  But most of all, teach them how good it feels good to see their creations blessing the lives of others.

see Elder Uchdorf's talk, "Happiness, Your Heritage"

2 minute video clip, "Create," worth a peek

Conflicting values

I sat on it for nearly two weeks.  I told the newspaper office to hold our subscription while we were out of town and I would call to get it started again when we got back. Instead of the regular vacation hold, I took this option to give me some thinking time. Except I couldn’t decide.  I’ve vacillated about this for months, I suppose years in a way.  Because we cancelled it once before.  That lasted about three days.  We were out of sorts without it.  We love getting the paper.  I grew up reading it, my dad delivered newspapers, my grandparents used to pay me to read 3 articles a day, we’ve had the paper even when we were young and right out of school. I treat myself to a USA Today when we’re on road trips.  I want the newspaper industry to stay alive.  And thrive even.  I want to support it.  I can't help but think of the carriers and the writers, all the employees that need jobs.  We believe in the paper.  And yet I hate the amount of paper it uses.  I hate that it costs so much.  I worry that we’re wasteful and some days don’t get to it like we should.  I hate that so much of it is ads that we toss without even unpacking.  I hate that we just pile the whole thing, day after day, into the recycling crate, creating more work and energy for the system.  (Although, I have to say it makes a good fire start and excellent drop cloth for spray painting projects.)  And yet, I love pouring over articles as a family at breakfast.  I love seeing Mitchell, like an old grandpa, paper up high, spread out wide.  I love that he shares his opinions about current issues.  I like that he tells me what’s going on when I haven’t had time to sit down with it yet for the day.  It warms my heart to see them all take turns over the comics that I then turn into wrapping paper.  I like that we can discuss our town and world together in the same way families have done for years before us.  I don’t like the idea of something else to look at on a screen.  I don’t like talk radio.  I want a quiet, unobtrusive venue for obtaining the news.  I like taking a little walk to pick up our paper at the front of our subdivision.  I loved it when my dad would bundle up over Christmas vacation and bring back the paper tucked under his puffy coat arm and lounge contentedly entertained in front of the fire for the next hour.  I’m nostalgic for the ways of yesterday.  I love the smell of ink, the headlines that shout when something is really off in the world.  I love that here in Montana a lot of the front page stories involve animals and natural resources.  I like seeing how different deliverers fold and wrap their wares.  I’m a nerd.  I love most everything about getting the paper.  Except I go back and forth, not sure which value should trump in the quandary of the newspaper.  

I come across issues like this all the time.  Should I buy the bigger container of sour cream or the large block of cream cheese at Costco even though they’re full of fat or should I buy the smaller ones somewhere else that are more expensive but lower fat? Conflicting values: health vs thrift.  I’m up against this all the time.  Although I know we could also argue that low-fat is not necessarily better.  We only buy regular, old-fashioned butter, and I refuse to put applesauce in baked goods.  But in this case I end up skipping the cream cheese and buying the big container of sour cream.  No rhyme or reason.

I bump up against my values again in the cereal aisle.  Weekly.  What with Cinnamon Toast Crunch on sale for just over $4 at Costco, it’s hard to leave it on the shelf.  But if no one’s with me (named Todd), I just leave it and reach for the Grape Nuts or unadulterated Cheerios.  Todd’s told me so many times that I’m about as fun as diarrhea.  Like I’m offended.  Like I don’t know that.  So once in awhile I decide to try to be fun.  As in buying donuts for breakfast for the road trip home.  Instead of the normal fare of granola, fruit, cereal and muffins.  But it’s hard.  Once in awhile I’ll buy the sugar-laden cereals.  But I feel like I’m cheating my family because I know how bad it is for them.  So I go back and forth, trying to be fun but trying to look out for them.  The future them.  But it warms my heart when they’ve eaten their donuts or other oil-filled, processed snack and they start complaining of stomach pain and just not feeling that great.  That happened when my mom insisted on buying them those Hostess cupcakes that they were dying to have while we were waiting in the grocery store line.  I of course said no, how gross.  But they happily sucked them down and it didn’t take long for them to feel the effects.  It’s just a battle of values every time.  Do I provide healthy, feel-good food or cave and let them have junk under the guise of being a fun mom?  You know the answer, we all do.  We mostly try healthy but of course have our treats.  Plenty.  I just don’t know if I can feel good about sending them to school with nothing more than Captain Crunch in their bellies.

