A person named Eunice

It's poems like this . . .

2011-12-02T12:41:00.001-08:00

So I've been reading John Updike's poetry. Didn't know hewas a poet until just a couple of years ago when I came across "SevenStanzas at Easter," which I quoted from here.

So, anyway, he is a phenomenal poet. The sheer variety ofsubjects he takes on, and styles, and images and ease of rhyme (when he caresto rhyme) is just mind-blowing to me. Here's one of my favorite images, whichcomes as the last line in a very long poem about bats and, in particular,chasing a bat out of his house one evening:

Stealthy as a parent, I wrapped itgently up;

it chirruped, exerting aquestioning pressure

back through the towel like thethrob of a watch.

Up, window. Up, screen. I gave thebat back

to the night like a cup of waterto the sea.

Man, it's poems like this that make me despair of ever beinga poet—and yet, it's poems like this that make me wonder if maybe I could beone. Because of the way I resonate when I encounter that one, perfect image("like a cup of water to the sea"). There must be something poetic inme to be able to get such joy from a turn of phrase like that, right?

My dream: to hear someday that someone loved an image ofmine as much as I love this one.

Presenting . . .

2011-11-17T05:47:00.001-08:00

I'm so impressed with this new anthology. Tyler Chadwick, a poet himself and a guy who has been active in the Mormon Letters community, edited it, and it was a (huge) labor of love. And it truly is love. We all know that nobody makes money when it comes to poetry. I'm so impressed that Tyler and his buddies saw a need for an updated anthology and they jumped in, putting their own money and time on the line for this. It's huge, and amazing, and I'm sure it will be used as a textbook for classes in the future (besides being a fantastic addition to any personal library--right?).

Anyway, you can order it here. Do so, if you care about poetry and Mormon lit.

A few of my own poems appear in it, right at the end. I re-read them today and liked them a little less than in the past--I think I could do better now. (Especially that "Patriarchal Blessing" is a wee bit sentimental . . . ) But I always experience that when I read my older things. I imagine other poets do, too.

I hope you pick this up, and then you can let me know what you think.

Bucket List

2011-11-12T10:35:00.001-08:00

My Bucket List

I love the idea of making a bucket list, especially since(as you probably know) I have been afraid of dying young ever since my mother'scancer returned. My mother was 43 when she died; her mother was only 34. Bothdied of female-related cancers (Ovarian and Breast). Understandably, I washappy to see the Just Ask Bucket List Getaway Giveaway going on. Just Ask offers a breast and ovarian cancer screening and is encouragingpeople to share fifteen things that they want to live to accomplish. Check out TodaysMama.com fordetails on how to enter.

I've kept a bucket list in my mind for years, but it's timeto write it down. The first one is a no-brainer, so I won't even write it onthe list: to outlive my mother! Here arethe rest, in no particular order:

1. Learn to speakSpanish.

2. Sing a solo inchurch. (YIKES! This one will take a while.)

3. Get a Master'sdegree.

4. Publish a novel.

5. Travel across theocean with my husband (Scotland?Tahiti?)

6. Serve a missionwith my husband.

7. Work as a teacher.

8. Run ahalf-marathon.

9. Publish acollection of poetry.

10. Be able to do twentyFULL YOGA push-ups.

11. Visit Epcott Center with my husband.

12. Make some closecouple-friends that we could travel with regularly.

13. Travel across thecountry in a motorhome with my husband.

14. Learn to meditatefor REAL.

15. Win an AML awardfor writing.

And there are more—take a square-dancing class. Eat at The Melting Potrestaurant. Visit Roger's mission area. And probably lots more! How about I stick around for a while?

NaNoWriMo

2011-11-09T12:24:00.001-08:00

NANOWRIMO (National Novel Writing Month, or, "30 Days, 50,000 Words")

Well, on a fluke I decided to go for it.

Actually, it was out of sheer admiration for my friend who, despite lots of reasons not to, decided to be brave and make a daily writing commitment, and asked me to be someone she can report to. She has much better reasons than I do for not doing it, and I admire her so much, so I figured it was the least I could do to join her.

That's the cool thing about NaNo: what have you got to lose, besides an hour or two each day? It's not like I have to say this is my Big Book, the one closest to my hear that will be my masterpiece. It's just permission to mess around and see what happens, right?

Which is why I decided to do something really crazy.

See, I decided a few weeks before Nov. 1 that I would do this, and I began thinking up some ideas, brainstorming characters, etc. Two days before NaNo started, I spent many hours outlining an idea.

Then, the night before, I climbed into bed and thought, "I'm not really all that excited about this idea." Now, I've done NaNo before—it was how I produced my first draft of my first novel. And, that time, too, I wasn't all that excited about the idea I had come up with, but it was NaNo and I wasn't all that invested, so I wrote it anyway. If you've read any of my old entries about that book, you know that I never did come to love that book very much, even though I worked on it, on and off, for the next four years or so, producing several complete drafts and taking it to WIFYR twice. And I got some good interest from agents (a few still have partials or fulls), and, at one point, got my hopes up about its being published.

But I still never loved it.

So, that night before NaNo started last week, I said to myself, "Well, what kind of book WOULD you be excited about?" And I had no idea of a story or characters or anything—just a general theme and FEELING. And I dared myself to just try it. Why not? It's NaNo, a time to risk.

So the next morning I got up and started something with pretty much no ideas in mind.

And I LOVED what I wrote.

And the next day I loved it even more. And the next day.

I wish I could say that that passion continued. But . . .

Writing a novel is a lot like raising kids. At first, you think, "This kid could be anything! He could be a genius! Mozart! Steve Jobs!" The potential of that little guy is infinite. And then, he grows up a little bit, and you start to realize that, while he's absolutely adorable and you would die for him because you love him so much, he's really kind of average (in a very adorable way, of course), and he might grow up to, say, get a scholarship to BYU or be in the marching band, but he's probably not going change the world or anything. And you love them for who they are, and learn to just enjoy them.

So that's the phase I'm at with my novel. It was thrilling to imagine the possibilities of my book, but then I had to start making some decisions—and each decision limited the book in some way. By deciding to make it serious, I limited its ability to be hilarious. Be deciding to make it about religion, I limited its appeal to many, many editors. Etc. And there's a point, of course, where some of my decisions even go against something I originally wanted it to be—because I have to be true to the story, now, and not play god so much. I have to let my characters grow up, make their own decisions, etc.

That's the real work of writing a novel, I think. The making decisions. The giving up some things for other things. It's what kills me, but it's the only way to get through. Otherwise I'll forever have the Perfect Novel in spirit form but never embodied.

A writer is just someone who decides that the sacrifices are worth it, I guess—that the embodiment is worthwhile, even as it encompasses its own weaknesses. And isn't that the truest mirror of experience, anyway?

So, wish me luck.

And by the way, my 13-year-old is doing NaNo with me and KEEPING UP! In fact, he is ahead of me on words. What a guy. (Just goes to show that even your real kids do end up exceeding expectations sometimes, too.)

Why hearing from Marilynne Robinson discouraged me

2011-10-21T05:54:00.000-07:00

I got to go hear Marilynne Robinson in Orem last night. Her book, Gilead, which won the Pulitzer prize, and its companion novel, Home, have moved me deeply, and I was eager to hear from her, to see what kind of person, what kind of mind, these books came out of. One thing that made me especially curious was the fact that she was a woman, because those two books are so predominantly male. Home’s main POV character is female, but the voice does not feel very female, and the true focus of the book is not Glory but her brother Jack. How does a female writer feel so confident writing so much about men? I was also curious about how Robinson even got the nerve to write these books, because they are so very literary (in that there is hardly any outward plot at all) and so unlike the kinds of things that get published. I wanted to know about her background in fiction, what kinds of things she reads and what her goals were as she wrote, to help me understand how a writer can so thoroughly throw out all the rules you hear from agents/publishers about keeping the action going, having conflicts on every page, etc. I wanted to listen to her as a writer, as someone who might, potentially, want to write like her someday, with similar subject matter that is so heavily internal.

First of all, I was a little disappointed that she took a large portion of the time to read to us from Gilead. I wanted to hear her speak, not hear her read words that I had at home and could read to myself any time. I wanted to hear so much about how she could come to sit down to the endeavor that was these two novels. I was selfish, I know. The question-and-answer period helped me get some ideas, anyway. Here are some of the notes I took:

On the subject of how she came to choose Reverend Ames’s story to tell (or any of her novels): “The voice just comes to me, I don’t know from where.” This is interesting and disappointing to me. Disappointing because I NEVER GET VOICES. I have had friends tell me they hear voices, or are haunted by their characters, and I am so very envious. How can I get that? All my characters really turn out to be me in different disguises, and that is my greatest weakness. I am too cerebral, left-brained, controlling, conscious, whatever. I want to loose that need to always be in control and get tap into the world of the other, the Jungian cloud above us that is full of ideas, or my own subconscious. But I don’t know how! Can I pray to be haunted?

She talked about how, during the writing of Gilead, she would spend her day working (at something else) but have in the back of her mind the happy thought that she would get to go home and spend time with John Ames. This must have been an amazing feeling.

Her idea for the novel began with her own interests. She had a great interest in 19th century culture, especially vernacular hymns. So I ask myself, where are my interests? What am I very interested in that could lead to an idea for a novel?

I asked her about Jack’s story (Home), and at what point in the construction of Gilead she had realized that Jack had his own story that needed to be told, and whether she knew that story as she wrote Gilead. She answered that “The characters [in Gilead] just wouldn’t go away. So I figured that if they were that strong, perhaps I should give them some attention.”

Again, the haunting.

In response to a question about how she had the courage to write about religious life and believing characters, she quoted statistics about how surprisingly many Americans are actually religious. Then she said, “I have to write what is on my mind. I lecture on and study theology, so that’s what I write about. Courage doesn’t really come into it.” It reminded me of something Wallace Stegner once said to Jerry Johnston when Jerry asked about whether a great Mormon novel was possible (as reported in an AML meeting many years ago): “Just tell it true.” I believe this very strongly—that a Mormon writer who writes a Mormon novel but skillfully and very, very true (meaning no propaganda or whitewashing) could succeed nationally.

Someone asked her what she reads. She mentioned Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman and Emerson. VERY interesting. No novelists? I wonder whether that made it possible for her to write what she did. If she were constantly reading what’s being produced these days, maybe she would have told herself that no one would publish what she was writing. There may be something to be said about isolating oneself in order to keep one’s own voice and passions pure.

About craft: “Always keep something in front of the reader’s eyes. You are leading them through a world they are unfamiliar with.” I think Robinson does an amazing job of this, considering how very internal her books are. Scene, scene, scene is where it’s at. Again, I feel myself hampered by my inability to visualize.

So it was a really enjoyable evening, but it served to make me lose confidence in myself as a novelist. Is this ability to be haunted, and to visualize, something that can be learned? Should I just give up and decide to be a great appreciator? That wouldn’t be a bad life . . . And there is always my poetry, which comes so much more naturally to me, even as it also relies on scene.

Meeting Billy Collins

2011-09-15T12:08:00.001-07:00

So I got to meet Billy Collins this week. As in FACE TO FACE. As in, NOT across a book-signing desk, but in a room where I could have asked him anything, spoken to him for five or ten minutes all by myself. And here’s what I asked him:

Nothing.

I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him. Later, after his reading when he opened up the room to comments, I thought of all sorts of things I would have liked to ask him. In particular, I would have liked to ask him whether he thinks the art of being a poet can be taught. I’m not talking about revision, or skills of craft. I’m talking about being able to see a poem in a scene or detail and knowing how to get it down in a shape that is appreciable by others. I would have liked to ask him how it felt to be Poet Laureate, and what he did while he held that office. I would have liked to ask him (and I never would have dared) whether, being as familiar as he is with the more complex work of other poets, he enjoys being labeled as “the accessible poet”—does he feel people looking down on him for that? Does he wish his poetry were more dense? I want to ask him how he judges other people’s poetry whose styles are so different from his own. What does he look for when he judges poetry contests, for example? What has he learned about craft, over the course of his career? What kind of goals does he set for himself, in terms of actual work time—does he, for example, have a goal of spending two hours a day working on poetry?

Sigh. I lost a huge opportunity. It was just plain old shyness on my part. I sat there thinking, “This guy has absolutely no interest in talking to me—why should he?—so I will exit this conversation quickly so he can talk to more important people.” And this assumption on my part had absolutely nothing to do with Mr. Collins’s own response to me. He was kind and attentive and would have answered me with warmth.

PBBBBTTHTTHTH!!! to me and my stupid self-consciousness.

However, on the bright side, I was immensely nourished by the whole OCCASION of my meeting him. I got to spend a really pleasant evening with one of my favorite people (no, not Billy, but my good friend Kristi, whose family is sweet, whose home is so perfectly HER [and beautiful], and whose genuineness and love of truth always make me enjoy her company). And I got my book signed. And I had a really nice drive to and from Ephraim. Coming back, I took the long-way-round through Mona and Goshen while the sun was rising above the hills. It was a nice, nice experience, even without Words of Wisdom from Billy Collins.

And I enjoyed the thoughts he did share after his reading. Particularly, Kristi and I were affected by his comment about the process of writing a poem: “I never start with an end in mind. If I take away the surprise for myself, why would I even bother to write it? That takes away all the enjoyment.” She and I both have been too worried about ends. We resolved to be braver about seeing each work as a journey.

I’m so blessed to have people like Kristi in my life. Lately, I’ve been feeling grateful about so many things—the interesting people I get to know, the great books I’ve met in my life, my fun family (immediate and extended), football, bright fall sunshine, Dove peanut-butter chocolate, water with lemon. It’s a good life. And now I’ll end before this sounds even more like a testimony meeting . . .

9/11

2011-09-11T06:15:00.000-07:00

I was going to post something else today, but then I saw the date. How could I dare to post something silly today, of all days?

My kids have been asking me about 9/11—where I was, what it was like, etc. We’ve been trying to explain to them how it changed the world, but they don’t remember much different, so it’s hard. When I was a teenager, I got sort of tired of all the people at church and in General Conference talking about how we were supposed to be such a strong generation, saved for the difficult last days. I didn’t feel particularly strong. Now that my children are growing up in this crazy world, I see why people say those kinds of things: It’s soothing to those of us who love them. I HAVE to believe my kids are strong (meaning, have strong stomachs and unquenchable hope) in order to sleep at night. There’s got to be a way (hasn’t there?) to remain sane in a world like this.

I kept thinking about how our parents used to describe where they were when they heard about Kennedy being shot, and then I thought about World War II and the Holocaust, and Lincoln being shot, and I realized that evil is not new; upheaval of society is not new. The answer is always to insist on believing in man’s ability to choose, even in the face of the unimaginable—and then choosing myself to get dressed, put on makeup, go out into the world and dance in the face of everything.

(But you can’t make me shave my legs if I’m planning on wearing pants. I’m just saying.)

So anyway, I don’t have anything profound to say about 9/11. Just that even though it happened I am still glad to have had a chance to have lived on this earth, and I’m still making plans for a relatively normal life. Yeah, I’m trying to live frugally and get out of debt and be wise, but I am not stockpiling guns and gold and TVP in my basement. So take that, terrorists. You gave a lot of pain to a lot of people, but for average Joe and Josephine like myself, you have not destroyed faith in humanity.

Have a happy September!

2011-09-03T12:33:00.000-07:00

Chieko

2011-08-04T19:29:00.001-07:00

I bet there are not many LDS women of my generation who do not know whom I’m referring to when I say the name “Chieko.” I believe that Chieko Okazaki, who died this week, had a huge influence on the women of the church and thus, I believe, on women of the world. At least, she had a huge influence on me, on my understanding of how to apply the principles of the gospel to daily living, and particularly on my self-definition as an LDS woman.

In conjunction with the presidency of Gordon B. Hinckley, the presidency that Chieko was a part of presided during a time of change in the church in regards to public rhetoric by and about women. It was during those years that what my husband and I refer to as the “wife talk” became a common staple of the priesthood session of General Conference—that is, the general authorities began to emphasize the correct (and point out the incorrect) usage of priesthood power within marriages, condemning abuse and encouraging emotional support from husbands to wives. At the same time, Sheri Dew and Chieko Okazaki were establishing a new and powerful model of what an LDS woman could be in terms of non-traditional (one was single; the other had been a working mom) and the ways (powerfully) and subjects about which (meaningful applications of gospel principals) and she could speak.

Most people remember Chieko’s talks in General Conference because she used visual aids for her object lessons. But what I will always remember her for are her writings, which I read, re-read, marked up and quoted (and still do). I’m proud that the organization that I serve, the Association for Mormon Letters, gave her a rare award in devotional writing. Her writings motivated me like no other devotional book ever had (or since has), because she was a truth-teller whose desire to increase unity and charity among LDS women was obvious, even as she bravely pointed out the ways we fall short. Just off the top of my head, I can remember several of her stories. For example, there’s the one about the visiting teachers who, when greeted by a child at the door of a woman they meant to visit because the woman was too sick to answer the door, said, “Well, tell her we’ll come back when she’s feeling better.”

I know that Chieko always thought of herself as a teacher. I have a relative who was blessed to have Chieko as an elementary school teacher who says she was fantastic. I’m grateful that the Lord arranged for Chieko to be given opportunities to teach many more than just the children lucky enough to have her in school. I’ve heard from a friend who was in her ward for years that Sunday School wasn’t boring with Chieko in the classroom. I imagine! Lucky ward!

I’m not embarrassed to say that Chieko is one of my role models. I will miss her; I think many, many people will miss her. I’m grateful to have known her mind; she changed my life.

Some of my poetry

2011-06-30T09:06:00.000-07:00

Check out this beautiful web mag.

TREK

2011-06-21T07:27:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s over. I have to confess to a lot of relief and even a tiny little bit of let-down.

First of all, I consider it a big success. On the way home, I reviewed the goals that R and I started out with, and found that we had met every one. Here they are:

• The kids will feel the Spirit.
• The kids will experience adversity and overcome it.
• The kids (and staff) will have an opportunity to get to know others in the ward, both youth and adults. They will grow in unity through the experience, both with other youth and with their own trek parents.
• The kids will see an example of adults with testimonies, and benefit from that, so that when they return from trek, they will have more spiritual mentors than just their own parents. We want them to be able to say to themselves, “Brother X and Sister Y knew, too.”
• The kids will have fun.
• No one will die.
• The staff won’t hate us when it is all over.

I won’t go through a step-by-step retelling of all that happened. There was way too much, for one thing.

It was a little hard to get a sense of how things were going from my position. It was as if I was standing backstage trying to gauge how a show was going with only my view of the wings and the actors backsides to help me judge. But reports are good.

The very best part was seeing the things we cared about most happen and happen well. I’m referring to the family time, in which the Ma’s and Pa’s took the kids aside and taught them, helping them relate the activities to their lives. Our Ma’s and Pa’s were FANTASTIC at this, better than we’d ever hoped. That was one of the hardest things—ceding control of this most important part to others. I really felt confirmation that the callings of these particular Ma’s and Pa’s were inspired, and that the family assignments were inspired as well. I saw several specific examples of why certain kids needed to be with certain “parents.” What happened within those families was worth ALL our work.

Other favorite parts:

• When one of the big kids (an “older brother”) came up to me, duct taped at the wrist by his “parents” to my own (very small) son: “So that B can watch over me and keep me out of trouble,” the big kid told me.

• Hearing the kids brag about how their own Ma’s and Pa’s were the best.

• The “stupid human tricks” I discovered each youth could do. (One kid can turn one of his feet almost 180 degrees around. Another can lick her elbow. Etc.)

• Singing with the kids on the bus.

• Hearing the “family songs” that the families made up.

• The food. Oh, man, the food. Many of us gained weight.

• And, of course, the sweet spirit at the testimony meeting. One kid: “That was the longest, and most spiritual, testimony meeting I’ve ever been in!”

Obstacles and tender mercies:

• My health was good throughout.
• We overcame several staff drop-outs and other emergencies, including a huge budget shortfall (through the kindness of an anonymous donor) and a major accident to our medical chairman.
• New bishopric halfway through the planning.
• We were able to reroute our Willie trek when a portion of the trail was significantly under water and we had no spare shoes (thanks to helpful missionaries).
• Miraculous good Samaritans helping our vehicle (which pulled an important trailer) that broke down on the highway.

Things I’ve learned:

• A project like this should ALWAYS be assigned to a couple to head up, not an individual. It would have been SOOOOOOO hard to do this singly, or to watch Roger do it singly.

• People who SEEM like they are “get-it-done” people are not always “get-it-done” people. Likewise, people who often hang in the background can turn out to be workhorses who put their whole hearts into what they do.

• Follow up, follow up, follow up.

• Tell people WHY you hare having them do things. They’re more likely to follow directions when they know why. (Similarly, it’s important to follow directions even when you don’t know why, because you often have limited information.)

• People in charge of big things like this often have less control over the final product that you would think. They deserve neither all the blame nor all the praise.

• Sometimes God doesn’t remove bumps, but provides help for you to get over them if the task is necessary to his work.

• Use the people who volunteer, if you can. Take advantage of their interest!

• Did I mention following up?

• After you’ve planned and planned and planned, let go and watch spontaneous things happen without fear.

