Merry Christmas

I just wanted to let y’all know that I believe in Christmas. I believe in a God who cares about us, not one who has left the building. Sometimes I feel that He is silent, and yet through this whole year of trying to figure out what He wants for me, I’ve never doubted His benevolence. If He hasn’t seen fit to remove my burdens, I have no doubt that He has something else good in mind for me. He constantly shows me His love. I don’t doubt Him.

The God I know and love sent His son as a love letter to the world. I accept the gift and am full of gratitude.

I hope this Christmas you will feel the worth of that gift and the joy of accepting it and being grateful. I wish you all peace.

Old Friends

I have this weird thing about hanging on to people. I hate to let them go out of my life. Even the ones that I have consciously made a decision to let go (OK, ex-boyfriends, really)—I still find myself wondering about them. Where are they? Did they get married? Did they marry well? Do they still love me, a little, deep down? Are they successful?

I feel sadness about the people who used to be in my life but are no longer. Even just passing acquaintances, co-workers, old visiting teachers whose names I can’t remember. I have the world’s biggest Christmas card list because I can’t stand to let go of people.

Why? Why? Is it a shallow attempt at fame? Trying to prove that I have made a splash on the world, that people would miss me if I were gone? Don’t know, don’t know.

Part of all this is that I often re-live scenes from the past. Moments of triumph, sometimes, but often it is the really embarrassing things that haunt me. And just plain old tiny moments that seem fraught with nostalgia now. Walking to class at BYU, for example (it seems like I have the most in number and the most vibrant memories of my college life—why is that?). But all of this reminiscing has led me to sugar-coat some things in retrospect, I’m sure. Like my friendship with B.

B was a junior high and then high school friend. I don’t know what brought us together other than we had the same English class from 7th to 12th grades. By 12th grade, though, we had moved on, found other groups of friends. But in junior high, especially, we were both loners, I guess, and we clung to each other. We shared the same sense of humor. I spent more time picking out the right Christmas gift and card for her than for everyone else put together, because it was so IMPORTANT that I make her laugh. I’ve been thinking about her today because I’ve never forgotten one Christmas card she gave me that said: “Wee fish ewe a mare egrets moose panda hippo gnu year.” We did a project together about advertising. I remember trying to get our pink milky liquid to coat the inside of a beaker which represented a stomach, trying to imitate the animation in the pepto-bismol commercial (“coats, soothes, relieves”).

It’s weird to think of how much time I spent with her and how little I ever really knew her. For example, I’m still not sure if she was LDS or not. Seems a pretty bizarre thing not to know about someone considering we both grew up in Salt Lake. I can’t remember though—was she in seminary with me?

Anyway, I still send her a Christmas card. But I have no idea how she is. I’m sad about that. Wherever you are, B, thanks for putting up with me. I hope your life is good. (I suppose there is the tiniest chance you are reading this, since I put my blog address on my Christmas letters last year. If you are, I'm sorry I never really knew you. I regret that.)

P.S. I have a fantastic recording of New York Voices singing their own arrangement of the Paul Simon tune “Old Friends.” I highly recommend it. I love vocal jazz. When I discovered vocal jazz, it was really like running into an old friend. It was like I had always known and loved it without knowing it existed yet.

Gifts

This month I finished Zenna Henderson’s “Ingathering” stories. I hear that she had an LDS background. Anyone know more about that? Anyway, the main characters in her People stories belong to a race that had to leave their home planet because it was dying. The stories are about the experiences of the refugees who arrive on earth and try to find each other and assimilate to life here. The People are just like humans, EXCEPT that they have Gifts. (They call them “gifts, signs and persuasions.”) Each one of them is born with at least one Gift, and it is exciting for them as they grow to discover which gift they have. (These include things like the ability to calm others, heal them, direct space travel, etc.) And then there are a few Gifts that all of them have (being able to fly/float).

One of the things I enjoyed pondering most about these stories is the way that people treat Gifts when they are confident that each individual’s gift comes from God, and the dispensing of gifts has nothing to do with the worthiness of the receiver. If we truly all acknowledged the source of our gifts, where would be the place for pride? How much more generous would we be towards each other? Sometimes wealthy people are reluctant to share what they have because they worked so hard to get it, and it seems to them that others are not working as hard. But what if they recognized that the ability to work hard, the health to work hard, the emotional strength to persevere—all of those are gifts from God as well?

If I truly believed that any talent I have in writing, for example, came from God and not because I was particularly worthy or special, would I treat my writing differently? Would I spend so much time envying those who are obviously more talented than I? Would I work harder or less hard?

Probably harder, since I would see that God gave me the gift simply to benefit those around me, and not to prove that I was more valuable. But as soon as I saw the gift beginning to make life HARDER for those around me (my family, for example, who might suffer if I neglected them for The Gift), I would repent and cut back on the time I invested in it. Because if it were for the benefit of all, what good would it do to hurt others in the pursuit of its development?

Why is the thought that I MIGHT be talented so precious to me? Because I still secretly hope that giftedness is a sign of blessedness, of having the favor of God. How can I learn to see this differently—to see that yes, it is a gift from God, but it is not a sign of favor, that it has nothing to do with my worth or deservingness?

As soon as I learn to accept it for what it is, I will no longer be ashamed of my weakness, nor proud of my strength. I will not hesitate to use it, publicly, for good, because it does not reflect on me (except as it shows my failure to put time into practicing, I guess). I’m thinking now of the women in my Relief Society who play the piano but refuse to play the hymns for us in our meetings out of bashfulness. How am I refusing to use my gifts out of fear and pride?

Um . . . I just saw that all of the paragraphs in this post end in question marks. Sorry about that. It’s a sign of sloppy writing. (And here I am apologizing for my weakness.) What it’s a sign of is that I don’t care to put in any more time on polishing this particular piece of writing because I am going to go make Christmas presents with my kids now. Currently I think that that’s where God wants me to use my gifts today.

Oh--on a whole nother subject, Wadja think of this?

Cash Advance Loans

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is my mother’s birthday. She is not here, but has gone on ahead to some place where I imagine she can eat all the bowls of ice cream and popcorn she wants, without having to put down her book, even. Knowing her, she’s been playing Christmas music for a month already (Johnny Mathis, Singers Unlimited) and is dancing around the room to it. Maybe she’s finally polished “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” on the piano which, along with “The Impossible Dream” makes up her entire piano repertoire since she never had lessons and taught the two songs to herself by ear.

I miss you, Mom. Dad’s new wife was probably hand-picked by you and is a fabulous, fabulous grandmother to my kids and friend to me. But I still remember your smell and I think of it when I am sick, staring up at the ceiling in bed yet again. I don’t know what kind of relationship we would have now, but I like to think that we would be friends, having forgiven each other of all of our clumsinesses those first twenty years, having both realized that we were both doing the best we could.

The thing I want you to know today is that when I picture you, I picture you enjoying things. Enjoying that piano, that good book, that Christmas music. I picture you full of joy. You taught me that, Mom. Life—not just this life, but all existence--is for joy. And, when all is said and done, what better definition of a successful mother could there be than one who has taught her children that?

I love you, Mom. You did a good job. Happy birthday.

Talent

So I got the immense satisfaction of attending the 4th grade talent show at the elementary school last week. My second son has taken to the trumpet like a fish to water and now, after a mere three months of school band lessons, felt ready to display his talents in a public setting. He really has become quite good quite quickly, if I do say so myself. His partner, a buddy who took up the trombone at the same time, was not so much of a natural, though. So the duet was, er, interesting. Let’s just say that one of them ended about two measures and eight seconds after the other. We all clapped very hard.

The whole event was vastly entertaining. Two burly fourth-graders (weighing more than I did at nine months pregnant, I’m sure) did some sort of a dance/chant that the local high school’s football team performs at the beginning of every football game. Another big kid brought a video of himself shooting deer-shaped targets with his crossbow in his back yard. An Olympic hopeful (really!) brought a video of herself ice-skating. There were several young girls singing solos with their karaoke machines and way too many piano pieces. (One poor girl was dramatically affected when another girl sang her very same song before she did. But we smiled and listened to it twice.) Two boys sang “I Got it on E-Bay” along with Weird-Al. All in all, a very satisfying morning. Isn’t America great?

When I was a kid my mom forced me to participate in every Reflections contest and every talent show. One year I memorized “Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No-Good Very Bad Day” and recited it, monologue-style, in my pajamas. (I believe I won a “special award” that year.) Another year I had to sing “My Teacher Told Me I Should Never Tell a Lie,” choreographed, with my two sisters. Come to think of it, I think we won an award that year too. (Hey, wait a minute: did every kid that participated win an award, like the local community center soccer program? No way! What a crock!) I actually won first place in the Reflections contest for my poetry every year. (My poetry was pretty bad, but it always scanned and rhymed perfectly. It wasn’t until high school or so that I realized that I really knew nothing about actual poetry. All I could write was cute rhymes.) There’s even a sort of little memorial hanging up at my old elementary school—they framed the poem that went the furthest in the state competition and it’s still hanging up in the hallway. It’s called “Behind the Gates of Tomorrow.” You should go check it out. When I am famous, I will go back there and present them with a copy of my latest published book, autographed, and a picture of myself to hang next to the poem.

p.s. Go Cougars!
. . . and I have to say a big thanks to my father-in-law, who is a die-hard Utah fan, for gracefully letting me and my blue-wearing sons come over to his house and cheer for "the enemy" right in front of him. What a guy.