This same dilemma arises every time our family goes out to eat or Todd and I meet for lunch.  I say we all order water.  Costs a ton less, leaves room for the food rather than tanking up on empty calories, just a more refreshing choice.  But Todd, who hardly ever ate out as a kid and who rarely got soda when they did, insists on treating everyone.  As part of the experience.  Similarly, I’d rather pack sandwiches on long road trips, a million times cheaper.  I just decided many years ago to stop worrying about it and agree to a Subway stop.  But I always pack chips and drinks for the car.  He wants everyone to get their meal deals inside.  I vote to buy candy bars and bulk-priced sodas (since we know it’s inevitable they’re going to be a part of every road trip) before we leave town.  He is all about the experience of the gas station convenience store.  I get it.  I do.  I just don’t agree.  Conflicting values between the two of us, but also even within myself.  Marital harmony and seeing things from his vantage point vs being efficiently prudent.  I usually concede.  But not without sharing my opinion one more time. $10-20 here and there for the sake of our marriage is completely worth it.  Same reason we’ll skip a church meeting here or there because our marriage needs more attention than the church does.  And I’ll almost always jump back in the truck to meet him in town (even though I was just there) for lunch.  Some things are just worth more than gas money. 

I used cloth diapers with our first three babies, hating the idea of adding diapers to land fills that wouldn’t decompose for years and years.  Or maybe ever.  Depends who you talk to.  But a mom at the playground insisted it was more of an environmental upset to use all that water to wash them.  Who’s to know which impact is worse?  Same with regular dishes vs paper plates.  Similar arguments on paper vs. plastic bags; I’ve read both sides.   I’m never quite sure.  So I make the best decision I can.  Or at least the one that feels most like me.  And leave it at that.

Do we let the kids stay up for an educational, cultural, or just different kind of experience at the expense of sleep?  Ummm… I have to say we almost always do.  I believe in a good night’s sleep.  I know what it does for our family.  I’m completely on board.  But an educational experience… an eclipse, a cool storm, fire works, an unexpected visit from friends, it’s all totally worth missing some sleep for.  I might be a bad mom.  I guess I just figure memory makers come along spontaneously and infrequently, probably not at the best times.  We can always catch up on sleep.  But to log away a cool memory.  That’s worth staying up for.

On the other hand, since we’re talking about sleep, I’ve never figured out which family member is most important, who to value more.  Do I get up early with my 16 year old at 5:30 so he can have company and support as he leaves for the day?  But obviously, since I excel on more like 9.5 hours a night, I notice myself gradually getting grumpier until right after 7 in the evening.  And then I all but check out.  But I still stay up to spend time with Todd.  So I’m just constantly fuzzy and tired.  Maybe this is everyone’s story.  I’m just never quite sure which family member to value more, so I just choose both.  And to go without much sleep.  So when it’s not summertime I’m just a little edgy most of the time.  Awesome.

So I’m aware that the world’s in commotion and there are bigger issues than these.  I know that.  I’m just saying again that I’m inconsistent, even with my values.  But it means I’m thinking, I’m just taking a moment to weigh what’s most important today.  And it changes.  We all do this.  Just because we don’t all end up with the same conclusion as someone else—or as we did on another day—isn’t the point.  The point is that we care enough to think about what we’re doing, that we want to align our actions with what matters most to us—whatever that looks like.   It’s just sometimes hard when it looks like there’s no right answer, that it’s all good.

ps We’re still getting the paper.  And I take a lot of naps.