One of the most exciting things that happened was the huge storm that hit while we were out with our handcarts. I was seriously petrified that we would be struck by lightning. We had a little frustration with the staff at the visitor’s center area, who were nowhere to be found when we came running in through the storm looking for shelter, but once we finally found shelter and counted heads to be sure everyone was safe, I could finally breathe. We gathered everyone for a prayer of gratitude and I walked around trying to calm my heart—and then overheard one boy telling another, “That was the COOLEST THING EVER!” We found that we had taken shelter in the replica of the original fort building—the one the Martin company had come to but had been unable to fit inside. Hearing that story just then, in that situation where we had just come in from the horrible elements, really struck us. Imagine if not all of us had fit inside that shelter that day! What a learning experience.

Another interesting thing was when we returned to camp and found all of our tents still safe because we had followed instructions and pulled them down and weighted them before we left camp. The neighboring camp, which had not done so, lost several tents to the storm.

I can’t describe the relief when we pulled into the parking lot and were able to deliver all of the kids to their parents (relatively) unscathed. It was finally over, and I began to wonder what I’d do with all my extra time after this . . .

(Well, I’m booked up for a couple of months, anyway. First there’s all the stuff I put off dealing with until “after trek.” Then there’s two huge camping trips, a week apart, that I haven’t begun planning. Maybe around August I’ll catch my breath.)

About Being a Mormon Writer

2011-06-01T13:04:00.000-07:00

The following is from an article called "Playing to Type: Lynn Nottage on Acting and Race," by Hilton Als, in May 23's New Yorker (p. 86). It describes Nottage's childhood love of musicals, then continues:

"But when [playwright Lynn Nottage] set out to become a playwright she exchanged the joy of musicals for the mantle of racial identity, which made her early plays feel like a didactic throwback to the Black Arts Movement. This is not an unusual phenomenon: black artists are often torn between the work they do for themselves and the work they feel they should do for their people. Eventually, Nottage realized that she didn't have to write black; she was black, and her race would be inhernent in everything she did--as would her feminism."

Now go back and insert "Mormon" for "black." I think too many of us (me included) sometimes sacrifice our joy and passion for trying to Say Something. And often we feel it's our job go Say Something Mormon (or, perhaps, Something Moral). But I believe very much what Nottage came to realize--that just be being true to our own world views (which, as Mormons, are inherently optimistic--ultimately--but also realistic--hopefully), honest in the way we depict things, we are saying something. (And, in fact, we fail artistically as soon as we try to insert a message.)

What do you think?

What is my job on the planet?

2011-05-16T09:21:00.000-07:00

“All of us are apprenticed to the same teacher that the religious institutions originally worked with: reality. Reality-insight says . . . master the twenty-four hours. Do it well, without self-pity. It is as hard to get the children herded into the carpool and down the road to the bus as it is to chant sutras in the Buddha hall on a cold morning. One move is not better than the other, each can be quite boring, and they both have the virtuous quality of repetition. Repetition and ritual and their good results come in many forms. Changing the filter, wimping noses, going to meetings, picking up around the house, washing dishes, checking the dipstick—don’t let yourself think these are distracting you from your more serious pursuits. Such a round of chores is not a set of difficulties we hope to escape from so that we may do our “practice” which will put us on a “path”—it is our path.”

--Gary Snyder, The Practice of the Wild, quoted in Jon Kabat-Zinn’s Wherever You Go, There You Are.

Last night I dreamed that I was substitute teaching (something I have done several times this year) and some authors and agents visited the school. One asked me to describe my novel and pb manuscripts and was quite excited about them. “Do you have hard copies I could take?” he asked. I said I had some at home (but obviously I was stuck there teaching). Another teacher said, “Just run home quick and get them—I’ll watch over the class for you, and no one will know.” So I did. But on the way home, I had car problems. And then, upon reaching home, I couldn’t find some of the manuscripts. I found my novel, but realized it was an older, flawed version. I felt anxiety about getting back to class so I wouldn’t get caught having ditched my job, and I didn’t believe I had time to print out a new copy. I woke up in the midst of that dilemma.

I think the dream reflects my constant guilt and indecision about where I should be spending my time (writing vs. family vs. trying to earn some money, etc.) and, more particularly, whether to abandon some of my writing goals in order to focus more particularly on others. It seems sometimes that I spend whole days spinning my wheels. Kabat-Zinn recommends asking each day, “What is my job on the planet?” He tells about Buckminster Fuller, who came to a point in his life where he decided to live as if he had already died. Each day he asked himself, “What is it on this planet that needs doing that I know something about, that probably won’t happen unless I take responsibility for it?” This question has been helpful to me in analyzing what I’m doing with and in my life. I haven’t reached any big-picture answers, but I’ve used it in some small situations, such as whether to correct a child. (“What, truly, is my job here? Is it my job to fix this problem? Obviously it is my job to raise a child who is the most capable of joy as possible. Would making this correction contribute to that, or is this situation simply not my business?”)

I look forward to finding more ways to use this question in my life. I suppose I ought to be open to the possibility that sometimes my job is just to live a day mindfully, without putting pressure on myself to produce anything.

. . . speaking of which . . .

2011-04-13T09:52:00.001-07:00

I am really grateful for humble heroes who don't mind making a boy's day by smiling big for the 100th time late at night so a kid can have this memory forever.

(In case you don't know, these are Jackson Emery, Jake Heaps, and Jimmer, whom we ran into at the Y Awards last night. Thanks, Papa John for passing along your tickets.)

I love taking B to things because he has such an amazing capacity for enjoyment.

Jimmer-Mania

2011-04-06T14:20:00.000-07:00

Well, we had some this year.

And not all of it (ahem) from the males in my family.

The thing is, it was just really, really fun.

And I have been short on fun in the last five years of my life.

My kids were wowed by Jimmer's skills, but the thing that charmed me was his boyishness. Really. You could tell this kid was having a blast, all the time. And I loved his openness with his emotions.

It made it easier for us to live the whole thing vicariously through him--yeah, he was insanely talented, but he was just a normal kid, just like us.

And, oh yeah, it was fun being a fan.

Notes from AML Conference

2011-04-01T15:29:00.000-07:00

So here are some of the notes I jotted down as I listened to the incredible sessions last weekend. Keep in mind that these are not quotes from the speakers, but rather the end-product after I heard them say something similar to what is here. They've passed through my brain and possibly picked up some errors, faulty implications, ominous overtones, whatever. Mostly I'm just putting them here because I don't want to forget them.

Josh Allen on Epiphany in Fiction:
We trust the epiphany because the world which is discovered is demanding and complex.

We also need doubt. Remove it in an epiphany and you don’t have truth.

In good epiphany, truth isn’t tidy. Epiphany leads character to question other things. Good epiphany increases complexity, so we trust it. (Example: 2 epiphanies in Wizard of Oz. Bad=”there’s no place like home,” resolves everything. Good=man behind curtain.)

Insights that make things harder.

Go to a Mormon bookstore and examine the epiphanies. What is new? Nothing. All is already known. Closed universe.

Jack Harrell:
God enters chaos in which elements aren’t distinguished from each other and then divides and organizes.

God is the meaning (logos). Writers (and all creators) create meaning from the chaos. God lost 1/3 of his spirit children; writers are acquainted with failure, loss.

Good art: not just a means to re-present what we have, but to expand joy and understanding.

Meaning is discovered in the world as it is. Natural state is chaos.

From citation for Patrick Madden’s Quotidiana:
Each essay begins with the mundane and meanders into deep meaning.

Kathy Soper on Memoir Construction:1. Explore opposition.
2. Structure meaning.
3. Forster communion.

John Bennion’s admonition to those on study abroad, about touring and also about writing essays: “Wander, not knowing beforehand where you will go.” “Abandon interpretation.” “Step back. Hold back your judgment.” [Me: both in writing and in regards to self and others.

Marvin Payne on Marden Clark’s essay, “Liberating Form”: “He only wrote the essay in order to say what he said in the last two pages.” [Me: that should be the way of any written art. To the audience, you say, “You can’t hear that in the right way unless you live through this artistic experience first.”]

AML Meeting

2011-03-27T07:35:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s been and gone now, and I can heave a sigh of relief. To tell the truth, I didn’t do much work on this year’s AML meeting, but I did stress about it—does that count? Kathleen and Boyd and Margaret pulled it off, with Matthew doing lots of the work I usually do. Matthew Jarman is a blessing that’s come to AML this year (he’s treasurer), along with Jonathan Langford, who revitalized the blog and has made it all I had dreamed it would be, and Dennis Clark, our awards coordinator who did an amazing job. Things are looking up for the old AML, with people like this!

This year’s meeting was rewarding for me in many ways. One very literal way (key word: rewarding) is that I got an AML award! For “Service to AML.” Which means, “We’re glad you do all those things that the rest of us wouldn’t want to do,” but it also means “We consider you one of our own,” and so it is very meaningful to me. Because that’s the whole reason I ever volunteered to help with AML: so I could play with the cool kids. And I really have been blessed to get to know some extremely cool kids, and come to consider them friends. This was more clear to me than ever this year because I felt so much joy in being able to greet all the old regulars and some of the new regulars by name. It makes me very happy to help people make connections with each other. I don’t think I’ve been all that influential over AML other than that (and, maybe, keeping Kathleen going, who is really the reason AML has survived some of its bumps). But I felt appreciated yesterday and so it was nice. (They even gave me 2 dozen yellow roses! And stood up for me! I wanted to pull a Sally Fields: “You like me! You really like me!”) The most meaningful part of it was the beautiful citation that Eric Samuelsen (one of the coolest kids of all) wrote for me, and the fact that he came, sick as he was, just to read it. THAT was very moving.

Thanks, my friends.

Another big ego boost was that an editor from Signature passed me a note in class asking when they’re going to see a collection from me. That had me skipping around. It was funny to me that it happened there because, as I’ve mentioned here, I’ve been doing some really good work in my class and feel like I’ve got some very solid work to begin sending out to lit mags. And I’ve been having this debate with myself about whether to put together a collection for a local (read: LDS) audience or send them out singly to non-local (read: non-LDS) mags. Signature’s interest sparked some conversations with other writers that helped me understand that I can do both. So that’s cool. And, yeah, I know that one editor passing me a note does not in any way imply that an ms. from me would necessarily be accepted. Still, it’s nice to be noticed. I know they aren’t interested in reading submissions from people who aren’t already publishing, so it felt like I’d passed at least a first screening.

But besides all the ego-boosting, this meeting was nourishing in other ways. In a day-and-a-half, I heard well-crafted stories (fiction and essay) about a suicide, a dying father, a brain tumor, a daughter with debilitating anxiety, and more. So I feel like I’ve been through the wringer. But I also heard stories of hope and humor, stories of realistic faith. I loved hearing Stephen’s prize-winning essay about his mission experience again, which is both funny and challenging and faithful. I loved seeing the documentary about John Bennion’s study-abroad group (so full of envy that I can’t go myself!). I loved the readings at Charlotte England’s house in the evening and running into FoxyJ there. (And, really, who doesn’t want an excuse to go to that beautiful house?) I enjoyed meeting the people from Mormon Scholars in the Humanities, who shared our meeting.

BTW, Kathy (Soper) read a fantastic paper on "The Alchemy of Memoir." It made me sad that we don't publish the written versions of papers in the Annual anymore, because it was so well-crafted that it deserves a good, deep read. As it was, it was a really great paper. I hope she'll put it somewhere I can read it again. AND, my friend Angela got an AML award for her anthology, "Dispensations," which was well-desereved, as everyone who's ever seen it agrees. Congrats!

All in all a fantastic, filling day-and-a-half.

And, by the way, I have to mention that I went for only half a day on Friday because I was at a funeral earlier in the day for a young man in our ward. It was an amazing, beautiful meeting and I was taught by the Spirit there about my own parenting and other things. It was cool to learn more about the family this happened to—I love Mormon funerals for that reason: I always come out loving the deceased and his family so much more after.

Just a fantastic couple of days.

Book Report

2011-02-27T08:17:00.000-08:00

Shame on me; I’ve let it go too long. Part of my excuse is that I finally joined GoodReads, so I’ve been posting reviews, of a sort, over there. But I know a few of you like to see what I’m reading here, so this is for you. This is what I’ve read since October. I’ve put asterisks by the ones I highly recommend or plan to read more of.

Fiction
The Passage by Justin Cronin. I listened to this one, and it was a really well-done audiobook. I wouldn’t have picked it up for myself, but Angela recommended it and she’s a trustworthy resource for me. First of all, it was creepy but gripping. I’m not usually into this kind of thing (horror-ish, sort of on the level of Stephen King but much more elaborate), but I actually think it is an amazing piece of work and it kept me going until the end. The difference (between this and horror that I won’t touch) is that it is character-intensive and doesn’t sacrifice story for plot (oh, tell me you understand what I mean by that). It’s a sort of vampire book but I wouldn’t even call it that. A vampire dystopia, I guess. Very interesting.

The Girl Who Played with Fire and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest by Steig Larsson. These are a little violent and nasty (but it’s easy to skip over the nasties). His plots keep me reading. I enjoyed the third much more than the second, but then I prefer intrigue to action.

No Going Back by Jonathan Langford, who is a friend of mine, as is the publisher, Christopher Bigelow. I think this was an important story and told in an interesting and effective way. I’m glad it was published. The alternating viewpoint got a little monotonous at times and could be repetitive. I’m glad this book exists.

*A Sense of Order and Other Stories by Jack Harrell. Fantastic book—it is everything I want Mormon fiction to be. Well-written, thoughtful, down-to-earth short stories with colorful characters I want to spend time with and fresh plots. Reminded me of another of my favorites, Neal Chandler’s Benediction, only this is more serious.

The School of Love by Phyllis Barber (short stories). I like her use of magical realism and dreams. This was OK, but didn’t stand out.

*The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall. I expected this to be another negative, shock-intensive or whiny book (though I haven’t found Udall to be that way at all) but it wasn’t! It’s full of interesting, delightful characters, some quite humorous, and realistic problems. A couple of sex scenes might make some uncomfortable, but overall this is a really enjoyable and satisfying read with no short-cuts. Well done.

Our Tragic Universe by Scarlett Thomas. About a writer trying to write a novel. This was interesting to me just because of the thoughts on turning a life into a book, but the plot was a little scattered. The review calls it “whimsical”—I would say “flighty.”

The Known World by Edward Jones. An interesting tale about blacks in the south who owned slaves.

*Room by Emma Donoghue. I wasn’t going to touch this with a ten-foot-pole because of the subject (woman and small son are imprisoned for years, kept by a man in his shed), but it was actually extremely enjoyable. Beautiful, true writing and not painful. (Told in POV of the little boy.) Try it.

Angel Falling Softly by Eugene Woodbury. Also published by my friend Chris (Zarahemla). I think Woodbury’s writing is getting better and better. This one has a fascinating premise (believing Mormon meets guilt-ridden vampire) and is not a typical vampire book—much more philosophical. A little too philosophical for me at times (it lost me) but still a very interesting read.

The Camel Club by David Baldacci. If it hadn’t been on audio, I would have quit early on. This is apparently a very popular series, sort of on the lines of John Grisham or Tom Clancy but not as good as either. One thing that makes it slightly more interesting is the inclusion of descriptions of the middle-eastern cultures and mindset—but those sections were quite didactic. I didn’t enjoy being able to see the bones of this book: “Here is the Chapter in Which I Show the Villain’s Motivation.”

The Chosen One by Carol Lynch Williams. This was a really interesting YA book about a girl who escapes from a fundamentalist polygamist group. Quite realistic, I imagine. I think it could have been shorter. This book was the final convincer to me that I am not a YA author.

By Nightfall by Michael Cunningham. A disappointment. He’s a great writer, but this story didn’t do much for me. (Gallery owner has mid-life crisis, marriage falling apart, wonders if he’s gay.)

The Kitchen House by Kathleen Grissom. I listened to this and the audiobook was amazingly well-done. A very interesting read about a white immigrant girl in colonial Virgina but I found it quite depressing.

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz-Zaphon. A long book, and I got halfway through but couldn’t finish it. (Should have stopped after two chapters, but it had a great blurb from Stephen King, whom I don’t read but whose philosophies of what makes a good story I generally agree with, so I kept going.) A guy is haunted by a book and by its mysterious author.

*In Sunlight In a Beautiful Garden by Kathleen Cambor. Historical fiction about the Johnstown dam disaster. I’m not a big fan of historical fiction, but this was really well-written with full, interesting characters. I’ll read more by her. (One very skippable and short sex scene.)

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. This is probably the third time I’ve read it and I actually liked it less this time. I’m sick of the false romance of the philosophy that there is only one true love out there for each person. What a waste Newland Archer made of his life, refusing to fully invest in his wife, who turned out to be more clever than anyone suspected.

Anatomy of Peace by the Arbinger Institute. Don’t bother. This isn’t really fiction. I love the philosophy behind what the Arbinger Institute does. But they should get out of the fiction business. Just read Bonds that Make Us Free instead.

*East of Eden by John Steinbeck. Whenever I read Steinbeck, I wonder why I don’t read him more. This is rich and deeply satisfying, and makes a philosophical point that I deeply agree with. Like all great fiction, it takes the whole story in order to make the point (in contrast to Anatomy of Peace, for example).

Memoir/NF
Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi. I read very little graphic novels (OK, pretty much none). But I picked this up from a display shelf at the library thinking it would be an interesting way of learning more about the culture and history of Iraq—and it was. Very interesting.

When Food is Love by Geneen Roth. She’s the one who advocates intuitive eating as a way to get away from eating to distract yourself from emotional problems. This was very interesting to me and I can see that many people would benefit from her suggestions. I realized that I don’t really have this particular problem, though. (Nice, for a change.)

Lit by Mary Karr. This was better than Karr’s earlier book (The Liar’s Club)—at least, it was more interesting to me. Mostly because Karr makes a major change over the course of the book, and it’s believable.

*Notes to Myself by Hugh Prather. Very interesting little book of notes made by an extremely self-conscious person as he lives his life. Must be read a little at a time.

*The Pain Chronicles by Malanie Thernstrom. The first half of this book should be read by anyone with chronic pain or illnesss. She describes what it feels like and how you think when you’re going to so many doctors that the search for a solution becomes a way of life. I think all doctors should read it, too. The second half got long and boring for me.

Loud and Clear by Anna Quindlen (essays). I listened to this and it was an entertaining experience. Typical Quindlen.

Raw Edges by Phyllis Barber. This one, I felt, was problematic. I enjoy Barber; she’s a great writer on the paragraph level. But the overall structure of this book didn’t work for me. At times I felt she told too little about her feelings and at other times, too much. As with all memoirs, it was very self-conscious. I read it to the end, though, and was interested.

Various health books: The New Glucose Revolution, The 10-Day Glycemic Diet, The Low Blood-Sugar Handbook, The Feel-Good Cookbook, Beating the Blood Sugar Blues. All of which served to freak me out and depress me. Some contradict each other. I’m so overwhelmed.

*The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elizabeth Tova Bailey. This book really spoke to me because it is about a woman who is quite ill and spends hours in her bed doing nothing but watching her pet snail. Many, probably most, people will find this book deadly boring but it was very moving to me. Thanks, Angela!

The Jewel in the Wound: How the Body Expresses the Needs of the Psyche and Offers a Path to Transformation by Emily Rothenberg. This would be a fantastic book if its subtitle were accurate. Unfortunately, the true title should be: How My Body Expressed the Needs of My Psyche and How I Thought About it Lots and Lots—Also Dreamed About It. It was just too boringly specific to one woman’s problems while trying to be about everyone. If she had made it a simple memoir, it might have been more interesting; or, if it had told me how to look at my own illness, it would have been worthwhile.

The Color of Water by James McBride. A memorior about a white Jewish woman who raised 12 black children, mostly as a widow, who all went to college and made good. This is pretty interesting, though not incredibly well-written.

Poetry
Cries of the Spirit, anthology of women’s spiritual poetry edited by Marilyn Sewell. Very thorough and nourishing. Not light or sappy at all. Great variety in style. I highly recommend it. (Thanks, Kathy!)

*Different Hours by Stephen Dunn. My new favorite poet. This is an amazing collection (it won the Pulitzer) that is at once accessible and deep—in other words, rewarding regardless of the amount of time you choose to spend on it. I love how he can communicate such abstract things as existential angst through real, specific scenes.

A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver. Very basic, for beginning writers of poetry. A little too basic for me. I did enjoy the poems she used as examples, though.

Her Side of It by Marilyn Bushman-Carlton. Published by Signature. A couple of these poems appeared in Segullah when I was editing it. Very accessible, enjoyable, narrative poems. This was good but not, I felt, as strong as her earlier book, on keeping things small.

Space

2011-02-18T04:43:00.000-08:00

While I was doing yoga this morning I thought about the concept of getting space into your body as you stretch—between your vertebrae in a backbend, for example, or between your ribs in a side-bend or twist. As with many aspects of yoga, this goal is applicable to life in general. How can I have more of a sense of space in my life--in between my thoughts, in between my moments? Can I do a sort of mental and spiritual stretch during the day—can I live there? I think that’s what God must be like.

(You thought I was going to begin this post with "The final frontier," didn't you? I miss Jean-Luc.)