Happy Thanksgiving!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I hope you'll enjoy yours.

Thanks to my mother-in-law, who is loved for many reasons, for the comic.

And while we're on the subject (of, er, breasts), and just because I am thankful for my loyal blog readers, here is a thanksgiving gift for you:

Angels of Mercy
By, well, me.

The Seventh Ward Relief Society
presidency argued long and soft
whether Janie Goodmansen deserved
to have the sisters bring her family meals.
It seems that precedent was vague—
no one was sure if “boob job” qualified
as a legitimate call for aid.
Janie herself had never asked for help—
a fault they found it harder to forgive
even than the vanity behind
the worldliness of D-cup ambition.
But in the end charity did not fail.
The sisters marched on in grim duty
each evening clutching covered casseroles
(for, after all, it wasn’t the children’s fault).
More than once, though, by some oversight
the dessert came out a little short, as if
by some consensus they all knew
that Janie’s husband, Jim, could do
without a piece of pie that night.

What I've Been Up To

So here are some things I’ve been doing lately.

Today, after waiting a week to hear from the doctor after a test, I called his office. Of course, you can never talk to someone right away but have to wait for the little assistant to call you back. So on my answering machine (of course she called during the twenty minutes I was out) is the message: “This is Carla from Dr. Fenton’s office. We have no record of the test results you’re asking about. In fact, our records show that Dr. Fenton never ordered such a test for you.” Hah! Well, that explains why they didn’t call! (Of course he ordered it. How else would I have gotten it?)

A couple of weeks ago, Rog and I used the certificate that came with our new bed (Intelli-Gel) to spend an evening at the Anniversary Inn. You may know that the Anniversary Inn is one of those theme-suite bed-and-breakfasts that cost and arm and a leg to spend a night in. But this certificate was part of the bribe to get us to buy the mattress over Mother’s Day weekend and we were darn-well going to use it and enjoy it (especially since the bed has been a disappointment—sigh).

So. Roger picked out the Egyptian Suite. It had a rock waterfall shower and big jetted tub and great big TV and statues of Egyptian guys all over the place. Sound like paradise?

It didn’t take us too long to realize that these places are better when you are a little tipsy. (Well, we imagine, anyway.) Because the first thing we noticed was how inconvenient the room was. For example, there were no lamps or light switches near the bed, so that you had to turn off all the lights and then make your way to the bed (up two steps, even) in the dark. Also, no nightstand or shelf near the bed, so you there was no place to put your glasses, drink of water, chapstick, or whatever, near you when you were in bed. And the bed itself was built on a short pedestal that stuck out six inches beyond the bed all the way around it—perfect for stubbing your toe on.

All this wouldn’t have been that bad if it hadn’t been for the Drunken Neighbors in the jungle suite behind us. From the moment they arrived (and believe me, we knew when that moment was), they blasted their TV and voices all night and then started up in the morning. Twice I went down to the front office to complain, once even convincing the poor girl at the front desk to follow me up to the room and listen for herself. “Yep, it’s loud,” she said. “I’m sorry about that.” And then she left.

We didn’t sleep at all. I can’t figure out why we didn’t just pack up and leave at 11:00 p.m. or so when it became apparent that the noise was going to continue all night.

Bleh. (Did I mention that the bed is a disappointment, too?)

To be fair, I wrote a complaining note to the Anniversary Inn and they sent me an apology and a certificate for another night there. I’m not really thrilled at the thought of trying it again, but Roger says another room might be just fine.

While we were there, we watched a little T.V. (something we never do at home) and saw this show about psychics. It was some sort of reality show in which psychics competed against each other in little challenges. It was really interesting. Do you believe in psychic ability? I actually do, at least to a point. Not because of that show, though. Although one or two of them made an impressive showing.

Let’s see. Oh, I have two poems in the most recent issue of Dialogue. Here’s one for you:


Patriarchal Blessing

The boy, sixteen, is taller than his mother, taller than
the creaky man with shining eyes and trembling hands.

Mother comes fasting, something she's good at,
years of honing her physical yearnings
into empty bowls to catch spiritual manna.
And now she is empty of all but her hope
of hearing the voice of God through this old man.
Her son, the first-fruit of her labors,
a rough-cut stone but the best she could do—
and would God touch this stone with his finger?

Her son folds into the chair with a quick glance
at her, an echo of the glance he gave her long ago
the day he stood to join his father in the font.
And maybe now the father will join them
in spirit? She, longing, glances to the corners of the room.

The trembling hands are stilled on the boy’s head,
as if the words of power give them weight—
the words that dart like lightening in the air
and dance upon her eyelids. She opens them
to watch the old man, ageless, shine like sun,
his voice a whisper still but piercing bright.

The mother sits and holds the hand of God--
for once she feels she's truly not alone
in her sweet knowledge of her son's good heart.
She weeps to hear God tell her of the man
he will become, this boy she's nursed with blood
and milk, and tears,
this boy, a shining sword, a man of God.

And in the silence when the blessing's done
the son stands up and shyly takes her hand.
The old man, feeble now, stands at the door,
winking in the glitter of the stars.
For days those flashing words will dance like sparks
around her ears, behind her eyes and in the air--

as if she walked with diamonds in her hair.


And here’s a recipe for you. I make this every year, to the consternation of my kids. I really think it’s good, though, and it’s a great holiday tradition.

Soup in a Pumpkin

2 ½ c. breadcrumbs
2 c. minced onion
1 stick butter plus 2 T.
1 6-7 lb. pumpkin
1 ½ c. grated swiss cheese
2 qt. chicken stock at a simmer
½ t. sage
pepper
1 c. cream or sour cream diluted with milk
½ c. fresh parsley

Slow cook onions in butter until tender and translucent (15 min.). Toss crumbs into onions and cook 3 min. Prepare pumpkin: cut top, remove seeds and strings, rub inside with soft butter. Set on buttered cookie sheet. Put crumbs into pumpkin, mix in cheese, fill to 2” from top with hot stock. Season. Put on lower level of oven rack. Bake 1 ½ hours at 400. Don’t overcook or pumpkin will collapse!

Serve: heat cream and stir into soup just before serving, followed by parsley. Scrape flesh and serve with each serving. (Note: you can keep the pumpkin warm up to 30 minutes in an oven at 175.)

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Tossing it in the air

Today I’m grateful for my good friend Scott Bronson. I met him through AML, the source of many good things in my life. It was one of those times when you meet someone and feel like you already know them—I was so instantly comfortable with Scott and have always felt like he was a closer friend than the amount of time I’ve known him would warrant. Maybe that’s just because of the kind of guy he is, open and warm. Maybe everyone feels that way about him.

Anyway, he is a wise person and willing to share things he’s learned through the course of some difficult life events. Yesterday, he said what I needed to hear.

I’ve been struggling with my health still. Through all of this I haven’t doubted that I would someday get better—for I have been promised so, and I have great faith in the priesthood blessings Roger gives me. They always, always prove true and sure. But I have had a hard time translating that macrocosmic, over-the-long-haul faith into daily and moment-by-moment faith. Scott told me about a time in his life when the cancer had returned and he had knelt in prayer to discuss the ways that the atonement can help people with illnesses. He came to a point, he says, where he said to God, “Here!” and tossed all of his fear and anxiety over his health and the future into the air like a ball, and just let the Lord catch it. “And it worked,” he said. “I didn’t worry again, even when the cancer returned later. I still don’t.”

So I’ve been trying to analyze just what it is that I fear, and how I can toss that fear into the air for God to catch. I realize that I am not afraid of dying. I’m not even all that afraid of suffering (well, maybe some). But what I’m most afraid of is the effects of my illness, the things I leave undone. Especially, the price my children might have to pay if I’m spending the day in bed yet again or emotionally not strong for them. I worry about them growing up remembering a mom who was always sick.

I also fear when a new little health problem appears. Oh no—is it something new? A new manifestation of the same old thing? Is it something I should tell a doctor about because it might be significant in getting the right diagnosis? Or is it just a little ache or pain like those that are a normal part of living in a body and it doesn’t mean anything? Which is it? Which is it? There’s a lot of panic surrounding each little twinge these days. I’m making myself crazy with it.

So I realized that I need to toss these things to God as well. New little pain? Fine. Toss it to God. He’ll make sure that, if it’s significant, I’ll know it at some point and be able to do something about it. I don’t need to worry about how important it is. Or my kids—I have to toss them to Him as well. Maybe they will grow up with memories of my being sick. That’s part of their own story with God. He’ll be able to take care of them, too, right? It’s really none of my business, as long as I’m doing what I can. I have to have faith that if they have a problem with what’s going on, they can toss things up to God, too.

When I take my youngest with me to do errands in the mornings, he rides in the car with me, not caring where we’re going next. He’s just there with me. I’m trying to be childlike in that way—just riding in my carseat while God drives. What does it matter where we end up? I’m just here with Him. So maybe one of the errands involves a new little pain, or having to stay in bed again. Whatever. Got’s got the ball.

Voting (Written on Tuesday, of course)

I voted today. I’m sure you can all guess how I voted. But what I want to say about was this: it’s a cool thing. I saw Stephanie there. Five minutes before, she had picked up her daughter who had been playing at my house. She didn’t mention, when she picked up her daughter, that she was heading over to vote. I didn’t mention that I had been waiting to vote until she got her daughter. But there she was, pulling into the parking lot behind me. I smiled and waved, and then waited in line not far from her.

