Iridescence: A Lyric Exploration

   

That which She who shows luminous colors that seem to change when viewed from different angles is called iridescent. To see from a different angle is a matter of work, a choice.

My continued pursuit of shine: I have chosen to see the future from different angles. Colors illuminate paths of possibility without number, and that which is fixed anchors each: my children, friends and loved ones, community and commune-ity, my faith and the love of God, the need to create and to live an extraordinary life.

February  just past: the culmination of months of depression and stress gnawing at the heart of my beautiful everyday lead me first to prayer, then to a notebook, and then to a doctor.

In the prayer: Here I am. This is quiet. This is mine.

In the notebook: a list of the ways my body feels broken.

From the doctor: you are not sleeping enough. You have not slept enough in almost three years. You are overworking your heart, your stomach, your mind. A note. Take it to the therapist downstairs.

In the notebook that night: Plan A, Plan B, Plan C. They all begin with an edict: cut back at work. Sleep more. Finish school. Mamma more. Quiet thoughts more. Stress less.

The brother-in-law was here from LA before the doctor week and when the brother is here things are easier in many ways. He is a persuasive and gentle salesman for the idea of a move to Burbank, where he and the sister live (one of the sisters). No kids of their own. Commune-ity. Big hearts. There are jobs for me there, and good schools for the kids and sunshine. The beach in one hour one way and the mountains (even snow) in the other. On the phone with the sister she says come in July. The thought goes in the notebook. In Plan B-- a red that fades to orange because it would be hasty but alright. Plan A calls for one more year, cap and gown at almost 37, and then deciding, carefully. Assessing all that is, all that has passed. It is soft mint, like lamb's ear or sage buttercup shoots in spring. Plan C ends in a question mark that looks like home, and has no color that stays.

Best-friend texting:

She. Don't make a decision to fill a void.

Me. Voids must be filled. Even if temporarily or changeably. Close family fills a lot of voids.

She. Love you without location.


With the friend-boss:

Me. I need to leave a little. And then maybe leave more. But my segmented heart is half-rooted here. These people! This garden they grow! I don't know.

She. Leave a little. Get some rest. Tell me more and when. Your roots will transplant if you need them to, but I like them here. Finish school.  We'll see.


With the therapist:

Me. It's really about seeing an end in sight when I need to see a beginning behind. And these high                   expectations.

She. You're very hard on yourself. An A- is a good grade. Many students have fewer                                 children and fewer publication credits than you.

Me. But I am a butterfly. I don't have as much time. I have fears that drive me as much as hope.

She. Tell me about the men.

Tuesday just past: the first day I can feel it, this working less. Money is tighter, but after school, I come home. My children come home. That is new. We have almost five hours together before night falls. This has happened before, but as a fluke, not routine. It is calendared now! I let my sugarless-Lent end early and we eat cake to celebrate. We talk about August and the road trip, and I get a Go-Pro steal off Craigslist for the journey. We talk about hometowns, and wander-lust, roots and wings. The light changes, and Plan A calls out: Wait. It may be Burbank. It may be Missoula. It may be everywhere, in all the colors. Get some more rest but keep working hard. See how the light changes if you just hold on to this beautiful Tuesday, this beautiful everyday, and shine.

The Light of Okay

Dear Ones Who Were There (& Still Are),

Last Thursday I celebrated an important anniversary. It was the 2nd rebirth day of my bionic heart. Because social media is both a blessing and an addictive little booger-of-a-curse, Facebook considerately and persistently reminded me of the memories I had to look back on that day. I read love on the page, and encouragement, hope. I read strength in myself that I'd forgotten I have and I read quiet friends at-the-ready should I be too stubborn to ask for help and call. In looking back, I rediscovered a hope and a light.

Lately, I have struggled to feel and experience things as deeply as I would like. I have felt a numbness creeping in. I think this is in part a side-effect of the political season, which always weighs heavily on my shoulders with its conflict and divisions, and in part the urgency I have felt to speak out and fight against the mass injustice of the world. The poverty. The cruelty. The hatred. The ignorance. The shame.

This is not wrong, but if imbalanced against gratitude it is a heavy way to live. It is a dark way to live, when always, always gratitude for what is good and beautiful and going okay has been my soul's light.

I lost my balance.

But, as I was reminded on Thursday, I am loved, I am blessed, I am grateful, I'm alive! and so much is so much more than alright. I cannot fix the world in this moment. But I can revel in what is working, in beautiful moments and connections, in the eternal beings of my children, in the sensory richness of every day. I can build from that foundation a base of objection and of action, with the light of knowing that all is not lost and much will turn out okay in the end.

Thank you, shining ones, for the love and the moments. You're okay. Bask in that light.

