Returning from vacation

A pretty rough start, late on the first leg of an all-day journey, but in the chaos of the past season, I’m not surprised we forgot to confirm flight times, failing to note that our 10:22 a.m. departure had moved without us to 9.  Hailing from a tiny regional airport, the next one out wouldn’t be till 1:30.  But we were on vacation.  Already.  Having dropped off three kids at various spots on the way to the airport, changing sheets and towels and putting dinner in the crockpot for my mom’s arrival later that morning, and packing late into the the previous night (because we decided hanging out with friends trumped being prepared), I was ok with a little quiet time as a voyeur in our own little airport.  For four hours.  Todd was tense, visibly frustrated.  It would all work out, I kept telling him.  To his annoyance.  Our late start triggered a domino effect, and we were routed through Denver to Chicago and supposedly Baltimore.  But because of a mechanical failure we stayed overnight in Chicago (deposited by a wicked-fast cab driver weaving his way through late-night traffic at a slightly oldish hotel about 20 mins from the airport).  Left at 6 the next morning to make our eventual way to DC.  But that’s how vacations go.  Not like the glossy brochures.  Not always according to itinerary.  A vacation is a deviation from normal life, an opportunity to experience life in a different way.  For just a little while.  So in my eyes, we had already been doing that the minute we said goodbye to our lanky driver of a son as he left us at the airport.  Todd and I were alone together.  On our way to a continuing ed vet conference in North Carolina with a few days tacked on to celebrate our twenty year anniversary.  

Once we landed in Washington and left the confines of the airport rental car lot, the stresses of the city quickly relegated themselves to a distant memory.  Trees shrouded our paths, and we discovered the wonderland of Southern color, having arrived just at the peak of fall tourism.  Over the next four days we meandered through Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina, taking in the vistas of three national parks and spoiling ourselves with Bed and Breakfast retreats.  The same type of trip we embarked upon years earlier as newlyweds, feeling just as we did back then: too young for this sort of thing but not caring.  Enjoyed luscious breakfasts, cozy old-fashioned rooms, HGTV, staying up, sleeping in, and antique shopping.  Conserving where we could, we dined on trail mix and baby carrots for lunch from the grocery store but found quaint local restaurants for dinner, a challenging and rewarding endeavor each night.  We hiked mountain trails immersed in fall color, providing enchanting views new to our Western eyes.  Cascading waterfalls tempted us; we conceded, awe-inspired, never tiring of water streaming over shiny rocks and cliffs, meandering creeks and still rivers.  It was all so rejuvenating, soothing.  Cathartic. 

We perked our ears at random conversation, delighted by the drawl and cadence of the South.  We toured homesteads, mills, and farms.  We happened upon an obscure mountain cemetery plot bearing tombstones with no names and woke to birds right outside our sleepy bedroom windows every chilly morning.  In one B&B we camped out in a room from the 1800s furnished with a rustic, perfect-to-us, open-faced wood-burning fireplace, the ideal complement to the night air we beckoned in.  A dreamy combination.

We sampled grits and spinach cakes, fish tacos and fried chicken on waffles.  Hailing from Montana, we’re partial to beef and potatoes, but we felt pampered and spoiled at every turn.  We collected pinecones and acorns.  And purchased our souvenir of choice: national park cds; we have one from every park we’ve visited.  A few pens and candy for the kids, never anything fancier than that.  We tried on Little Switzerland and Gatlingberg, TN, paying $10 just to park our car for a rare lunch out.  Relished and savored Five Guys, not caring that it wasn’t indigenous fare; but we couldn’t abide the harshness of the town and quickly found a way back to the slow and winding Blue Ridge Parkway.  We likewise tickled our senses with downtown Asheville, NC, but with a similar exit.

One of the most interesting detours was an hour spent at the Dutch Girl laundromat in a seedy part of Asheville, about half-way through our trip, furnishing the ideal time to catch up with our college freshman son on the phone.  A natural people-watcher, I noted the various patrons, some who had a story or two to tell, having seen some life; a few middle-aged single men; couples from various countries, a young mother-daughter duo.  This breather reminded me of all the hours I’d spent in laundromats throughout my life, and I soaked it all in, grateful to trade bundles of traveled-in clothes for piles of fresh wares.  Truly lifted my spirits, as I imagine it does for most others who haven’t always had the luxury of clean clothes.  Something I really do appreciate, even on a good day at home with facilities right downstairs.  Just a note-worthy side trip.