But we didn’t talk. She didn’t ask me how I was voting, and I didn’t ask her.

That was what was cool to me. It was almost like being in the temple, really. We were doing something very sacred and very private. I didn’t want to know whether she agreed with me, because it had nothing to do with our friendship. I liked seeing her there, seeing that she cared, and that was enough. I could leave her alone to do her thing. I love the privacy of voting, and the weight of it. I love this country, even with all of its evils, even in all its commercial and capitalistic glory. Today I am grateful to live here, even as I don’t yet know the results of the vote.

Added later:

Although I like the outcome of the vote, I have some major discomfort over the whole thing. I can’t believe how many people voted who were uninformed. The reasons people gave for voting against vouchers, for example, often showed that the voters didn’t understand the issue in its specifics at all. (Pro-voucher people also sometimes mistook the details and ramifications.) I’m glad vouchers didn’t pass, but I wish that the vote reflected the wishes of well-informed voters.

That said, and at the risk of contradicting or making a fool of myself, I have to say this: the thing I hate most in any disagreement is when someone uses the argument, “If you don’t agree with me, you must be uninformed/brainwashed/lacking intelligence.” I saw an interview with what’s-his-name-at-Overstock.com right after the vote and he said, “Well, this issue was basically an I.Q. test.”

Ouch! Could you be more personally insulting? I disagree with you, buddy. So I must be dumb.(And it wasn’t just the pro-voucher people throwing that stuff around, I admit. Both sides were doing it. Also both sides were equally guilty of generalizing the issue to the point of obfuscation in order to get their little soundbites. You sum things up for us in stupid ways and then accuse us of being stupid when we vote according to your little soundbites!)

In college, an acquaintance once tried to convince me of a particular interpretation of a gospel doctrine on which I disagreed with him. He began his argument with, “I know I’ll convince you, Darlene, because you’re an intelligent person, and I’ve never failed to convince an intelligent person on this issue.” Well, there you go. He’s put me in a box so that I can either agree with him or prove my stupidity. There’s no arguing with that. Yuck!

New AML Forum

Well, some of you have been asking about the cryptic reference I made to a brouhaha over at AML. (Others of you already know what I’m talking about.) So here’s just a little summary of what happened from my perspective.

The board, of which I am secretary (notice I said secretary, not president, or anything very powerful at all), decided quite a while ago that something needed to be done about the List. The List is an e-mail conversation we’ve been running for years. How it works is that you get all the posts (on ANY topic) coming to your e-mail in-box. When you want to comment on a topic, you send your comment to the general address and it goes out to the e-mail boxes of everyone who has subscribed. The results of this kind of format is that you get an awful lot of e-mail on a lot of different topics that may or may not interest you. Lately, we have felt that the quality of conversation has been going down, and that the List seemed to be dominated by several very profuse writers (“the loudest voices”) while some of the less vocal participators seemed to be dropping out. We wanted to revitalize the discussion and also provide greater variety in voice and topic. We decided to move to a forum format.

We knew that this choice would be popular with many people and unpopular with others. Some people like getting everything delivered to their in-boxes so that they don’t have to go somewhere on the net to check for new posts. Personally, I like being able to follow the topics I’m interested in without having to follow others. Also, I think a forum format allows the more timid people to feel more comfortable commenting because it’s not as if your comment is going to the in-boxes of hundreds of people.

At the same time as all this discussion was going on, we have also been discussing the problem of decreasing membership in AML. We’ve been losing the academics for a long time and lately seem to be losing others as well. We need to figure out how to expand. We know there are a lot of people out there who might appreciate what we’re doing, if they knew about us. But publicity requires man-hours and money, and with very few people bothering to pay for membership, we are definitely limited.

Hey! Maybe we could solve two problems with one solution: there are lots of people enjoying the conversation on the List who never bothered to become members. Maybe, when we move to the forum, we could require that people become members in order to post. That would limit the discussion to people who really care about AML, for one thing, and might immediately improve the quality of conversation as a result.

Then we made two mistakes: we decided to make both changes at once (moving to the forum AND requiring membership), and we didn’t give an awful lot of notice about the change.

People were furious.

I can’t really blame them—we were taking away their candy and then charging money for it. What floored me, though, was the WAY people protested. People were thoughtless, rude, and downright nasty. They said horrible things about the board (“who are these people in their secret meetings passing down rulings,” etc.) The things they said hit me like a kick in the gut because I have put in so many hours serving an organization that, at times, almost fell apart into nothing. Suddenly I saw things as they were: no one seemed to care about what the board had been doing all along to keep the organization going. No one seemed to know the work we do and the hours we put in. At least, if they did, it didn’t matter. No one seemed to care about AML itself, but just about continuing the List.

OK, I admit, there were only a few very vocal people being so negative. I was surprised, though, about which people had nasty things to say. Some people I expected it from; others I didn’t.

It was really, really depressing. I wanted to quit. Still do, actually.

Anyway, Eric (our president) and Boyd (our president-elect) discussed it and decided to eliminate the membership requirement for the forum. They ran it by us and most of us agreed (I did). After all, the goal is to expand, not limit, participation. Let’s let everyone participate who wants to. So that got changed, and now anyone can comment at the forum.

So far, I think the forum is working great. If we look at every comment as something that would have been an e-mail going to everyone, I think we’ve lost very little traffic. Maybe we will gain some now. I have high hopes about that.

If you’ve been interested in AML at all, now is the time to show your support by going over to the forum and joining the conversation. (If you really want to show support, consider joining.)

If you haven’t known much about AML before this, trot on over there and check it out. I think it’s one of the most enjoyable on-line communities out there. These people are, for the most part, faithful readers, writers and critics who enjoy conversation about the future (and present) of quality Mormon literature. I’d like to hear what you think.

(The address: forums.mormonletters.org )

It breathes me.

A saying in yoga about how to imagine breath entering you from the universe: “It breathes me.” You are to picture the universe breathing you, instead of the other way around. Try it—it’s amazing.

Anyway, I feel the same way about fall: it breathes me.

Something about it makes me more open to moments of delight. Fall was breathing me while I watched 4-year-old dance to his new favorite tape. Which happens to be “I Wiggle My Torso” by Janeen Brady. Anyone else grow up on Brite music? I remember being so resentful of the evenings my mom spent away from home because she was selling Brite music in home parties like Tupperware. But I’d say all those nights without her were worth it for me to have the joy of watching this kid with his fuzzy headed buzz-cut “wiggling his torso” to the beat. ("I clap my hands; I stomp my feet; I wiggle my torso and then I repeat. My hands, my feet, my torso once more--jump up, turn 'round, then fall on the floor.")

And I ate heavenly homemade carrot soup for lunch. And homemade salsa with my chips. (Just some other examples of fall breathing me.)

Here’s the recipe:

Carrot Chowder

Brown 1 lb. hamburger. (I was thinking today that this could probably work really well with black beans instead of meat.) Drain fat, then add:
½ t. salt
½ t. garlic salt
½ t. pepper
1/3 c. chopped celery
½ c. diced green peppers
1/3 c. chopped onion.
Cover and simmer on low until veggies are tender (10 min.). Meanwhile, combine in a large saucepan and bring to a boil:
1 ½ c. water
4 c. tomato juice
2 cans cream of celery soup
2 ½ c. grated carrots
1/8 t. marjoram
1 t. sugar.
After it comes to a boil, add the meat mixture and simmer for 30 minutes. Serve with grated swiss cheese on top.

Tastes like fall in a bowl. Tastes like heaven.

Vouchers, again

P.S.

Some people say that vouchers are good because “a free market improves quality for everyone.” To that I say: wasn’t it a “free market” that created child labor? and mass pollution from factories? Even now “free market” means sweatshops in China and elsewhere to support our Wal-mart low prices. Free market is not always good for EVERYONE.

“OK then,” you say, “I mean, free market with some government-imposed standards.” Fine. That sounds reasonable, especially since government will be subsidizing them. Only let’s impose the standards fairly and unilaterally.

A true free market in education would mean that EVERY school would require teachers to be licensed, to meet certain standards, and to pass background checks. And EVERY school be required to accept whatever student wanted to come there, regardless of ability to pay, regardless of baggage they might bring like learning disorders, handicaps, behavior problems, poor parental support. Even regardless of inability to get, physically, to the school location. Let’s make it a true free market and require every school to bus their students who live too far to walk (and, if the student needs a special handicap bus, require that, too). I’m talking FREE buses, folks. (Oh, but then the parents who can afford to drive their kids will whine. I know! Let’s give them transportation vouchers!)

School Vouchers (wince)

Most of my loyal blog readers do not live in Utah. You might be aware, however, of the steamy fight going on over school vouchers. We will have a chance to vote on this topic next week.

I’d like to work out my opinion about vouchers here because I can think more clearly through writing. I don’t, however, want to crusade. I am deeply uncomfortable with animated, two-sided, engaging discussion when it comes to political issues. (Which is silly because I love it when it comes to literary issues.) Maybe because I feel more deeply than I can articulate about some issues. Probably it is from a basic insecurity because I know so little about political things and am terribly naïve when it comes to analyzing solutions. What I’m saying here is that I do not mean to try to persuade anyone. I don’t mind if you disagree with me, and I won’t try to change your mind. But this is my blog, my forum, and I don’t want to host a debate here. If you disagree with me, feel free to e-mail me privately (daryoung at yahoo dot com) and say why. The response you’ll get will be a polite thank you. I will most likely not read all of the documents and web addresses that you include in your argument. I am going to selfishly use this forum to state my position and then not let anyone argue with me here.