In case you missed it . . .

2011-02-16T07:53:00.000-08:00

I didn't watch the Superbowl. I do, however, keep up with Mark B's blog, where he shared this. Thanks, Mark!

Sorry I'm so stupid (lazy) about figuring out how to resize things here. You'll just have to deal with it, I guess.

This one speaks to me because we have so many Star Wars characters regularly visiting our house. I think we own about fifteen light sabers.

My Career

2011-02-11T07:41:00.000-08:00

People who know I write ask me about it when they see me. “How’s your writing going?” I’m glad they ask, because that is one of the few things I use to define myself and my life separate from the grueling, nebulous task of raising children. (Which is why it is so psychologically and emotionally dangerous when I consider giving up writing, which I do with regularity. If it’s part of my definition of myself, it rips the rug out from under me if I consider jettisoning it. But that’s a whole nother blog, which I’ve probably already written here too many times.)

Anyway, it’s a hard question to answer, and the answer often depends on the asker. How much does she know about what’s involved in leading a writer’s life? Has she tried to get anything published herself? Attended workshops? Queried? Tried out different writing groups and partners? Revised, revised, revised? Is she even a reader?

Some people think (my husband was one, but I think I’ve educated him), “Why don’t you get your novel published and make lots of money like J. K. Rowling?” Others actually think the same about poetry! As. if. poets. ever. made. money. ever.

You may know I’ve been leaning more towards poetry lately and away from YA fiction. (Again, another blog, which I’ve already written.) Which is very silly, since it never pays and hardly anyone reads it. And also since it is very hard to find the right place to publish and then convince them to publish you.

So in my current poetry workshop, my teacher has been encouraging me to try to publish in literary magazines. As you know, I’ve already published in a few (Segullah, Dialogue, Exponent II, Irreantum), but they are all LDS-related, and “don’t count,” in some ways of thinking. And this is what I’m exploring these days. Why don’t they count? Sure, they don’t help at all (and even hurt) in my efforts to get into the BYU MFA program, or probably into any program. And they don’t carry any cache towards getting a collection published by a national publisher. But they’d probably help me get published by Signature who is, at this point, the publisher most likely to be interested in my work. AND they get my stuff in front of the audience who most appreciates what I write, an audience that I consider well worth writing for.

If I send a certain poem to a literary magazine and if, with luck, they want to publish it, then I can’t send it to the publications that my friends, my LDS audience, read. That bugs me. Because I have fans (both of them) who seek out my stuff and relish it. Why wouldn’t I honor them with my stuff instead of sending it to obscure lit. mags that no one reads but the other people trying to get published?

So my question to myself is: what are my goals? Is it important to branch out to national publications? Do I really, truly want to do all I can towards getting into an MFA program someday or getting some “national” attention (which is actually quite minute for any given poet) instead of serving the people I love in the LDS population? I’ve felt like my true, deep-down reasons for writing are 1) to help myself relish my experiences more, 2) to get at truth, and 3) to share that truth (I admit it). Often, my “truth-getting” is deeply entangled in my religion. I don’t want to turn that off, or turn away from that. But not all of my work overtly mentions my religion—with those poems and/or stories, should I stick to the audiences which support and love all my work, or try to branch out to other audiences? Is any (probably small) acknowledgement I could earn on that bigger (well, probably not bigger by much—probably just different) stage? (And this is all assuming that I could even hold my own “out there.”)

Wait a minute. Did that last parenthetical comment imply that I have some sort of inferiority complex about LDS publications? Have I been confining myself to these because I think I’m not good enough to compete elsewhere?

Don’t know, don’t know. But I love my people, my community. I want to write for them. I also really, really want to go to school. I also wouldn’t mind writing for the world as well, like Flannery O’Connor. (A girl can dream.) So I’m puzzling all this out and, for the time being, hoarding my poems until I decide. I HATE that. I wish I could just not care about my “career” and post my poems here on my blog for all to see. Am I selfish not to?

CHECK THIS OUT

2011-02-07T08:25:00.000-08:00

The best thing I've read all week:

Angela Hallstrom on becoming a writer and why she--and all of us--should speak up.

Yes, my friend. You said it perfectly.

My poetry class

2011-01-30T05:15:00.000-08:00

I mentioned that I started up a new class. Just to clarify, it is a class that I am TAKING, not teaching. But I should point out that one of the reasons I’m taking it is to learn how to teach a poetry workshop. I’m afraid to teach poetry writing to people, and I want to find out why and how I can fix that. Because I love teaching, and I love poetry, and why shouldn’t I be able to combine them?

Well, one reason is that I am at a complete loss when someone presents me with a poem they’ve written that is terrible. I don’t know where to begin with them. Also, I’m at a complete loss when I encounter a poem that is supposedly good but which doesn’t speak to me at all (the inaccessible poems that require an OED and a master’s in English history to decipher or, even worse, the ones that don’t care about voice and meaning at all but are just a smattering of sounds and images). So I’ve been watching my teacher work in order to get ideas about this kind of thing.

My teacher, Jill McDonough, has several strategies that really work well. (Keep in mind that I’ve only been in class three times now, so I’m sure she’ll have even more as time goes on.) First of all, she has really structured her class and her assignments so that we go the places she wants to go (as opposed to a free-for-all, write-whatever-and-we’ll-spend-the-whole-time-discussing-it approach). For example, we’ve concentrated on only one form for these first few classes (blank verse), and we’re hammering it. I’m getting kinda sick of it, but it’s getting hard not to think in iambic pentameter—in other words, it’s becoming second nature. And it’s a really smart beginning in a situation like hers in which the students have a huge variety of skill levels and background in poetry (some are still struggling to know what a metric foot is, for example).

A second smart thing she does is that when we are critiquing, she has us “ask the poem a question,” not criticize the poet. Either orally or in writing on the poem, we ask about the things that confuse us or which don’t seem to be working: “Why did you choose this word? Is there a more concrete word you can use here?” “Why is this line only four feet long when all the others are five?” “Which person is this pronoun referring to?” etc. That way we don’t get the long answers from the defensive authors.

But the thing of most value (to me, at least) that Jill does is that she teaches us right at the beginning how to set assignments for ourselves. She demands several timed free-writes during class, each building on the previous one, so that we never have no basic material to begin with. (I myself never run out of ideas for poems, but for some of the students a blank page with an assignment to write a poem is paralyzing.) But also, she has taught me how to set myself a very specific assignment based on something else I’ve read. For example, we read Ted Hughes’s “The Thought Fox,” then analyzed it for quite a while. Once I decided what was really happening in the poem, I set up similar parameters for myself, making changes as they interested me. “Write a 14-line, blank verse pastoral in which a person, without actually performing any action, makes a realization. This realization is shown only externally, through the natural world.” This very specific assignment resulted in something more interesting than what I would have produced had I just begun with my trigger (January in Salt Lake City). I may take the poem out of blank verse when I revisit it, but I got more and different language with the assignment than I would have without it. Jill’s example was very interesting—she had read a particular poem and then set up for herself an assignment that was even more specific, including, for example, the requirement that she “draw heavily on the vocabulary of a specific profession” and “describe a disaster.”

Regardless of whatever else I get from this class, that one thing has made it worthwhile. I’m doing an adequate job of producing pretty good poetry, but the thing I needed most was instruction in how to BE a poet, how to walk myself through process, and this is what she’s given me. (Also, I’d sure like to move from “pretty good” to “great,” but I’m still not sure that’s possible.)

Of course, another huge benefit of the class is that it includes deadlines and assignments that I wouldn’t normally give myself. These things always push me to a higher level. (Which is why I was hoping to enter school . . . but that’s a whole nother discussion.)

Finally, this class, as do all poetry classes I've taken, has exposed me to some new work that I'm enjoying. Last week I discovered Stephen Dunn (I know. Ridiculous that I hadn't before) and have a new one to add to my list of favorites.

Some Stuff

2011-01-23T05:26:00.001-08:00

The good and the bad of my week . . .

1. Diet=bad. So far, anyway. I know, I know, they say it takes “at least two weeks and more like three” to tell a difference, and I haven’t given up yet. But I’ve made it through ten whole days without cheating once (except for 2 teaspoons of salad dressing) and I feel pretty much lousy. For one thing, I can’t get warm. I wonder if this kind of diet is for people who have extra weight. I was already in the normal weight range (although I didn’t mind the thought of losing a little around the tummy and thighs) so maybe this wasn’t a good idea for me. I’m afraid I may have slowed my metabolism way down (meaning I’ll start gaining like crazy if and when I go back). Also, I’ve so far noticed no decrease in my original symptoms. I guess I’ll know more in the next week. Sum up: discouragement.

2. Dental visit=bad. I went to the dentist for the first time in a year and had a cavity. The dentist, a new one, put in the shot to numb me and I had a horrible reaction. After he got done injecting, I felt this horrible blood rush and nausea, with my heart pounding hard. He says there is epinephrin in the shot and maybe I was just sensitive to that. I’ve had dental injections (too many times) before and never had anything like that. I wanted to die. I’m wondering if it was because of this diet--? Maybe I was just in a weaker state than usual? I asked if that epinephrine was new, since it has been a few years since my last injection, but he says it’s the same stuff as always. Anyway, it was awful.

4. New Year’s Resolution=bad. I am frustrated with myself for not remembering, moment to moment, to be more positive with my kids. I am way too critical and stressed all the time. I am trying to use the atonement here—it’s a hard thing to break such an ingrained habit, and it’s extra hard when I feel so dang hungry and sickish all the time. But my years with them are numbered and I DON’T WANT THEM TO REMEMBER ME LIKE THIS. Pray for me, will you? This is hard.

5. Light=good! The days are getting longer! It has been so dramatic and heartening for me to notice the light that comes earlier in the day. I never, never take that for granted. Spring really will come . . .

6. Poetry=good. I’ve had two weeks of my poetry class so far and am really enjoying it. My teacher said my first poem was “really good!” and noticed lots of what I was doing in it. She’s pushing me (the sign of a good teacher, since she has so many different abilities in the class), and that’s what I need. Part of the reason I do these classes (besides the deadlines and assignments that get me going) is to learn how to TEACH a poetry workshop. One student brought in an entirely inaccessible poem of the ultra-modern variety (where sense is sacrificed to sound) and I watched to see how the teacher would critique it (how DO you critique something like that, which makes no sense?)—and here’s what she did: turned it over to the class. “Do you have any questions for her? Write them down. Anything you particularly like?” Hmmm. Cop out, but it worked . . .

7. Lunch with Kristi=good. It's so hard for me to go out to lunch with friends when I can't eat. Imagine eating at Olive Garden and not being able to have carbs! Not even the soup! But it was still worth it. I love Kristi and her view on life. She is an amazingly gifted writer—but she is so much more than that, and she’s making some hard choices that are good for her about how to live life as a mother, artist, and teacher. I always feel better about life in general after I spend time with her. I’m lucky to know her.

8. 18 years=fantastic. Yesterday was my 18th anniversary. I am such a satisfied customer. It’s hard (and you who are happily married know) to put into words how I feel about someone who is basically just a part of me now, but let me just say that I think he is a better catch than ever these days, and I feel sort of embarrassed about my good fortune, as if I’d won the lottery.

9. Noteworthy=very, very good! As you’ve noticed, if you’ve read this blog before, my family and I are passionate fans of BYU’s Noteworthy (female a cappella). On a whim, and thinking, “What have I got to lose?” I wrote to them and asked if there was any chance in the world they would like to sing at our trek kick-off fireside next week.

AND. THEY. SAID. YES.

I could hardly keep from peeing my pants. (Did I really just use the word pee on my blog? Did that move the rating to PG-13?) I am so utterly thrilled. What was just a trek fireside is now a WOW. It feels like a little hug from God, is what it feels like. I am so dang thrilled. The fireside is next week, and I’ll be glad to get it behind us so that we can settle down to the real work of planning. This trek thing just might come to pass. Maybe.

Food

2011-01-16T07:37:00.000-08:00

Well, I’m dieting again. This time—for the first time, really—I’m not doing it to lose weight. I am doing it for health.

In the last few months many ideas have come my way about what could be the cause of my illness and possible ways to live with it (or even fix it). From two different, unassociated people in my life came suggestions for supplements that have had obvious and undeniably miraculous benefits for acquaintances. From others, from doctors, and from my own research have come suggestions for radically altering my diet.

The problem has been that most of them contradict each other. For example, one doctor insists I have gastroparesis (although another thinks I don’t). For that, I actually DECREASE the amount of fiber I eat. Someone else thinks it might be a yeast/ph problem. For that, I change my diet to be mostly fruits and vegetables and low or no dairy and meat. A blood test says I have blood sugar issues, and the handbook I got tells me I can go on an extremely restrictive diet for two weeks that is designed to tell me whether I am hypoglycemic. It, however, is heavy on dairy and protein (at least compared to the ph/yeast book).

Yikes! What to do?

Well, I decided to start with one of the supplements, because I had seen the, again, obvious and undeniable results someone near to me got from it. (So incredible, in fact, that Roger has become a dealer for the stuff.) All these people were having miracles because of this stuff—and I really, truly believe them. So why not me?

But . . . not me.

So, then I thought, “Well the only thing we know for sure, because labs have shown it, is that there is a blood sugar issue of some kind.” So I’ve decided to do the incredibly restrictive hypoglycemia diet. It goes for two weeks, and then I can begin adding things back in. To give you an idea of what restrictive means, here is what I can eat:

fowl, fish, meats: all types except lunch meats, hot dogs or anything with fillers--but no breading OR sauces of any kind
eggs
cheese
veggies: ONLY asparagus, green and wax beans, green peppers, raw mung bean sprouts, beet greens, broccoli, cauliflower, mushroom, tomatoes, celery, cucumbers, lettuce, onions, radishes, spinach, watercress. (No carrots, for example.)
fruits: NONE
desserts: NONE
fats and oils: butter, vegetable oil
bread, bread products, crackers, CEREAL: NONE
beverages: water, broth
plain yogurt.

THAT’S IT. No flour or grain products of any kind.

I had a hard time deciding to do this, because it so obviously contradicts the Word of Wisdom. It sounds too much like the Atkins diet (which I think is evil). But I prayed about it, and felt OK about it since it’s temporary. The point is to sort of re-set the system, see how you feel with basically no sugar, eliminate any sugar addiction, then gradually add back in quality grains, paying attention to how your body (particularly blood sugar) reacts. I can do hard—if it’s temporary.

So. I’ve made it through three days so far. And last night was really, really hard because we went to the Elder’s Quorum social, where these amazing-looking subs were set out, with chips and GUACAMOLE and gooey brownies and all sorts of goodies were set out. Roger said, “The sandwiches weren’t that good,” which amazed me because I realized how often we fill ourselves with carbs that aren’t all that tasty just because they’re there. There was literally NOTHING there that I could eat—except maybe the lettuce and tomato on the sandwiches, but I was worried it would be wet with mayo.

Already I’ve noticed how psychologically addicted I am to carbs. When I feel empty inside, I find myself fantasizing about a big bowl of cheerios, for example. But I eat my cheese and cucumbers and feel fine again. It’s a mind game—I think I NEED oatmeal in the morning, but am surprised to find I do fine with the eggs.

The book says it takes a while to feel the benefits. I really hope that’s true, because I’ve had no improvement yet.

If nothing else, it is a demonstration of faith, I suppose. I can truly say I’ve tried everything.

Oh, and yes, as a side benefit, I have lost weight. 5 pounds already. (Of course, it’ll all come back when I add back in the grains, right?)

Small Joys

2011-01-10T14:04:00.000-08:00

Just a few things I’ve been enjoying lately:

1. Noteworthy Ladies’ latest cd. Check it out here. Viva La Vida is fantastic! I love buying whole cds instead of singles, because the songs I feel nothing for at first sometimes turn out to be favorites later.

2. Dove’s peanut-butter chocolate squares. The. Best. Candy. Ever.
3. Garrison Keillor’s collection of great poetry, which my discerning friend Angela gave me. (Not poems that he wrote, but poems that he collected and, most likely, read on the air.)
4. Having a spare room so that my father is comfortable when he comes to town.
5. The fantastic, amazing, loving person my father married.
6. DGL.
7. Bedtime. And the hot tub before bedtime.
8. Veronica Mars with my sweetheart.
9. Plain yogurt. Really!
10. That the days are actually getting longer.

What are your small delights?

Happy New Year!

2011-01-01T07:25:00.000-08:00

Sorry for leaving that whiney post up here for so long. I actually had a nice holiday season. I hope you did, too.

My one New Year’s resolution: to be more positive. About myself, about others, about the future. I want to quit being so critical and start being more observant about what’s right with myself and others. I want to be done with fear and stress about the future, both long term (will I ever feel well?) and short term (we’re going to be late). I want to live more freely, without the weight of judgment and fear.

As part of this, I will continue my yoga, at least three times a week. I will continue blogging (goal: once a week). I will come back to writing poetry more regularly (I’m starting another class this month). I will concentrate on enjoying time with my family more instead of just trying to make it to bedtime. I will try to cut myself slack when I don’t feel well. I will reach out to deepen some of my acquaintances into real friendship.

What about you? Do you have a resolution?

A big, wallowy whine

2010-12-17T08:27:00.000-08:00

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

But.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OK. The rant is over.

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

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

Blind Side

2010-12-08T06:51:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

2010-12-06T15:01:00.000-08:00

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

Come Together

2010-12-04T14:36:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make new friends, but keep the old . . .

2010-11-21T06:17:00.000-08:00

(One is silver and the other is gold.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship lately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Kickin' Down the Cobblestones

2010-11-14T05:18:00.000-08:00

So, I’ve been slowing down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parenting Mistakes

2010-11-12T08:18:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

End of sermon.

Dear Dr. S.,

2010-11-07T05:41:00.000-08:00

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

Because you kept calling me sweetheart.

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

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

And, yes, fears.

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

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

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

Repenting

2010-11-03T10:28:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

Moving forward . . .

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

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

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

I am repenting.

One of those questionnaire thingies

2010-10-13T09:24:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

20) Current worry? Health.

21) Current hate right now? Cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

47) Favorite Holiday? Thanksgiving.

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

49) Favorite month? September.

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

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

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

Nothing interesting--just a little update

2010-10-03T07:33:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book Report

2010-09-18T13:27:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What has God got up His sleeve now?

2010-09-14T08:31:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

So, what?

I'm open to suggestions.

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

2010-09-12T05:50:00.000-07:00

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

Of course.

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

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

A feeling of shame.

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

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

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

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

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

Letter to Myself

2010-08-29T05:53:00.000-07:00

Dear self,

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

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

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

Are these the works of a failure mother?

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

Give it a try.

Love, me.

Shakespeare with my boy

2010-08-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book Report

2010-08-04T08:41:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some of my favorite commercials

2010-08-02T10:03:00.000-07:00

You gotta see the first to appreciate the second.

A couple of things I have been struggling to accept

2010-07-26T14:35:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Some examples:

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Their Fifteenth Year of Marriage, Illness Strikes

Loathe the smell

of myself, these

sheets, the constant

ragged termite whine:

I might die and

leave things undone . . .

or, a thousand times

more harrowing:

I might live

and leave things undone

trailing behind me

in the dust

like a lame limb.

Loathe the walls

and ceiling: my own

body inside out,

this body that you

still, strangely, reach for,

loathsome, fickle

prison that you

--unbelievably--

stroke with reverent

tenderness.

Love was once

the lightning;

it has become

the bread.

While loathing clots

my lashes, coats

my teeth, grits

between my fingers,

love

holds my hair

back from my face

as I wretch,

appears before me

despite my raging:

kind,

still.

Fierce Passage

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

Today I was researching my ancestors, sifting through the nested

petals of internet pages for names that belong to me,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But

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

that any account of me isn’t complete without

an accounting of those days, those long afternoons

listening to people talking in other rooms, people

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and yet we each and all have come through some fierce

defining passage. Everyone has come from somewhere.

Some Sort of Random Stuff

2010-07-18T08:49:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing Conferences and birthdays and bad dancing

2010-06-27T09:10:00.001-07:00

Whew.

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

Barely.

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

So, let's see.

I. WIFYR.

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

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

Sorry.

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

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

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

II. My birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WIFYR

2010-06-14T05:15:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm off to WIFYR today. This year it is not sponsored by BYU, but is independent. I think it will still be fantastic, though I miss not being on campus. This year I am staff, which means a lot of work, but fun, too.

One thing that I don't like that happens to me at WIFYR time is that I start feeling insecure and, as a result, trying to prove to people that I am Someone. I hang out with published people and publishing people and I have this egotistical urge to prove that I'm not just "one of the masses." Well, face it. I AM one of the masses. and the "masses," are actually really nice people, most of them with at least some talent. So I'm disgusted with myself for trying to prove to whomever I meet that I've actually been published before, that my stories are pretty good, blah, blah, blah. Yuck.

So this time, to get my mind of myself, I have some specific goals:

1. Concentrate on improving my craft, not getting published/making connections.
2. Be the World's Best Assistant to the author I'll be helping (Kristyn Crow).
3. Build, build, build the people around me. Emulate Rick Walton and his selfless constant helping of others to get better and get published.
4. Make some new friends that might lead to a picture book critique group.

