Pruning

In the summer of 2005, when I was aching with both pregnancy and my husband's absence, I met Flora.

We had just purchased a little point-and-shoot digital camera. I enjoyed pointing it at Reed, my burgeoning belly, and anything else that struck my fancy.

One day while Reed and I were on a walk, across the street from our apartment, we stopped to admire Flora's front yard. Rose bushes bordered the emerald-green grass, and tiger lilies lined the driveway. I noticed a particular rose bush that had lavender roses, and felt a much-missed sense of curiosity rise in my chest. I felt so heavy with the weight of having to experience this period of my life without Phill at home with us, and for some reason, those lavender roses gave me the lightness I desperately needed.

Flora came outside, standing by her door. I explained from the sidewalk that we were admiring her roses; that I'd never seen lavender ones before. She was flattered and pleased, and said I was welcome to enjoy them any time. She even encouraged me to take some home. Then I felt to ask her if maybe I could take some photos of them, and she agreed happily. However, she lamented that she should not venture further from her yard, as her immune system was weakened, and she ought not surround herself with children or a wide variety of people.

So I came back at a later date, having left Reed with my dear neighbor, and took photos of her roses. I did this several times in the course of the next few months. I needed to do it. It resolved something for me.

On one occasion, Flora explained to me that the rose bushes had been her husband's great talent. It was he who cared for them so expertly, and she was worried that after his death she hadn't properly maintained them. Not so, I countered. They were still so beautiful. She looked at one of the bushes closely and said, "Well, I shouldn't leave that there...." and bent to remove a bud that had grown brown and dry. Then she showed me where to remove the dead parts, the brown, the thin and crackly stems. She warned me that the beautiful blooms and green stems would be overcome by the dead parts if you didn't remove them.

I have since given plenty of thought to the symbolism in these mini-lessons from Flora. She herself was an example of overcoming obstacles and striving towards a more Christ-like life. When she was young, she had rheumatic fever, and it had weakened her heart. Still, she recovered and was married, and she and her husband, despite advice against it, wanted desperately to have a child. They tried for a while, but to no avail, and then adopted a baby. Shortly thereafter, she conceived. Towards the end of the pregnancy, her compromised heart was working so hard that she found herself at death's door. She said to me about this experience, "I was dying, and I didn't want to, and I told Heavenly Father that if he would just let me live a little longer, I would dedicate my life to serving Him." She lived, and she kept her promise, raising her children faithfully, loving her husband loyally, and working for countless hours in the Church's family history center after her husband's death. She is someone I think of every time I see a rose.

For the first few weeks after we got here in Texas, I was blundering through the daily routine with blinders on. I hardly noticed a thing, much less the outdoors. Everything felt a little blurry, a little less colorful, as if I were viewing things through cloudy glass. And then I think I grew sick of myself, and then desperate, and prayed for clear sight.

My prayer was answered with breathless speed. I woke up the next morning and actually saw what was around me. Specifically, a rose bush--in the front yard and the back yard. I felt ashamed for having missed something so beautiful. Then it wasn't enough to just stare at them, I had to experience them, too. So, starting with the back yard rose bush, I conducted a close inspection. Only one blossom, struggling for the light at the very top of the bush, and on its way out. I silently wished for the best and went to work with my bare hands, unable to resist clearing some of the brown from the branches. I wept openly, thinking, Let me help you, let me just clear away this dead stuff. Thinking to myself, Help me. Help me clear away the dead stuff. Thinking of Flora, of her dedication to things of lasting importance. Her careful pruning and attention to the choking chaff, both spiritual and botanical. I thought about my weaknesses, the things that had come to light during our relocation, the surprise useless branches amongst the more colorful blooms, and I prayed for help in clearing away those parts of my soul.

After pruning the rose bush, I felt lighter, like I did when I first saw the lavender roses in Flora's front yard. I wondered if my pruning had helped, and held a secret prayer in mind that it would. That night a thunderstorm rolled above us. Loud and relentless, it thrashed the foliage outside, and I wondered how my rose bush was doing. I worried about that lone blossom, hanging on for dear life in the furious winds outside.

The next morning I was anxious to see its fate. It was still there! Bent, battered, bruised. But still there. Still able to grow, still holding on. Again I felt an absurd, inexplicable joy in its resisting the storm. I directed my thoughts towards it, thinking, Oh, see how strong you are? And then I felt a whisper to my heart: Oh, see how strong you are? We are clearing away the dead stuff, and you are surviving the storm.

The more I pick on that bush, pulling at the crispy stuff and giving more room for the fresh green stuff, the more it blooms. And it's not just blooming now, it's exploding. I prune, it storms, and then it pulls out a showstopper, revealing not just two, three, or four new blossoms, but eight, sometimes more. It isn't just surviving the storms, the repeated reductions. It is thriving.

Oh, see how strong you are? We clear away the dead stuff, and you will thrive in the storm.

A little revelation

I woke up this morning with the beginnings of hope budding in my heart. I felt lighter, and though still anxious about the morning push of getting boys to school, I felt markedly different from yesterday.

I felt better rested, for one thing! But I also felt more myself. Closer to whatever it is that makes me, me.

I realized I need to write. I need to write about my emotions to fully process them, whether I write publicly or privately. When I don't write, I feel like I'm only half-living. And not just emotions. For me to understand an event, I have to frame it with words somehow.

So I'm going to write more. I know I've said this before, and haven't followed through. I know I might not even follow through this time! (haha) But just writing this down is beyond comforting, and feels like home.

The Lavender House

As a military brat, my time at home was divided up into 2- or 3-year increments. Here is a complete list of the places we lived, just for kicks--

Tacoma, Washington (born there)
Fort Bragg, North Carolina (one side of post)
Panama
New Jersey
Fort Bragg, North Carolina (the other side of post)
Colorado Springs, Colorado (off-post)
Heidelberg, Germany
S.H.A.P.E., Belgium
Fort Stewart/Hinesville, Georgia
{got married to Phill, and then}:
Fort Carson, Colorado
Cedar City, Utah
Provo, Utah
Cedar City, Utah
St. George, Utah

...and in between those big moves, there were smaller ones. For instance, we moved twice in Panama, from one side to the other. And when Phill and I lived in Colorado, we moved four times--twice off-base, and twice on-base. Not to mention the three different places we lived in Cedar City.

There was definitely enough to keep us seven kids interested and on our toes. Sometimes I find myself getting antsy after a year or so, I'm so used to a change of scene every couple of years.

But some of the most fun we had was when we were in even more-temporary living spaces. One of those was a little lavender house in North Carolina, which we were in for just a few weeks (I think) before we moved on base. I was seven years old.

The house had a fireplace that I loved (and secretly feared), and a tiny sitting room where our green loveseat was. My mom would sit on the loveseat to feed Maddie, the youngest, "our". Or my oldest sibling, my brother Reed, would sit on the couch and read to us younger girls. (photo HERE) Sometimes my oldest sister, Liz (are you keeping track? I'll quiz you later...) would sit on the loveseat and have me sit in front of her while she French-braided my hair. That room felt safe.

In my bedroom was a bunk bed that I shared with my little sister, Qait, and I slept on the top. While my dad was far away in one of those many Army fights, I had his picture taped to my ceiling, a tiny wallet-sized print of him in uniform, that I would look at as I fell asleep each night. Under my arm was a tiny camp-pillow he had given me; it smelled exactly like him. I would look at his picture and pray, many times over, for his safety, nuzzle the pillow next to my face, and fall into sleep.

In the backyard, there was a swingset, and I distinctly remember sitting on the swing, noticing my worn and too-small shoes, when my mom, looking through the kitchen window, must have noticed the same thing. I got new shoes. Not the Barbie ones I wanted, but some sensible white Keds. And so I sat on the swing again, unaware that my mother was (again) watching as I purposely dragged the toes of my brand-new shoes, desperately wanting those stupid Barbie shoes. I remember glancing up to see my mother watching me with half a smile on her face. She opened the window a crack and said with a smile, "You'll want to take care of those shoes." Enough said. She was on to me.

There was the window seat, possibly my favorite spot in the house. Above it was a bay window, and I would sit there and read, or daydream, or lift the lid of the window seat and imagine the awful fate that would befall someone who got stuck in there. (I was a little morbid.)

Outside, there was a green grass and a street-lamp, and I remember picking the fuzzed-over dandelions and running in circles on the grass, watching the little seeds of weeds-to-be taking flight.