So sue me.

I am against vouchers. I’m going to try to articulate why. (And by the way, I need to tell you that my husband does not necessarily agree with any of the following.)

First, I am basically a democrat at heart, at least economically. Which means that I believe that it is the moral duty of a citizen to contribute to society—yes, in the form of taxes—for the good of others in the society who are not as able to take care of themselves. (I think, for example, that to cheat on your taxes, or to bend the rules on your taxes, or even to cleverly hide assets in “legal” ways in order to avoid paying your share is unethical and, frankly, dishonest.) I feel that it is my job as a Christian to look out for my neighbors—even the ones who seem to be lazy (because, maybe, their parents didn’t teach them to work?).

I feel it is our duty to make sure that not just our own kids but the kids of our neighbors should be taken care of. This includes all those kids on the west side that are such a drain on the property taxes of “us east-siders.” That includes the kids whose parents don’t care enough to research public and private schools and use vouchers to make sure their kids get what’s best for them.

If the voucher proposition passes, every child whose parents care about him will be put into the school, public or private or home-based, that his parents think will be best for him. But what about the kids whose parents don’t care, or who are overworked or undereducated enough not to be able to research what’s best? They will be left in the public schools. These kids are often the ones who use the most resources from the education system, in the form of teacher energy and other, more measurable resources.

And that’s an important point: not all children use the same amount of resources at a school. The amount that the school board reports as being your child’s share of costs is an average number. Actually, your child uses a lot less of that amount. The excess goes to pay for the children of other parents—ones who require more resources. Those kids will still be in the school after you take your money and leave. (But, you argue, the money I’m taking is extra. The school won’t lose money on my leaving. Au contraire. After a few years that money will be gone and it won’t be replaced.)

A common attitude is “Why shouldn’t I be free to do what’s best for my kids with my own money?” I’m good with that. What I don’t like is what you want to do with government money. And the point is that the money that’s been allocated for public education should be used just for that: to educate the public. Because I don’t care whether you’re homeschooling, private schooling, or childless: you are directly affected by the quality of education that OTHER PEOPLE’S KIDS are getting. Your society will suffer, and that suffering will influence you, if you do not support quality education for ALL kids. These are the kids will raise the kids will run the country when you are in old folk’s homes, people.

Besides being the Christian thing to do, it is IN YOUR BEST INTEREST to look out for the best interest of ALL kids, not just yours. I do not see how some—many, even—will be left behind in the voucher mess that will come about after this.

(And of course, if this passes, there will be more messes around the corner. What about when the homeschoolers start asking for vouchers as well? What about monitoring the quality of education that will come to kids whose parents start homeschooling just to save money? Where will the money come from to monitor them? What a mess.)

And to all you strict Repulicans who believe that when we leave more money in people’s pockets they will naturally, out of the goodness of their hearts, continue to contribute charitably in ways they think are appropriate, I ask: how many of you plan to donate money to public education once you take your voucher money and kid out? Really, will you double up on your property taxes just to help out the kids who were left behind?

My other big reason for being against vouchers is that I don’t believe that it is moral to whine that a system isn’t working and then jump ship. I think the right thing to do is to fix public education, not abandon it. People who are unhappy should join school boards, volunteer in their schools, lobby for more and better asset allocation within districts, etc. If all of the caring parents start jumping ship, it will sink. And, once again, what happens to the kids left on the ship?

I don’t know a single public schoolteacher who is in favor of vouchers. And why is that? You’d think that they would recognize that more private school students means more job opportunities for them, right? Well, it probably does. But the reason is that the kind of people who are choosing to become schoolteachers these days are doing it for only one reason: they care about education. There is NO other reason a person would become a teacher in this world. And the people who really care about education in society (not just about their own kids’ educations) know that the voucher system is not good for society.

There you go. I’m glad I got that off my chest. I will now duck so that your tomatoes don’t hit me.

p.s. In case you’re still with me: some of you are wondering what I think of the latest AML fiasco. I’ll post about that. . . once I can do it without profanity. Sheesh!

Fall

Thin, wide light.
A clean porch.
The smell of leather, books, blankets on a favorite bed.
Cold ears and warm toes.
Falling asleep.
Soup and bread, kitchens and fireplaces.
Returning.
A deep breath.
Continuous meditation.
It tickles the corners of my eyes.
A cat in a patch of sun on the livingroom floor.

Psssst . . . guess what?

I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!
I wrote a novel!

So there!

What's the line between compassion and despair?

Yesterday I was at the hospital for another test. I am getting very familiar with the hospital, at least the waiting rooms.

For this test, I had to drink some special potion mixed with orange juice and then stand in front of an x-ray every 30 minutes for 2 ½ hours. In between my appearances in front of the camera (standing room only!) I could wander the hospital at will—or read. I read a lot and finished my book. I also did a lot of wandering.

I’m a people-watcher and find that hospitals are very moving places to watch people. People at hospitals are just bursting with stories (as are people at airports). With everyone who walked into the radiology waiting room I asked myself whether s/he was seriously ill or just mildly chronically ill, like myself. I wondered if they were frightened, confident, resigned, crazy with worry, depressed about what their bodies were doing. I wondered if they were surprised to realize that they had been taking their health for granted before now (like me) or if, like me, they began to think of all the people who WEREN’T at the hospital that day because those other people felt perfectly fine.

I saw a lady in obvious distress, doubled over in pain. Her daughter was there with her and I thought about the times I was with my mother when she was sick. I hope her daughter feels the same way I did—a tiny satisfaction at being able to be a giver to someone from whom she’s always been a taker before. I saw a young mom struggling with a toddler and an infant. The infant was coughing a menacing cough and about to get an x-ray for pneumonia. I remember those struggles. There’s nothing more heart-wrenching than thinking your baby might be quite ill, and to have to juggle a two-year-old on top of that was more than any mother should have to deal with. I saw a young boy who had broken his hand playing basketball, accompanied by his overworked father who had to leave him alone in the waiting room to make business calls in the hallway.

To get away from my pain on everyone’s behalf, I wandered down the hall and found a little room called the “chapel.” It mostly had couches and soft lighting but in the corner was a book in which people passing through had written their thoughts. Very personal, painful thoughts. I read one woman’s anonymous letter to her dying husband. I read the words of a couple who had written from the chapel during a time when their infant was in critical care and might not survive. There were other writings from similarly frightened people seeking solace. I read them all and sobbed and sobbed.

I can’t believe how my illness has made me so sensitive to the physical ailments of others. If someone happens to mention that they’ve got back pain or stomach problems, I immediately feel for them, quite deeply. And add them to my prayer list.

I’m starting to wonder, what is the point of this? I believe that it makes me more godly to feel more deeply. But I’m not sure I’m feeling the way God would about these things. At least, I’m not sure it’s leading to good, either in my life or in anyone else’s. Does anyone benefit to know that I am truly, deeply touched by their suffering? I don’t know. Unfortunately, though I have gained compassion and empathy/sympathy, I have NOT grown in ability to know how to relieve suffering. So what’s the point?

Takin' it as it comes.

So the kids have been back in school since July (with a break last month) and #4 and I are pretty used to hanging with each other. One thing never ceases to amaze me:

He just takes it all in stride.

Every day the boys set off for school and he waves cheerfully to them, then turns to me without flinching. As the day goes on, he placidly accompanies me wherever I drag him to, only occasionally complaining (and that’s only when he’s overtired or hungry). He doesn’t seem to mind at all that he is stuck with me, day in and day out. He happily amuses himself around the house while I work, or asks me to read to him or play to him. But it is mind-blowing to me that he really doesn’t seem to mind that his universe is pretty much him and me for most of the day. It gives me more insight into what “childlike” means. What if I placidly took whatever came to me throughout the day, without judging whether the people I’m stuck with are cool or not, or whether the activities I’m doing are worthy of my intelligence or fun or even interesting?

I have to say that my latest endeavor (the novel) has actually helped me in this respect.

I’ve always been very irritated when I hear other women say, “I have to work outside the home. I’d go crazy if I didn’t. I’m a better mom because I do.” But, as I’m starting to suspect is going to happen over and over again in my life, the exact thing that I walk around being proud of not participating in is the thing I find myself up to my eyeballs in. In other words, I’m eating my words. Because I have found that since starting my novel, I have been a better mom. I feel this weight each day to get my minimum word count in. Hating the weight, I do it early in the day. And then the rest of the day I feel so free. I find myself getting all sorts of odd jobs done that have been bugging me for months. I find myself coming up with spontaneous ideas for fun with my little buddy. I find myself more serene when the others get home from school, more present with them.

Witching hour is still witching hour, alas. But the rest of the time I am doing better and better. I like myself more when I have a big old writing project going on. Would it be the same if I were working? Probably, if it was work I loved. And if I didn’t feel it took too much away from everybody. So far, this hasn’t, and I’m really enjoying myself.

I broke 20,000 words today (23,000, to be exact), by the way. Tomorrow I’ll hit the halfway mark. Which concerns me, because I think, plot-wise, that I am more than half-way through. It’ll work out, though.