I won't be blogging the conference this year, as has been my tradition, because they have asked us not to ("us" meaning all participants). I have to admit they have a point: they say that we shouldn't give out for free on the net what others are paying to hear from these authors and professionals. So, I'm feeling a little guilty about previous years.

Here goes!

Why I'm glad I don't have a girl

2010-05-13T09:57:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have girls, I want you to know that I'm doing my part. I talk to my boys REGULARLY about what the world is telling women, and how to recognize lies, and the importance of health and acceptance. But, man, is it a crazy world out there. (Thanks to Kristi for the link.)

Dear Mom,

2010-05-09T06:39:00.000-07:00

Happy Mother’s Day! And I hope that, today, you ARE a happy mother. A few specific things that I want to thank you for this day:

-Teaching me a love of reading. It’s pretty amazing, considering your background, how you were able to give us such a love of literature and of learning in general. We never had a doubt what a treat you thought it was to learn something new or read a great book. It’s one of the most priceless treasures I have. Even when I’m sick, I always have a cheap, easy source of entertainment, enlightenment and self-improvement. Thank you.

-Teaching me a love of music. Even now, it is your voice, singing around the house (and, of course, reading to us) that I remember most clearly about you. I’m glad I got to see you volunteering to sing in small groups, teaching us songs to sing together, working diligently at the three songs you taught yourself on the piano, making sure we had a piano at home and lots of recordings of different kinds of music. It has brought me much joy.

-Showing me an example of a stable marriage and home. I feel like I’m so far ahead of the game on this one! You planted expectations in me that led me to make the choices that, I think, will bring me more joy than if I had chosen a different lifestyle. I’m also grateful for the (annoying, at the time) unhesitating and very enthusiastic partiality you showed to my potential husband, Roger. I was frustrated that you wouldn’t consider anyone else for me once you met him, but you were right—he was the best for me, and continues to be.

You gave me many more gifts than these, but these are the three which have been on my mind lately, which I can carry with me even when I am having a hard time. That is their value. They accompany me when you can’t.

On Mother’s Day, as you know, the most precious gift any mother can receive is the knowledge that she has done well in her role as a mother. Please let this be my gift to you, then. I love you. Thank you. You did well.

Our New Book is Out!

2010-05-05T07:32:00.001-07:00

Come check out the sequel to The Mother in Me. I have three poems in this one. It's being published by a new publisher--Segullah!--so our distribution depends on word of mouth. (Purchase information is here.) If you liked our other book, please tell others about this one. Thanks!

Camilla Kimball, Lucky Dog

2010-05-03T07:58:00.000-07:00

Sometime during the 20-or-so years that I have been in Relief Society, I have heard several times the anecdote about Camilla Kimball being such a believer in continuing education that “she continued to take college courses up into her 80’s.”

Have you heard that one?

It sticks in my head because I have always been a lover of school, and when I heard this anecdote, what I was really hearing was not an admonition but permission. I mean, it felt the same to me when I heard that as it would if someone were to say that she also ate chocolate right up into her 80’s.

What I’ve been thinking about lately is how dang lucky she was. Because she had something going for her that I don’t: much more money, special privileges, or both. I am having a dang hard time trying to figure out how to keep taking college classes. Because here’s what I’ve found: to take a class from the school of my choice, BYU, is nearly impossible. Not unfairly, seats in classes are reserved for legitimate students, not continuing ed-ers like myself. I require special permission to be allowed to even take a class. (So far, my one request has been denied because, they said, it didn’t appear that I NEEDED the class.) Oh, and assuming I could get the permission? I get to pay post-baccalaureate tuition to the tune of around $1000 per class.

Ouch.

Thank goodness there is the independent study program, which requires no special permission and is about half as much money. Still, $500 a pop is a killer. And I really, really prefer live instruction (and the deadlines that come with it).

I’ve priced other schools around here, including community colleges, and in every case I am looking at at least $500 for independent study and closer to $1000 for a live class.

How in the world could I justify such a thing, just for my own amusement? I find myself looking for excuses (“I need credit in order to renew my teacher’s license”—which is true, or “This will help me in my future career”—which limits me to writing and teaching classes but what if I want to take logic or physical science or American Heritage again?).

The answer, of course, is to craft my own instruction using books from the library, etc. I have even been known to go down to BYU and buy syllabi from classes I wish I could take and follow them. But it’s JUST NOT THE SAME.

So, anyway, I’m happy for Sister Camilla and her special permission to take classes at BYU, but don’t hold her up as an example to me because that’s candy I can’t have!

Poetry Tastes are Subjective

2010-04-29T08:56:00.000-07:00

Today I got this official e-mail from BYU, with the subject line "Final Decision":

"The last two MFA applicants accepted our offers on Wednesday. I am sorry that we will not be able to offer you a place for this coming Fall."

FYI, when I wrote to the Powers That Be about why I was not accepted, this is what they said:

"I can't speak for the admissions committee, but in reviewing your file I see a lot of promise. You are a strong writer and your poetry suggests the kind of potential we like to see in applicants. Your writing also shows clear focus. My sense, however, is that the committee tends to favor writing that shows, in its subject matter, a wide range of interests. You might consider poems that reach beyond autobiography or your specific cultural experience. This is not to say that either of those things is bad, but that you already have clear mastery of them. Consider including poems that demonstrate interests and points of focus that are not already represented in these poems. I hope you don't take my comments as a critique of your writing, only as an insight into what is likely to appeal to the admissions committee."

So, my subject matter isn't to their tastes, and/or needs to be wider in variety. I wonder what would have happened if I had submitted a prose sample instead. What can they say about wideness of subject matter with only one sample? Anyway, thanks to Andrea for referring me to this very wise statement about interpreting poetry.

As for how I'm feeling about the whole thing, I'll say that today is an emotional day. Reminds me of the day the counselor came over and released me from my calling as Primary chorister. It was a surprise and I wasn't ready for it at all; further, I feared that it was a sign from God that I was going to be very sick for quite a while longer. (I also feared that it came about because someone who didn't know me very well suggested to the counselor that I might like a break.) From the beginning of all this talk of applying this year, I have felt nothing but peace about the decision. That feeling made me [over-]confident that I would get in. So I guess, now, that God has something else up His sleeve for me, but I'm trying not to fear that this means more medical issues this year.

Sad, scared, bored, worried, lonely.

Learn what you will about life at our house these days:

2010-04-27T12:55:00.001-07:00

Recently posted at our house:

Behavior for a happy family:	Consequence:	Consequence if you choose otherwise:
Using a quiet, kind, inside voice. (No yelling, screaming, whining)	People feel supported and forgiven. The day keeps moving smoothly.	You can help the day move more smoothly by doing an extra job.
Respecting other people’s bodies (no hitting, kicking, pinching, biting, scratching, pushing).	People feel safe.	You can make it up to them by doing a job for them, and get more control of yourself by going to bed early (or job for Mom).
Respecting property (no banging of doors, walls or objects, or breaking things).	Our house looks nice and our things are not broken.	You can practice control by losing a property privilege for one week.
Respecting property. (No entering another person’s bedroom without permission.)	We feel trust for each other and our things stay safe.	You can make things better by giving the offended a Yu-Gi-Oh card of his choice.
Honoring parents (obey parents immediately).	Children stay safe and order is maintained.	You can practice obedience with a big extra job.
Healthy eating (ask permission before taking food).	Healthy bodies, regulated budget, and trust.	You can help overcome cravings by going without treats or snacks for one week.
Peaceful environment (quiet time at 8:00).	We can concentrate at reading time and rest at bedtime.	You can practice quiet time by going to bed early or being moved.
Plenty of rest (be in bed at bedtime).	Healthy, happy family!	Practice avoiding distractions by losing electronics and going to bed early for 2 days.

Librivox

2010-04-20T14:24:00.000-07:00

I just discovered something that makes me smile--in addition to the amazing April sunlight I'm enjoying. Check out Librivox. These are audio recordings of books that are in the public domain, all of which were recorded by VOLUNTEERS. I like to check out e-audiobooks to listen to in the car, while doing yardwork, etc., but I wanted to listen to a book that I couldn't get at the library. Luckily, it was a Dickens, so it was in the public domain. I found Librivox and downloaded the recording (The Mystery of Edwin Drood, read by Alan Chant) with a little hesitation because I knew all the recordings were done by volunteers. Would it be easy to listen to an AMATEUR reading for ten hours or so? (Sidenote: I once read textbooks into a microphone as a service project for the blind at BYU. Poor, poor blind people: at that time I had no idea how awful my speaking voice is--nasal, squeaky, all slurred together. I imagine the people in charge of the project just quietly reassigned my books to someone else after I was done.) So I was suspicious.

Surprise! This guy sounds like--and must be--a professional voice artist. All the characters had distinct styles, male and female, just like the professional recordings. After each chapter he would say, "Recorded by Alan Chant, Kent, England, in the summer of 2008," and I enjoyed picturing him somewhere in a quiet English town, sitting in front of a microphone with his tea. Like being read to by an Oxford professor or something.

Anyway, I'm grateful today that there are people in the world who volunteer, who use their talents for free, sending their work out into the world to be enjoyed by tired Mormon housewives raking out their spring gardens.

Medical Issues

2010-04-13T08:34:00.000-07:00

More tests. It's looking like we may be onto something . . . Would you please pray for me that the tests will be accurate and lead to a diagnosis? Thank you.

A lazy blog post in which I try to gain in popularity by linking to something humorous that someone else discovered.

2010-04-05T06:24:00.000-07:00

But at least I give credit.

Click here for some hilarious analogies, which I found through my Segullah friend, Andrea Rediske.

Blah.

2010-03-30T13:29:00.001-07:00

That's how things are today.

A little (I hope) visit from the stomach flu (I hope)(what I mean is that I hope it's just the flu). And the weather is yucky. And I'm still waiting to hear from agents, and from BYU. And at the doctor's office the other day (new doctor--seems to be on top of things, believe it or not) I found that my weight is at an all-time high since post-partum days.

As I said, blah.

Which is why I don't post on my blog. So . . . are you glad I did?

.

Gettin' all new-agey on you

2010-03-18T08:33:00.000-07:00

A quote from a tiny little book I've been nibbling from, Notes to Myself: My Struggle to Become a Person by Hugh Prather.

Perfectionism is slow death. If everything
were to turn out just like I would want
it to, jus tlike I would plan for it to,
then I would never experience anything
new; my life would be an endless repetition
of stale successes. When I make a mistake
I experience something unexpected.

I sometimes react to making a mistake
as if I have betrayed myself. My fear of
making a mistake seems to be based on the
hidden assumption that I am potentially
perfect and that if I can just be very
careful I will not fall form heaven.
But a "mistake" is a declaration of the
way I am, a jolt to the way I intend, a
reminder I am not dealing with the facts.
When I have listened to my mistakes I
have grown.

While I wait

2010-03-16T09:49:00.001-07:00

I’ve been doing some interesting things lately to get my mind off the waiting game (waiting to hear from BYU, waiting to hear from agents). A few weeks ago, I went to Atlanta with hubby to hang out in a hotel while he attended an optometry convention. I usually greatly enjoy these trips because I love being alone and being lazy. I did plenty of lazing around this time, especially because it snowed there (dang! you leave SLC in February in the hopes of getting some sun and what does it to?), and since no one there knows what to do with snow, everything shut down. The buses stopped. The trains stopped. Our hotel was downtown, where there’s nowhere to eat but expensive, schmancy restaurants ($12 for a granola parfait for breakfast? really?), and those restaurants and our hotel were understaffed and opened late (or not at all) because their employees couldn’t get there.

So it was cold. So I mostly stayed inside. One morning I did make myself get out and I went to the Georgia Pacific Aquarium. It was great, as aquariums (aquaria?) go, but I found myself a little lost without a child accompanying me. It seems that all the joy of a place like that, for me, has been in pointing things out to my children. And then I got a little sad, because I realized that even if I had had my children with me (and I know they would have enjoyed it, at least the younger ones), they wouldn’t have been as thrilled as they once were. They’re getting older. Which led to a sort of mid-life crisis.

I’ve been on a low-level mid-life crisis for some time now (beginning, maybe, with my illness and the fear that it’s only downhill from here, physical-wise, and then taking a big blow with the whole BYU not-being-thrilled-at-the-prospect-of-having-me-attend thing), but it seems that things are coming to a head. I turn 40 in June. I haven’t minded getting older before, because it has taken so dang long for me to feel like a grownup anyway. But in the last few months I have been more aware of the things I’m leaving behind, irrevocably. I am not sentimentalizing those years with little kids in my house (as I promised myself I wouldn’t—it was hard, hard, hard), but I don’t like letting go of anything FOREVER (witness my inability to lose track of junior high school friends). It’s weird to think I will never give two little toddlers a bath again (well, OK, there’s grandparenting), never hear their little diapered bodies scampering down the hall to climb into bed with me in the morning, never point out the seahorses to them at the aquarium.

Yes, grandparenting. I begin to see its charm.

I’m not unaware of the affect that the BYU thing has had on all this. Because when my future is uncertain and not particularly exciting, I have only the past to look at with rosy glasses . . .

So, anyway, the trip to Atlanta was a little bit bittersweet. Add to that the problem with the food (too tired by the end of the day to want to spend a lot on a fancy dining experience, even though I usually like that kind of thing, left us hungry and wandering around too much) and the lack of an exciting project to work on in the hotel room, and this vacation was not as good for me as some have been.

Then, last week I took my three youngest, who are off-track, down to St. George to hang out at the grandparents’ condo. The actual time in St. G. was great (got another rejection while I was there but also another request for a full . . . ) and I enjoyed hanging with my kids. But getting down and back was quite an adventure. First, on the way down, I was directed off of the freeway just outside of Cedar City and had to take a long detour through the mountains which made me very nervous and cranky. (All that went away, though, when I heard the reason for the freeway’s being shut down: the 20-car pile-up you may have heard about in which the girl who was on her way to her wedding was killed. Oh, man.) Then, on the way back, I hit a snowstorm so bad I had to get off the freeway and get a motel room in Fillmore. Other than the hours of white-knuckle driving that day and the next, that part of the trip turned out to be kind of a highlight, because my kids and I had such a relaxing, fun time at the hotel that night.

Finally, we hosted a reunion party at our house for our Berkeley friends who are back in Utah now. It’s strange how much those people feel like family. I have a hard time imagining who and where we’d be now if it hadn’t been for our Berkeley experience. In many ways I hardly know those people, but they are very dear to me.

So now here I am with three more weeks of off-track time to get through. I’m trying to tell myself to enjoy it; I always regret it if I just count the days. My kids get more and more fun as they get older (hey—can I try to remember that when I’m missing the toddlers?) and if I can just make myself plan time with them, these will be fun days.

But . . . still waiting on BYU and those dang agents . . . (BTW, did I mention that I found out that I am the ONLY alternate on their list? So odds are pretty good, I guess . . . )

How it's goin'.

2010-03-05T07:46:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s goin’.

I still feel strongly that I will get in. Both because I have felt so settled about it all along and because the odds are pretty good. Also because I can’t imagine anything else for me for next year.

BUT.

The magic is gone. I used to be so excited about it all, and now I feel just draggy and sad and tired. And, despite the reassurances of the guy I spoke to at BYU that I had easily made the first cut--which means I have been deemed capable of succeeding in the program--I am doubting my abilities. If/when I get in, I will go in cowed, worried. Maybe I will slink in. Which is not what I had imagined for myself at all. This has been my biggest loss through all this, the biggest price I’ve paid.

And, if I let it, this doubting feeling can infect me and bring me very far down. All writers vacillate between thinking their work is something special (or we wouldn’t bother trying to get it published at all) and thinking that they are the biggest frauds out there. All of my doubts have risen to the surface and are having a party. Have I been fooling myself all along that I might be able to write?

Here is where your encouragement, dear blog readers, has been so helpful to me. So life-savingly helpful. Thank you, thank you for your comments.

(I should say here that the guy I spoke to at BYU sounded very positive about my application and made me feel a little better. He’s doing more research and will have more info for me soon about why I was placed where I was, but it seems that the reason is not obvious on the surface, anyway. Which is good and bad. Good, because it’s nice to know that I’m not obviously below standard. Bad, because it may have come down to a matter of personal preference—the preference being expressed by the very teachers I had hoped to study with. Which makes me feel awfully awkward about meeting them in class this fall. I’ll be sitting in a class knowing the teacher said about me, “She’s obviously prepared for this program but I’d rather not be teaching her.”)

Then there is the little question that comes up every so often: what if I DON’T get in? What if this is the year they don’t draw from their alternate list? What in the world will I do with myself next year, all year long? Should I try to work? At what? My kids are in year-round school, which means they are home for all of September, December, March and parts of May. I can’t stick them in day care for those times. I could substitute teach, I suppose. But if I did, who would get my kids off to school in the mornings? If I do think I might teach, I should probably renew my teacher’s license, which expires this summer. But I am one credit short—should I quickly complete a one-credit independent study class?

My mind goes in circles. I still believe I’ll be in grad school this fall. How silly to lose faith in that and rush off to take a class. But what if? What if what if what if what if?

So that’s where I am. Trying to float on my back in this little pool of waiting, but occasionally forgetting to breathe and sinking down and sputtering around for a while until I can get myself stretched out again.

In other news (is there really any other news? Yes, yes, my life is bigger than all this) my ESL student, Maria, recently took another placement test. We were both delighted to find out that in the 18 months I've been teaching her she has gone from level one to level five!!!! This is one hard-working chica. I'm very proud of her.

And child #2 got an A+ on his (huge) Egyptian project (the one for which I had to find him an Egyptian "costume" five minutes before school). We got the news this week that he was accepted into the honors program in middle school. He has chosen NOT to go to the ALPS junior high. Child #3 and his parents attended our first Anger Management class last night. He and #4 got the letters that they were accepted into ALPS again next year. Seems there are a lot of people getting acceptances around here . . .

AML Meeting

2010-03-02T08:05:00.000-08:00

The AML Annual Meeting was fantastic. I think. I was actually running around more than usual and didn't get to sit through even one session all the way, but I think they were all good. From what I can gather.

Here's a link to Tyler Chadwick's fantastic report.

It's too bad, but the day is really a blur to me because I exhausted myself and then came home to That Envelope from BYU. But I really think it was a success. I especially enjoyed the reading at Charlotte England's house in the evening, and also meeting some people face-to-face like Tyler Chadwick, Larry Menlove, and Sandra Tayler. Great day. (Until the very end.)

Wrench

2010-02-28T06:23:00.000-08:00

Well, God has thrown a wrench in things.

When I got home from the AML Annual Meeting, I found a slim envelope waiting for me from the BYU Graduate Studies Department. I knew there was trouble as soon as I saw it—long experience has taught me that slim envelopes mean rejection.

And I was right. BYU is very sorry to inform me that I have not been selected to enter the Creative Writing MFA program. However, I have been put on the alternate list.

I was, well, perplexed.

First, I’ll admit it. I thought I was a pretty strong candidate. I have good GRE scores, strong (I assume) letters of recommendation, a portfolio consisting of almost 100% previously-published stuff. Where’s the problem? Yeah, there’s room for improvement, but that’s what school is FOR, right? Maybe it’s my undergrad degree, which is in Humanities, not English. But I really hadn’t thought that would be a problem, since I have the required pre-requisite classes.

But second, and MUCH MORE IMPORTANT: I was very stunned because I have felt all along nothing but peace about this decision. I really have felt that God was good with this and that all would be well. Even now I don’t feel a sense of panic or despair because that feeling is still there. I don’t know if it just means that I’ll still make it in from the alternate list or if it means that God has something else for me interesting to do next year. But it’s weird to have felt so settled and now not know why.

I can’t deny that God has always led me through in the best possible way. When I couldn’t conceive as soon as I wanted to, when we didn’t go to the medical school we had hoped for, through all sorts of moves and job changes—things have always, in retrospect, worked out for the best, even (and perhaps especially) when it has been a surprise and what seemed a disappointment. I still have absolute faith that all will be well for me this fall.

Still, I can’t help wondering what I’ll do with myself if I don’t get in. I had been sort of using this as my solace for winter, a season that is very hard for me. “Just get through this winter,” I tell myself. “Next winter will fly because you’ll be so busy in classes.”

Granted I still have another application that I haven’t heard about, but that one has always been a long shot. The U, from what I can tell, has a reputation of being much more difficult to get into than the Y, especially if you have BYU on your application as your undergrad school. It’s ironic that the U doesn’t like BYU undergrads—and neither does the Y (or, rather, I’ve heard that publication in LDS-oriented magazines caries no weight, and maybe even works against you, in the BYU selection process). Someone who likes to write in a non-critical way about Mormon life can claim a disadvantage at both schools.

So there you have it.

Edited to add: Well, when I wrote all this it was true. And it still is true. But I can't say I haven't had my moments of fear and tears. What if this is it? What if it is really it? What if I never get in? This is something I never had supposed. All my young motherhood life I have been looking forward to returning to school. I can't stand the thought of never, never going back. Of course, I'll try again. But meanwhile, what will I do with myself? I can't beleive how much of my life this feeling that I'd get back to school would be. When my manuscripts get rejected and I wonder if I'll ever get a book published, I think, "It doesn't matter that much; I'm going to school." When I don't feel like I'm writing as well as I want to be, I think, "Well, I'll learn how to make this better in school."