I remember that our big, green trash can said, "Cumberland County" on it, and that for the longest time I thought it said, "Cucumberland Country". 

There was one night that I couldn't sleep--at all, and I was earnestly trying--and I could hear music coming from Abby and Liz's room. Music and laughter. I knew that if they were happy and having fun together, they would probably not mind too much if I just laid on one of their beds for a bit. I knocked softly on their door, and Liz opened it. "Are you okay, Rae?" I told her my troubles and she gladly let me lay on the bottom bunk of their bed while she and Abby laughed away on the floor, as The Bangles played on and on. They picked me up off the bed so I could dance with them to Walk Like an Egyptian, and swung me around to Eternal Flame. They willingly included me in their fun and thoroughly exhausted me in the process. I slept like a baby.

Most of all, that lavender house is a safe place, a little holding-place in my mind for memories that are untouched by the incredible grief that followed only a couple of years later, when my dear brother Reed died. In the lavender house, we were all nine, all together.

When people ask me how I handled moving so often, having to adapt as much as we did, I reply that it is because my family is my home.Wherever they were, we called home. And temporary as it was, that house is permanently cemented in my heart, twenty years later.

Heart of Gould

When I was 13, we moved from Colorado to Germany. Amongst other things, my parents were especially excited about the musical opportunities (they assumed would be) afforded us there.

Having started playing the cello at the age of 11, I had used a school rental, a rental that had clearly seen better days. Not only was it cosmetically compromised, but its tone was swallowed, trapped, unable to give full scope to the incredible sounds a cello is capable of producing. I myself felt swallowed, trapped, and unable to give my full scope of emotions to this lacking specimen of a cello.

One day, my dad came home and virtually bounded through the door, catching me in a hug and announcing, "I found you a cello. You'll love this guy's studio. Simon's studio. You'll just love it!" The day for us to "meet" my cello donned gray and chilly, a pearl-white sky the backdrop as we wended our way behind buildings to reach the upstairs studio of Simon. We knocked. He answered. What I remember most is the smell. It reminded me vaguely of a sauna--of heated wood--and of sawdust, too, but just a hint. One side of the studio was a wall of windows, so the white winter light poured in from outside, illuminating the wooden floors, and the panorama of objects strewn all over the place. Like some mad scientist building a Frankenstein, Simon's studio was hung and littered with pieces of violins, pieces of cellos, strings, bows, and tools. And there, in Simon's hand, was the neck of my cello. Mine.

I was afraid to touch it. Afraid that it was too beautiful, and that my nerves would cause me to produce a sound that wasn't beautiful. That maybe Simon would say, "Nein..." and take it away from me. But he held it out to me, persisting until finally, with a timid glance at my dad, I took its neck in my hands, and sat down. I nestled its beautiful shape in between my knees and dared to touch the bow to the strings, willing myself not to shake. That first sound surprised me so much I almost dropped my bow. It leapt from the belly of the cello. The cello absolutely sang. And then I was unaware of Simon or my dad or the instrument-massacre lying in parts around me. I played, and instead of the sound stopping at my fingertips, I was filling the room with it, and it surrounded me and held me, suspended, until I lifted the bow from the strings, and the spell was broken. It was meant to be mine, like meeting a person who was somehow always your friend, even before you knew them.

The next order of business was to find a teacher. We had high hopes in this department, considering that we were in Europe, the proverbial cradle of elite musical instruction. Alas, we met with unexpected dead ends--teachers too far away, teachers too expensive, and teachers who were not accepting new students. But finally, we found Eleanor Gould.

"She sounds interesting," my mother said encouragingly. "She requested that she have the first lesson here, at our house, so she can see if she'll be able to teach you." I was intimidated. "Be able to teach me?" What did that mean? That if I squeaked a little while dragging my bow across my A-string, I'd be fired? Nervously I waited for her to arrive, and shortly, the doorbell rang.

She was tall. While I am short, and most everyone else is taller than me, Eleanor was TALL. She had on a strange, shaggy, fur coat, which was wet from the rain outside. My mom took it for her, saying something like, "This is an interesting coat. I'm sorry it got wet." Eleanor responded that it probably smelled like wet dog [it did], and then said, "Interestingly, it IS dog. Dog fur. I had it made after my dog died."

She was completely serious. To my mom's credit, she maintained a placid smile and said, "Oh! How interesting."

Eleanor's hair was black and long, and on her eyelids were swatches of thick, pale blue eyeshadow. Her voice was deep and rich, and she wore red lipstick. One of her eyelids drooped slightly more than the other, which I later learned was due to MS, something she didn't disclose until several lessons in, and only when pressed.

She came to sit down on a stool next to me, and when she sat, out of her mouth came a whoosh of air, "OOOoooofff...." I caught my mother's eye and bit my lip, hastily stifling the wells of laughter that threatened to bubble forth at any moment. When I played my cello, she rocked back and forth in time with the music, conducting me with one hand. She was business-like and straightforward, and the entire time I was worried that I wouldn't pass the supposed test. But at the end of the lesson, she declared me qualified, scheduled my first lesson, and rose from the stool with the same "OOOoooofff" as before.

She was strange, to say the least, and often abrasive in her teaching style. Furthermore, she taught me viola technique for my bow hold, which caused my next teacher some frustration, to say the least. But her area of expertise was viola, and we knew that when we started, and I had a two-year period in Belgium where I didn't take lessons and hardly practiced, which I believe caused my teacher in Georgia far more grief than a bow-hold incorrectly taught. It should also be noted that I was typically a bit of a basket case during my lessons, and she bore me well.

As our lessons progressed, the stranger aspects of Eleanor's personality were overshadowed by an increased desire on our parts to know her better. We asked her more questions. We inquired after her well-being more consistently. In short, we actively loved her.

During one lesson, I had a headache. She asked me to point out the spot on my head where it hurt most, and then said, "Hold on." She disappeared into her small kitchen for a moment, and then came back with something in her hands. She instructed me to be still--I wondered for a second what on earth she was about to do--and then she gently rubbed peppermint oil onto the spot where my head ached most.

Some little knot within--some hard little spot where I had harbored judgment or mockery or frustration--loosened. I found my eyes welling up with tears at her unexpected tenderness. Very quickly she was back to business-mode, but I didn't forget, and I won't forget.

Months into our lessons, she called me at home and said, "Would you like to come on an outing with me? To the orchestra?" I felt panicked. An outing? With my cello teacher? Just me? But I remembered the peppermint oil, remembered the loneliness of her tiny apartment, the blue eyeshadow on her tired eyelids, and found myself saying yes. When the night came to go, I was resolved to enjoy myself, whether it was going to be easy or not. I wore a nice outfit, and I smiled when I answered the door to find Eleanor standing there, in all her tallness. She was different, somehow. Relaxed, perhaps. We chatted on the way to the concert hall, and I realized finally how she was different on this night.

She was vulnerable. She asked me to come with her, extended herself and put herself on the line with the risk of asking a silly little 13-year-old girl to attend the orchestra with her. I don't remember what music they played. I don't remember the name of those who played. I know that I was lost in the music, and unaware of the rapture on my face until I turned to find Eleanor quietly smiling at me, knowing what I was feeling. And in her face I saw peaceful triumph, her happiness that the music had touched me.

Afterwards in the car, on the way home, she even laughed some. It was as if the actual atmosphere around us had changed. When she offered to stop somewhere for pizza, I agreed, wanting to suspend the strange magic. "Real pizza, though. Not your silly Pizza Hut. Authentic Italian pizza," she said. I asked, "Is there a difference?" She laughed loudly and stated emphatically that this was a travesty, my not knowing the difference between Pizza Hut and authentic Italian pizza. So we made our way to a pizzeria, where I learned that there is, indeed, a huge difference between the two. [Authentic pizza is out-of-this-world better.]

When she dropped me off that night, I felt an inexplicable sadness, one that had nothing to do with saying goodbye for the night. I felt sadness for her going home to a silent apartment. Sadness that I had not sooner allowed myself to be taught. Not cello, but compassion. Vulnerability. Loyalty, empathy and the kind of musicality that spills into all corners of our lives.

It is true that the stranger points of her personality are unforgettable, and yes, I still laugh to remember. But the poignant aspects of our time together, and her heart of gold, have left a far more indelible impression on me.

If you are wondering, yes, this is the cello created for me by Simon. She sounds even better these days.

Post-script: Eleanor Gould is an accomplished musician, which her long string of credits belies. While she may not have been the best cello teacher I had, I am certain she was someone's best viola teacher, and obviously she taught me plenty of important things.