Meanwhile, if you’re still hanging with me, here’s your reward: another recipe for fall. This one comes from another blog-reader, my sister-in-law Jennilyn, homemaker extraordinaire. At least, I THINK I got it from her. Sounds like something she’d make, anyway.

Pumpkin Pancakes

1 c. flour
½ c. cornmeal
2 t. baking powder
½ t. cinnamon
½ t. ginger
¼ t. ground mace (I usually don’t have it so I throw in cloves)
¼ t. salt
¼ c. brown sugar
1 t. orange or lemon peel, grated (I sometimes use juice instead)
1 lg. egg
½ c. pumpkin
½ c. milk

Mix dry ingredients. In separate bowl, whisk wet and combine. Cook over med. heat, 3 T. at a time, 2 min. per side.

These always turn out really dense, almost like little muffins, so I often dilute it with extra milk.

Serve (and this is the magic) with sautee’d apples and cinnamon. At our house, we also put whipped cream on them and yes, we count it as dinner. (By the way, I’m gaining back the weight I lost when I was so sick. Oh well. I said I wouldn’t complain if I got the weight back with my health. And I won’t. [dang])

18,796

Isn’t that the most beautiful number?

Since you are dying of curiosity about what makes this number very significant, I will tell you.

It is the number of words I have written on my novel.

Yes, now that I am well into Week Two and have broken the 15,000 mark, I feel it is safe to announce to the world that I am writing a novel. I began it, at least this version of it and with this level of seriousness, on October 1 as part of a challenge to myself to complete a novel in a month.

Some of you have heard of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and know that the official month for doing it is November. I couldn’t wait that long. And besides, I wanted to relax and rejoice over the holidays. So I committed to writing 1,667 words per day for each day of October. At this point I figure that I have done it this far and survived so I am most likely going to finish. So I am going public.

It is way exhilarating, I tell you.

And it is having other effects. I am experiencing lots of ideas for other things I want to write, and having to put scribble down notes for later down the road when I’ve got this vulture off my back. But I like the increase in messages from my subconscious that comes when I am committed to writing every day. As I recall, this happened to me also when I was doing the poem-a-day-for-thirty-days project in the spring.

Anyway, while my mind is occupied elsewhere, I’ll leave you with a little fall recipe. Fall is the time when I start getting excited about baking and cooking again. Here’s my first fall treat. I got this recipe (which was very popular at a recent AML Board meeting, BTW) years ago from my probably-oldest friend and loyal blog reader, Marjorie. (Not to imply that you are the oldest of my friends, Marj. But maybe the friendliest.)

Marjorie’s Apple Cake

Blend:
1 c. sugar
1 egg
¼ c. shortening (I melted it)
1 ½ c. grated apple

Add:
1 c. flour
¾ t. cinnamon
¾ t. nutmeg
1 t. soda
½ c. nuts (optional and let me tell you they would NEVER go into a cake of mine)

Bake in ungreased 8” square pan at 350 for 30 minutes. Serve topped with butter sauce.

Butter sauce:
1 square butter (1/2 c.)
½ c. sugar (I usually do a little less)
½ c. canned milk

Heat in saucepan until thickened but don’t boil (abt. 10 minutes). Add ½ t. vanilla and a dash of nutmeg.

This would be the perfect treat for me to make for Angela, who, I must be allowed to brag on her behalf, JUST WON $500 IN A FICTION CONTEST!!!! But I am too consumed with envy to bake her anything today. Besides, she should be BUYING ME A TREAT since she is so wealthy now. (Congrats, Angie.)

p.s. Speaking of fall recipes, if you're reading this, Aunt Joanie, I've GOT to have your recipe for zucchini cake. That was so divine. I'm sorry for eating all of it. But not really.

"Death is everywhere . . .

. . . there are flies on the windscreen, for a start."

Yesterday was really, really depressing. Here are some reasons why:

1.) Earlier this week my kids came back to the house five minutes after leaving for school to tell me there was a “hurt kitty on the street.” Luckily, it wasn’t ours. Unluckily, it was someone’s. Or it had been someone’s, before it died. It was lying in its blood in full view of all the kids walking to school. I went out and investigated, then called my neighbor whose cat I knew it must be. I said, “I hope I’m mistaken, but I think your kitty is out in the street hurt.” I couldn’t bring myself to say “dead.” Of course, the kids have been asking about death ever since.

2.) Roger called to say that a coworker of his, who had been sick off and on for years, hadn’t reported to work in a couple of days. They finally called a relative to go check on him. He was dead. We don’t know any more details than that, but it seems that he probably died alone. This thought is so unbelievably depressing to me.

3.) #3 threw a huge tantrum in the morning that carried over to the walk to school, during which he refused to walk with his brothers. Worried that he would be left behind (and his quite tiny), I stepped outside to watch them make their way down the street, and saw that it would be necessary to accompany him to school. Luckily, I was out there watching because I saw a strange car drove past my kids very slowly one direction, turned around and came back past them, then pulled over and stopped. The driver held up a device (cell phone? camera?) to the window towards MY KIDS. Now, they just happened to be in front of a house that was for sale, so it might have been innocent. But I was watching very closely as I jumped into my car and backed out to catch up with them. He drove off. I got his license number and called the police.

3.) The police were very nice. I had to leave before they pulled away. When I got back, I found a nice notice from them that we were in violation of a city ordinance because our parent’s motor home, parked in our driveway, jutted out past the line of the house. Made me laugh because right next to the motor home, in the neighbor’s driveway, is a junker car that has been there for two years (major violation). The motor home had been there for two days and was going to be moved next week.

4.) #4 raced his scooter down the driveway and into the street, avoiding BY INCHES I TELL YOU being hit by distracted teenager who must be dyslexic because he thinks the speed limit says 52, not 25. I looked at my baby and thought about that cat in the pool of blood . . .

5.) #2 brought home a less-than-satisfactory report card. Now, I don’t care about grades, but I do care about people who perform below their ability because they are in TOO MUCH OF A HURRY TO PLAY WITH THEIR BUDDIES to actually read directions and write with readable penmanship. So I was angry. And I handled it in absolutely the opposite way than I should have. And I am utterly disgusted with myself about it.

So I was ornery and depressed (hating myself) all evening. Blech. Glad to see that day get over with and start fresh this morning.

And, by the way, I am way, way looking forward to General Conference. As always.

My problem with the Footprints poem

Today I'm blogging over at Segullah. Click here to find out why I don't like the Footprints poem.

Bouquet of fall leaves for you

Here's my valentine to all you fellow 80's alternative rock fans, custom-designed to make you grin on a bright fall day:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AsNTmjlf1vI

Those opening chords always wash like a wave of delight over me. I especially like the violinist.

. . . and there was great rejoicing in the land.

Just wanted to share a few pockets of joy from today:

1) We were driving under the skywalk over Bangerter Highway and #4 asked how people get up there. So I parked the car and took him. It's made the highlights video of my life, watching that little four-year-old face up there above the world.

2) Don't you love being able to expose your kids to things you loved as a kid? Today my kids saw their first Muppet Show. (They've seen the movies, but no shows.) They couldn't believe their parents knew all the words to the opening song ("It's time to get things started . . ."). And get this: one of the episodes we got from the library had guest stars Mark Hamil, C3PO and R2D2 (who hijack the pigs' spaceship to rescue Chewbacca). C3PO actually tap-danced. Can you just picture that little family room with four boys glued to the screen? Feel the love, people. Feel the love.

Hooligan

I just finished Hooligan: A Mormon Boyhood, a memoir by Douglas Thayer. This book was published by Zarahemla Books (my friend Chris Bigelow), which, along with Parables, represents my hope for the future of Mormon lit. I have some reservations about some of the things Zarahemla has produced, but I would unhesitatingly recommend Hooligans to anyone and everyone, and have already purchased copies to give as gifts (so don’t go out and buy it, Dad).

I chose this book because I am already familiar with Thayer’s work, particularly Under the Cottonwoods, a collection of short stories that truly changed my entire outlook about Mormon fiction the first time I read it. In fact, I have been re-reading it in preparation for reading Hooligans. Unfortunately, this led to my biggest disappointment with Hooligans, which is that the memoir ends as childhood ends. Thayer’s powerful short stories deal often with a young protagonist who has recently returned from a mission or military service. I was disappointed not to get any autobiographical commentary about that time period in Thayer’s life. In terms of Thayer’s fiction, there was one passage that rang familiar:

We shot only sparrows, never robins or other songbirds, which we knew was wrong somehow, although our parents did not forbid us. Perhaps it was an intuitive knowledge passed down from one generation of boys to another (92).

(The shooting of songbirds is an important foreshadowing in one of Thayer’s short stories, “The Rabbit Hunt.”) I wanted more insights into the life that led to the fiction, but the book says it is a memoir of “a Mormon boyhood,” so I can’t fault it for being just that.

The organization of the book is rather loose, with each chapter being a narrative of different aspects of growing up in Provo during World War II. Reading each chapter is like listening to grandpa reminisce for an hour or so—just like it, in fact, with a conversational voice that is highly readable. And, just like listening to grandpa, there is a little bit of duplication; once or twice I came across comments or anecdotes that had already been mentioned earlier. I’m not a big fan of the chapter titles, which are simply a list of topics that appear in each chapter. Once, at least, a topic is mentioned in a title that was not discussed in the chapter (Chapter One lists “Babylon,” which is covered in Chapter Two).