What would I do without that? I don't want to find out.

Packing, unpacking

2010-02-25T10:02:00.000-08:00

Hello, long lost blog. I haven’t really missed you. Obviously. But I HAVE missed my readers. It's so nice to get notifications of comments, like little love-notes, little butterflies dropping into my hair (excuse me while I wax poetic; cue the flute). Anyway, if anyone is still out there, thanks for checking up on me. I’m still alive and actually doing quite well.

When I got married, the amount of writing I did in my personal journal went way down. It was because I had someone else to tell all those things to. (Poor guy.) My erratic blogging is similar—-you can tell when my postings go down that things are going quite well. (Or quite badly, I suppose. Only this time it’s good.) My excuse: I’ve just been concentrating on being present in my life. Which means a decrease in the amount of mental narration I’ve been doing. A good thing, this decrease. It’s been healthy.

But I like you, little blog, so don’t despair. Here I am for a visit.

I’ve been having dreams about packing. Two of them in a row, one morning. I’m carrying baggage around, and somehow I get tripped up and things spill out, and there is an urgent need to get things cleaned up, repacked, and move along.

What could it mean? Is it symbolic of the sort of sad nostalgia I’ve been feeling the last few weeks at the realization that, truly, my children are no longer small? I have been catching sight of babies, toddlers, pre-schoolers in commercials on TV, at the grocery store, etc. Each time I stop and force myself to analyze why I’m noticing children. I send a sinker down into my soul to sound the depths: “Am I baby hungry?” The answer always comes back, “No. I am completely done with that.”

Then what?

I think it’s that I am just remembering those days fondly. That’s all.

There’s also the fact that a Huge Birthday is coming up. And I’m feeling it. Physically, emotionally. I'm beginning, finally, to feel like a grown-up.

There is also the strange phase of life I am in with my work—done with my novel, waiting to start school in the fall. I am putting off starting any other big writing projects, and instead spending my time tying up loose ends, trying to finish off projects that I’ve been putting off. Organizing the genealogy, for example, which has been surprisingly enjoyable. Getting the photos into albums. (We don’t say the s___pbook word around here.) I guess this business is a sort of packing up of things.

Whatever it is, I’m OK with it. I like where I am, like my life. Physically, I’m still a little under but nothing I can’t deal with. I’m having a life. So picture me here, packing and unpacking but not anxious to be moving anywhere. I’m here, and it’s good.

Book Report--January

2010-02-03T18:39:00.000-08:00

So I'm determined to report my reading monthly this year instead of those huge yearly reports. I did a lot of reading in January, especially after I finished my book. YES! I finished my novel! As in, all completely done. As in, it has reached my satisfaction. The only revisions I'll do from here on out will be those requested by agents and editors (if I should be so lucky). It feels SOOOOOOO good to reach a point where I can let it go. I feel it has achieved the measure of its creation now and I can move on.

So . . . reading.

POETRY/ESSAY/MEMOIR
Best of Mormonism 2009 edited by Stephen Carter. I would have liked this better if I hadn't already read many of the pieces. I wonder what it would be like to read it all fresh. I especially enjoyed Lance Larsen's essay.

Donkey Gospel by Tony Hoagland. I really like Hoagland, and reading him again now made me happy and reminded me that I really do want to be a poet. Some of his poetry is a little too hairy for me to recommend, but I have many, many corners folded down in this collection. I especially liked his poem about Berkeley. I've been trying to write one about Berkeley for years, but now I don't have to because he did it so well.

JF/YA
Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis. This one was a little slow getting started for me. I enjoyed the voice, though, and the details. About an orphaned boy who goes looking for his father and ends up with a combo jazz band.

FICTION
Old School by Tobias Woff. The BEST thing I've read all year (well, along with The Help and Olive Kitteridge). I can't think of a book more perfect for me, really. It's about a boys' boarding school in the northeast in the 60s which has several writing contests each year. The winner of each contest gets to meet with a visiting author. The authors who visit this particular year are Robert Frost, Ayn Rand, and Ernest Hemingway. Great! Wish it had been twice as long. I'm grateful to my friend Jenny for recognizing it as being perfect for me. It's funny how much I associate books with the people who recommend them. Jenny also recommended The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down years ago. Similarly, I still remember who recommended The Poisonwood Bible to me (Liz), the short stories of Wallace Stegner (Kathryn), and others from years and years ago.

19th Wife by David Ebershoff. Actually, I didn't read it; I listened to it. And I have to confess that I didn't finish it. It might not have been so negative of an experience if the narrator hadn't been so awful. A harsh, sarcastic-sounding woman who practically spit out all her words narrated large portions of it and I finally couldn't stand to listen to her any more. I don't have a problem hearing about the negative things in church history, actually. But I just got tired of the downer-ness of this.

Girl with a Dragon Tattoo by Steig Larsson. This is a translation from Swedish and is apparently a big book this year. It was quite gripping, although a little yucky in places, and had an interesting twist at the end. I wouldn't read another by him but it was entertaining. About a financial journalist who investigates a very old unsolved murder.

The Namesake by Jumpha Lahiri. I really enjoy Lahiri's style, her way of lingering on details about her characters. Reading her makes me a better writer without sacrificing entertainment. Her work is very character driven. This one was about a boy who is named after the Russian author Gogol but doesn't discover why until adulthood.

Why I Married the Best One (not inclusive)

2010-01-22T08:16:00.000-08:00

1. He's just as uptight as I am about following rules and being absolutely honest.
2. He smells sooooooo good.
3. He's always warm, especially when we first climb into bed and my toes are freezing. And he lets me put my toes behind his knees even then.
4. He buys all of my cosmetics and hair care products because I hate to spend money on myself.
5. When I do spend money on myself (for clothes, for example), he cheers.
6. He doesn't care what he eats and thinks it's ridiculous for me to spend hours cleaning when he can't tell the difference anyway.
7. He's the best dad in the world, most of all because he is a model of calmness, patience and peacemaking, and because he so obviously adores his children's mother.
8. He's willing to camp and even seems to like it.
9. He lets me drag him to watch football.
10. He's absolutely convinced me that he wants to see me continue in my education and my writing, and cheerfully shells out money and time to support me in these things. Also, he lets me drag him to various functions with my "writing friends."
11. He has also absolutely convinced me that he thinks I'm gorgeous.
12. He gives the BEST back massages, much better than any professional I've had.
13. He loves to paint my toenails.
14. He willingly adjusted our lives to MY sleeping schedule, as we agreed before we were married, seeing as I turn into a pumpkin after 10:00 p.m.
15. Those gorgeous eyes.
16. He's great at what he does professionally.
17. He listens, listens, listens.
18. He likes Noteworthy a cappella as much as I do.
19. He sings.
20. He's the only thing I want, besides my bed, when I feel sick.

I love you, sweetheart, 17 times more than I did when we married 17 years ago today. Thank you for making my life so good.

Writing Friends

2010-01-17T10:49:00.000-08:00

I have some amazingly gifted writing friends. Many of them are also successful in their writing. None, probably, as successful as they'd like to be, but there are some impressive accomplishments among them. Some are up-and-coming and have their biggest success in front of them.

I envy all of them to various degrees and in various ways.

But one thing that makes me sad is when they doubt themselves. I guess it's common in a writer to both think, secretly, that maybe you have something here and also dread that you're really just faking it and not talented at all. But when I see someone I think is really and truly talented doubt herself, it hurts. But I suffer from the same anxieties and truly have no concept of whether I myself am talented or not, so I can't blame them. I just wish I could figure out a better way of encouraging myself and others while simultaneously spurring us all on to be better.

I guess it's kind of like life. When I feel God's love for me and a sense of my own value, I want to be better, and my efforts and desires bring me joy. But when I doubt my value, my efforts to be better are drudgery and encouragement from leaders and others doesn't feel good. How can I, as a friend to writers, give them great feelings of value while also offering criticism that will bring them joy? How can I get that for myself?

Kudos to my own writer's group, by the way, who recently convinced me to take up my novel once again. Their praise gives me the energy to look at its flaws and get into the ring once again. I am so blessed to have such smart, well-read women whose opinion I can trust when they say, "Yes, it's worth continuing. You can do it."

Haiti

2010-01-05T20:31:00.003-08:00

This morning I ran out of hot water in the shower, which is not surprising since I was the third or fourth to shower before school. The loss felt more than irritating; I felt personally insulted, as if my housemates’ lack of consideration were somehow personal. I felt as if the universe were neglecting me. “Poor, motherless me. Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I'm going to go eat worms.”

And then I thought of Haiti. And what it means to have a shower stall. In a house. To have all that water available to me for washing.

And, of course, I was ashamed.

And then I was even more ashamed for using Haiti—-the huge, unthinkable, un-wrappable-by-my-brain tragedy of everything—-as a prod for my piddling, shallow little insight. As if I had used the edge of a chainsaw to pry up a nail. How dare I think of Haiti and use it as a reason to be grateful for a SHOWER?

But how else—tell me!—how else can I possibly think about it?

Who's That Girl?

2010-01-05T20:31:00.002-08:00

Recently I was at a female social gathering. There was a girl there (I say girl because everyone who is about my age or younger is a girl, of course), who was absolutely charming. I mean, this chick lights up a room. I was fascinated by her intelligent and hilarious way of telling a story—any story about anything that had happened to her. I wanted to hang around her because she was so smart and made me laugh. Other people wanted to hang around her, too, for the same reason, of course. I found myself acting goofy, like a young girl in love or something. I wanted this girl to keep talking--but, more than that, I wanted her to want to talk to me. And then, I also wanted her to listen to me. And to like me. And to want me for a friend. And, most importantly, to think I was very clever and funny, too.

I’ve been thinking about this desire of mine, feeling a little embarrassed by it. I’m sure I’m not the only one in the world who has wanted clever and funny people to think I’m clever and funny. Or, for that matter, to want dumb, boring people to think I’m clever and funny.

But it feels so shallow. I shouldn’t care whether people think I’m clever and funny, right? I should just be content to BE clever and funny.
No, I should just be content to BE.

What if I could even go one step further and not only NOT care what people think of me but actually be thinking about something else entirely during my interactions with people? What if I could concentrate that hard on what other people think . . . not about me, but about themselves? What if, after I have been to a party, people go home thinking NOT how clever I was but how much they like themselves? Wouldn’t it be cool if I were the kind of person that people don’t remember, but who leaves greater self-esteem where she’s been?

I love this idea. But I have found that it is extremely difficult to remember to act on it. Once I get into a social situation, my insecurities force me to start trying to prove myself. Oh yes, I’ve read the important books, I have the important opinions, and I state them so very wisely that you wish you had said them first. All of it shallow and empty in the long run, which I remember as soon as I walk out the door.

And the thing is, if I ever achieve the ability to be the kind of other-centered, self-esteem builder that I would like to be, I’m not sure I would even know it. I suppose the only clue I’d get is that at the end of an evening I would find that the time had flown and I was not left feeling insecure or longing. At least, that would be a good sign that I hadn’t been self-conscious, anyway. Which means that I had either been concentrating on others or just plain old enjoying myself. Both of which are very fine options, IMO.

What is art?

2010-01-05T20:31:00.001-08:00

Check out my post over at Mormonletters today.

Book Report

2010-01-05T20:31:00.000-08:00

Well, I had hoped to update my book reports monthly but so much for that. If I weren't so lazy and tech-challenged I would take the time to put my book reports on my side bar. But I am. Sue me. So here's what I've been reading lately:

Non-fiction:

The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan. This is a memoir about a woman's diagnosis of breast cancer, which comes at the same time as her own father's diagnosis of cancer. I guess this chick is famous for an essay she wrote about female friendship, which is included at the back of the book. I found the book interesting, but felt that it fell a little short of what it could have been as far as depth.

The Dancing Wu-Li Masters, by Gary Zukav. This one has been on my list for ages. I really like the CONCEPT of it, and occasionally really enjoyed it. But it got a little long and definitely wasn't one I could read in bed or in any state of drowsiness. Sometimes I thought the guy was pushing it a little, the comparison of physics and Eastern religious thought. It got a little hoaky. But interesting.

Christlike Parenting and The Power of Positive Parenting by Glen Latham. I'd explored Positive Parenting before, but that was a long time ago when my kids were in very different stages. This time, the ideas and, especially, the philosophy behind the ideas, were very significant to me. The only problem is that, although simple, it is a lot to learn in terms of training myself to think and act differently. But I heartily agree with this approach and am hoping to implement it more. I think I'll have to re-read this stuff periodically.

Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortensen and David Oliver Relin. I sometimes make it a point to avoid the books that everyone is reading, especially if everyone happens to be the women's book groups who loved Tuesdays with Morrie (blech). I hate "feel-good" books. But I didn't read this one, I listened to it as I jogged, and it wasn't too bad. It's the true story of a guy who builds schools in Afghanistan. It definitely gives a good and interesting picture of what life is like in the small villages of Afghanistan and Pakistan.

The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance by Elna Baker. OK, once I could get over my biological aversion to the navel gazing inherent in memoirs, I found this very entertaining. But I didn't feel like this chick ultimately succeeded in portraying a real Mormon. Sometimes she got her details wrong (she quotes "I Love to See the Temple"--or maybe it was "I Have a Family Here on Earth"--can't remember which--as an illustration at one point of how she has grown up to view the temple or eternal families--but gets the words wrong!). I'm thinking, "You're trying to make such a big deal about the cultural clash you embody as a Mormon in New York, but I'm not sure you're really nailing the Mormon part of the culture." There are other examples. But it's interesting reading if you have a high tolerance for some squirmy subjects.

Between Parent and Child by Dr. Haim G. Ginott. Another book on positive parenting. Not as good as the others but still good.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. I really enjoyed this one, especially the middle section on meditation. In fact, one part of it led to a very important discovery about myself. I've begun meditating formally again as a result.

Fiction

In This Sign by JoAnn Grenberg. Can't remember where I got this recommendation, but I was glad for it. It's a novel about a deaf family and their hearing daughter. Outdated in voice and pacing, it was still a really interesting glimpse into the world of the deaf.

Carmelita by Sandra Cisneros. I really enjoy Cisneros in general, but there is one little section of this book that I will never forget. It goes in the file in my mind of things I wish I had written. It's a little scene in which some children try to see the underwear of a servant girl. Heart-breakingly poignant. Cisneros is a poet writing fiction. Sometimes, though, she gets a little carried away with the poetry. I got tired of the lists and lists of details, though they are colorful, loveable details.

The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry. This one kept me reading but was ultimately a little disappointing. I felt that some aspects of the story that had seemed promising were basically dropped. Like the whole reading lace part--it ended up being sort of a non-issue. And it was poorly edited. Nice plot twist at the end, though.

The Actor and the Housewife by Shannon Hale. I know this one is a little controversial, but here's my take. It kept me reading, but not as much as some of Hale's other things. I happen to be in the camp that such a relationship as this cannot not do serious harm to a marriage. I think even if the guy had been a girl, the friendship was dangerous for the health of the marriage. But that's just me.

The Likeness by Tana French. Thanks to Angela for recommending this mystery about an undercover investigator who impersonates someone she looks just like. I kept reading.

A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute. I actually listened to this one on my mp3 player and it was delightful. I'm not sure how gripping it would have been to me if I had been reading it, but I really enjoyed this sweet story about a woman who falls in love with a man from Australia when they meet in the Pacific during World War II.

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. One of my all-time favorites, and one I plan to buy (I rarely buy books). A collection of short stories that are very lovingly character-driven. I was especially interested in the way mental illness is portrayed. Another one I wish I had written. (Hmm. Is that the highest praise I can give? How very egotistical and selfish of me.)

The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Another of the best books I read all year. It's about a white woman during the 60's who wants to collect the stories of the black women who serve in the households of her southern town.

The Treehouse by Douglas Thayer. Thayer's style wears on me after a while, but you can't beat his honesty. I especially appreciated the Korea section.

Cutting For Stone by Abraham Verghese. Another of my favorites this year. I listened to this one, but it is definitely worth reading. About a hospital in Ethiopia and some boys who grow up there. (Like all really good books, it's sort of hard to get the whole feeling of the thing into one sentence.) Just trust me--it's a good read.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Seth Grahame-Smith and Jane Austen. I'll save you a lot of time: you can get all there is to get out of this by reading the first two or three chapters. All the rest is just more of the same. It was a disappointment to me--I would have liked to see the changes more significantly impact the plot. Oh, well.

Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Neufenegger. I felt it was my duty to read this, since it had a ghost as a character. The first half of the book really gripped me but then things got kind of, well, just gross and then I lost patience with how much I was being asked to believe. A disappointment.

Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette by Sena Jeter Naslund. It took a while for me to get into the groove of this one--at first the descriptive language was irritation. But after a while I settled into it, accepting all the details as the kinds of things that the POV character (Marie herself) would have noticed. After that, the book was very enjoyable, especially to listen to.

YA/JF
The Misfits by James Howe. This is probably a fantastic YA book for people who like YA. I myself couldn't finish it. I do actually like SOME YA. But some are so much story, and so lite otherwise. I can't really put my finger on what's missing. I'm sure this is a very cute book.

Sounder by William Armstrong. This is a little book that won the Newberry many years ago--and it reads like it. I mean the many years ago part. We've made some progress as far as voice goes in the last century, I think. But the story is a sweet one, about a poor black son who leaves his family in search of his father who was sentenced to work on a chain gang. Can't imagine kids reading this much today.

The Higher Power of Lucky by Susan Patron. A quiet little story about a foster child afraid her new guardian won't want to keep her. Why are so many children's stories about parentless kids? (I ask this as a writer of a book about a girl whose mother is dead.) Anyway, I liked this book IN CONCEPT but found it rather hard to finish.

I Heart You, You Haunt Me by Lisa Schroeder. Another one I read as research for my own novel since it has a ghost boyfriend for a character. This one is told in verse--but not good verse. The kind that is made when people think short lines make verses. Not much going on here but a simplistic plot but I suppose it is very appealing to teenage girls.

Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins. This is the sequel to The Hunger Games and, like all second books in trilogies, feels like a second book in a trilogy. Still, I read it very fast and can't wait for the third.

Not a Year in Review

2010-01-03T09:07:00.000-08:00

I refuse to do it.

So, rather than get a recap of my year here, let me just give you a State of the Union Address:

I'm starting to get old, physically and mentally. There are wrinkles and sags and lost vocabulary words.

But I desperately hope that I'm starting to get old emotionally. Time to grow up, baby.

As 2009 ended, I became aware that now more than ever I need to learn how to be in the moment. I've always lived somewhere else; it's time for me to learn how to live right here.

I am a daughter of God, His work and glory. I am already OK the way I am. The Atonement has made it so that all is well. I don't have to make up for all the ways I fall short; I need only take care of what's right here. I accept the Atonement and myself. I will live each moment completely because it is already perfect.

That is my only resolution.

(But as for goals, I do have one: to do one more huge revision of my book in January, and start sending it out.)

Sugar

2009-12-28T15:09:00.000-08:00

. . . I'm giving it up.

Maybe. I think. Hopefully.

It's been about two weeks. I haven't done it very thoroughly--I give myself one day a week off. And I haven't eliminated white bread and rolls. And I bend the rules a little with non-desserts, such as yogurt. And I put honey on my grape nuts.

But still. Compared to how much I used to eat, this is a big step.

I haven't stipulated a time-frame or anything. We're just taking it a day at a time.

So far, here's what I've noticed:

I haven't lost interest in sugar--things still look good, especially if I've let myself get too hungry. But I haven't had any huge, undeniable cravings either. In fact, the change has been surprisingly easy.

I haven't lost any weight. Sigh. But that wasn't my reason for doing it. Still, I had hoped . . .

I haven't gained energy. This WAS one of my reasons. Probably I need to eliminate white things in order to get this benefit. Or give up my day off.

I HAVE gained in appreciation for the taste of healthy things. Most noticably: cucumbers. I never liked them before. Now they taste so good! And apples and kiwis are so amazingly sweet.

I've had no sypmtoms of withdrawal, as far as I can tell. (Now, if I had to give up Cafe Rio, this might be a different story.)

Little Drummer

2009-12-26T08:43:00.000-08:00

I was brought to tears today listening to "The Little Drummer Boy" in very bad Christmas Eve traffic. This is all going to sound obvious because everyone knows what that song is really about, but I was so deeply touched to realize that Christ smiles at me, too, when I give my little awkward offering that is embarrassing to me because it seems so small compared to what others give.

I am a mediocre mother. There are many ways I could improve as a wife. I'm a bumbling friend and only passing-fair as a den leader. Even my writing skills (with which I've been trying to redeem my sense of worth?) are only moderate.

But I try. And I keep trying.

That little drummer probably felt embarrassed with such a strange gift compared to what others gave (OK, I know it's all a made-up story anyway—but as we know, we learn the greatest truths from fiction). But still Christ smiled.

My prayer this year is that I can feel Christ smiling at my offering, and that I can somehow radiate His smile to those I interact with.

And even though I've given it to you before, here is my Christmas poem for you, just because it says the same thing I've been trying to say here. Merry Christmas, my friends.