2016: Shine

I am not a resolution maker. Or, rather, I suppose I once was, but when I discovered, after years of trial and error, that I am not a resolution keeper, I resolved to restructure my efforts. (Did she just make a resolution?) I have learned that my life is a work of art, and I don't do well defining it rigidly. I function much more happily within the flexible structure of over-arching themes and "knowns" about myself and others around me, which are always open to discovery and growth. So last year, in lieu of a resolution, I chose a New Year's Theme. It was "House in Order," based not so much on the R.E.M. song Wolves, Lower  as the scripture D&C 88:119

Organize yourselves; prepare every needful thing; and establish a ^bhouse, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God;

although the song gets stuck in my head every time I think about it.

Putting my house in order over the last year has been an imperfect process, and has led me on paths I did not expect. I knew when I chose the theme that it was necessary in my life in so many ways. The kids and I had been on our own for a year and the dust was beginning to settle. The rubble needed to be cleared away and that had implications spiritual, financial, educational, emotional... in every way. I did not expect, on January 1 2015, that this commitment would lead me to a new position at work (I see it as connected, though others may not), a new car, some eliminated debt, the reduction of our material possessions by well over 50%, and, in the fall, moving from a house we adored to a smaller, more affordable and more manageable apartment closer to work, church, and (for me) school. But I trusted in the process. I trusted in the refining pain and the celebratory freedom that came, and this year, through ups and downs, I have felt so very much ALIVE.  The children continued to heal and grow and find order in their own self-awareness, the house of their souls. And though it is not definitively laid out before us, I can see the order of a future-- a beautiful future for my little family ahead.

This year, the theme I have chosen is, simply, "Shine." The thought bowled me over as I was preparing a Christmas lesson for my Sunbeams class at church (three and four year olds) and contemplating the star of Bethlehem. Phrases such as "goodness and light" and words such as "holy" and "glorious" rang in my mind. I knew that this year, 2016, would be about shining my light.

What that means to me: It means bringing, in any way I can, light into the lives of others, my children first of all. It means being unafraid of giving, loving, sharing, seeking, growing, risking, failing, and repeating in a way that adds up to a life which might inspire someone. Even one someone. It means shaking off anything that holds me back, hides my light, or makes me afraid. It means accepting both pain and happiness, hard work and vital play as necessary to illuminate the soul. To shine. It means flying like a fragile burning ember against the dark, on the hope of being someone's wising star.

And I *might* just try again to write about it all here, like I used to...but with more SHINE.

Love,  

Alive

     No, not the book/movie wherein the soccer players eat their dead teammates while stranded in the Andes (that's Alive, right?). I'M talking about me. I'm alive. I haven't taken fingertips to keypad for over a month on this here blog, and I'm blaming that mostly on my fun bout of bronchitis-while-pregnant, but here I am now, alive and kicking typing. And not only am I alive, but for the first time this fall (my favorite season...I may have mentioned that once or twice...), the land around me feels alive and beautiful, even as it prepares to enter the sleeping death of winter. For nearly two months our valley has suffered heat, drought, and the choking, stagnating smoke of the Sawtooth Wilderness fire, keeping us all (well, the smart ones at least) inside and longing for cool breezes and rain and the damp earth smell of autumns past. A death that is in so many ways alive. And finally it has has arrived!

   
     We celebrated that earth life cycle this weekend in a way our family has come to love: our third annual outing at the PEAS Farm Fall Festival, where we engaged in fresh cider sipping, pumpkin picking, pig observing, chicken squawking, playground romping and tractor hay riding under a stormy sky.

 Last year at Fall Fest! Look how much my munchkins have changed! 

 Why, yes rugged tractor man who looks like a skinny James Franco, I would like to know more about kale and rye grass and garlic.

I  also indulged in plenty of sweater and cute boots spotting

(look at that adorable yellow hand-knit! I need to learn to knit this winter...) but it is hard to take a person's picture without them knowing it, so, alas, I captured only this one.

     The next day our weekly Sunday drive took us to Garnet Ghost Town, in the Blackfoot River Corridor, where the silence and the chill and the turning of the Tamarack Pines whispered softly of autumn and beautiful decay. And while the baby in my womb kicked and rolled, the kiddos in the back seat giggled and sang, and my husband's warm hand softly tickled the back of my neck, I felt wonderfully, undeniably, alive.

I hope you feel that this fall. 

xo

Camping Glacier

     I love camping for so many reasons.

(Me with three reasons right here.)