The only grammatical mistake I find in the entire book is in the very first sentence. (“. . . a splendid place to grow up for my friends and I.” Yikes!) So if that kind of thing bugs you, know that it’s the only one and the rest is smooth sailing. There are only a couple of typos throughout the book.

OK, now that the negative stuff is out of the way, I have to say that this book is absolutely a delight to read. Besides the nostalgia that it must carry for those who remember childhoods like Thayer’s, the sheer joy of the book is found in its observations through the eyes of an innocent child. Here are some examples:

We knew that the Heber Creeper whistle woke up sleeping ward members at five in the morning, which, we were told, was the reason there were so many kids in the Sixth Ward, but we didn’t understand that reasoning (9).

The side of Webster’s grocery store had a big painted sign of a camel, and a package of Camel Cigarettes, and the sign said [“]I’D WALK A MILE FOR A CAMEL.” In my younger days, I thought it meant they’d give you a real camel if you’d walk a mile, which I thought very generous, although I didn’t know what I’d do with an animal like that if I had one (21-22).

The naivety applies to life in general and religion in particular:

When you were twelve, you were ordained a deacon, which meant you could pass the sacrament and collect fast offerings to help the ppor, and you were entitled to the ministering of angels. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but I kept my eyes peeled (96).

But most delightful is the combination of a child’s view of religion mixed with the other aspects of childhood, such as hunting and fishing:

I knew that Jesus liked fishermen and that he knew where the best fishing was and told fisherm[e]n where to throw their nets, which made me like him. I became very concerned about catching a lot of fish, which I knew took faith and even prayer, just like gaining strength to overcome your sins (19).

The long curl of [fly] tape covered with stuck dead black flies was a visual daily warning of a kind, but you were never sure of what, probably something to do with sin. Sin, as we boys well knew, was a very sticky proposition and was best avoided, depending of course on how much fun was involved (26).

The biggest strength of the book is that although all of the reminiscences are firmly grounded in sensory details, I can still pick up the overarching feelings of what it’s like to be a child, new to the world and its philosophies. Thayer accurately and movingly conveys both the joys of childhood (swimming at night with water and moonlight sliding over your skin, sitting by the coal stove in winter) and it’s perplexities and lonelinesses. Especially moving to me is the aching of this small boy for a father who would take him hunting. Thayer’s genius is in never saying, “I was sad about that,” but we feel it through his memories of watching the other boys go off with their fathers.

Its honesty and beauty make this book a prize, and I’m really happy for Chris in being able to pick it up. If he can continue to publish such high-quality, universally appealing books, I think he’ll see financial success (and be able to continue publishing some of his more—what was the word, Chris? edgy?—books with the money it might bring in). I hope Chris is able to invest in some advertising for this one, because Hooligan is the perfect gift book: not empty but not offensive.

Green-eyed Monster (and I don't mean Shrek)

This year I have discovered a new weakness in myself. It is the sin of envy. I hadn’t dealt with it much before, because I am comfortably well-off and have enough for my needs and lots of my wants. But this year I lost something that I wish I still had (my health) and it has made me have some very uncharitable feelings towards others.

Which others? People who look like they don’t take care of themselves (sure, add “judging by appearances” to my list of sins), people who are out jogging looking healthy and happy. People who seem to take it for granted that they feel great. People whose biggest problems are emotional and not physical (I’m starting to sound nasty now). I am consumed by envy.
I’ve started to believe that my envy of healthy people is my greater problem (greater than being sick, I mean). I have got to get to a point where I can get over this. Because who knows how long I’ll be sick? This could be the rest of my life. And I don’t want to spend it feeling so ornery towards other people. And towards God for letting them have something I don’t have.

I’ve tried to analyze the root of envy. Do I really think that God is being unfair? No, of course not. Because there are lots and lots of people sicker than I or more miserable than I am in other ways. Of course it’s not unfair for me to have a little trial all my own. Believe it or not, there have even been times in the past when I have been envious of other people who had bigger trials than I did! “When are you going to send mine?” I’d wonder. “Don’t I get a chance to grow, too?” I really did feel that way sometimes.

So if it’s not that I think it’s unfair—what then? Do I think God loves them more than He loves me? (Particularly the people who USED to be sick but who got miraculously healed.) No, of course not. If there’s one thing I have a testimony of, it’s that the worth of a soul is great. I am as precious to God as you are, or as the lady down the street is. I know He cares about me.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my envy comes from a lack of faith in God’s wisdom that all these things shall work together for my good. Because if I truly, truly believed that, I really think I could let go of this tension about what I don’t have.

So what do I need to do to get that testimony? I know that God COULD remove this burden if it were right to do so. I have not lacked faith in that at all. So, since He is all-powerful, and I have faith that He CAN do it, the fact that He has not must mean that there is a purpose in it. How can I improve my faith in this, and rejoice that I am being cared for and carried to where I need to be?

Poetry: Approaching the Veil

Someone asked me why I don’t put my own poetry up here more often. After much probing self-analysis I have come to the conclusion that it was pure, shallow selfishness that was keeping me from sharing more poetry here. The logic went like this:

I should be careful about putting poetry here because I want to be published. Some publishers are reluctant to publish something that has already been published, and they might consider this as publishing.

and

I really want to be published so that lots of people can see my stuff. Partially because I think I speak to some people and also because I crave fame and approval.

therefore

I will hog all my stuff to myself in the hopes that someday I’ll get the chance to share it under the label of a publication which proves that “people who know something about poetry” agree that my stuff is worth publishing and sharing.

thus (and here’s the faulty logic)

I am keeping my stuff hidden instead of sharing it, supposedly because I want to share it.

Hmmm.

Well, anyway, I am trying to squelch my pride. If people want to read my stuff (badly enough that they would actually ASK about it), I should let them, by golly! Who is it that I am saving it for—people who MATTER????? Who matters more than the people who care about me and/or who are hungry for what I’m saying?

So, I apologize. You, my dear, loyal blog-readers (most of whom I can’t identify because you don’t comment but I know you’re out there because I see you in the stats) deserve to see what I’ve been writing, even before it gets the approval of some all-powerful status-granter in the form of an official publication. I will mend my ways.

So for today, I will give you “Approaching the Veil,” which was the very first poem I wrote as an adult (and therefore is my inaugural foray into writing). I can look at it now and see its flaws, but it was a good beginning for me, I think. I felt very proud of the tanka structure (several stanzas of haiku) at the time, although I know a little more about haiku now and realize it wasn’t all that appropriate. Nevertheless, it helped me make a beginning.

Though a good poem should speak for itself and suffers from too much introduction, I still want to tell you a little about this one. I tried to combine two different, powerful situations into one. One was my mother’s eagerness to get beyond the veil (well, die) after she had a beautiful near-death experience, and the other was my first experience at the temple, which was very deeply moving to me. The ladies who helped me were elderly and beautiful, and I still remember how they looked into my face as they whispered their words of holiness.

This was published in Orson Scott Card’s Vigor newsletter and, later, Irreantum (I think. I haven’t kept very good track. Maybe it was Exponent II.) Shortly after it appeared in one of those publications, I got a nice e-mail from someone I didn’t know asking if she could read it in her big meeting of temple-workers. That was really cool.

Approaching the Veil
by Darlene Young


I lean on tiptoe,
Taut, poised at the edge,
Eyes prickled with stars.

Spirit percolates.
I am brimming, wakening,
Fresh-whetted and ripe.

You, god-whisperers,
Hover like angel mothers,
Priestesses of light.

My lips follow yours,
Invocation and blessing,
Strange sounds of power.

A pause, and I hear
Through your reverence for the Words,
Sounds of rushing wind.

Then
Holy escorts
Midwives to the quickening
Reach, grasp, launch

I am beautiful, aflame,

Burnished bright and fierce.
Alleluia my birthcry,
I greet pentecost.

Happy Day

Check this out:



Can't quit grinning.

Oh, and here's another goody for today:

The Guys' Rules

I never thought I’d be saying this . . .

. . . but I have a confession to make: I have made the leap. I no longer prefer milk chocolate to dark chocolate. I guess I’m a grown-up now.

(It was those Truffettes de France that did it.)

Werewolves and Adoration

[Spoiler Alert: If you haven't read New Moon, beware. If you've read it but not Eclipse, you're OK.]

I just finished Eclipse, the third book in Stephanie Meyer’s vampire series. I have to say that the books keep getting better, in my opinion. The writing is better, and I am definitely more engaged each time. I was downright depressed when I finished this book: I wanted more, more, more! I read that some people are upset because they don’t think the book upholds Deseret Book values, etc., etc. I guess there’s always someone getting upset about something or other. I wasn’t bugged by the book (although it was definitely more mature than the other two).

I really like the character of Jacob Black. He’s the one I’d fall in love with. I’ve been trying to analyze why that is—what is it that’s attractive about him? (Especially in the last book, in which he acts pretty adolescent.) And I think it’s the werewolf thing. There’s something really sexy about a man who has a wild side—“wild” meaning “potential for great power.” It makes a woman feel protected. It gives her something to wonder about, lends a sense of mystery.

All this has something to do with why I’m glad my husband isn’t much interested in my writing. Stay with me here—I’ll try to explain how it relates.