Spokane, the U.F.O.

Over a year ago, on one particularly early morning training run in preparation for the marathon (2009), I was out running long before the sun. As usual when running in the dark, I felt jittery and a bit paranoid, but knew that most of my run would be in daylight, so I plodded along the street, which was lit only by street lamps, interspersed further apart than I would have liked.

About half a mile into my run, I began to loosen up and shed my nervousness. I got into a good groove and as usual, began to enjoy the run. Suddenly, I spotted something in the distance. Something hovering strangely in the middle of the street. I was confused for a moment, then seized with something much like panic as I watched this object moving on the road....I squinted into the darkness, trying to make sense of it. Many options went through my mind: A cat?....Some sort of mobile camera? [It was 4:45 in the morning....we all know my mind goes to anxious places at such hours of the day]...a small, ferocious animal? At times, parts of it would glint in the inky-dark morning, and I would be overcome with a fresh wave of fear, thinking that this strange animal (?!) was quietly observing me. It was maybe 40 feet away.

I had stopped running, then walking, and simply stood on the side of the road, shaking and completely confused for several minutes. Presently, a car went past, and the object moved lightly away from the car. Something in my brain--probably the gear that doesn't usually start working until 8:00a.m.--whirred to life. Something about this was familiar. Then another car passed, and this object, this glinting, light object, was lifted high above the ground by the resulting air current. And finally it clicked into place.

It was a balloon.

A cellophane helium balloon.

Probably from some kid's party.

Something thoughtlessly let into the sky, with no idea of the terror it would cause an already-nervous morning runner.

Something completely, utterly, and hilariously harmless.

I laughed out loud, then continued laughing, which evolved into relieved tears and then more laughter. That Unidentified Floating Object--that shiny balloon in the dark--had almost unthreaded me at the seams. And all because I didn't know what it was.

This last Monday, I had a bit of a meltdown. A combination of plain old exhaustion and a delayed reaction to the news of our upcoming move. Somehow, when I first received that news a couple weeks ago, I processed it in a miniature, very-convenient way. I skipped Part 1, Assimilation, the part where you digest and then mourn the future event. The part where it's ugly and you cry hard enough that your breath comes in shuddering gasps.

I admit I wanted to skip that part. So after a few tears--the kind where you simply swallow that lump in your throat, and let it sit in your stomach for weeks--I sat down at the computer, wanting to be ready to move on to Part 2. Part 2 is Research. I googled "Spokane, WA" and spent a couple of weeks just absorbing facts, without letting the real scope of things reach my brain.

But Monday came, and, well, the floodgates opened. It was as if someone grabbed my shoulders and shook me, saying, "Do you not realize what this means?" Maximum processing happened. My dear friends, the upcoming events [read: newborns] coming in those friends' lives, events that I would possibly miss or of which I would only get to see a shortened version. The change of housing, of schooling, of friendships, for my children. [Hardest part yet] The adjusting.

And worst of all, the What Ifs.

The U.F.O.'s.

What if no one there likes us?
What if my boys hate the school?
What if the boys hate me for having to move?
What if my photography isn't well-liked there?
What if Phill gets deployed right after I get there?
What if I feel lonely for months and months?
And the more complicated set:
What if I love it?
What if it's a dream come true?
What if my children never want to leave there?

All of these things rose up and I examined them at great length, standing in a puddle of water-drowned tears in the shower. I prayed. First desperately, then fervently, then resigned, and then....something else. Hopefully. Faithfully. And at last, beginning to see that this Spokane, this U.F.O., well, this could be nothing more than a harmless party balloon. Floating in the dark for now, but a (maybe even delightful) relief when viewed up-close. So for now, that is how I am choosing to view it.

A balloon.

All

My babies, today
I will keep the skinned knees
the dirty fingernails
the peanut butter smears at the corners of your lips

Today I won't be so loud and hurried
that I can't hear your softest voices:
No need to rush, only hush
and listen to the sounds surrounding me

Give me your words, your stories,
your songs, your laughter, your tears,
and your long conversations ending nowhere
I want it all

Babies, today
I will hold you close to me
though your legs reach past my lap
and continue to reach at surreal speed

Today. Today,
because one day--one day
I will have no skinned knees to kiss
no smears to wipe, no nails to clean;
you will keep your words to yourself,
locked in a box to which I don't have the key.
And words from you might need careful excavation on my part.

So today, babies
I want it all

The mess. The noise. The tears. The joys.
I want it all

An essay

For those of you who are guinea pigs for my writing blog, forgive me for the re-post.

Lady Librarian
A true-and-embellished essay on the individuality of reading tastes, and, I suppose, my literary snobbery

"Can I help you?" she asks, her somewhat-protuberant brown eyes ready and interested.
"Well, I just read the Twilight series--"
"OOHHH." She stops me with her huge-gust-of-air one-word disapproval, only a finger's width away from rolling her eyes.
I'm taken aback, but only a little. I recover quickly. "Oh. You didn't like it?"
She shifts her weight from one leg to the other and says with barely-concealed disgust, "If you like it, I won't talk about it."
Somewhere in her mouth is one heck of a snicker waiting to come out, and somewhere in mine is a biting insult.
But I plunge ahead with calculated enthusiasm: "Well, I loved it. To death."
I note with relish how she has to fight to appear objective.
I continue. "I'm thinking that I'm ready to try some sci-fi or maybe fantasy. It's a genre I really haven't explored at all, yet."
At this, she lights up. She's probably thrilled to offer what she considers real literature. I'm wondering what she'll recommend. But before she can come to my rescue with a recommendation that will surely show me what a terrible series Twilight is and oh-my-how-could-you-like-it, the male librarian to her left says,
"Oh! I could give you some great recommendations. Do you know of Ray Bradbury? Or Isaac Asimov, maybe?" I do. I'm thinking this guy knows what he's talking about, because the one short story I read from each of his recommended authors was genius, absolute genius.
I'm wondering, now, what Lady Librarian has to offer that could possibly sound smarter than this.
She looks at the male librarian and says with some secret joke in her voice, "Oh, I don't know about that for her, do you? I mean...."
She trails off, leaving me to wonder if she thinks I'm stupid. Or worse, that I'm into bad romance. I'm wondering, now, if she's going to offer some bodice-ripping pulsing-member heaving-bosom steamy-affair Harlequin novel. She continues looking at him as if he's stolen her Magic Book Recommendation Wand and turns to me to say, "Well. You might like those, I guess [snide look in his direction, which he cheerfully ignores], but I would recommend The Name of the Wind." She says it like the name is ice cream in her mouth. As if she has distinct memories of quietly reading it, sighing, while her mate [does she have one?] snores beside her, while she is delighting in forbidden fantasy.
But I'm old-hat at tact, so I say, "Oh! That's an intriguing title." And she says with her big eyes and happy face and maybe some sweat on her upper lip, "It's amazing. It'll blow Twilight out of the water." Then, because I'm really nettled by her trying to one-up my book tastes, I ask, "Um....did you read the Twilight series?"

And I know I've got her.

Her face is a combination of snoot, snot, and snide. She says, "Well. You know. I just. I haven't read it but I started but if you like it I'm not going to say anything but it's just not for me--" and she can't shut up, she's trying so hard to back-track. It's a wonder she didn't fall over.

So I smile sweetly and say, "Well. Yes. Reading tastes are so individual, aren't they?" And I let the male librarian lead me to Bradbury and other noted sci-fi geniuses. The Name of the Wind is in stock two days later, and I go to pick it up. I'm hoping that it's ridiculous, just so I can laugh at her reading tastes the way she laughed at mine. (Because as kind as I can be, unfortunately I also relish a little viciousness now and then.) I open the inside cover and begin to read:
My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as "quothe." Give it a chance, I tell my snickering self. Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I've had more names than anyone has a right to. The Adem call me Maedre. Which, depending on how it's spoken, can mean The Flame, The Thunder, or The Broken Tree.

"The Flame" is obvious if you've ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple of hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. Oooooo, a demon. I keep it short but it's unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire. Oh, vomit. A hero with untidy hair. So original. (Although at this point I find myself guiltily thinking of Edward's untidy hair. But his is untidy because he's a vampire, and busy sucking blood and so forth. It makes sense.)

"The Thunder" I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of stage training at an early age. Really? Sure it's not something else?...
My first mentor called me E'lir because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Dulator because she liked the sound of it. Now I'm REALLY going to be sick, but I'm laughing too hard to vomit just yet. I have been called Shadicar, Lightfinger, and Six-String. I have been called Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, and Kvothe Kingkiller. I have earned those names. Bought and paid for them.