Our laundry hour passed, and we basked in yet another evening without constraints.  Days continued to indulge us with the symphonies of crunching leaves and soothing creeks on their way to becoming waterfalls.  We knew no one, a freeing realization holding us to no standard, no worries about what we wore or looked like.  We were completely alone with each other, careless about concerns back home, simply completely content in our days together.

But in a still moment, alone in a charming Southern hotel lobby while Todd was in classes, I wondered what I thought.  Decidedly I felt rich.  Pampered, at ease, relaxed, loved, at peace.  But lacking.  I knew I loved these carefree days.  We were living a life from pages of our Country Living magazine. I realized if I continued much longer I’d come to resent this plush life that provided no opposition, no work, no contribution or service.  A life of leisure yet without focus.  But I savored our time away wholeheartedly because I knew it was temporary, simply a respite from what matters most.

I missed the association with people I know intimately, not just at a small-talk breakfast table or on the couch beside me in the lobby waiting for an airport shuttle.  Mildly and temporarily gratifying, but nothing like the longing I have to know and be known, hearts intertwined and willing to share.  Being a community member satisfies a desire to belong, whether it’s a school, church, neighborhood, family, or town association.  To be anonymous in a crowd leaves me lonely and hungry for something deeper.

A vacation by definition is short-lived, a bit of time-off from the pressures of everyday life.  And so it was just that.  Admittedly, it wasn’t easy to leave the rolling hills and waters, crisp mornings and leaves, but I inhaled deeply, impressing the details of our memories within the recesses of my mind, to be retrieved at a later time.  I wasn’t exactly excited to leave what we’d fallen in love with, like cutting off a whirlwind romance, but I anticipated the customary joy in feeling arms of loved ones squeezing us, purposeful work, a home craving attention.  I yearned to serve, to assess needs up close, to be nearby to help where needed, to surround myself with friends who have become like family and to care for my own little chickadees who enrich my every days like no shopping center or fancy restaurant meal ever could.

So as we returned to our stack of mail dutifully collected throughout the week, worries we’d shelved for several days, and a calendar filled with commitments rather than colorfully decorated leaf trails, I’m neither sorry we went or let down that we’ve came home.  I love both experiences and parts of life.  Exquisitely!  I’m rejuvenated from trying on a new culture and being in love.  Logged memories like these have a natural way of carrying us through the heavier periods of real life, of brightening inevitable gray days down the lane.  I can’t help but marvel at the precise timing of this particular trip, the abundant beauties we never tired of, and the confirmation of the love and friendship we’ve been blessed with for over twenty years.  All orchestrated to strengthen us and to remind us of the beautiful life we already enjoy.  Back home. 

Regular brushing

I remember when I was little asking my mom if she was going to brush her teeth a litlte extra since she was heading to her dentist appointment, and she taught me that no, she wasn’t going to do anything she hadn’t been doing all along, she brushed and flossed everyday, even going so far as to invest in one of those electric brushes.  Confident that she’d been doing her part throughout the days and months leading up to her appointment, it didn’t matter if a dentist was going to check her work or not.  Interesting.

It seems like when changes come that we aren’t anticipating, small hardships that seem to warrant a little extra support from the heavens, that we should up our efforts, give a little more, do something extra to prove our devotion and commitment.  Showing we deserve the blessings we long for.  And are petitioning for.

But aren’t we doing the parts already?  Or shouldn’t we?  Why should anticipating a day at the dentist make us scrub a little harder and why should a little hiccup in our life’s plans suddenly cause us to look to Him in a new light?  In desperation.  Haven’t we been taught to brush and pray, to floss and to do our part to develop a deep and abiding relationship with Him everyday?

I notice that when a challenge shows up I’m all of a sudden face to face with myself.  I tentatively look at my recent past, hesitantly assessing how I’ve been doing.  And to be honest, in a really difficult time I even wonder if I can muster the energy to do more than I’ve been doing.  I wonder if what I’m currently doing and have been doing is enough.  I’m pretty good at brushing.  And flossing. But I always kind of wonder in the deep recesses of my mind if it’s been enough. And if I need to do more.

I’ve never been great at cramming. I’m a slow and steady student.  The way I am in life.  But maybe there’s a pop quiz, a life issue I need immediate help with.  I have to rely on what I’ve been doing, the studying I’ve made time for, the relationships I’ve developed.  Oil in my lamp.  Drop by drop.  There isn’t a Costco gallon size available, it takes time and small but consistent contributions.