When I was dating, sometimes I became involved with guys who adored me. It was a nice feeling, being adored. I liked being around those guys (and still do). But I found myself unable to have much of a relationship with them. Because they liked me too much. It seemed like whatever I was interested in, they became interested in. My favorite music became theirs. They wanted to study me and be there with me in everything. I found myself feeling lonely in the relationship because, really, there was only one of us in the relationship--he guy had disappeared. The sense of OTHER that is necessary to me in a relationship was missing.

Bella is adored by two guys. She would have the same problem as I did EXCEPT that these two guys happen to have more to them than she can ever fathom. They have another side (a wild side) that she will forever be outside of (well, unless she goes to extremes and becomes a vampire herself, in which case I can’t imagine her being as satisfied after all with Edward). Because of their, um, differences, these two guys will always be OTHER. I think that is why they are so attractive to Bella, and to millions of young girls everywhere. The relationship feels so much more valuable when the person adoring you is somewhat separate and mysterious.

So I’m glad that my husband isn’t like me. He actually really does treat me with adoration--I feel very cherished. But I kind of like that there are some parts of me that he tolerates and supports without truly understanding. Because that means that there are two of us in this relationship. There are things about him that are different from me, and I like finding more.
Which leads me to question some of my previously-professed beliefs. I’ve always been critical of the Mr. Darcy theory of romance: that we need some sort of a sense of mystery in order for real romance to remain. As you recall, I wrote a post about it, and about how I didn’t think that was the basis of a lasting relationship. How can you become one if you don’t truly understand each other? Mystery would get in the way of that one-ness, wouldn’t it? But maybe I need to re-think that. Being one shouldn’t require being THE SAME.

While we’re on this subject, I will tell you that I find it extremely sexy when my husband gets really angry (when the werewolf comes out). Now, if you know my husband, you know that he is the farthest thing there is from a werewolf. I can only say this (that I like it when he’s angry) because he hasn’t gotten that way with ME. But one time he got that way with a person he thought was threatening my safety and I REALLY LIKED IT. So there you go. I like Jacob Black. I like my husband. I like men who can be werewolves when necessary, to protect their women.

Something just occurred to me. I wonder if this appreciation for the other-ness of my spouse contributes somehow to the easy acceptance I have always felt for the fact that he holds the priesthood and I don’t. Hmmm. I’ll ponder that one and get back to you.

Book Report

With fall in the air it’s time to report on some reading. Currently, I am licking my fingers over a tasty little book called Proving Contraries: Essays in Honor of Eugene England. I am LOVING this book. I wish it would never end. It’s just like sitting down with AML friends, having a good yap (barbaric yawp?) about the world and literature.

I finished Almost Sisters, by Nancy Anderson, Lael Littke and Carol Hoffling Morris. I had heard good things about this book: stuff like “It’s typical Deseret Book fiction for women, only done better than usual.” Maybe it was better than usual—I don’t usually read LDS “women’s fiction,” so I wouldn’t know. It wasn’t too bad, but not all that great. It was very long (or seemed so), and very detailed about the lives of three women who become friends at BYU’s Education Week. They have their struggles and sometimes resolve them. The characters were interesting, and so were their struggles, but I missed a sense of arc to the story. It felt like “a few years in the lives of some women” more than a solid story. So I was a little disappointed. Apparently, it is the first in a trilogy entitled “The Company of Good Women.” Maybe the arc comes through the trilogy. I hope so.

I finished The Seat of the Soul by Gary Zukav, which Angela recommended to me. It’s very new age-y, but full of a lot of truth. I love and believe the concept of everything coming down to fear vs. love. If I can live in love, abide in it, be present in it, then I can be happy and free and true to the real me. Anytime fear enters the picture, I am not in the present any more. I love the idea of listening to my instincts. This concept reminded me of The Bonds that Make Us Free, which postulates that our true selves are actually charitable, vibrant, loving beings, and any time we are not acting that way we are just losing touch with our true selves. (A little different from the “natural man” concept, no?) What I know for sure is that when I feel tension in my body, I can trace it back to some way that I am living contrary to what I deep down know I should be doing. And, in fact, when I trace things that far, I see that I’m actually not even doing what I want to be doing most, or being who I want to be. And I can do this tracing, if I’m willing, even about little irritations.

I read the last Harry Potter and, although I’m still a little confused about some of the details, I have to say that I enjoyed this one as much as or more than any of the others. I don’t have much patience for the little subplots in a lot of them (Dobby, Grawp). This one seemed more straightforward story, and it kept me going the whole way.

I read, but didn’t finish before I had to return it, Ingathering by Zenna Henderson who was, at least at some point in her life, LDS. Thanks to Johnna for recommending this one. I’m always looking for good sci-fi (as opposed to empty sci fi, which I find most of it to be). This is good stuff because it deals in real, human issues instead of just basing a plot around sci-fi elements. (Sounds like my definition of good LDS fiction as well.)

I just started re-reading Douglas Thayer’s Under the Cottonwoods in anticipation of reading Thayer’s autobiography (as soon as Chris mails it to me!). I loved this book the first time and am enjoying it just as much now. He really is one of the best authors the church has.

Speaking of fantastic LDS books, I hope everyone plans to buy a new book that will be coming out from Deseret Book next fall written by Segullah chics! Including me! It will be my first time being published in book form. Sure, I’ll only have three or four poems in it, but it counts, doesn’t it? For those of you who are keeping track, the poems of mine that will probably be in it (you never know—a few of them might not make it through editorial) are “First Babysitter,” “Umbilical Cord,” “To Jon on the First Day of Kindergarten,” “Giver and Given,” “Big Brother,” and “Inheritance.” Wahoo!

Autumn Time

I love fall. I adore fall. I wish fall were six months longer. I love the light, which is different somehow and I can’t figure out why. It must be slanting from a different angle. Or maybe it’s that, with the cooler weather, the light seems less yellow because it is not burning me up. It’s wider, fatter somehow. I love the leaves changing and the feeling of going back to school (wish I were). My husband, the eternal boy of summer, doesn’t share my love of fall. To him, it feels like impending doom. He never loved school, but always loved baseball season, so I guess his feelings are understandable. I won’t start feeling the impending doom feeling until after Christmas. Then I head into my three-month tunnel of gloom. But NOT THIS YEAR because I will be on a cruise in February! Yeah! And I hope to buy a sunlamp sometime as well.

But, anyway, back to fall. As I mentioned earlier, my garden runneth over and I just have to tell you about this fabulous lunch I had last week. I made homemade tomato soup (and the recipe is below). And then I made a grilled cheese sandwich with feta and parmesan and cheddar on sourdough bread. We are talking HEAVEN here, my friends. And if you’ll come over and visit me, I’ll make the same for you.

Basil Tomato Soup ala Darlene

A whole bunch of fresh garden tomatoes pureed in your food processor
1 can chicken broth
15 fresh basil leaves, minced (thanks to my step-mother for planting basil in my garden!)
1 t. sugar
1 t. oregano
Onion pwdr to taste (or throw in some dehydrated onions)

½ c. sour cream
½ c. half & half (which we always have on hand since it’s what my 6-yr-old DRINKS)
½ c. butter (yes, alas, a whole cube)


Bring tomatoes and broth to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for 10 minutes. Add basil and sugar and spices. Turn heat to low; stir in creams and butter. Cook until butter is melted.

Little Tiny Hairs

So I decided to do something wild and crazy today: pluck my eyebrows. Now, if you are a loyal reader, you know my feelings about plucking eyebrows. (If you're a new and future loyal reader, you can read them here.) I decided to do this momentous deed for two reasons:

The first is that I looked at myself today and thought I was looking my age. And my friend Angela says that plucking eyebrows "does wonders for opening up faces." And let me tell you, brothers and sisters, something needed opening up this morning.

The second reason is that I was going out to lunch with Angela today.

So the thing no one ever told me about plucking eyebrows (besides everything) is that there is a trick to it. I do not currently know the trick. But I know there must be one. Because I had to pluck each hair NO FEWER THAN FIVE TIMES. The darn tweezers kept slipping off the hairs. Or the little hair would break off so that I then had to PLUCK THE WHISKER. Now what kind of idiot would go through the pain of each hair being pulled out of its socket FIVE TIMES????? Certainly women aren't doing that to themselves every day. There MUST be a secret.

But now it's done (I think—how do I know for sure?). I was smart enough to stop before I had nothing left and had to draw an old-lady-line two inches above my regular brow ("opens up the face"). I probably stopped too soon. I can't tell. And now I'm wondering if Angela will notice. Probably not, because she'll be distracted (more by my fascinating conversation than by her six-month-old and my four-year-old, I'm sure). But I'll let you know if she does.

Meanwhile, I would show you a picture but our digital camera is broken, and no one here knows how to fix it. (Aye, 'tis verily so. You think that a person who can't even figure out tweezers would know how to work a CAMERA?) And, of course, we can't pay to have it fixed--because I'm going out to eat today. I've got my priorities straight, even if my eyebrows aren't. So if you see me within the next few weeks with whiskers around my eyes, you'll know what happened. I'll have "Li'l tahnee hayers, growin' out ma face!"—and if you know what comedy sketch from the early 70's that quote came from, you are probably my sister (Hi, Mar).