But I was brought up as Kvothe. My father once told me it meant "to know."

I have, of course, been called many other things. Most of them uncouth, although very few were unearned.

I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. Oooo. Is that supposed to be sexy? I can imagine Lady Librarian breathing fast when she reads about you, and THAT is not sexy. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in...Of course you were, 'cause that's cool, right?...I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women [gag], and written songs that make the minstrels weep.

You may have heard of me...and here I'm thinking of all the Simpson episodes with "I'm Troy McLure! You may remember me from such films as...."

So begins the tale of Kvothe—from his childhood in a troupe of traveling players, to years spent as a near-feral orphan...By now, I'm in a near-paroxysm of laughter. I can hardly breathe and I actually call my older sister to read aloud, while she is also losing it...in a crime-riddled city, to his daringly brazen yet successful bid to enter a difficult and dangerous school of magic. In these pages you will come to know Kvothe as a notorious magician, an accomplished thief, a masterful musician, and an infamous assassin. But The Name of the Wind is so much more—for the story it tells reveals the truth behind Kvothe's legend.

After calming down and quieting my jeering thoughts towards the librarian who recommended such hilarity, I wonder about my own desire to write a book, and then feel sheepish that I would dare to critique an author, just because the writing isn't to my taste and is pretentious and contrived. I think, "But what if my first book makes someone laugh this hard, and this cruelly? What if my first book is seen as pretentious and contrived to some discerning reader?"

And then I stop feeling guilty and feel smug that the librarian who poo-poo'd my reading choices recommended something that is, in my opinion, many levels below what I consider quality reading. And Twilight's not even my most favorite. I wonder if the librarian flaunts the same opinion about Harry Potter. If she does, I'll have to kick her in the shins and run away, concluding that she is woefully misdirected and should not work in a library.

But because I realize I have the potential to write horrible drivel, too, and because, as I said to assuage the Lady Librarian's awkwardness, reading tastes are so individual, I decide to drive back to the library and passively deposit The Name of the Wind in the drop box. I don't need to rub it in her face that I'm returning it only ten minutes after perusing its pages. The inside cover of that book was embarassment enough.

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Erbaut

When I was 15, we moved from Germany to Belgium. I was completely against the entire endeavor, and made my statement by refusing to enjoy any moment of the adventure, at least outwardly. My parents, of course, simply smiled and said, "We're sure you'll find something you love here."

We went with my parents on a little search to find a rental, we four girls who were not yet escaped to college, plus the oldest, Liz, who had escaped from college for a while. I quietly surveyed the emerald green countryside and beautiful old European homes as we drove, trying not to give my parents the gift of a small smile that was struggling to come out. We stopped at the house of a very tiny, very French old lady named Madame DuPont. It became obvious right away that she was a shrewd businesswoman, determined to get the money she wanted for her duplex. My parents talked back and forth with her for a little, got the keys to her duplex, and we drove on to go inspect it.

As we pulled into the little village of Erbaut, my heart was surreptitiously singing. Here were old houses, weird little corners, secret pockets of interest and history. I could imagine myself in some bust-enhancing corseted dress, feeding the horses, cows, and sheep. I was deliriously daydreaming. We turned onto the street where the duplex was, and I couldn't help but gasp. To our right was a beautiful, spooky old church, complete with a graveyard. And just a little ways past was a forest with a stream riddling through. A forest of tall, green trees, past the end of which was a field of unbearably open nature. I was mentally running through that field (in my busty dress) when we pulled up to the duplex.

A dark red garage, a mustard yellow front. A wrought-iron fence, stone walkway, and stone fountain. A dark red door. I was in silent heaven, though I'm sure my parents heard my glee. We put the key in the lock and walked in. My parents laughed, and I felt as giddy as if I'd just received my first kiss. This was a house.....the floor was hard and cold and painted with beautiful designs. (Marble? I don't know.) The doors were dark painted wood, with mottled-glass inserts. On the right were double-doors leading to what would ordinarily be called the living room, but which I deemed the ballroom.

It was enormous. One huge window faced the street, which was old and cobblestone-ish. I was transported to another time, some other time when I didn't have to move every two years and could show off my budding fourteen-year-old bosom in a corseted dress, entertaining guests in our ballroom, living on bread and cheese and wine and escargots.

My parents left me and my oldest sister, Liz, to quietly enjoy the living room together. We weren't quiet, though. The room was full of drama, and immediately she and I began a little soap opera together, with me turning to the window and with a grieving sob, saying, "Katherine, I just can't do this anymore." Liz played along perfectly. Liz, who was 20, but could still play with the oblivion of a daydreaming fifteen-year-old girl. She slipped into her role perfectly. "But....but....I don't understand! Why, Klevin? Why?!" Her tortured words rang out and rested in the sunlit air for a minute before I turned and shouted with laughter, "Klevin?! WHAT kind of name is that?!" And by the time the rest of the family was done touring the house, we were still standing there laughing, with tears rolling down our cheeks.

Our parents walked in, and my dad said triumphantly, "Well! You've decided to break your silence, have you? This house is pretty ridiculous, isn't it?" I immediately rose to its defense, partially mad to have had him discover me laughing when I was very busy being mad at him and his Army career.

I said, panicky, "I love this house! What do you mean, it's ridiculous? I want it! We have to rent it, Dad, we have to!" (Oh, my fifteen-years-old drama.) He beckoned for me, smiling, to come tour the rest of the house. It was no use. The things that made my parents groan or laugh out loud were only beautiful and charming and fairy-tale to me.

The narrow, steep staircase....the rocket-looking shower in the huge bathroom, which was actually two small bathrooms right next to each other. The windows that were near floor-level. The seventies-green carpet, the wallpaper that was surely fifty years old. The strange locks and strange doorknobs, the slanted walls in the back-bedroom. The two steps down into the kitchen, which was mint-ice-cream green, complete with a little bathroom, too. The laundry room that seemed to belong in a horror film. And the backyard, which I would have been torn from with screams and gut-wrenching pleas, had my parents not decided to humor us girls, who had been thoroughly romanced by this weird old house.

The backyard. A long stretch of grass with a stone pathway leading through some secret stone wall; trees that would bloom with wisteria, and honeysuckle bushes; a pond, which was filled two feet up with fetid water, but which had a stone bench nearby underneath the overhang of the wisteria tree. This backyard was made for daydreaming girls. A statue of some winged god perched obvious and naked in the green grassy part of the yard. We speculated about future outfits for him, and went through the doorway in the stone wall. I was immediately lost in my daydreams, no longer surrounded by my four sisters. It was weed-clogged and somewhat deadened, but held four benches and five trees, and I could picture myself under each one, kissing some beautiful boy. Just beyond this stone-walled secret garden was a section full of mostly nothing, but with a wire fence on one side. I knew that I could easily spy on the neighbors through that fence. In fact, I did spy on my neighbors through that fence--a very old couple. The woman was almost deaf, so we'd hear her calling in French to her husband. One day, I spied him in his yard, feeding birds. He spoke tenderly to them and let them eat the seeds out of his hands, and while I hid and watched, spellbound and holding my breath, he said softly, "Ah, ma petite famille...." His little family. I didn't let out my breath until he walked into his house, and then wept because it was just too beautiful.

The house was perfect.

With all its hilarious imperfections, nonsensical features, and old nature, this house was exactly the balm I needed. My parents smiled in good-natured defeat and returned to Madame DuPont, who was shocked to hear that anything had been even slightly unsatisfactory to my parents. Perhaps she, too, had been won over by the romance of this ridiculous house, imagining herself in the same dress with the same boys and the same beautiful life.

The back-bedroom with sloping ceiling/wall became mine. It was the smallest, but I didn't have to share. There were two huge bedrooms along with it on the top floor, each of which was shared by the older girls and the younger girls. I liked my hideaway, liked that I could hear the neighbors yelling to each other--and loved, most of all, my view from my window. From up there I could see our backyard, and the open field stretching beyond. I could clearly view my neighbors left and right, and I could watch my sisters in the yard below.