Shepherds
by Darlene Young

Don’t tell me about rose-cheeked Arcadian youth
gathering daisies on a hillside
piping tunes to their cloud-fluffy sheep
under the stars.

No, these were foul-smelling, lusty
men with dirty necks, greasy hands,
snorting, arguing, joke-telling, nose-picking
men—one wearing stolen
sandals (although I admit he felt
guilty about it)—gambling on who
had the best aim as they chucked rocks
at a nearby lizard.

You talk about salt of the earth—
these men were salty, alright
downright ornery, some of them,
fighting sometimes and yelling
at their wives when they were home,
which wasn’t often.

Yeah, I’ll grant you Dan
was an innocent
and Dave had some noble moments
and none of them was really evil
but they all had dirty fingernails
of one kind or another
when the light came—
yes, it came.

But don’t take away that moment just before—
flies whining over the sheep dung
and Jake and Zeke having a
spitting contest—
that’s the key moment, you see,
in all their grimy glory;
it has to be

because the light came to me too,
Alleluia.

For your holiday enjoyment

2009-12-24T17:30:00.000-08:00

Click on this if you are a fan of Handel's "Messiah."

(I really do wish I knew how to embed these things into my post. Sorry for my lack of technical expertise.)

Light

2009-12-23T14:15:00.001-08:00

I've had some difficulties this winter with my health. It's probably due to a change in medication, but it came on just about the time that we had the daylight savings time change. The cold and the dark have affected me strongly and I find myself very sluggish.

I continue my love affair with what I don't have: robust, blooming, strong health. I wonder sometimes if anyone really has it; it seems like people do, but maybe they're faking it, like I am. How about you—do you feel fantastic? Even when I've felt well in my life, I've never felt strong. (My jr. high gym teacher called me "Bird Arms." It wasn't until I had grown up, earned my own teaching certificate, and learned to enjoy at least some small exercise in my life that it dawned on me what an atrocity it was that the teacher in charge of helping me find joy in taking care of my body was actually the cause of my hatred of anything having to do with exercise for many years.) I so look forward to the resurrection when I will be strong and run like a gazelle (also, I will have long, thick hair and a strong chin instead of this weak, doughy thing).

But in my foggy fatigue this winter I have been grateful more than ever before for the lights with which we celebrate Christmas. When even the middle of the day seems dark outside, I keep my outdoor decorative lights on. And all day I keep the Christmas tree lights and the ones decorating the banister burning. I can't believe how cheering it is to me to have them on.

I won't bore you with obvious statements about what light at Christmas-time really represents—you know it already. But I like to ponder how they keep burning, steadily along, regardless of whether the sun is up or down, or whether I am feeling well and triumphant or tired and grumpy.

They make me want to cry.

Bet you didn't know . . .

2009-12-01T13:32:00.001-08:00

. . . the fabric on the benches in the chapel of the new Oquirrh Mountain Temple is pretty cool. You can actually make it 3-D if you let your eyes relax the way you do when you're looking at a "Magic Eye" picture. Really!

There are, of course, many other very good things to be found at the temple. Ahem.

Grandpa

2009-11-16T07:53:00.000-08:00

Last week I attended Grandpa’s funeral. Before I write more about Grandpa, let me just say that Mormons really know how to do a funeral, and my family, in particular, REALLY knows how to do a funeral. Granted, there is a difference between a funeral for someone who died too soon and is leaving behind people who need her or him and a funeral for someone who was truly ready and looking forward to the move. But even in the case of my mother, who died too soon, the funeral was fantastic. I remember, in fact, joking in the limo that followed the hearse. We drove past a garage sale, and my mom loved garage sales. “Stop the hearse!” we yelled. “She needs to get just one more in!” Being a Mormon means that you can joke on the way to the cemetery because you fully believe that the deceased is laughing right along with you, and that she is happy to be where she is.

Anyway, as I said, my family in particular knows how to put on a funeral because when the dinner was all over and the funeral potatoes had been cleaned up (as if there were any leftovers of THOSE), we had a massive sing-in. Which is what SHOULD happen after such a happy moving day celebration, right?

Which brings me to the first thing I wanted to say about Grandpa: he left a legacy of music. All his children sing, and their children. And now, our children, too. I loved seeing my boys standing next to uncles and grandparents singing all the favorite hymns, trying to sing harmony with cousins and second cousins. I loved seeing the way music brought us all together, and how we couldn’t put Grandpa in the ground, or leave the church where we sang later, without singing the family’s favorite good night song, “Now the Day is Over.”

Besides the legacy of music that I got through Grandpa, I have specific memories of singing with Grandpa. Particularly, one afternoon when neither of us had anyplace to hurry off to, we sat on his front porch in the rockers, and he taught me a song about a bluebird. It was a duet, and I don’t think anyone had ever taught me to sing a duet with them before. I remember being so proud when I mastered my part and we sang it together. Thank you, Grandpa, for the music you gave us.

That memory on Grandpa’s front porch is one of only a handful that I have of one-on-one time with Grandpa. I didn’t have as close a relationship with him as my cousins who lived in his neighborhood or my cousins who lived out of state and got to stay with him when they visited (I am one of 38 grandchildren). But the ones I have are good, and I am very grateful, in addition, for the other legacies he left, the other ways he touched my life through what he taught his children.

One, probably the biggest, is a love of reading. I got my love of reading from both of my parents, but I got the ability to think critically about what I read from my father, who, I’m sure, got it from his father. Grandpa was a self-educated man who didn’t even finish high school, but he was reading constantly—and not just fiction but the great philosophical works of the world as well as biography, history, etc. It was an inheritance from him, I believe, that led to my receiving a copy of the Bhavagad Gita for Christmas one year from my father, which I read for maybe fifteen minutes and never opened again until I had a world religion class in college—but I was so proud to HAVE it, and loved the idea of studying it. Besides his INTEREST in ideas, I inherited his belief in the value of them, and of reading itself. Because he had a whole room dedicated to his books, and when I visited his house I needed only to stand in that room to know I had permission from God to spend hours doing what I loved more than anything—reading.

Grandpa had an amazing work ethic that his children inherited and tried to teach to their children. He also had a lack of desire for worldly things. (Granted, I can’t be sure that he had no desire for more stuff. It could be that he was just poor, which is true.) He avoided debt as much as possible. He lived in the same humble home in Rose Park all of his adult life. He paid cash for his cars. He died with no debt and with enough saved up to provide for himself and his costs. He didn’t have expensive tastes. I know I benefitted from these characteristics of his.

Finally, Grandpa had a great sense of humor. I’ll never forget his laugh, which was sometimes even a giggle. He joyed in wordplay and teasing his children and grandchildren. One running joke involved pretending that the word “six” was actually “sick,” so that whenever a grandchild or great grandchild was six years old, he would say, “How old are you?” “Six!” “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear it. I hope you get better soon.” “No, not SICK, Grandpa, SIX!” “Oh, have you seen the doctor yet?” Etc. etc. The five-year-old kids all knew it was coming and looked forward to it. Another running joke was the teasing he got for eating ketchup on his eggs. I overheard this one for the first time when I was very small. One of the uncles told Grandpa, “I knew a man who ate ketchup on his eggs, and now he’s dead.” The joke, of course, is that people die anyway, and Grandpa would go on to answer about the people who did not eat ketchup on their eggs who are now dead. But, being so young, I didn’t understand it, and was too afraid to eat the ketchup I loved on my eggs for a few years.

My favorite memory of Grandpa is from the campouts we used to have at Mantua (near Brigham City) with all of the cousins. Early in the morning we would be awakened by a tapping on the trailer canvas and hear Grandpa calling, “Rise and shine, gub-de-gub-de-gub.” Don’t know where the gub-de-gub came from, but it was Grandpa. The nonsense words were an other legacy I got from him, I realize now. My father has all sorts of made-up names for things. The first time I realized that these words were made-up and not in common parlance with the rest of America was when I was eating at a friend’s house and asked for the “glommers” (salad tongs, they informed me after they got done laughing). I don’t know if Grandpa made up that particular word of if Dad just inherited the propensity to make up words. Other made-up words include “flanger” (garage of TV remote), “chumbies” (kids), “nosser-noss” (a form of tickling with a fist twisting on an eager tummy), “getchum-get” (tickling). Not to mention shortened words for things: “ruts” (carrots), “yuns” (onions), etc.

And, of course, I inherited a legacy of activity in the church. I’m pleased as punch to have grown up a Mormon and can’t imagine life any other way. I’m absolutely convinced that this was as happy a way to live as any other way out there and better than most. I’ve never found obedience to the “rules” of membership difficult. Tithing is as easy as breathing, liquor and cigarettes have never been tempting, honesty is the natural and best way to live. My life is easier in so many ways because I was raised to live this way. I’ll always be grateful for that.

Grandpa did a lot of civic work and was a great leader in his congregations, but when it comes down to it, I think his real legacies are the people he left behind, and the people they raised, and the people they are raising, etc. I hope he is proud of how we’re turning out; I think he must be. I’m grateful for his life and what I inherited from him. Thanks, Grandpa. Happy reunion with Grandma. I’ll catch up with you a little later and we can sing about the bluebird once again.

[Grandpa in the glory days of grandparent-hood. I'm third from the right in the front.]

A little quote for you

2009-11-11T11:17:00.000-08:00

"The bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious." -T. S. Eliot

Discuss.

Poetry Workshop 3

2009-11-03T10:24:00.000-08:00

It's time for some more nuggets from my workshop with poet Kurt Brown. These are somewhat random jottings that come from my class notes. So don't blame Kurt Brown for the lack of organization here--I just wrote down the things that especially applied to me at the time. What you have is "Kurt Brown as translated and sometimes mangled by Darlene Young." So here we go:

Stop thinking and start describing. "No ideas but in things"--William Carlos Williams.

Frost said if there is no surprise for the writer, there will be no surprise for the reader. Start with your trigger, then explore and surprise yourself. (Kurt mentioned the book Triggering Town,which I have read and which is good.)

Face the reader. The poem should not be directed inward to self. Outward.

Every poem is a fragment of a large narrative, a background that isn't in the poem.

Try to detach from your subject sometimes. Range. Let go of the urge to get to an end in the poem or follow it logically. Try to loop around and meander. [Note from Darlene: this addresses my biggest weakness as an artist.] If you know where you're headed before you start, your poem will be flat. Let yourself find the surprise. Think of jazz: riff (but keep the chord structure). TRY to move away, jumping, following your subconscious. Your subconscious will take care of the connections.

One of Kurt's assignments to help with this very thing was to create a poem in which we use a word from the first line (none, ver, adjective or adverb--a strong word) in the second line, then a different one from the second line in the third line, etc. Then in the last two lines, use as many of those words as you can. [I was amazed at the poem that resulted when I did this exercise. It is one of my strongest poems ever, I think. Paying more attention to the structure than what I was saying freed me up to follow my subconscious more, to meander. This exercise helped me realize how much I benefit from having a teacher to give me assignments (even if the teacher is only myself reading like a writer and thinking up projects for myself).]

A poem is an opportunity to explore what you think, not to tell everyone about some interesting, unique thought you've had. (Because no one can come up with something truly unique anyway.)

Exercises are to shake you up from your usual topics, forms, relationships with language, ruts of how you think of things. [Amen!]

Interrogate your poem. Watch for the true subject which will come clear like a lightbulb. You should be looking for it to appear about 2/3 through the poem. Then the poem transforms itself. You know you've succeeded when the last line doesn't mean the same thing as it would have if the rest of the poem hadn't come before it.

path

2009-10-31T13:12:00.000-07:00

Reading Jon Kabat-Zinn again. I should probably re-read him regularly. Today I read about the concept of the tao, or life as a path. This is an enlightening concept for me. As I try to analyze the source of stresses in my life, the reason behind my constantly-clenched stomach muscles, for example, or my lack of just joyous spontanaety with my kids, I realize that I have always been just so concerned with my destination. I have been so hard on myself for not already having achieved various things, and this self-criticism has done more, ironically, to keep me from making any kind of progress than anything else.

I want to give up the expectation that I reach any destinations in this life. I want to learn to love the path, to accept that I am on it and not expect myself to be anywhere else. I want to quit yearning so much and start accepting more. I think that in addition to making me a more healthy person, this will also benefit me in other ways—I will become a better mother. But not (and this is important) because I am trying to be a better mother (destination). Rather, as a side-effect of being more accepting of myself.

I can see that my children have inherited this demanding, self-criticalness, either from me or just as a result of living in this world. The best way I can help them overcome this is to show them an example of self-acceptance.

And while we’re on the subject of self-acceptance, I promised you a follow-up to my envy post. I’ve toyed with talking about the things I like about myself, or the things I am grateful for (great for November!), etc. But I think what I’ll do is address the specific things I mentioned in my first post about envy. The things I have envied are in italics. My response to them is not.

So here goes.

1. People who are extremely healthy, and people who are very strong. People who can run like antelope instead of plodding along at a half jog like I do. People who can stay up late watching TV with their spouses (and by late, I mean after 10:00).
I can get up early and exercise every day. I am not tempted to lie abed, and I get a great surge of adrenaline with each new day. (I am so aware that there are people who can’t even get out of bed all day. Thus I will never, ever take this aspect of myself for granted.) I have worked hard and can now “jog” 5 miles per hour relatively comfortable for 30 minutes. This has taken much diligence and patience because I progress very, very slowly. I am strong enough to do all I need to do (my shoulders can carry the burdens placed on them), and capable of saying yes to any request or calling. I can’t stay up late but, on the flip side, I rarely ever have insomnia and sleep right through every night.

2. Women with thick hair. Well, I have hair. I am not currently undergoing chemo. I don’t look too bad, in general, and don’t hesitate to meet other people’s eyes because I feel ugly. I am not dependent on makeup and don’t scare anyone when they catch sight of me on a no-makeup day. Women with skinny little girl bodies. My size is acceptable and relatively easy to buy clothes for. My husband thinks I’m beautiful. I feel that the sacrifice in skinniness that it took to be a mother is well worth it. Thus I am in the process of making peace with looking like a mother. (It's just a little harder to make peace with looking like a middle-aged mother.) But I like not being 22 anymore. Women who have the money and lack of guilt to make their faces look 25 when they are actually 55. I have seen some women debilitated with the fear of looking their age. I don’t have this problem (though, of course, I’d prefer to stay young-looking if I could do it naturally).

3. People who are out of debt. We are well on-track to being out of debt and not doing too badly for ourselves. I am not distracted by get-rich-quick ideas. I feel confident that God is pleased with our progress and wants us to be diligent and patient. And R has a good job that is not in jeopardy (thank goodness).

4. Amazingly gifted writers. I am no writing genius, but I have some talent so that I know I can succeed when I want to put forth the effort. Writers with amazing work ethics who are determined to succeed. Well, I don’t worry about this one very much, because I’ve found that I can work very hard on something I’m passionate about. I just haven’t found much that I care enough about yet. I’m trying to follow my heart more and not be frustrated at myself for not feeling passionate about a project. Writers who know how to trust their subconscious. I’m going to work on this one. Writers with great agents. Writers with great book deals. Famous writers. In fact, I envy anyone who can answer with ease the question I get too often, “So, what books have you published?” . I could fix that if I fixed the “passionate” problem, above. I am getting much better at not envying these things as I recognize more how much desire plays in all this. I don’t desire to complete any of these big projects all that much. Also, I’ve seen some people succeed at these things and seen that they (these things) don’t bring satisfaction. Recently I was honored at an awards ceremony for some writing I’m having a hard time caring about and the award wasn’t satisfying at all since I knew the project didn’t have my heart in it.

5. People with really close best friends that they never feel insecure about. But I do have some very close friends—people who are gifted and fascinating and caring. I am very blessed.

6. People with beautiful solo voices. But I can carry a tune decently enough to enjoy singing in choirs and small groups, and I love doing it.

7. People who can knit sweaters while holding conversations, and who know how to pick the pattern and the yarn just right. People who can spin. 8. People with the ability to memorize easily. 9. People with the desire to keep their houses really clean at all times and the enjoyment of such. 10. People with the ability to cook, and the enjoyment of such. 11. People who know how to meditate and do it well. 12. Vegetarians. But not really. However, I do envy people who eat very well because they enjoy it. These are all just a matter of effort. I need to decide to change or let it go. And quit judging others!

13. Women who know how to shop, and women who know how to dress. Women who can wear hats or scarves and look great and confident in them. Women who, even when they’re a little heavy, know well enough how to dress that they look nice all the time. Women who know how to pluck and color eyebrows. This one is harder for me, and that tells me I need to do some soul-work. This one is closer to envy than many of the others, because I sometimes find myself resenting or judging women who look very put-together. Or just better than me in general. I’ve got to find a happy medium between putting more effort into what I care about or just deciding not to care.

14. Women who come alive in the afternoon and evening hours, so that their kids get their very best. This one I can’t change (see #1—I’m a morning person). But I can put more effort into organizing my day so that I can marshal what resources I have during the hard times of day. I have seen great improvement on the days I manage to do this. This one just requires effort and patience.

15. People who got to go on Study Abroad during college. I STILL smart sometimes at the opportunities I missed when I was younger. But I am who I am because of what I did do. And I like who I am. Meanwhile, I’m going about getting into my life the things that I missed—like going to grad school next year.

16. People who love being with other people’s kids and are easygoing with them. Also, parents who constantly have fun with their kids. I’m getting better at this as I get older. Also, as I learn to let go of expectations of myself and others (the path). I look forward to enjoying improvement in this area by the time I’m a grandmother!

17. People with really great laughs. Funny people. I can’t change these but I can work on enjoying these people more instead of seething with envy. I think as I learn to loosen up more, I will learn to laugh more easily and sense more joyous moments. I am blessed to be surrounded by people with great senses of humor.

18. Those women that people refer to in Relief Society when they say, “I have a friend who is always there for me, who never judges, who silently serves.” This is one that I’ve got to just let go. I know that I have a good and well-meaning heart, that I am constantly trying to be a caring friend to those around me. Thank goodness for my strong testimony that God knows my heart and that He will let me be a blessing to others, if I desire it, even if He doesn’t let me know how and when that happens. I’m trusting in that.

Green-eyed

2009-10-21T07:50:00.000-07:00

I’ve been stuck on the question from the scriptures, “Are you stripped of envy?” This, combined with my current e-audiobook by Wayne Dyer, has got me convinced that my life would be much more peaceful, creative and satisfying if I could permanently eliminate envy from my life. Just since I’ve started pondering this, I have been astounded at how much of my thinking is focused on what I don’t have. I want to commit myself to a zero-tolerance policy for envy. So this post is my farewell to all those old envies.

Things I will no longer envy:

People who are extremely healthy, and people who are very strong. People who can run like antelope instead of plodding along at a half jog like I do. People who can stay up late watching TV with their spouses (and by late, I mean after 10:00).

Women with thick hair. Women with skinny little girl bodies. Women who have the money and lack of guilt to make their faces look 25 when they are actually 55.

People who are out of debt.

Amazingly gifted writers. Writers with amazing work ethics who are determined to succeed. Writers who know how to trust their subconscious. Writers with great agents. Writers with great book deals. Famous writers. In fact, I envy anyone who can answer with ease the question I get too often, “So, what books have you published?”

People with really close best friends that they never feel insecure about.

People with beautiful solo voices.

People who can knit sweaters while holding conversations, and who know how to pick the pattern and the yarn just right. People who can spin.

Vegetarians. But not really. However, I do envy people who eat very well because they enjoy it.

Women who know how to shop, and women who know how to dress. Women who can wear hats or scarves and look great and confident in them. Women who, even when they’re a little heavy, know well enough how to dress that they look nice all the time. Women who know how to pluck and color eyebrows.

Women who come alive in the afternoon and evening hours, so that their kids get their very best.

People with the ability to memorize easily.

People who got to go on Study Abroad during college.

People with the desire to keep their houses really clean at all times and the enjoyment of such.

People with the ability to cook, and the enjoyment of such.

People who love being with other people’s kids and are easygoing with them. Also, parents who constantly have fun with their kids.

People with really great laughs.

Funny people.

Those women that people refer to in Relief Society when they say, “I have a friend who is always there for me, who never judges, who silently serves.” (I don’t think anyone would say this about me. I feel like I’m always eager to serve, but never know how. I’m constantly bungling around. I want to be one of those elegant servers who know when to show up and how.)

People who know how to meditate and do it well.

Ah, man, I could go on. As I look at this list, I realize a couple of things.

First, I’m most susceptible to envy when it involves something I want but which I’m simply not willing to commit to getting. The ability to memorize, for example. Or knit, or spin, or meditate well and often. All these things I could get if I wanted them badly enough. Obviously, I don’t. So why do I waste mental energy envying people who have them? In some cases, I’ve done pretty well at making peace with my decision not to invest. The clean house, for example. It only bothers me mildly when other people have cleaner houses than mine. (The fact that it does proves that it is envy at work, not simply admiration.) But for the most part I’m willing to let that one go. If I could get used to letting other things go, like wanting to be a passionate writer, I would have more peace.

Second, envy isn’t the recognition of good things that I lack. Envy is the slight resentment towards the people who do have them. Envy is more about how I feel towards the other person and less about how I feel about their gifts. Which is why I made myself write “People who . . .” on the list instead of “the ability to . . .” I don’t think there’s anything wrong with recognizing that something might be valuable to have. The evil of envy is when I let it separate me from others because I feel inferior to them.