And so I hope the deposits I’ve made will be sufficient when I need to draw on them. 

Because I don’t know how to pray harder than I already do.  I don’t know that leaving my family to spend more hours in the temple is what’s required when what we really need is more time at our house together.  I don’t know that I should sequester myself in silence for hours on end devouring the scriptures for the first time when what I really feel to do is to use them as an example of how to serve others.   

A few extra swishes of that pink fluoride the morning of or an extra yard of floss isn’t going to change things when my dentist is going to be checking my teeth within the hour, and no matter how I tried to quickly rehash several chapters of my child development text as a college sophomore on the steps of the testing center with the test looming, I knew it was basically pointless.  You can see this principle at work throughout our average days.  We might submit to a crash diet before a wedding or wrestling weigh-in, but we know better, that it’s not healthy and won’t last.  People do the same with friendships, calling only in crisis but not putting in the regular care the relationship needs.  A garden doesn’t live with a once-a-month deep watering, and our souls don’t thrive with a once-a-week worship service that does nothing to change how we behave throughout the week.  The principle is the same: most relationships and successes are based on small but consistent deposits and care.  Not only in anticipation of a harvest or a sound report or because you might need something from a friend, but because there is comfort and peace in knowing you have done your part and there is joy along the way whether it’s the good feeling in our innards when we choose vegetables over chips, teeth that don’t ache, satisfaction from actually learning and assimilating new ideas in a college class or simply lovely memories and close, loving relationships.

But here’s what I’m learning.  So maybe the dentist has some advice for us about how to cut down the tarter, and maybe I didn’t get Piaget’s stages in the right order, and maybe I asked amiss, knowing I really hadn’t been doing my part to build the relationship like I wanted.  But that’s the beauty of life and learning and tests and check-ups!  We get to try again!  We are still here, it’s not the final!

Not only that, but He isn’t the dentist or our professor.  He is merciful.  All He asks is that we come to Him.  Offering nothing but our contrite and humble heart.  He will dismiss our negligence, remembering nothing of our forgiven past, just so grateful to have us close once again.  And the other parts of life are like this too.  We can change and decide we’ll brush better, study more consistently, forget the diet of the day and add carrots and the stairs.  We can ask a friend we may have used or neglected if we can start anew.

So a challenging time is a blessing.  Because it wakes us up.  It forces us take a look at ourselves and assess where we are.  And then we can feel confident that yes, we have made deposits, we have done our best to be consistent.  Not perfectly.  Definitely far from perfectly.  But I feel that He’s accepted my small and simple devotions, that my relationship with Him is close, it’s good.  And I feel that with friends and my scriptures too.  I, like you, have felt the joy that comes along the way.  And so even though I do feel I can do better in all facets of my learning and life and relationships, I feel like my small and simple offerings have laid the foundation, that He is no stranger, that He is as close today as He always has been.  Over the years I have come to know and love and trust Him, so that in a difficult time I already have Him as my dearest ally and don’t need to brush extra now that the hygienist is calling my name.

A toolbox for all occasions

I’m no expert.  Like I always tell you.  On anything.  But I’ve been around for awhile.  Learned a few things.  Had some heartbreaks.  A few set-backs.  But here’s what I’m learning about life’s  struggles.

There’s no sliding scale that tells you which ones are really hard and which ones are the ones you don’t need to stress about.  If it’s big to you, it’s significant.  Even if it wouldn’t be to someone else.  And oddly enough, just because you’re supposed to be broken up about something isn’t enough of a reason to act contrary to what you’re naturally feeling.  Who’s to say what’s normal or what your reaction should be, what’s hard or what’s easy?

The tools are the same.  Regardless of what you’re dealing with. Whether I’m dealing with a life-long struggle with jealousy, the death of my dad, or an overall question of purpose.  Maybe not trials in the traditional sense, but maybe little hiccups, a hill here and there to take note of.  So I’ve cried over misunderstandings with friends.  I’ve worried about my kids, are they even assimilating any of the spiritual teachings we’ve exposed them to?  What’s my part to play in the world?  I’ve been worried for my sisters with breast cancer and unemployment.  I’ve cried over regrets, not having been a better daughter to my dad, feeling so sad that it’s too late to make things better.  I’ve had hard days filled with guilt and pride and loneliness.  So maybe they aren’t hard things like a divorce or losing a child to an accident, but I’ve pulled out my tools, always certain I have what I need.