Soon after moving in, we discovered the garage attic. A pull-down ladder led to the dustiest room I have ever been in. My mother let me claim it for writing purposes, sweet nurturer of romance that she is. In that attic were magazines in French, magazines from the forties and fifties. Newspapers, too, with mysterious articles, many of which I happily assumed had to do with the creepy graveyard down the street. I sat at a little desk, with light pouring in through one window and a skylight--dust-covered light, but perfect, nonetheless. Sometimes when I couldn't write anymore, I'd peek out the window at my sisters in the backyard below. In that attic, I was Elizabeth Bennett, Jo March, Jane Eyre....

I should also mention that there was a skylight in the slope-ceiling two-bathrooms-in-one lavatory upstairs. We liked to open the skylight and stand on a stool, poking out of the roof from the waist up, and shout to whoever was in the yard below, "Hey! Guess what? I'm pooping!"

I explored Erbaut with my imagination soaring, feeling quite safe in that closed little village. The forest was eventually cleared away, with me standing on the side of the road sobbing, while the Belgian workers looked on, placidly smiling. (They must have had fifteen-year-old daughters at home.) But none of its appeal left; I ventured into the graveyard by myself one very-typically-grey afternoon, and enjoyed being spooked and saddened by the tombstones. Sometimes I left wisteria picked from our tree. Sometimes I cried, feeling that I would have liked to know all these dead stories, would have liked to recognize these names written in French and Flemish.

Once, my little sister Q and I ventured into a different section of town and discovered a beautiful public courtyard, beyond which were several properties. We walked along the road, feeling that perhaps we were trespassing, when we heard a hair-raising scream. We froze, terrified into paralysis. Then my sister began to laugh, and I followed her gaze to see three peacocks in the yard to our right. Peacocks, screaming, making our limbs shake with relief and residual adrenaline.

There were open fields everywhere with cows and horses and sheep; homes that looked so old you could be sure they housed Mozart's friends. On a lonely outing one day I found myself staring at a cow that was extremely close to the fence. I got as close as I dared--a foot away--and stood perfectly still, visions of possible bovine violence in mind. But it was perfectly harmless; it stuck its tongue in one nostril, out, and then into the other nostril. My laughter must have been like a shout, because it turned and walked away, probably with visions of possible human violence in mind.

We made ourselves at home. We were on everyday-pleasantry status with the neighbors across the street, who had sheep that bleated in a belching way every time we walked past; we usually told them to shut up. The winged statue in the backyard received a gift of purple underwear, sunglasses, and sometimes a jaunty hat. We became so used to him that we were momentarily confused when friends would look out the window and laugh in surprise. My attic continued to offer sanctuary, whether it meant writing stories full of intrigue and sadness, or perusing the pages of parchment-like newspapers, searching for names to match those on the tombstones down the road.

I had very few good friends while in Belgium, and our home and its surrounds were my favorite friends. Not anywhere stateside have I seen anything to compare to its charm, and it still lights my imagination on fire to remember it.

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My Work: A Good Day

I wake up, already feeling the weight of responsibility like an elephant sitting on my chest. I commit. I rise out of bed and stumble into the bathroom to dress my tired body and camouflage the anxiety that is obvious in the muscles of my face.

I re-commit, and I remind myself that this is a daily sacrifice that will always, always yield a return. Perhaps not within my desired timing, but always. Always there will be a reward for this exhausting work.

I greet my children quietly, letting them wrap their arms around my waist and putting my hands on their cheeks; I lift their faces to best see their brown eyes, and I kiss their cheeks, their noses, the swirly spot on the crown of the head. I will myself to be present, to drink them in, to experience the purity that will soon enough be fleeting.

I make them food; I nourish their small bodies with my small hands. Scoop it up, put it in the bowl, watch their hungry eyes and their eager hands as they partake.

I make myself pause and watch them a little longer, looking long enough to remember how beautiful they are. The sparkles in their eyes. The laughter all the way from the depths of their bellies.

I remember when I was little like them, and that it was not golden--what childhood is completely golden? What a crock--but I remember that much of it was carefree; carefree enough that I felt safe, loved, nourished, and protected.

We have a good day, dotted here and there with the very human moments. My August boy suggests at one point that we put his May sister back into my belly, from whence she came, because she is being a bad baby. The suggestion has its merits, given the lonely state of my womb....but we gently explain that our May daughter is here to stay, and all is forgotten.

There is the usual: emotional sparks, physical scuffles, and willful resistance. But overall, peace. Overall, allowance. Allowance for laughter and questions and stories and impromptu lessons. A sort of enchantment over our house today, one that I know probably will not last too long, in the up-and-down swing that is day-to-day life. But I savor it, cradle it; hold it in the palms of my hands, like the faces of my children. When they smile, their cheeks curve against the curve of my hand, and it is like holding a perfect golden apple. Precious fruit of my womb.

In the evening, when dinner has been served, a rare family home evening lesson taught, and warm cookies consumed, I turn on the music.

They, all three, are transported. They move their bodies in whichever way the music dictates. They are at once graceful, amusing, pretty, sassy, genius. They dance in the most natural way: unfettered, no consciousness of self, no censorship. I watch them, my three living breathing masterpieces, and I can't help but feel a strange mixture of emotions: pride, and an odd little aching. The temporal nature of this particular brand of bliss is palpable. One day they will not dance with such abandonment; external factors may dictate the way they choose to move their bodies through this world and their most free dancing will probably be done only when they are alone.

I remember when I danced by myself, behind my closed doors, with joyful abandonment. Breathless and brave, I moved through my world with no eyes on me, becoming myself. Then, having exhausted my need to exist with no censors, I'd collapse on my floor and lay quietly. Aching to be a child again, when I could dance with no fear in a room of people.

I tuck the children into their beds, making sure the blankets cover their thin shoulders. My children are long and sinewy; they are strong, but thin, so that I never believe they are warm at night. Even when they sleep uncovered in wild postures--strewn like a fallen marionette over the bed. I have to sneak in and cover them back up.

My November son plays with my hair as I lean over his smiling face. He makes me look bald, and we both laugh hysterically. Then he says playfully, "What, do you have cancer or something?!" I think about how innocent he is. That he has no idea what this really means; I am for the moment happy that he doesn't know this sort of boldness is near-taboo. He ruminates that if I had cancer, my husband would have to leave me because I would not be "sexy" anymore. I gently and playfully explain that there is much, much more to sexiness than appearance....and wonder how on earth we came to this spot in the conversation.

I will tell you how: I was gentle today. My November son trusted me today, enough to say exactly what was on his mind, and ask me the strangest questions, the ones that make me squirm (or glow with pride) and wonder what he has been thinking for the last several months.

And although I am still trying to figure out what brought him to that line of thinking--cancer and sexiness? It evolved into a discussion about polygamy and divorce, even--I am reveling in one of the rewards of my work.

My boy--my boy, born in November, during the coldest months in Colorado--my boy, who will close his lips as tight as an oyster if he feels any sense of judgment--my boy talked to me in complete trust and peace tonight.

In this small and miraculous way, God Himself taps on my shoulder and whispers, You are making progress every day.

Every day, visible or not, I am doing this. I am here. I am not always acting with abandoned joy, speaking with gentleness, or living totally in the present. But I am doing this. Day in, day out, submitting to the Lord's timetable.

And for that, there is always a reward.

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June in Junction

When winter wanes, and the cold spells have at last exhausted themselves, the air becomes heavy and sweet, carrying the perfume of nostalgia.

In June, I think about my grandma. When I was little and one of seven children, we visited her house almost every summer. In the sleepiest, tiniest town of Junction, Utah, there was something for each of us.

For the teenagers Reed and Isaac, the opportunity to quietly break in to the empty high school and literally rule the school. They were escape artists, spies, bandits, outlaws. Who knows what other property they trespassed? They always came back to the air-conditioned haven of grandma's house, flush with happiness and smiling secretly. Then they would go down to the basement and sew. Shorts. To be paired with suspenders and Converse. Hallowed ground they walked on, from my 7-years-old standpoint.

For Liz, an opportunity to learn to sew, to bake, to do those gentle things with which she has always been synonymous. Gentle Liz. But sometimes she accompanied the boys on their forays. She was better at hiding her glee when they would return. In her case, still waters do run deep. When at last she divulged some of her clandestine teenage adventures, I was too surprised to speak.

Abby was awkwardly caught in the middle, like me, but with the advantage of a couple more years' experience. She knew it all. She was my boss. She had the social skills I did not, the navigational capabilities I lacked. She kept me safe, she made me brave, and she never let me forget it. I resented her mother-hen hovering, but I didn't trust myself without her. I need all of my sisters like I need water, but of all my sisters, ours may be the most complex of sisterly connections. One year she got to accompany Reed on one of his adventures. He swore her to secrecy. She didn't tell me until about four years ago.