My goal, then, is to make my peace about the things I’m dedicated to seeking in my life, and the things I’m not going to invest in or simply can’t have (thick hair, for example). I may not have a natural gift with children, for example, but I’ll waste no more energy on wishing I were someone who does. I can use my energy to try to teach myself to be more in the moment, more loving, when I am with them. But wishing I didn’t have to work at it just wears me down.

I think that in conjunction with my decision to renounce envy, I also should commit to noticing and enjoying the things/gifts I DO have. So maybe I’ll make another list to that effect in my next blog. (Bet you’re on the edge of your seat for that one.)

Highlights from my vocabulary flaschards

2009-10-03T12:10:00.000-07:00

So, you know I took the GRE a few weeks ago. To prepare, I had a couple-hundred or so flashcards of vocabulary words. I got the words from lists of words in the prep material, and also from my own reading. I included words I had always sort of thought I knew but hadn’t been sure enough of to actually use in conversation, and words whose meanings turned out to surprise me when I read them in the prep material. I thought you might want to check out some of the highlights to see if you really know as many words as you think you do. So here are some of the highlights from my eight-inch high stack of flashcards.

Words I didn’t know but should have:

recusant: dissenter, nonconformist

juggernaut: anything that draws blind and destructive devotion. Roger also tells me it is the name of certain softball bat. Don't know how I didn't know that one.

exigent: urgent

contumely: I recognized this one from Austen, but still didn’t know what it meant. It means an insulting display of contempt.

phlegmatic: apathetic, sluggish; or self-possessed, cool.

opprobrium: disgrace.

taciturn: silent, not talkative. Tacit means “unspoken.”

eponymous: giving one’s name to something.

distaff: women’s work, or pertaining to women.

scion: descendant.

panegyric: a eulogy in praise or commendation. Similarly, encomium, despite its unfortunate similarity to meconium (and if you don’t know what this is, you’ve never delivered a baby), means a formal expression of high praise.

bellicose: hostile.

sodality: fellowship.

apotheosis: means “glorification as ideal.”

recidivism: a repeated relapse, as into crime.

bucolic: pastoral.

Weird similarities and contrasts

Sedition means resistance to lawful authority but sedulity means diligence.

Impunity and impugn are almost opposites.

Venal means “open to bribery” and venial means a kind of sin that can be forgiven.

Spendthrift is someone who squanders money, and skinflint is a miser.

Turpitude means baseness or depravity; torpor means sluggishness. So torpid means sluggish, but turbid means unclear, muddled, clouded, disturbed. Turgid means swollen or tumid, or pompous and overblown.

Abrogate: to abolish by formal means. Arrogate means to claim without right. Abnegate means “to relinquish.” Abjure means to renounce or avoid. Objurgate means to denounce vehemently.

Obdurate means stubborn or unyielding.

Moribund means “in a dying state.” Mordant, however, means “caustic or biting,” as does mordacious.

Timorous means “fearful,” but temerity means “reckless or foolish daring.”

Ingenuous means “free from restraint, artless or naïve,” while ingenious means pretty darn smart. (I actually already knew this one, but I thought it was worth pointing out.)

Dissemble means to prevaricate, but disseminate means to get the word out.

Imprecate means to curse something; it is not related to implicate.

Words I thought I knew the meaning of, at least in a general sort of way, but it turns out I really didn’t. OK, before you read what I thought these meant and what they really mean, ask yourself to define them and see how you do.

extenuate: it actually means “to lessen.” Attenuate also means “to make thin or weaken.”

nonplussed: I always thought it meant something like “unimpressed,” or “unfazed,” but it means “perplexed”

facetious. I always thought this meant something like “ironic,” because the way people use it: “I was just being facetious.” But it really just means “frivolously amusing.”

quiescent: means “motionless.” I thought it meant “agreeable,” or “amenable.”

dessicated: I thought it meant “chewed up”! Really! It actually means “dried out.” I know everyone knew that but me.

iconoclast: one who opposes established beliefs. I, well, sorta thought it meant the opposite. Kind of.

laconic: I thought this meant lazy, or apathetic. It actually means “terse and concise.”

plenary: I thought it kind of meant “seminal,” or “the main one,” but it really means “full or complete.”

sanguine: another one that I thought meant apathetic, or unmoved. This one really means “cheerful, hopeful, continent.” Consanguine, on the other hand, means “related by blood.”

salient: I thought this one meant “most applicable,” but it really means “prominent.” (You can see how they’re sort of the same. Kind of.)

Saturnine means sluggish or gloomy.

Simper does not mean a little flirty pout, as I thought it did. It means “a silly, self-conscious smile.”

Craven does not mean “insane” or even “malicious.” It means “cowardly.”

Compendium does not mean a collection. It means a brief account of a subject, a summary, or an inventory. Similary, compendious means concise (ironic, I know.)

Baleful does not mean sort of helpless and woebegone. It means “full of menace, pernicious.”
salubrious has nothing to do with saliva but means “favorable to or promoting health.”

Quixotic: OK, I already knew what this one meant, but I have been mispronouncing it for years, at least in my mind. I thought it was “keeyotic,” to resemble the correct pronunciation of Quixote.

Enervate means, illogically, “to destroy the vigor of or weaken.” Seems to me that it should mean to give MORE nerve to something, not take away nerve.

Clement. Duh, I should have known this one because of “clemency.” I kept thinking of the people at the elementary school saying we could stay in for recess “in the case of inclement weather.” But I never really knew that clement means “mild, lenient, compassionate.”

Hermetic: means “completely sealed,” or “having to do with the occult sciences.” I made a big fool of myself once when someone asked me what this meant and I tried to explain what hermeneutic meant instead. (Don’t ask me to define that one today, though.)

Blandishment is not a criticism but a flattery or cajoling.

Bemused does not mean thinking, “Hmm! Imagine that!” with a little chuckle. It actually means “bewildered, confused or muddled.”

Calumny. I think I was mixing this up with calamity. It just means slander.

Torrid does not mean tempestuous and steamy, it means scorching or burning hot with sun. (Also see torpid, above.)

Desultory does not mean apathetically or lazily, it means “jumping from one thing to another; disconnected.”

Weird words, or fun words I’m glad I discovered:

homunculus: a midget.

persiflage: light, bantering talk.

obstreperous: noisily unruly, out-of-control. Surprising I didn’t already know and use this one, being the mother of four boys.

tyro: a novice or beginner.

diurnal: having to do with daytime.

sybarite: person devoted to pleasure and luxury.

bumptious: pushy.

pusillanimous: lacking resolution. Try using that one in a sentence today.

orotund: full, rich, clear voice—or, bombastic speech.

prolix means tediously long and wordy (the opposite of compendious, I guess).

mawkish: such a great word! Means “sickly sweet or sentimental.” Describes some poetry that gets submitted to Segullah . . .

ensorcell: to bewitch. Love this one!

elutriate: to purify by washing. This is just so fun to say, with a sort of breathless, Galadriel sort of accent.

The worst music video ever.

2009-09-29T08:14:00.000-07:00

I stole this shamelessly from Chris Bigelow. Warning: it will take several weeks to get this song out of your head.

I especially like the jewelry worn by the, um, dashingly sexy male lead. Yeah.

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

p.s. You really need to watch it a few times to fully appreciate all the details and nuances.

Feeling Safe

2009-09-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

I was thinking today about my decision to stay home with my children instead of working while hubby was in grad school. We have some friends who made a different decision, and that decision worked out really well for them financially. I can’t complain because we are doing fine financially as well—and even if we weren’t, I wouldn’t regret my decision. Still, it makes me wonder . . . did they experience any bad effects from that choice? Do I wish that they did?

My musings on this subject led me to another subject, which is really what I want to talk about here. Here it is: I feel reluctant sometimes to discuss my feelings about things like this because I am so conservative and I don’t want to offend people. But it is strange to me that this is so. Has Relief Society become so accepting of differences and so open to exceptions that we no longer feel safe in discussing (or advocating) conservative choices?

I feel so blessed that I grew up in a more liberal church. By “more liberal,” I mean a church that encourages acceptance and even the embracing of differences. A church that has, during my lifetime, switched to encouraging men to put their families first, help out at home once in a while, be sensitive to the physical and emotional needs and limits of their wives. Most of my adult life has been spent in a post-Chieko Okazaki Relief Society, in which we make sure we bend over backwards not to offend the woman sitting next to us who might have chosen, as Okazaki did, to work outside of the home while others cared for her children.

I LIKE this change.

And yet . . . and yet I remain the kind of woman who chose to stay home with my children, even though it was hard, because the prophet suggested I do so. I am glad I did, and I got many blessings by doing so, but the biggest reason I did was because of that. But I don’t feel that I could say that, just that way, in Relief Society, or even on some on-line forums that pride themselves on being “safe places.” The thing is, we’ve made everything so safe for people who are not strict in their following of church guidelines, or people who wonder, or people who don’t fit into the traditional LDS woman types. But have we made these places less safe for people who are strict with themselves and traditional? Do we give as much respect to the “hardliners” for strictness as we do to the women who have made other choices? Do we try as hard to make sure these more conservative women feel like they won’t be attacked or ostracized for sharing their feelings and opinions as we do the others? (I’m not talking here about tolerating intolerance. I’m just talking about making sure people feel safe and respected.)

What do you think? Have there been times when you have hesitated to share a more conservative opinion or feeling because you feel like you won’t be respected or you might be attacked?

Just a little thing . . .

2009-09-20T08:35:00.000-07:00

I found out this week that my novel (yes, that one) placed second in the Utah Arts Council contest YA division! The prize for second place is $750! That's by far the most I've ever won with my writing.

It's weird to me to observe my own reaction to this. Because as recently as two years ago, I would be head-over-heels giddy ("ebullient," one of my new GRE words) with thrills over this award. But now, although I can't say that I'm not glad, it's not as exciting. Why?

I think it's because I'm stuck (again). This novel has some good writing in it (and that's probably why it won) but it just isn't where I'd like it to be and I CAN'T FIGURE OUT HOW TO FIX IT. If it were published tomorrow, I would feel faintly embarrassed that it represented me and my mind and my skill. And yet I know it has merit (guess this contest proves it even more than the agent interest), so it irritates me to abandon it. I'm stuck in this place where I don't want to work on it and don't want to let it go.

The other reason that I am not quite so thrilled is that I've been doing this long enough now (and I have dear friends who are better at it and more published than I am who have shared their experiences) to know that in the end it doesn't matter if others like it, or how many others like it, or even if it does get published--at least, not in the long term. By "doesn't matter," I mean, no writing success is going to make me feel like a permanent writing success, or like a more valuable person. The same insecurities are still there, the same fears.

And, besides all that, the number of people who are impressed by such things is pretty darn small. Even in my extended family, who try their hardest to be happy for me, no one is going to keep mentioning it to me, keep being awed by it. The most I can ask of anyone is an "All right! Good for you!" or maybe a "Can I read it?" (which isn't always that great either, since it often comes from people who had no interest whatsoever in what I'd written until they heard it won something), which sentiments pass very quickly and then all is forgotten.

I can only remind people of my great accomplishments so many times. Thank goodness my husband doesn't mind my, "By the way, did you know I won 2nd place? And also got a 1450 on the GRE?" comments that come twice daily (or more). He even acts enthusiastic--but, really, how much can I expect of the poor guy who doesn't read poetry or literary fiction at all? That's a lot of pressure for one guy to carry--being my cheerleader.

So I've learned that I've got to be doing this writing stuff for my own satisfaction, for the enjoyment of the process, because in the end that will be my real, and perhaps only, reward. Although the $750 is nice. I'd like to spend it on a really cool couch or something but it'll go right into the grad school fund.

Poetry Workshop 2

2009-09-18T05:18:00.000-07:00

I'm way behind on my report of my poetry workshop with Kurt Brown last spring. Which is just a sign that my life got exciting. It still is exciting (I'm so loving this phase! I love having my kids in school! Besides giving me time for myself, it's just a very fun age of kids, and parenting is in general more interesting than it has ever been. I'm only just realizing that the real culprit in my emotional struggles when they were little was boredom). But I ought to keep my commitment and finish out these notes for you!

So here are some things I learned on subsequent days in Kurt's workshop.

In a poetry workshop, it's a good idea to read your poem out loud to the critiquers. And then to have someone else read it aloud, so that you can hear how others will interpret its sounds.

When you number sections (as opposed to just starting a new stanza or separating with a mark), you move away in time and space, maybe subject. Leave it to the reader to look at how they're related. The transitions can be supplied by the reader if you've done your job well.

It is not always best to attempt to end with a punch. This is a sign that you don't trust the reader. Sometimes it's best to end with an image rather than an idea. It's often good to end on a monosyllabic word, or a word that ends with a stress.

Use lineation (the way you break up your lines) to strengthen words, to speed up action or slow it down, to emphasize sound. Remember that poetry is a temporal art--that is, it exists in time. Lineation is how you control the pacing, the passage of time in the poem.

[Kurt passed out a fantastic handout on lineation.]

For speeding things up, use "propulsive breaks," breaks that force the reader to go on to complete the thought. This propels them around the corner. Or tricks of words:

My father beat me
in a race.

Use lineation to imitate the action that the poem is describing.

In formal verse, you work with feet. In free verse, the line is your unit to work with, your unit of measurement.

Leave out as much as you can while leaving enough to allow the reader to draw conclusions. (I wish I could tell this to everyone who submits poetry to Segullah! You don't have to say everything!)

Generic language is not always bad. It makes the poem sound more mythic ("man," "house," "hill").

When you're structuring a poem, say the second most important thing first, then the least important thing in the middle, then the most important thing last.

GRE

2009-09-13T07:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it's over. The cool thing about it was how calm I felt. I had prepared all I could; I had taken practice tests and was happy with the scores I was averaging. My biggest fear was that I would get a migraine or other health problem during the test, and I asked for a blessing to help me with that and with the fear of it (which is just as debilitating and often brings a migraine on). (See previous post on fear.)

So I was calm--calm the night before, calm as I drove there, calm as I encountered the essay questions. It was the first essay I was most worried about, because I have found in my practice tests that I am not so great at coming up with contemporary examples to support my statements. Besides being disgustingly unaware of popular culture and politics, even when I do remember things I can never remember names. (For example, in one of the essays I wrote for the test, I referred to "that lady from Britain who sings and who was discovered on the British talent show." You know whom I mean. What IS her name???) Anyway, my topic on the harder essay was this: --oh, wait. I may have promised not to reveal the topic. Did I? I can't remember if it said that specifically in all those things I signed. Well, anyway, it was a topic that I was able to think of three really solid examples for, and I really think this was God helping me. (The writing of the thing, of course, is the easy part.)

I cruised along through the Quantitative (math) section, not getting too worrried about it, answering what I could and guessing when I felt it was taking too long or I had no clue, just as I have done in all my practice tests. (I called BYU and the U a couple of months ago and asked if there was any reason in the world for me to study for the math portion--would anyone at all look at those scores? Answer: no. So I didn't.)

And then I did the Analytical (Verbal) section, and the VERY FIRST QUESTION, the MOST IMPORTANT QUESTION because it determines a cap on your score, contained a vocabulary word that I had no idea the definition of. This was surprising to me, since I had studied hundreds of words in preparation for this test, including all of the words on the "recommended" lists of the test-prep materials. But this was not one I had made a flashcard for or encountered within the last six months. It wasn't a word I'd never heard before, but I had NO IDEA what it meant. (I know, you're dying to know what the word was. But the truth is that I can't remember it! I must have blocked it out or something. Really.) So that was a major bummer because I knew it would have significant impact on my score. I made my best guess and moved on.

After that I had to write YET ANOTHER ESSAY because it was part of the research materials of the test. In other words, I had to do it, but its score wouldn't count for me. It was really hard to push myself on that one, since I was exhausted by then. But I made it through.

Then I had a chance to choose not to have my test scored. If, for example, I felt like I had had a really off day and didn't want this GRE to count, I could click on "don't score," and then leave the test and re-take it another day with no problem. Once I clicked on "score," though, I was agreeing to have the scores sent to the schools I had designated. I had to choose which one BEFORE I could see the scores. I considered not getting it scored for only a split second (because of that one word). But I knew I had lucked out on the essay and not done too badly for myself otherwise, so I went ahead and got my scores.

And here's the joke: my quantitative score was higher than my verbal! Quantitative: 730, Verbal: 720. I couldn't quit laughing about it all the way home. Do these people care that both of these scores are inaccurate? In practices, I average higher on verbal and much lower on quantitative. Ah, well. 720 isn't bad--they say it's in the top 2% of people who take the test. The BYU English department tells me the average scores for people accepted there are 614.61 Verbal and 578.43 Quantitative, so at least I know that my scores won't keep me OUT of the program. (I know that actually the scores probably count very little in the acceptance process.) But it's so hilarious to me! I mean, I did my best on the math part, but I did guess several times. Lucky guesses. The good thing is that if I ever decide I want to go back into a more science-based field, I won't have to take the GRE again! (Not much of a chance of that, true, but I have fantasized about becoming a nurse midwife . . . ) (There's probably a different entrance test for nurses anyway.)

Fear

2009-09-11T06:15:00.001-07:00

I’ve been thinking about fear.

Fear is the great evil of the world, I think.

Looking at just my own little corner of the world, it affects me personally in insidious ways, rolling over my life like oil and finding cracks to seep into to break things apart. When I am afraid, I get cranky. (And I’m not sure that crankiness isn’t the true evil, as C. S. Lewis describes.) I become so focused on myself that I don’t see others clearly and I do stupid things.

Recently I have been very afraid, because I have switched medications and it has seemed as if my old illness was returning. This fear turns my insides to gravy, and I find myself walking unaware of my surroundings, and snapping at people. Disgusting.

A few weeks ago, a woman who has a very great fear in her life attacked me verbally (and it was a literal attack) for something so illogical that I suppose it was a blessing, because it enabled me to see that she must really be in pain. I can and do forgive that (though it was very, very painful and distressing), but it makes me wonder how many other people who have hurt me, particularly by just being cranky and thoughtless, are just struggling with their own little (or big) fears. Does all selfishness have fear at its root? Probably so.

I’ve been aghast at the results of fear in my own local school district, where children were not given the choice of whether or not to listen to the President of the United States, because of the fear some parents had. These adults did not trust themselves to research the message that would be given, study its ideas, and prepare themselves to discuss (and, if necessary, dismiss) it with their children. Rather they preferred to make sure that NO children had the chance to hear it. This worries me—that we would, as a society, choose not to risk encountering ideas we might not like rather than being open to the possibility of new things. We are afraid.

Nothing makes this clearer than the “end-of-the-world, what-is-society-coming-to” e-mails that people forward to me. These things are designed to make people act out of fear, and, what’s worse, often contain inaccuracies, exaggerations, dubious authorship and sometimes even outright lies. I’m concerned about how quick people are to click on “Forward” before they even check out the truth of the statements (or even just look it up at Snopes). Why? What makes us eager to spread fear around?

What is the antidote to fear? Well, obviously, it’s faith. But faith in what? Obviously, not “faith that things are already fine.” Because that would be a shutting down of our intelligence, a choosing to be acted upon instead of acting. Maybe it’s a faith that as we take care of things to the best of our abilities, all will never be lost. God is still in charge of my little life, and of the world in general. I have great faith in the lovingness of God, that He will not give His children anything other than exactly what they choose. So even if I think that my neighbor is deluded in what she thinks will be best for this country, God sees her heart. And if her heart is such that she is seeking this or that political change because she wants what’s best for the most people possible, she will be blessed. My forwarding her an e-mail won’t change her heart, and it probably won’t change her mind, either, since she did not ask for my opinion.

I have faith in human nature, but more than that I have faith in God. I’ve got to figure out a way to keep fear from running my life, because it never brings anything good.

Friending

2009-09-03T05:48:00.000-07:00

This thing about “friending” on Facebook. I’m not sure I get what it’s all about. I mean, I’m usually glad, or at least OK with it, when someone “friends” me, but occasionally it leaves me scratching my head. With some of these people I can’t figure out their purpose. Are they just trying to get as many people as they can? Do they sell Amway or something? I suppose I know a disproportionate amount of authors, and maybe these people are trying to build up their publicity—and that’s fine, provided that I actually know THEM. Some of them I just don’t. I guess they find me because I am the friend of someone they know, but still, it seems a little tacky . . .

Some of these situations are worse than tacky, though. Like a certain person who keeps trying to friend me (she’s tried THREE times, now) who was in my ward growing up. The thing is, she HATED me when we were growing up. She was the bully who sent me home crying from Young Women’s many times. She has lived in my memory as the Horrible Thing, the Thing to make sure I never grew up to be, and to make sure my kids never grew up to be. Why in the WORLD does she want to “friend” me? And why does she keep trying, even though I keep “ignoring” her?

And then there are the people who say, “Hey, D! Long time no see!” and I can’t remember ever having met them before. Am I going senile already? (I AM approaching 40 this year . . . ) Who ARE these people? And how can I say, “Um, I don’t remember you”?