In addition to killing innocent hairs today, I also pulled out two entire healthy, producing plants from my garden, a tomato plants (with about 20 large, green tomatoes) and a zucchini plant. Yes, I saved the tomatoes to put face-down on newspaper in a sunny place so that we can eat them. I had to pull these plants out because my garden is insanely fertile and it has so many productive plants that have outgrown their space that I can't even WALK to the back of the garden. I am cursed with this garden. I hate gardening, and I have the most fertile square of soil in the United States! This year I was too lazy to actually plan a garden and simply threw some seeds I had leftover from last year in the general vicinity of the plot. I did, also buy three tomato plants. (Because the six I did last year were WAY, WAY too many for my family and all the families on my circle and any relatives who would take tomatoes from me).

I hadn't counted on volunteer plants. I had at least FIVE volunteer tomato plants! Arrggh!

I wonder if all this has something to do with my fertility earrings?

So anyway, I just wanted to say that pulling out those plants this morning made me feel dirty (in more ways than one), as if I had committed murder. I'm hanging my (well-plucked) head in shame, today, because I have killed some of God's creatures—productive ones, at that. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry. I hope I'll be able to apologize and explain to the little tomato and zucchini spirits in heaven someday.

Park Bench

(by, well, me)

Wherever it is you've gotten to these days, I wonder
if you know you've got a piece of me stuck
in your back pocket, the way I still have wisps of you
clinging to my hair or caught in my shoe
making me limp now and then.

Someday a hundred eons hence we'll meet
at a park bench on the edge of that fat fair Finally--
where people go pocketless and pieces float free
in the wide autumn light—
to put things back where they belong.

In that place people pause to pass around minds,
try memories on for size, share sips of point of view.

Ten minutes on a bench. For once and all you'll see
without the fog of pride that yes, I really loved you.
Maybe, too, I'll see that you forgive me.

"Ahh!" we'll say, and then shake hands and mosey off
into our separate destinies, kicking at a pebble, maybe,
feeling lighter for the trade.

oui, c'est moi

Yes, that story in the Friend this month is by yours truly. When I wrote it, it was called “All Clean Again.” When they published it, they removed the All. I imagine there is a deep theological reason why they took it out, along with any of the other sign of personality the story may have had originally. I can’t tell you exactly what and how they edited it, but I just feel it in my bones as I read it that it is not the same thing I sent them. I suppose I could go back to my original and compare, but I’m too lazy. I just feel like it’s not what it used to be. Sigh. But I spent the money they gave me for it very happily last year on a workshop at BYU. So who’s complaining?

Rog and I have been invited by the (desperate) Ward Activities Committee to peform a duet of “Hey Paula” at the ward Oldies party in a couple of weeks. Up until yesterday, I had never even heard the song. But we, alas, agreed to do it, being the softies that we are. And so now I am looking for a really cool circa-1961 wedding or prom dress. Anyone have one lying around? Also a bouffant wig. Let me know.

Tagged!

Thanks, Angela, for the tag. I like being tagged. But I’ve already done the one you tagged me for. So I decided to invent my own! Here goes . . .

Four Places I’d Love to Visit:

1. Ireland. Or Scotland. Just so’s it’s rainy and green.
2. North-East America and, possibly, Canada. (OK, I admit it. I wanna see Prince Edward Island and Robert Frost country.)
3. The Mormon Artists Retreat (by invitation only, you know)
4. Panama Canal (and YES! I will visit it in six months!)

Four Things I Covet:

1. Rachel’s singing voice. And throw in her hair while we’re at it.
2. Angela’s writing talent.
3. JL’s organizational skills.
4. Justine’s running stamina, habit and joy.

4 Goals I Have:

1. Learn Spanish.
2. Publish a book (or two).
3. Make meditation a lifelong habit and get good at it.
4. Get a master’s degree.

4 Fads I Wish Would Pass:

1. Women’s shirts that require undershirts.
2. 2-piece swimsuits that don’t meet in the middle (or do just enough to fool you into buying them but then creep up your middle when you wear them. I mean, I’ve lost weight and I’m proud of my middle except no one needs to see those stretch marks. We’re talking “Stars and Stripes Forever,” you know?).
3. Pale or no lipstick. It’s the California surf-girl meets poltergeist look.
4. Tan nylons with white shoes. I am sorry, but there is no way you can convince me that that is anything but ICKY to look at.

4 Delights:

1. Peter’s belly-button.
2. Jon’s cuddliness.
3. Alex’s freckles.
4. Ben’s grin.

4 Regrets:

1. I dropped a singing class at BYU that I should have stayed in.
2. I quit learning Spanish once I got to college and switched to French.
3. I turned down a chance to work as a research assistant with Dr. Richard Lloyd Anderson. I thought I couldn’t afford to live in Provo that summer, so I turned him down when he called me, in Salt Lake, to offer me the job. He called because he was impressed with my work in his Honors New Testament class.
4. Not spending more time with my sister during my teen years.

4 Things I Wish I Could Do More Often:

1. Sing The Messiah.
2. Eat out with AML friends.
3. Go to movies in theaters.
4. Square dance.

4 Things That I Never Would Have Imagined Would Happen to Me:

1. I married a CURLY-HEADED BLONDE who LOVES SPORTS and I had FOUR BOYS NATURALLY and I live in THIS CITY. All very shocking. (Not to mention the other shocking places I’ve lived: Pocatello and Berkeley.)
2. I do yoga.
3. I’ve been on cruises (three going on four).
4. I have regular e-mail conversations with really fascinating people, some of whom are semi-famous, at least to a consumer of Mormon arts and thought such as myself.

4 People I Tag:

1. Mark B.
2. Jennifer B.
3. Angela (turnabout’s fair—after all, it’s a new list)
4. Kathy S.

Luva-luva-luva

I had a fabulous weekend. On Friday, I got to witness the marriage of two people whose marriage is deeply satisfying to everyone because they are both fabulous people and obviously absolutely deserve each other. I love to see weddings in the temple. The altar is like that place under the space ship in old sci-fi movies where, if you stand, you could get sucked up into the saucer. It’s the place where the eternal touches down into the temporal. It’s a portkey, a time-warp bridge, whatever. It’s a magical place, and I like to sit nearby and feel the wind.

So Spencer, whom I have always adored and consider one of the world’s greatest catches, married Andrea, who is obviously good through and through. (I can’t even imagine one of MY siblings saying about me what her brother said about her—that you could substitute her name for the word “charity” in the scripture that says that charity suffereth long, envieth not, seeketh not her own, etc. And so hearing that made me realize I need to repent.) And the whole day—ceremony, breakfast, etc.—was amazingly spiritual. What a great beginning for the powerful force that their marriage has created.

On Saturday night, we took the three older boys to see The Secret Garden at Hale Center Theater. It was early in the show’s run and it wasn’t as good, technically, as the others we’ve seen there. But the music—the music! I own the soundtrack so the music is familiar to me, but I was pretty much in goosebumps for the whole show anyway. The singers were very skilled (except for the lead, Mary) and it was heavenly. I love that show, love the music and also the theme of rebirth, recovery, awakening. I’m in need of such both physically and spiritually these days.

And then on Sunday I got to fulfill my calling (which happens to be my new favorite calling—before this, it was Relief Society teacher), which is leading the music in sacrament meeting. I love this calling because I love music and because I love looking into the faces of my ward family whom I have come to love with amazing strength, considering we’ve only been here two years. I love sitting on the stand and watching those awkward, majestic young men pass the sacrament. I love seeing the families struggle with their toddlers, and the empty-nesters cuddle, and the people who slink into the back late and leave early. I love them, every one! And I realized (again) while I was leading music and loving them that the measure of joy that I feel is related directly to the measure of love that I feel for others. It didn’t matter whether or not they loved me, or even knew who I was. I loved them, and so I was happy.

How I wish I could carry that feeling into the tiny moments with just my family. It’s so easy to love people as a group, and so much harder to love, with all my strength, one misbehaving six-year-old, and to see and seize the joy of it.

The Time of My Life

I had a blast last night. At a meeting. This year I have discovered that I often really enjoy meetings (I know, I’m crazy). Like all those trek meetings we had—I loved hanging with those people, the adults who had been called to plan this trek for the kids. Because they were such nice people, such capable, willing, cheerful people. I liked just being near them, cracking jokes, accomplishing a Work.

But last night was not a trek meeting or a church meeting. It was much, much better than that. Because at the meeting were several people whose minds amaze me, whose opinions are fascinating to me, and whose acquaintance I consider one of my best accomplishments. And we spent the evening debating the merits of several pieces of literature that I also found very fascinating. And, of course, eating really good food.

Who could ask for more? I was trying to describe it to Rog, and finally made the analogy, “You know how you feel after you’ve played a really great, long, struggling game of softball? THAT’s how it felt.”

The only depressing thing about it is that I think that for most of them the meeting was just a chore. They are all much smarter than I am, so they didn’t spend the evening in awe of just being there. So chances that I could reproduce such an occasion are pretty small, darn it. Meanwhile, I feel really invigorated after such a great evening (I even dreamed that we were still there, discussing).

I haven’t figured out whether I am an introvert or an extrovert. I guess Im a weird combination of both, because I love being alone and pursuing solitary things (like reading and writing). But after having read, I like nothing more than having a really rigorous discussion about what I read with someone whose mind is interesting to me. THAT’S the best way to spend an evening, IMO.
How about you? What’s the definition of a great evening for you?