For "the little girls", Maddie and Kate, there were tiny dollies, dainty tea sets, a day bed that was curtained off into what we called "the emergency room" (because in a pinch, it became a room). There was paper for drawing and writing, shoe boxes to be converted to doll habitats, fabric in abundance for dolly accessories or impromptu ballgowns.....

Oh, the fabric. A wall with bolt after bolt, hanging up, begging to be pulled down and felt. My grandma, always sewing, often making us dresses. In my world of hand-me-downs, those dresses were gold. They were not only mine to wear, but made for only me to wear. Made for my little body. Made with me in mind. Every time I put on a dress she made for me, I couldn't help but think how her hands had touched every inch of the fabric, dictated every stitch and fold and dart. She sewed flawlessly, and she still does, when her back will allow her to sit long enough. We tied quilts. We made doll clothes. We watched her finish projects. She was always busy with something.

And for me? What was there for me, besides the dresses?

Everything and anything. I was perfectly in the middle of the girls, allowed to rest with the little girls or stretch a bit to the big girls, a free agent. Some days I had tea parties and played dress-up. Other days I walked with Abby to the corner store and bought candy and lip gloss, or went with her to ride Paint, our neighbor's horse. (That I couldn't do without Abby. She was completely confident and perfectly able with that horse, but even amidst my inward thrilling at fulfilling horse-riding dreams, I could never completely relax. He would begin to trot and I would sob, crying, "Abby...Abby!! I'm going to die!!!")

The backyard of my grandparents' house was massive. A huge blanket of green grass and a large garden plot were the source of happiness. Food from the garden--squash, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, peas, and cucumbers--adorned the table at each meal. There was a spinning clothesline. The boys would have us hold onto the poles and then spin it around and around until my grandma came out onto the porch and yelled at them to knock it off. (Always turning around with a secret smile as she went back inside.)

Work didn't feel like work. Shelling peas, mashing potatoes, harvesting the garden. We worked up incredible appetites which even picky tendencies could not dampen. I looked at my plate, thought I wouldn't like it, felt raging hunger in my belly, ate, and loved it. There was often homemade ice cream for dessert, ice cream that we got to watch as it froze. Bottled peaches in abundance and homemade pickles. Apple pie, pumpkin pie, chocolate chip cookies. We played hard, we ate well, and we slept the deepest sleep. I don't remember deeper sleep than the summers at my grandma's house.

Things are somewhat different now--less in the garden, a couple of trees that had to come down; Paint no longer lives, our bike rides have become four-wheeler rides, and we are one less in numbers--but the moment we pull into their gravel driveway, I feel my shoulders loosen and my back un-knots as I walk into their house and into my grandma's arms. Here, I am home, and here I am nothing but myself. I am 7, I am 13, I am 18, I am 25, I am ageless. Here, time is vague. It all meshes together and we can't decide which memories were yesterday or 18 years ago.

If I am feeling philosophical and wondering what Heaven will be like, visions of my grandparents' house come to mind. Rolling in the green grass and swinging on the rope swing that hung from the weeping willow; eating carrots that my hands had plucked from the ground and washed under cold water; running fast and free until I fell down and laughed; smelling the good earth underneath me and feeling electric with life.

When home is like that, home is heaven.

*Happy Sidenote: Our latest reunion was June of this year in Junction

My Boat Has Not Sailed: Three Essays

Lately I am feeling swallowed by my family life, guilty that I'm not writing more and frustrated that my creative juices seem to have slowed to a molasses-crawl.

I have these words inside--but they refuse to form and make the book I feel such a need to write.

I get scared that it will all go away in the tidal wave that is motherhood....

and then yesterday, I read this amazing bit of writing and had to share it, because it is the thing keeping me going. The thing that makes me feed, bathe, cuddle, and teach my children while I let flashes of potential genius go by (or wait until I can pay those flashes proper respect).

Mommy Mantras: Affirmations and Insights to Keep You from Losing Your Mind

It's In There

A poet I know said she didn't write one word when her kids were small. Being so focused on satisfying the physical and emotional demands of young children leaves very little left over for artistic pursuits. She reassured herself that her urge to write would return by using the mantra it's in there. Rather than visualizing her art as a boat that had sailed, leaving her alone on the shore with tiny, hungry cannibals, she saw it as a seed that was lying dormant. With the proper conditions, it would bloom. This goes for hobbies, reading for pleasure, or urges to do anything but watch movies (if you can stay awake). When you wonder where your desire to learn Italian went, remind yourself it's in there. When you have more than four hours of uninterrupted sleep a night and have time to think of things other than diapers, choking hazards, and the lyrics of "Yankee Doodle," who can tell what might spring out of you?

To keep my spirits up and keep my creative drive alive, I've decided to post three of my favorite pieces (essays?) that I've written. I'll post one today and then two more in increments after that. I am sharing essays that are memories I have--because I like my writing best when it's personal. Though it's hardest for me to write well about the most personal things, it's also the most rewarding.

My Clean Car: A Poem

Crusted juice and puree of gummi,
contents of the cup-holders weren't yummy.

Forty different little toys,
long-car-ride entertainment ploys

Crushed-up goldfish, flake of bread,
an Arby's curly fry, long-since dead.

Stains in the carpet, substance on the chairs,
this poor blue van has seen its fair share.

The vacuum's monstrous appetite was satisfied;
when I looked at my cleaning cloth I nearly cried.

The moral of this poem I don't really need to say:
Don't put off 'til tomorrow what you SHOULD be doing today!

Pacing

Remember all the high school groups? The ways we divided and defined ourselves?

You might say I didn't really fit into any one group. Relocating every two years or so gave me a tendency to become a chameleon. The defense mechanism of blending in was very useful. I would adjust my conversations, my clothing, my hair....all to feel comfortable wherever I went.

But at home, I knew exactly who I was. I wore exactly what I wanted, did exactly what I wanted, and laughed as loudly as I liked, even if it did sometimes produce a not-so-cute snort at the end of the aforementioned laugh. (And, heaven help me, it still happens now and then.)

I had one friend in high school with whom I was comfortable enough to be my absolute most-authentic self. I may be outgoing, but it is only born of necessity. I'm actually shy and private by nature; I still get shaky in the sight of any confrontation--be it friendly or unfortunate. So you might say that I found myself helplessly re-shaped by my surroundings, in a very much unconscious way.

What I wanted most, and what I think most everyone (especially in high school) wants, is to be able to safely be my authentic self, and be appreciated for it. But I don't think I even knew who that "self" was until I decided to jump out into the wild unknown and see what I was made of.

Let me tell you a little about my high school. Although I was homeschooled for the last two years of high school, my 9th and 10th grade years were spent at an American (but internationally diverse) high school in Belgium. (Some time I will create a little time-line of all the places we've lived, complete with dates and details.) In this high school, I think there existed more of an equal-opportunity standard than you would expect for any typical high school.

With all of that being said, I noticed after a while that the most talked-about, most-noticed, best-liked people were those who did something. Artistic people. Smart people. Athletic people. Funny people. If you were in drama, sports, extracurricular groups--then you had a good chance of being respected.

The lazy ones, or the shy ones, simply faded into the background. I had always been comfortable in the invisible position, but I secretly admired those who were involved. I decided to be brave. At first, I chose something I knew I'd enjoy--drama. I participated in a hilarious play, as a character whose four lines bemoaned the state of the casserole on the table, and fainted at the sight of a ridiculously good-looking celebrity. (How dynamic.) I know I grew a bit braver from that experience.

But then I decided to do something that really scared me: cross-country. I had visions of beating school records and astounding the masses with my speed and endurance.

Except for a couple problems--I was not speedy or enduring. The girls on our team were divided into two groups, titled neutrally: Team A and Team B. I was on Team B. Guess who was slower? Just guess. It's a huge surprise. No really! You'll be shocked.

Team B.

(Pardon my seemingly-bitter sarcasm. It gets happier soon, I promise.)

If you want to be politically correct about it, we were simply differently-paced. Speed-challenged. Endurance-limited.

In running with Team B during practice, at least for longer runs, I developed a massive chip on my shoulder. In my typical I'm-so-persecuted 15-year-old way, I just knew we weren't as important. In my self-pity, I missed absolutely kind remarks such as, "Hey! You guys finished your long run at the same time as us!" and "You have the best quads!" and "You look so cute in your running shorts." What I heard was: "Hey! We must have gone really slow to finish at the same time as Team B!" and "Oh my gosh your legs are big and it's weird" and "I don't know if you should wear those shorts."