I really enjoy facebook, and now that I’ve figured out how to “hide” the updates from most people (but not you, of course--never you), I am able to check it out occasionally without a nervous breakdown. But, please, don’t friend me unless you’re my friend.

O'Connor: scaring people by writing about sin

2009-09-01T11:14:00.000-07:00

Well, I think it's time for more philosophising from Flannery O'Connor. These quotes are taken from pages 139 and 143-44 of The Habit of Being: Letters of Flannery O'Connor, 1979 edition.

"I once had the feeling I would dig my mother's grave with my writing, too, but I later discovered this was vanity on my part. They are hardier than we think."

I like this one because I think too much about what other people are going to think about my writing. I do it both ways--thinking one group of my friends will think it's too gooey, or others will think it's too scandalous. Or I worry that people will simply misunderstand what I'm saying. Especially with poetry, I can't make everything so clear as to prevent the possibility of misunderstanding without losing all art and subtlety. I have to be willing to risk misinterpretation and leave the readers their free agency.

"About scandalizing the 'little ones.' When I first began to write I was much worried about this thing of scandalizing people, as I fancied that what I wrote was highly inflammatory. I was wrong--it wouldn't even have kept anybody awake, but anyway, thinking this was my problem, I talked to a priest about it. The first thing he said to me was, 'You don't have to write for fiteen-year-old-girls.' Of course, the mind of a fifteen-year-old girl lurks in many a head that is seventy-five and people are every day being scandalized not only by what is scandalous of its nature but by what is not. If a novelist wrote a book about Abraham passing his wife Sarah off as his sister--which he did--and allowing her to be taken over by those who wanted her for their lustful purposes--which he did to save his skin--how many Catholics would not be scandalized at the behavior of Abraham? The fact is that in order not to be scandalized, one has to have a whole view of things, which not many of us have."

"When you wirte a novel, if you have been honest about it and if your conscience is clear, then it seems to me that you have to leave the rest in God's hands. . . . I think that for the writer to worry about this is to take over God's business."

This one hits me hard. I believe that--believe that it is wrong and actually damaging to the quality of my art for me to be more involved than I should in God's business. My business is to do what I feel called to do, and do it as well as I possibly can, then leave the rest to God.

"Part of the mystery of existence is sin. When we think about the Crucifixion, we miss the point of it if we don't think about sin."

"Fiction is suposed to represent life, and the fiction writer has to use as many aspects of life as are necessary to make his total picture convincing. The fiction writer doesn't state, he shows, renders."

"The two worst sins of bad taste in fiction are pornography and sentimentality. One is too much sex and the other too much sentiment. You have to have enough of either to prove your point but no more."

"I don't think you have to worry much about bad taste with a competent writer, because he uses everything for a reason."

I so agree with this one. It explains why the depiction of sin in some things doesn't bother me at all, and other times drives me crazy. So many writers seem to just throw it in for fun, and not for a purpose.

"What offends my taste in fiction is when right is held up as wrong, or wrong as right."

Amen.

3 things

2009-08-27T10:33:00.001-07:00

1. As many of you know, I changed my e-mail address TWICE yesterday. It's a wonder I don't have an ulcer. Some of you, when you heard that I was switching from yahoo to g-mail, wrote to tell me I would like gmail so much more, and I have to say that already I believe you. I look forward to getting more used to it. I'm glad to not be losing e-mail anymore. But here's the crazy thing: google won't let me change my blog account name to be the same as my gmail mailbox. And since you can't have two google accounts open at once, I can never have e-mail and blogger open at the same time! I have to sign out of my e-mail in order to sign into my blog! Stupid!

2. I was thinking today about kind people. There's a lady who lives in Pocatello who periodically sends or brings my husband a little bag of nylon dish-scrubbies that she crochets herself just because she thinks he's a great eye doctor. It amazes me that there are people like that, who would think to give gifts to their eye doctor because they appreciate him. (The dish scrubbies are really nice, too. I use and like them.) I wouldn't ever think to do something like that. It makes me wonder what other things I never think to do. And, while we're on the subject, can I just say how cool it is to be married to someone who is good at what he does? I mean, he's not just adequate, which I could live with, but he is GOOD. It's so nice to never have to worry about what kind of experience my friends or ward-members or acquaintances will have if they try him out as an eye doctor. It's weird because he might just as easily have turned out to be lousy or mediocre--who can know ahead of time how good they'll be at something? I would, of course, still love him if he were (lousy, I mean). But it's so NICE not to have to worry about that! I love being proud of him.

3. Speaking of being kind, here's my present for you. Believe me, it's ambrosia.

Peaches and Cream Cake

Ingredients:
3/4 c. flour
1 t. baking powder
1/8 t. salt
1 pkg. cheesecake or vanilla instant pudding mix (3.4 ounce)
3 tbsp. butter, softened
1 egg
1/2 c. milk
1 lg (about 28 ounces) can sliced peaches, drained
8 oz. cream cheese, softened
1/2 c. sugar
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon mixed with 1 1/2 teaspoons sugar

Preparation:Mix together dry ingredients. Mix in butter, egg and milk. Spread in lightly greased (deep) pie plate or casserole (I used a square glass baking pan). Arrange peaches over batter. Beat the cream cheese, sugar and 3 tablespoons peach juice for about 2 minutes. Spread over peaches, leaving a 1-inch border. Sprinkle cinnamon-sugar over cream cheese mixture. Bake for 35 to 45 minutes in 350 degree preheated oven. Cool and refrigerate.

Book Report

2009-08-21T05:22:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been a while since I've reported on my reading. So, if you're interested, here's a long list. I'll mark my recommendations with asterisks:

Adult Fiction:
The Giant's House by Elizabeth McCracken. This came highly recommended to me but I found it very plodding. It's about a young man who is oversized. Just couldn't see its charm.

Run by Anne Patchett. I like Patchett and read this shortly after hearing her speak. This one was gripping but I didn't enjoy it as much as Bel Canto.

Final Theory by Mark Alpert. This was my cruise reading. A very quick read, sort of Grisham-esque in the pacing and mystery and danger the main character is avoiding, mixed up with some scientific speculation. I found it somewhat flawed and I was in a hurry to finish it.

Lavinia by Ursula LeGuin. About Aeneas's wife. I couldn't get past the first third. I guess I just have no interest in that setting or those people. I find some of LeGuin fantastic and others boring.

*Still Alice by Lisa Genova. This was another of my favorites this year. It's a meticulous account of a woman with early-onset alzheimer's. Fascinating and well-done.

I Claudius by Robert Graves. I never would have picked this up if it hadn't been for a book group. It took some work to get all the way through it, but I suppose it's one of those that people should read. Full of violence and lust, the society it describes is sort of mind-blowing. The big question is, of course, how much of it is historical.

Big Rock Candy Mountain by Wallace Stegner. I love Stegner. Alas, this wasn't one of my favorites. It's highly autobiographical, full of excruciating scenes of his difficult childhood. He's a genius, but this one was more downer than anything.

Recapitulation by Wallace Stegner, sequal to Big Rock Candy Mountain. It really was just more of the same. The whole story was told in retrospect, with a loose frame enabling the narrator to tell more growing up stories. I felt it lacked a good story arc.

Old Men and Dogs by Robert Inman. A nice, fat, sweet little story that was pretty good but nothing exciting. About an old woman looking back on her life and trying to solve some racial tension in her town.

Birds of a Feather by Jacqueline Winspear. This was another Maisy Dobbs mystery. I really enjoy these for a light break occasionally. I love how Maisy uses knowledge about bodies and how people carry tension and problems in their bodies to help her understand people.

Wide Sargasso Sea by Rhys. OK, I'm stupid, but I didn't realize the connection with Jayne Eyre until I was nearly done with the book! I found the entire book underwhelming--lacking in cohesive structure. It just seemed like stuff happening. I was disappointed to miss out on Maralise's book group discussion of it, which probably would have helped me gain some appreciation.

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford. I'm told that Ford is LDS, although this book is not. It's a sweet little story about two young friends, Chinese and Japanese, during the war in the Pacific.

Mr. Darcy's Diary by Amanda Grange. Just exactly what it says it is. It didn't add anything to the story for me (what was I expecting?) and is probably best enjoyed by people who just love the time period.

Digging to America by Anne Tyler. I just love Tyler's characters. That's all.

Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx. Yuck. Couldn't find anything redeeming here.

Young Adult or Children's:
Hate That Cat by Sharon Creech. This was a sequal to Love That Dog, which was really fun to read. This one was basically more of the same. Same kid, same poetic form. The first one was better, but this was fun, too.

The Wednesday Wars by Gary D. Schmidt. This was a cute book about a kid who is forced by his teacher to read Shakespeare. It was a little disjointed but a fun read.

*My Name is Sus5an Smith; the 5 is Silent by Louise Plummer. This was a re-read for my BYU conference but I loved it just as much. Plummer is so good at what she does, especially in creating the "writing scene" that each of her books has, when you can't bear to read on or to stop reading because of the trouble the main character gets into. Delightful, as usual.

Everything is Fine by Ann Dee Ellis. Although this was pretty good, and I love Ann Dee's prose style (so very good at sounding like an adolescent!), I felt that this book was "more of the same." Like her first book, it was the story of something terrible that had happened or was going to happen that is a mystery that unfolds very slowly. I would like to see her try something very different.

The Way He Lived by Emily Wing Smith. This was very unconventional in structure; it was made up of several narrators telling different, but connected stories. (And even the word "stories" is used very loosely.) I'm fascinated by seeing things from different points of view, but I felt this book was just a little too loose and disconnected. I would have liked to see it after another revision or two. I liked how the characters were LDS in various ways and am curious about the publisher's feelings about that.

Keturah and Lord Death by Martine Leavitt. I hesitate to criticize this one because it is so many people's favorite book and I had heard it praised so highly. But I found the ending unbelievable and extremely disappointing. It is the opposite of romance, to me, when people are so destined for each other that they seem to have no choice in the matter. I found some of the problems that the main character had to solve to be unjustifiable or lacking in the weight given them (why was she so hung up on lemons? it just seemed silly). Still, it was a very interesting premise. Mostly, I'm just not in the audience for these kinds of books (the one with the almost mythical-sounding prose--all the dragon ones, for example).

*Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. Couldn't put it down--great fascination.

Nonfiction:
Through the Window of Life by Suzanne Freeman. This is an LDS lady who has had visions and near-death experiences that have convinced her about what the breakdown of society is going to be like prior to the Second Coming. Like most of these books, it was poorly written and edited and cheaply produced. Some of it was pretty unbelievable to me, but some of it was very thought-provoking. I'm glad I read it because it gave me a new angle to think about how things could unfold.

Road Map to Holland by Jennifer Graf Groneberg. This was a memoir about Groneberg's experience having a child with down syndrome. I couldn't help being disappointed because I was comparing it to Kathy's book, which was much more interesting. But I have to point out that Groneberg's was a different TYPE of book, with a different purpose. Her title of "roadmap" describes it well. Reading it felt like reading a guidebook to the experience of having a child with DS, not so much a journey into the mind and heart of Groneberg herself. A good read if you are navigating this situation yourself--otherwise rather flat and boring.

*An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness by Kay Redfield Jamison. This is a memoir of someone who struggles with bi-polar disorder, and I found it fascinating--honest and well-written. One of the best books I've read this year.

*The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls. This was a highly-recommended memoir of a woman who grew up in poverty. I was reluctant to read it because I hate downers--but this one wasn't! In that way, it reminded me of Frank McCourt. You feel the pathos, but you laugh and enjoy it as well. Amazing story; I can't believe that this woman is able to have a normal life now. She's got to be more screwed up than she lets on.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. This is a memoir about losing a spouse. Some argue that the book is too full of navel-gazing, but I found it fascinating.

*Healing and the Mind by Bill Moyers. Can't deny that this one came from my fascination with health and how my life changed because of my illness. I really enjoyed this book. It's made up of essays and interviews from a wide variety of healty practictioners, most of them "alternate," such as those who advocate meditation, tai chi, etc. I'd recommend it to anyone dealing with serious or chronic illness.

The Poet's Companion by Addonizio and Laux. This was a great poet's workbook with ideas and prompts and just general over-all information on being a poet. I would like to read it again when I have time to work through it.

Creative Writing MFA Handbook: A Guide for Prospective Graduate Students by Kealy et al. Very helpful.

Rough Stone Rolling by Richard Bushman. OK, I confess, this took me more than a year to finish, and I ended up skimming the last third. I found that paying close attention to the first half was very informative and I'm glad I read it, but this is not easy or quick reading. I was fascinated with how Bushman explains the evolution of Joseph's magical worldview. Probably everyone should read it but I doubt many can get through it.

*The Bonds that Make Us Free by C. Terry Warner. This was a re-read and just as good as ever. I think I should read it every few years, and I think everyone else should too. I'm trying to decide whether giving it as a gift to family members would make them think I am saying they need help--? Anyway, just an amazing book about interpersonal relations.

*A New Earth by Ekhart Tolle. This is probably the most new-agey book I've ever read, and it got a little draggy in the last third or so, but the ideas in it were very helpful for me. I think there is a lot of room in the gospel for more of these concepts (non-judgment, non-resistance, non-attachment).

*The Lives of a Cell: Notes of a Biology Watcher by Lewis Thomas. These were fascinating essays on science, language, anthropology, etc. I'd love to read more of his work.

Found by Davy Rothbart. Being a window-peeker, I was fascinated by this chance to peek into people's lives written by another one like me. Some of it was pretty hairy but overall it was fascinating and enjoyable.

Science Fiction/Fantasy:
The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. This is a "Thursday Next" mystery, which takes place in some futuristic society and involves time travel. This would be a really fun book--for someone else. It was all just silly to me.

The Magicians and Mrs. Quent by Galen Beckett. This was a great disappointment to me. Someone recommended it as Austen meets Jonahan Morrell and Mr. Strange, and I guess I can see that, but I found it plodding.

Poetry:
One Secret Thing by Sharon Olds. Yikes! That one would put hair on my chest! This woman flinches at nothing. But she's good--very good.

Eyes of a Flounder by Laura Hamblin. Hamblin is a former member of the Church and her best poetry, to me, is about her struggles with it. (I wrote about this in my blog, if you recall, and ruffled some feathers).

Late Wife by Claudie Emerson. One of my favorites I discovered this year! This collection is very much about relationships, one of my favorite subjects in poetry.

Man With a Camel by Mark Strand. About half of these poems I could never get any kind of grip on. The others were good.

*Say Uncle by Kay Ryan. Ryan is my hands-down favorite poet I discovered this year. Her poems are tiny but dense and delightful. I think I'll write my paper on her.

Dark Familiar by Aleda Shirley. Just OK. I can't even remember it.

Loving a Woman in Two Worlds by Robert Bly. I can't figure out whether I just picked up the wrong book or whether Bly just doesn't do a thing for me. He's very into the dream-state.

A Working Girl Can't Win by Deborah Garrison. Some pretty light things that were interesting because I liked her subject--modern society, being a working woman.

*Strong is Your Hold by Galway Kinnel. Loved this one so much I asked for it for my birthday. Amazing use of language. He has one long poem about September 11 that blew my socks off. But most of his do--even one about a rotting gopher carcass! Amazing stuff.

Ordinary Words by Ruth Stone. OK. Can't remember it much.

On the Bus with Rosa Parks by Rita Dove. I couldn't help feeling that I have seen this same type of thing done better by others. It just seemed to fall a little short of knocking me off my feet.

Dog Language by Chase Twitchell. I found some of these very good, particularly her dog poems.

Everything Preserved by Landis Everson. Yuck.

St. Nobody by Amy Lemmon. I felt her poems about her child with Down Syndrome were her strongest.

*****
It's strange for me to see that the majority of books I REALLY liked were non-fiction. That surprises me. I consider myself a fiction person. I guess my heart is in fiction, but I'm very demanding with my fiction.

Whew! If anyone made it that far, you are a diehard reader and true friend! I'd sure love to hear what your favorites were this year.

SAHM

2009-08-18T13:43:00.000-07:00

I was given an opportunity, in a roundabout sort of way, to participate in a Sunstone Symposium panel about Stay-at-Home-Mothers. While I chose not to participate, I’ve been thinking ever since about what I would say, if given a chance, about my decision to be a Stay-Home Mom (SAHM). So, lucky you, I will treat you readers to my thoughts.

I have a close acquaintance who, after being raised very LDS, has left the church. She once tried to describe to me how awkward it is for her to hang around us still-active people. “I can’t shake the feeling of disapproval from you,” she said. “Not because of anything you do or say, but because of what I know about how you think and what you believe. I know that by the very nature of what you so obviously still believe, you think that I have ‘fallen away’ and am making a bad decision.” “Ah, yes,” I responded, “but you forget that it goes both ways. When you are with me, I always know that by the nature of the choice you’ve made, you consider me to be deluded and less advanced than you, because I haven’t yet progressed beyond my upbringing.” She hadn’t thought of that before.

I feel the same way when I talk about my decision to be an SAHM with other women who did not make the same choice. I am afraid of offending; I am afraid of being thought shallow; I am potentially offended, and so are they. Nevertheless, here we go.

When I really analyze how I made this decision, I realize that I didn’t really make this decision in isolation. I made it as a logical progression from another, bigger decision, and that was the decision to marry at all.

I was a rather boy-crazy teenager and I went away to BYU hoping to catch a man as quick as I could. I got engaged rather young and only escaped marrying that (very wrong) guy by the skin of my teeth and after making a fool of myself. By the time I had become mature enough to make a good choice of whom to marry, I wasn’t sure I wanted to marry at all. I loved my independent life. I loved my education; I could imagine myself continuing in academia forever after, probably as the beloved high-school English teacher and favorite aunt who travelled a lot and had very interesting book groups, etc. It sounded pretty good to me.

But I still knew that the church taught that the greatest happiness was to be achieved in a family, raising children. And people I trusted believed that, too. People told me that marriage and family were good things, and brought great joy. It was kind of like jumping off of a diving board for the first time—I couldn’t know what it was like until I did it, but people who had done it said that it was worthwhile. Mine was the choice, then, to believe them—or not.

Once I made the decision to commit to the family lifestyle, the choice to stay home with my kids was very easy. Logically, it made no sense to me to invite children into my home and then pay others to raise them. What was the point? If I was going to have children, they would be mine—influenced by me more than anyone else.

One thing that helped was that I did not enjoy my work at all. It was easy to quit when my first baby was born. I had great fantasies of the joyous time my children and I would have together at home. But I hadn’t counted on post-partum depression, which blindsided me. I was stuck in a basement apartment with no car in the dark winter. My child was colicky and wouldn’t stop crying, ever. My mother was dead and I felt like I had no help. Each day my husband left to go to school, and I was filled with envy, remembering so clearly and romantically how much I had loved school. Why did he get to go pursue his dreams just because he was male and I was stuck at home with this maddening screaming and boredom because I was female?Again, I wouldn’t have considered passing him off to a child-care center. My fantasies involved my HUSBAND staying home instead of me. Perhaps I would have considered letting my mother or mother-in-law babysit while I worked a few hours each day “for sanity” had they been available. But nor more than that, if at all. At this point, though, I needed extra help in remaining firm in my commitment to stay at home, and this firmness came from one thing: I believe in a prophet. I had been taught that I should stay home if I could, and that was enough.

Sometimes I followed the prophet because I believed that doing so eventually leads to the most joy. Other times I did it simply out of a sense of duty. Either way, I did it out of testimony that following the prophet was what was best for me. It was excruciatingly hard a lot of the time.

Which is why I flinch and seethe when I hear women say, “You stay home with your kids? I wish I could do that, but I just can’t. I would go CRAZY.” Or, its corollary, “I’m a better mother because I work.” I flinch because the emotion behind these statements is very familiar to me. When I can get away for an outing, I come home so refreshed and happy to be with my kids. I really understand why women think they are better mothers when they work. (Although I wonder if their children would agree.)

But I’m also offended because behind this statement seems to be an implication sometimes that I am somehow less intellectual, more shallow or simplistic (easily entertained?) than the sophisticated woman who needs her work to feel satisfied. It ignores the possibility that I might also prefer the company of adults and enjoy the challenge of a profession to the challenge of filling the long afternoons with children.

It would be better if being home with my kids were my passion—it really would. And I’m so envious of the women who feel this way (and I don’t look down on them at all, though I often feel they look down on me for not feeling similarly). But it’s not. But I do it anyway because I believe I should.

I grant that there’s a little bit (too much) of a martyr thing going on here, but I don’t think it’s a small thing that I have sacrificed for this. But, as with the true definition of sacrifice, I can’t deny that it has brought its rewards. I would hate having to hear about my child’s first steps or first lost tooth from a care provider. I like being primary in my children’s lives. And though it was very hard, often boring, rarely satisfying in a day-to-day kind of way while my kids were very small, it’s much more enjoyable now, both because they are older and more interesting to me, and because I am getting full-night’s sleeps and many opportunities to be without them, either physically or even just mentally while we’re in the same room.

I believe that my kids are much better off because of the decision I made. I believe that I am better off because of it as well. If someone asked me my advice for them, I would say, “Do it, but make sure that you have a supportive husband who will see to it that you get a little time to yourself every day, and a big chunk of time to yourself at least once a week. Then dive in. Things get much better the older they get.”