It’s not a large box, just a basic toolkit. Rudimentary supplies for both the apprentice and skilled laborer alike.  Accessible to all.

When I find myself wondering what to do with a challenge, it’s just natural to become a little introspective.  I can’t help but wonder if I’ve done something to contribute to the problem.  What part did I play in the misunderstanding, the sore throat I’m coming down with, why my younger kids don’t like to read, why the cars are all falling apart, and why doesn’t our money stretch further?  Just important to me to assess the information at hand.  And a lot of times, yes, I’ve contributed to the problem.  I said something flippant or indulged in gossip, I’ve stayed up a little too late a few too many times and run myself down.  I haven’t been as diligent with the younger set in our reading as I was with the older ones, we ran the car without oil for who knows how long, I’ve been a little careless with our money lately, we’ve had a few too many treats.  So yes, these are things I can take issue with and improve.  Learn from, do better next time, regroup and move forward trying again.  A small but natural exercise, recognizing that sometimes we’ve helped create a problem.

But a lot of times life just happens.  It’s not really our fault that rocks hit our windshields or that appliances break.  All at the same time.  Sometimes we have no idea we’ve said something wrong.  People get sick and others die.  Some years there’s an early frost that kills the garden. Occasionally a kid is contrary.  Thankfully, the tools I’ve relied on for years have helped me with all the scenarios, big and small.

I look upward.  I wonder what my part to do now is.  I ask Him about it.  I pray for people near and far who are struggling with such hard, hard things.  Families falling apart, health deteriorating, people losing their faith, accidents, set-backs I can’t even fathom.  I pray for our little family.  For strength and peace.  And guidance.  And to align my will with His.  Thankful for whatever He thinks we’re ready for.

I look to His word and counsel.  I want to know what He has for me.  But I’m not very good at this part.  I dabble instead of immerse sometimes.  Because I’m not sure where to start.  I listen to a lot of good talks, I read inspirational messages.  And I cling to the words of prophets and apostles.  And these help so  much.  But I know He has more for me.  When I’m ready to sacrifice and really study, to engage, to feast.  Because it’s worked before.  It just takes a little more effort on my part and I get distracted so easily.  Sigh.  But I soak myself in His spirit.  At church.  In the temple.  In my secret closet.  He always meets me.  He’s wherever I’m willing to go.  

I look to loved ones for support.  My family.  A couple of close friends.  My church family.  I’m pretty open in what I write, but things closest to my heart are reserved for my husband and sisters and mom.  A couple of close girlfriends.  And Heavenly Father.  They know me and my intentions.  They’ve forgiven me and have allowed me to walk imperfectly.  It’s reciprocal, and I trust them with my heart.  They are my earthly angels who never let me down.

I look for ways to get busy. I open my eyes instead of shutting them to the world, which is maybe a natural inclination.  Instead I’ve learned it’s better to ask who needs what.  What will cheer up someone else?  What does He need my hands to do today?  Easiest way I know to work through something that’s weighing on my mind.

And I write about it all.  In letters.  In my journal.  In the margins of my scriptures.  Quotes that touch me go in my quote book.  But that’s just me.  Words help me sort through my feelings and give me perspective.  And I hope—oh, how i  hope—they will help someone else down the road.  To avoid the pitfalls and mistakes I’ve made.  To learn from my errors so they don’t have to face the same struggles.  Especially my children.  A mother can’t help but hope for her children to be better than she has been, and so I record my failings and weaknesses and ups and downs for them.

Just a handful of tools that have worked on projects of all sizes in my life.  Problems of all proportions.  A small toolbox, just the basics.  I suppose you could try the fancy ones out there.  You could try shopping or drinking or being spiteful and bitter.  You might want to try blaming someone or looking for revenge.  You could try to show God you don’t need Him if this is how things are going to go. You could wallow and become shallow.  You could use those tools.  But we know that eventually they rust and break and become useless.  And get thrown away.

The toolbox our Father has given us is a gift.  It’s up to us to either tuck these tools away in a dusty garage and decide they are old-fashioned and too simple for the task we’re up against or to keep our box handy, close by, with the lid open, accessible.  Because it doesn’t matter if a picture needs straightened or our vision needs a tweak.  If a car is dying or a loved one is fading.  These are the tools at our disposal.  No job is too small or too big for the tools He’s given us.  I know that because I’ve used them.  It’s simply up to us.  

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.