How? How did I take totally well-meaning compliments and turn them into inner poison? The answer is simple and it only took me a few years to get it: Comparisons. The constant refrain in my head was "I'm not as cute as...." or "I'm not as fast as....." and "I'm good at this, but she's better...."

Over time, that kind of thing really skews the way you see the world around you. I look back and feel as if I wasted so much time in high school feeling sorry for myself, certain that nobody-likes-me-everybody-hates-me-and-I-deserve-to-eat-worms.

Enter sanity.

The first time we had to do six miles, I had a bit of a panic attack. (Note: Self-pity and abject fear drive coaches crazy.) I was "assigned" a senior girl to accompany me, lest I should die on my run. Translate: Coach has no idea how to handle my panic and is annoyed by it. Go run six miles now. With sympathetic senior. Stop crying.

As this girl eased us into the run, I relaxed and listened to her comforting advice. She said many, many things that comforted me, and actually didn't stay on the team because of conflicting senior activities. But I remember one thing most particularly. As we hit mile four and I realized how long it was taking me to finish, I began to panic, then cry, as I said that I felt ridiculous for needing to go at such a slow pace. She slowed down, I slowed down, and finally we walked while she told me: Stop worrying about speed. Just pace yourself. Just be steady. Just finish. Speed will come later.

We completed our six miles. I don't remember the finishing time; she wouldn't let me see. (Smart girl.) I was somber for the rest of that week, thinking about what she had said.

My coach, although he wasn't necessarily the most sympathetic to whiners like me, was definitely smart. He gifted me the title of informal "leader" of Team B, which mostly comprised of eighth graders and freshmen. I felt first embarrassed, but the capable, when he would say, "Rachel, just do a nice easy 6 today."

Because someone had been compassionate enough to take me under their wing and help me erase my self-pity, I was able to show compassion to those girls. When I saw them feeling exactly how I had felt, I would encourage them to make it just to the next tree, the next lamp-post, the next crack in the sidewalk...."Make it there and you can walk for a second! Just keep going! Don't stop....stay steady." Eventually, five minutes without stopping turned into ten, thirty, sixty. We progressed from our appallingly slow fifteen-minute-mile pace to a comfortable 9- or 10-minute mile pace on those long runs. We learned to be steady. We learned to stop feeling sorry for ourselves by helping each other.

Somewhere along the line, I learned to hear compliments the way they were delivered, and stopped thinking of myself on some lower plane than everyone else. I came to appreciate the muscles in my body, rather than being frustrated by the appearance of my body.

In my slow, steady way, I made progress and I made friends. I conquered my fearful self.

Now, with the marathon only short months away, I'm making my way through similar obstacles. I feel frustrated by my lack of speed, my lessened endurance, my many inadequacies. I have little mini-nightmares about being too late to the race to be allowed to do it, or not being able to complete it, or completing it hours after everyone else has gone home.

The difference is that I realize who my opponent is this time. I could compare myself to any runner out there, but ultimately, I'll only feel good if I can conquer myself. In whom am I disappointed when I come home from a three-mile run in which only 30% was actual running? And who am I really up against, as I run? The competition is with myself; I compete with my fears, my not-ideal strength, my desire to stop. These mornings where I confront what makes me feel most inadequate, what drives my neuroses, and tame it into submission by dedicated efforts--these mornings, I am most myself. I laugh as loud as I like, I feel comfortable in my clothes, and I see the truth--which is that we're all "important". We're all necessary. Team A, Team B. It's all the same.

Progress is gradual. It happens a little at a time. Become obsessed with shortcomings and it cripples you like a chronic illness. Tackle one issue at a time, and over the grand scheme of things, progress is inevitable.

I just have to remember that soothing advice:
Stop worrying about speed.
Just pace yourself.
Just be steady.
Just finish.
Speed will come later.

.....stop worrying about perfection.
Just do what you can.
Just be consistent.
Just finish.
Progress will come over time.

The Evolution of Rae

-or-

How I Learned To Cook Edible Food
an inspiring new poem from DeVault Publishing

Newly married, shining with glee
with two other roommates--living happily
I set out to make the easiest of meals
Kraft mac & cheese, a budget-friendly deal.

I got the water boiling, feeling oh-so domestic,
and thought to myself, "It will be majestic!"
I threw the noodles in and went to town.
I let them boil while I sat down.

Alas, when I went to add the butter, milk and cheese,
I looked in the pot with a feeling of unease.
The budget-friendly noodles, once hard in their dried state
were now a thick mush unworthy to grace a plate.

I added the other stuff: milk, cheese, butter
and said "Dinner's ready!" with a secret shudder.
My husband, so sweet, looked at the mess.
"Looks good!" he fibbed, trying not to distress.

The roommates and Phill took a bite, faces brave.
And, chewing slowly, became somewhat grave.
"It's alright..." Phill said, seeing my tears start to fall.
"Yeah, it's good!" Roommate said, as I began to ball.

Thankfully the box of mush-mac was swept
into the trash while I wept and wept.
"I have an idea!" said a roommate with a cackle,
"It's alright--we'll use it for spackle!"

Part II
A lack of confidence was the cause
of two or three years of faux pas.
I chose meals made to order, costly food fare
or just let Phill cook--now that's some talent there!

But some part of me still badly wanted
to be a domestic goddess, a brave cook undaunted.
And one day while watching my sister Abby,
I began to realize she was not too shabby.

I asked what the secret was, her key to good food
and she answered quite quickly, no need to brood:
"I think you just lack confidence, young cook.
I myself read most of my recipes from a book!"

I went home renewed, determined to try.
I pulled out the cookbook and didn't even cry.
I assembled the components with a measured hand,
praying that at least it wouldn't be spackle-bland.

When at last I pulled the dish out of the oven to sample,
loving praise from Phill and kids was more than ample.
From then on I decided to be confidently daring,
finding easy recipes worthy of sharing.

Part III
Although I still have some less creative days,
I like to think I'm far from my spackle-mac ways.
Whether it's cereal or Chicken Parmigiana for dinner,
my secret is to pretend I'm a Top Chef winner.

And now that I've wrestled those demons of dinner-dread,
I'm beginning to think I can assemble a good spread:
For the last three days, I have been full of delicious deceit....
my children don't know how many veggies I've made them eat!

Puree of cauliflower, carrots, and squash
(It's WORTH all the dishes I've had to wash),
my kids have consumed these, hidden in their food.
And they already seem to be a much happier brood.

Ravioli, scrambled eggs, tuna salad and brownies,
I've powered up our food with clandestine ease.
I am no longer bound by crippling insecurity;
perhaps my dinner menu has
finally reached full maturity!

evening peace

Tonight we had an unusually quiet dinner; one that wasn't punctuated by Jaxon's furious outcries over spilled milk (literally), and one where quiet conversation prevailed. The food was good, too. Phill made some chicken that was really flavorful and tender, and I made a salad.

Everything just smelled good, tasted good, sounded good....and outside it was 90 degrees with a slight breeze.

Our backyard, now a happy place with its carpet of green, is in shade from about 2:00p.m. on. The grass makes it cooler (temperature-wise), and with the hint of a breeze today, it was invitingly pleasant out there.

After dinner, the kids were milling around the backyard in plain sight while I did dishes and Phill swept the dinner remnants from the floor. The soft clink of dish-on-sink, the lull of the air conditioner, and the delicious scent of our dinner still in the air; the children on the grass outside, happy and safe; the kitchen slowly becoming cleaner and cleaner after we had filled our bellies.

"This is nice." Says Phill.
"What--that?" I ask, gesturing to the kids outside, singing and making sound effects while they play.
"Yeah. This." And he moves his hand in the direction of the yard, then over our kitchen, then over the dishes and the air around us.

This: Our children, playing without concern or care while we look on. Our dishes, full of food we are grateful to have, now clean after our thankful hands' work. Our marriage, ripe with laughter and friendship and that particular romance that comes from supporting each other through monotonous day after day; until you reach a moment where it is all glaringly beautiful and the gratitude could ooze out of your ears it's so much. When you are reminded that out of all the less-spectacular moments and more-gritty times, there is beauty in shared happiness. Beauty in home.