       Sleeping outdoors, even in our own backyard, can be an amazingly refreshing experience, but I've found when I can sleep outdoors in the wilderness, where no lights outshine the stars, no human-made sounds overpower nature's own nocturnal soundtrack, no machines change the temperature of the night air, I am more than refreshed. I am inspired. Cooking and eating outdoors always makes food taste better. And, for me, organizing a space for my family to live in, a space to meet our needs, is like playing Little House in The Woods. I get giddy with nesting, homesteading excitement when we find the campsite that, for a few days, becomes ours.

(Our little campground home.)

     We all get dirty, letting soap-free lake or river swimming serve as our only baths, but despite the dirt, camping always makes me feel beautiful, natural and clean.
     I love to see the effect of wilderness on my children and my husband, and to feel it in me; to know, when we are stripped of our phones and computers and toys and comforts, who we become. Laurelei and Riley never fail to inspire me with the things they find to do; the play things and places they make in forests and on riverbanks and lake shores. Brian and I work together without effort to plan and cook and tend, laughing, seeming suddenly to have energy and patience we have only on the best days at home. Is that the distance from worries? The lack of deadlines and schedules? The not knowing what time it is and having that be okay? And sleeping on the hard ground (let's face it, camping pads and air mattresses don't really do all that much) is okay. Even that squirrel who throws pine cones at our tent every morning before dawn is more than okay.
     Whatever it is about camping that does this to me, I crave it. And we, as a family camp at least once a summer; more often if we can. This last weekend we spent four days camping in one of the most beautiful places God ever put in man's fumbling care: Glacier National Park.

     The last time the kids and I were in the GNP, it was two years ago with Nanna and B couldn't be there. I fell in love with the park, and, even though I don't think L and R have very clear memories of that trip, the vague impression of familiar beauty and wonder was still upon them as we explored this time around.

(This is my favorite shot from that long-ago trip. Look how little they were!)

     

   I've wanted to take B there ever since. He's a loyal Yellowstone groupie who vowed his affections would not be swayed, but by the end of our four days, I think a soft spot for Glacier had made its way into his bison-and-geyser-loving heart. And me? My heart was full. 

    How could it not be?

    We came home with sunburns (Mamma remembered sunblock on three out of four hikes--no one's perfect), tired legs and feet, sleeping bags to be aired, coolers to be scrubbed, and roughly eight loads of dirty laundry I almost didn't want to wash. I didn't want to lose the smoky, piney, forest smell. But as B and I unloaded our little car and cleaned up the remains of a trip not to be forgotten, all I could think was: When can we go again?

   What places and family trips have filled your heart this summer?

xo

Better Than The Best

     Our Sunday drive this past weekend took us to the Lee Metcalf National Wildlife Refuge down the Bitterroot Valley, where our intended one-or-two-hour outing turned into a five-hour, linger-happily-in-the-wilderness family adventure. With the golden light in the shadow of St. Mary's peak, the lush green grasses of spring in the riparian zone, and piles of soft, white, washed-up-by-the-river sand to play in, no one wanted to go home.

     Red-winged blackbirds, which are my favorite for their throaty, warbling song,  danced around us on the cattails, warning us from their reedy nests.

     All the female Yellow-headed blackbirds gathered together to chat while their mates remained vivid guardians at the water's edge.

     We watched a Great Blue Heron catch fish, patiently waiting, tilting his head and bob-walking slowing through the water, then striking with a speed that was thrilling to see. The kids jumped and cheered, then gasped as a larger bird of prey (Golden Eagle?) swooped at it in an attempt to steal the hard-won meal.

     There was a moment, as we walked along the swollen Bitterroot river, the kids running ahead, finding treasures among the sticks and rocks and wildflowers, Brian and I strolling behind, when I thought, "It only keeps getting better, doesn't it? This Mammahood thing." And then immediately I knew that thought wasn't quite right...because if I deemed the moments that came each new day as better, wasn't I then somehow discounting those that came before? And those moments--baby on my breast, tiny hand clinging to my finger, little sleeper on my shoulder, preschooler proudly reciting ABCs-- those were the best.

     But these moments I have now--thinkers who tell me about their inventions over breakfast, bookworms who beg to go to the library, naturalists who keep pet worms in an old dirt-filled rain boot on the back deck--they are the best too. I think it's the fact that the old moments never leave me; the memories simply become the root from which the new moments grow. The babies who are our children who will someday be our teenagers and our grown-ups will always, at the heart of everything that is our family, still be our purpose and joy. And for Brian and I, that means that every moment (even the hard ones!) can be better than the best.