Sliding out of summer

Our allotment of light lessens by a few minutes each evening.  Raspberries are still just on the cusp of ripening. A slow season to be sure, but the bees tenaciously do their part, a witness that there is still hope.  As long as we can ward off frost for just a few more weeks.  Raspberry picking might be one of our favorite fall harvests, much more tasty than a lettuce leaf or pea pod when you need a little pick-me-up in the fields.  Beans still hang on to their mother stems, slowing maturing and eventually drying out to the familiar black we recognize.  Millions I think.  I wish they would grow a little taller, it’s so far to bend these days.  We’ve got just as many tomatoes as everyone, which is weird since no one really likes them in our family except me.  Avery keeps trying, which is brave of her.  Come to think of it, there’s a lot out there we don’t love, but it’s all healthy and Todd’s figured out which crops feel comfortable here. Callum pedals his wares throughout the neighborhood on his bike with bags hanging off his handlebars, and Avery and I do our part to keep things tidy.  The weeds outnumber us 54 to 2.  Pears have been ordered, along with a few more apples.  We discovered how much we love nearly-dried pears a couple of years ago, and the wafting fragrance of them on our dehydrator in the mornings soothes our senses.  We’ve got a couple newish boxes of peaches we’re trying to make our way through, peach raspberry jam is on the horizon.  If we could ever find a night at home together.  I miss Todd.

The lawn needs to be cut, the onions are drying on the back patio.  Outdoor play equipment litters our yard, bikes easily within grasp.  A game of badminton calls to us, its new birdies still in their plastic holding pen.  The floor’s still sticky from the honey harvest.  Bottles rest nestled on their pantry shelf, honey waiting its turn to become part of granola or bread or as the frosting to a piece of peanut buttered toast. 

We’re squeezing in just one more campfire in Red Lodge, one last trip of the season.  A residual warm breeze beckoning us to the mountains.  A weekend or two left before the ice cream stand on the way up closes for the season.  These are perhaps the saddest goodbyes of all.

In another Saturday or two I’ll wake up to the pops of goose hunters’ guns, a sure sign fall is in the air.  The ones who got away will hook up in formation across a true sky blue backdrop.  Taking turns as leader.

I’ve been trimming out raspberry canes and snipping off flower heads that have fallen asleep standing straight up.  The pumpkin vines have taken up residence in the next box over, draping their fingers over edges, trying not to disturb the vegetation that’s still hanging around.  Our strawberry plants have decided to call it a season, but they’ve grown close the past few months, huddling together against the pending chill.

School started just this week, late for most calendars. Kids traipsed into their newly arranged classrooms, a little off-balance with backpacks too heavy for their small bodies, laden with supplies that used to greet us on wooden desks back in the 70s and 80s.  Supplies that weren’t even invented back then, wipes, zippered plastic bags, white board markers.  I feel like we’re stocking the janitors’ closet along with the pencil boxes.

I struggle to remember what I do, what my days looked like last spring. I feel my tiredness returning.  I’m back to needing naps.  I liked sleeping in a bit in the summer.  Maybe it’s just easier when it’s not dark as the alarm goes off.  I plugged in what variables I could recall, a few hours at school, a couple at the temple, housework on my own, some visits and a meeting.  Bedtime stories, lunches, weeding by myself.  I miss the kids.

The after-dinner hours beg for just a little more playtime with the evening sunbeams, and yet the demands of another school day insist on the semblance of routine.  I teeter but usually cave.  Helping with the honey is educational, fresh air healthy.  Certainly these values trump those of conventional sensibility and an early bedtime.

It’s a lazy start to the school year, not much homework yet, a short week coming off a holiday weekend, warm cloudless skies that tease me, making me believe it’s much earlier than it is.  I hate that my high school son is never home.  Work and cross country remind me of life at his age, each of us sauntering in after the day had essentially been spent.  The kids are getting so big, so cliche, I know.  A new normal with Andrew in college and the little kids needing less and less of me.  I wonder what the year will look like, but for now I’m just about ready to start making soup again.  Our honey patiently waits for its fresh bread loaves to show up.  I know my fall decorations are itching to be freed from their boxes, eager to stretch and take up residence on their familiar perches.  The insides of the house need a brush-up, a little tlc from a neglectful summer full of travels and visitors, the bustle of activities and get-togethers.

So as we head into the first weekend of September, I long to push pause.  And maybe rewind.  For this is my favorite month.  As Thursday is my favorite day.  There should be at least 32 days this month, it should linger and hang about just a little longer than the others.  Because nothing is more beautiful than the yellowing leaves and crisp bookends of the day.  The sky is never more fluid or bright than the one covering Big Sky Country in fall.  These are the days I breathe in deeply.  And sigh.  Mostly satisfied and content, basking in the last of the summer sun.