Yes. Tonight, this is nice.

an apology

While I was at the doctor's office yesterday I had a little bit of waiting to be done here and there, and I hadn't brought a book (how ill-prepared of me), so as a last resort I picked up an Oprah magazine. (All you Oprah-lovers plug your ears....Oprah drives me crazy.) I was pleased, though, to find a quote in the magazine that I actually felt compelled to write down. It was just too good for me to pass up.

"Why, I say, should I ever have bitterly blamed [my body] for such trifles as I have blamed it for: for having too much flesh in this spot, too little muscle in that, for producing this wrinkle, that sag, that gray hair, or this texture? Dear body! My dear body! It has gone about its incessant business with very little thanks."

-Janet Burroway

When I had a chest x-ray yesterday and looked at my bones on the film, for some reason, I was surprised. They were so small and....orderly. Or maybe "orderly" isn't the word I'm looking for. But my skeletal structure was oddly dignified. I looked at my bones with awe and respect. I've seen my femur and my knee and my shin on an x-ray; my hands, my arms. Never my ribs, my lungs, my collarbones, my spine. And my stomach! The x-ray tech said, pointing to a fist-sized black spot near the bottom of the film, "You're hungry! You need to eat! Look at that empty stomach." I meekly said, "I...had a cookie?" (For the record, I went and got an enormous Arby's meal after that appointment. I felt horribly sorry for my empty-space of a stomach.)

Anyway, that quote, that x-ray, and just thoughts of health in general made me feel like I have definitely taken my body for granted, and most certainly shamed it for its normal changes now and then. So, Body, I apologize. Dear body! My dear body! Thank you for going about your incessant business. :)

read me

I think that in general, I'm an open book. Even when I'm not divulging the twists and turns of my mind's goings-on on my blog, in daily life I wear my heart on my sleeve. I often wish I were subtle or mysterious, but the truth is that I'm pretty obvious.

But when it comes to photography, I realize that I feel like there's this sense of mystique about it. Like I just don't talk very much about my feelings with regard to photography, and really only the goings-on. I suppose part of it is that I'm not an expert on the subject, so why should I talk much about it, other than the results of my sessions? But for the most part, I have no good reason for my silence on one of the subjects nearest and dearest to me.

So I'm opening those pages, breaking the mystique a little. Feel free to dive in, if you're interested!

Have I ever mentioned that when I used to play my cello in front of more than just family, I'd get stage fright? Stage fright that all but immobilized me, and truthfully, sometimes did immobilize me. I remember this recital I did when I was 17. I had two solos. One was this piece by Breval:

....which I felt I had in the bag. I was totally confident about this piece. (Which makes me smile now, because if I were to play that now.....it would need some serious tweaking.)

The other piece was famous, beautiful, and one of those cello pieces that you want to master; you want to have this one under your belt. Bach's first cello suite.

Far more beautiful (in my opinion) than the Breval piece. And for me, far more difficult. I really, really wanted this one to come off perfectly. In the weeks leading up to the recital, I practiced madly, obsessively, and with the tortured feeling that I just could never get it to sound exactly the way I wanted it to sound. With a bow-hold that was already lacking in technique, all this tension in my body, tension that extended to my arms, hands, and wrists.....I developed a mean case of carpal tunnel. Which meant that I was crying at the end of these deliriously desperate practice sessions, and my teacher was chastising me and probably very frustrated by my incurable insecurity.

The recital came, and my forearm and wrist were burning. And I used that excuse to only pay the Breval piece.

I didn't play the Bach piece.

And as much as I would like to claim that I am exempt from regret, that my mistakes have all added up to greater good, this is one thing that I always, always regret. I regret most of all that my fear stopped me from even trying. That in this sense, my fear did immobilize me. It's not so much a sense of guilt as it is a sense of loss, and a sadness that I was so bent on perfection that I forgot that absolute effort is beautiful, too. Oh, it still aches. Give me a minute.



What does this have to do photography, are you wondering? Don't worry; I wasn't so lost in my regretful reverie that I forgot my original purpose.

With photography, when it comes to big events like weddings, I still have to some extent those fears of failure. But the difference is that once I sink my toes in, once I begin to take photos and find the light (literally and figuratively, in this case) and compose creatively, my nerves change. Bravery the Lion roars that stupid Fear right into a corner, and I can work. And not just work, but work in a way that makes me happy, and (we hope) makes my friends/clients happy. I get lighter and lighter; happier, more attuned to the process, more outwardly able while internally free.

This miraculous quiet confidence happened only three times in the course of my cello performances. Sometimes I think that if I pick it up again with my newfound bravery in photography under my belt, perhaps the performing side of cello will not scare me so much. Perhaps I'll find that secret sweet spot, that minute when I feel like I'm where I need to be and can do what needs to be done. And it needs to be done. Some part of me needs to do this. I think maybe our talents, gifts, passions--these things are also needs, and are essential to some part of our human development.

Or else why would I suffer so much over the memory of that halved cello performance?

And why would I find myself debilitatingly nervous for the week before I photograph a wedding? That's what I did yesterday; Phill and I went to photograph a wedding. Why didn't I say more about that before it happened? Because I was anxious. Because I was completely withdrawn, turning over again and again in my mind the What Ifs. Before yesterday, I had done three weddings--two of which were for forgiving family. And the last one was in 2007. I had the kind of random panic that made me wonder if maybe I should just back out and stop doing photography for good.

I prayed so much! I prayed, I visualized, I practiced, I talked to myself and to Phill and sometimes to friends.....I made myself as ready as I could possibly be. We even bought a new camera, a camera that ought to have made me feel very, very brave. But we ordered it quite late (due to the fact that we had to scrimp and save until just lately to get the darn camera in the first place). It was shipped on Monday. I waited with bit-down nails and hammering heart, and then when Tuesday came, went out with my trusty XT and shot bridals. Wednesday rolled around, and I thought, "Well, maybe it's best. Maybe I shouldn't try to learn a new camera so quickly before the wedding. It's fine."

Thursday came, and I woke up with a knotted stomach and shaky hands. But I was excited! Underneath it all was a desire to get there and get started! It took until the day of the wedding to feel this way, but I knew I'd be fine once I got there and got started. I knew I was still nervous, but I felt that a sense of calm had come over me, and I didn't think much could shatter it.

Ten minutes before we left, while the boys ate sandwiches and peaches, someone knocked on our door and gave us a box containing my shiny new 50D. The sound I made was a cross between a sob and a shriek. (it was an ugly sound, let me tell you) My hard-won calm was absolutely in pieces. Here it was, so beautiful, so fancy, and what?! I was supposed to use that thing?!

I ran to my room, cried, prayed, laughed, and then shamed myself for looking a gift camera in the lens. This is wonderful, you silly girl! I told myself. Stop your crying! What a blessing! You get out there and figure it out!! So I did. Thankfully, Canons are built much the same across the board; once you've played with one, you can quickly get the hang of another (I say while knocking on the wood of the desk here).

I got enough acquainted--where's aperture? okay. exposure? check. ISO? check.--that I felt like I could get good pictures while using it. We brought both cameras just to be safe, and because the new one only had one battery. The entire way there, I felt nervous enough that I thought I'd throw up. But once we walked in, that blessed sense of calm returned, and almost with tears in my eyes I felt again like I was in the right place, doing the right thing. Not just one of my favorite things--one of my "right" things. One of my Rachel things.

I wasn't a quiet river of peace. I was still nervous here and there. But the subjects were beautiful, willing, and cheerful. The venue was ideal with lots of natural light and classy settings. The event itself was relaxed and elegant, full of poignant goodness and laughter.

Eight hours later, once we were home in pajamas and laying on the couch, I felt like I had conquered my fear and created something beautiful for the bride and groom to reference their memories. I felt blessed, protected, tenderly watched over by Heavenly Father.

I felt like I had played the Bach suite eight years ago, and that even with a missed note or tiny squeak here or there, I had performed well. I felt the way I do every time I come up against something big--be it photographing a wedding, publicly playing my cello, relocating to another country, or birthing a baby: I was worried, but I did it anyway. I was scared, but I mastered my fear and did something I'm proud of.

Just for that day, I made peace with my regret.

I feel like some gifts are given to us in the form of confronting and conquering our fears, and that these gifts of progress and according confidence can give way to great peace. A little at a time, I back that fear into a corner*, until eventually it isn't even worth mentioning. Until one day my weakness is more of a strength.

*Is anyone else hearing the phrase, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!"?

**Stared at this post for about twenty minutes before actually deciding to post it. Unsure (still) if I want to make myself this vulnerable. May yank it from the blogsphere if I keep feeling this bare.