     Hope your Mamma moments are better than the best.

xo

Turning Eight

     Last Friday, though I am still not sure exactly how we got here so quickly, my daughter turned eight.
Eight.
      When did eight years go by? When did she become old enough to reference books she's read as a party theme? And say things like, "It's common knowledge..." (Actually, I take that last one back. She's been audaciously verbal since she was two.)
       This weekend, our family's lives were filled with all things Laurelei, from her birthday party, to the arrival of her Great-Grandma Jarmin, to her baptism--one of the most important events in the life of a child of our faith. It was a memory-making weekend for this Mamma...and it started with a coconut cream cake.
       Just a cake. We had decided this year the baptism would be the big deal, and as far as birthday celebrations go, a coconut cream cake (like the one Sunny Baudelaire makes for her sister Violet's birthday in A Series of Unfortunate Events--books Laurelei happens to love)  with family would do nicely. But then I happened to think about The Beatrice Letters... and how the letters in The Beatrice Letters (letters of the alphabet rather than the correspondence variety) would make an intriguing banner to hang above a table where a coconut cream birthday cake was being served.... This led, of course to a harmless googling of "ideas for Lemony Snicket birthday party" and the deal was sealed. Not that I found many ideas; but my own just kept popping into my head and I couldn't help relaying them to Laurelei, who added her own, and soon, even though at this point the birthday was only a week away, the party hostess gene in each of us took control, and we knew we had an irresistible theme.
     I drew up this invitation, based on the "Dear Reader" letters that appear on the back of each volume of the books, snagging artwork from the jacket flap and end pages (sorry Mr. Helquist! Seriously, big fan = me) and we rushed to get them out to a few friends and the family members we already knew would be there.

   
    Decorations came via the aforementioned Beatrice Letters (poster and letter cut-outs) and, as per Laurelei's request, paper cut-outs of VFD crows, and big bowls of peppermint candies.

                   
    The original plan was to hold the party outside in, as the invitation says, a "Caligari Carnival" tent, despite the forecast rain, but when the day came and the temperature outside dropped to only 45 degrees, we knew we couldn't do something so villainous to our guests ;-). Indoors, in our little living space, the influx of guests/hostages raised the warmth of the room enough that the words literally began melting off the cake. When your party theme is A Series of Unfortunate Events, however, any little thing that goes wrong like that can simply be counted as part of the plan. Games included Laugh, Count Olaf, and a somewhat disorganized, circular shouting-out of words that begin with V, F, or D. And even though Laurelei, Riley and I (and Brian to a certain extent) were the only ones who really understood all the references to the books, I would call the whole shindig a success. The birthday girl was happy, and that's what counts.

     The next day, the most important part of the weekend arrived. As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, we believe that eight years old is the age of accountability--the age when a child begins to be able to have a clear sense of right and wrong, and be responsible for the choices they make. Consequently, eight years old is the age when children of our faith are baptized, by immersion, in the same way Jesus Christ was baptized by John the Baptist in the river Jordan, so many years ago, as an example to us all.
     Saturday morning, our Laurelei made the choice (yep, we gave her the choice) to follow His example.

     The baptismal covenant is one of promises to live her life as an example of Christ's love and kindness and service to all...and in turn to have the Holy Ghost to be with her always. Brian and I taught her the importance of this promise, that it was not to be taken lightly, and I can truly say that I feel Laurelei's understanding of her own eternal connection to our Heavenly Father and purpose in this mortal life is deeper than even my own. I believe she did not make these promises lightly. And we are so proud of her. We could not be more grateful to be her parents or love her more. 

     I made--or, rather, altered--her baptismal whites using a bit of the same fabric that I used to make her baby blessing gown. Her after-baptism dress I made using some of Brian's old white dress shirts, which is especially symbolic as LDS priesthood holders, like Brian, wear white shirts to signify their reverence and respect for the power they hold, that their families share, and it is by this priesthood authority that ordinances like baptisms are performed.

     To add to the beauty of the day, we were able to share the baptismal ceremony with two of Laurelei's closest friends who also turned eight this month. I cannot begin to describe the spirit of power and purity that absolutely radiated from these three faithful young girls as they stood together, just after being baptized, each individually, and sang "We'll Bring the World His Truth." I am not being quaint or sentimental when I say it was the power of angels. 

(CTR stands for Choose The Right)

     The day was, like our little girl, bright and beautiful and full of love. We were surrounded by friends and family and the Spirit of the Lord and it was a day full of moments I hope to never forget. Moments I hope Laurelei will never forget. I'm glad I could share them with you.

xo    

p.s. I almost forgot another blessing of the weekend! Just in time to wear to his sister's baptism, Riley's missing Easter bow tie appeared! So I can finally share a photo of the whole ensemble...bow tie tutorial by A Lemon Squeezy Home and Out-On-The-Town jacket pattern from Sewing for Boys.  Handsome and sweet. That's my boy.