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.

I didn't re-read this post before publishing.....on purpose.

You probably already know this about me, but I suppose I must be lacking in the self-awareness department lately, because I just realized it:

I don't like to post on my blog when I'm not feeling positive.

It's not that I don't want to admit that I don't feel happy/joyful/positive/peaceful all the time. Not at all. It's that I hate the feeling that all I have to share is griping and complaining, and I really do want to put good things out there.....

And yes, a little part of me--okay, a big part of me--hates the fact that I have times like this, whatever you want to call it. Human-ness (yes, I have a hard time being human; I can't help but want to be perfect), depression, adjusting, whatever. I'm not uncomfortable with sharing my faults. But I AM uncomfortable admitting that I sometimes lose hope, I sometimes really want to give up, and sometimes, well....sometimes I do give up, in certain ways. And what I'm saying is, I don't think it really serves anyone well for me to hold back about that aspect of myself. I don't see any of you as less when you're feeling these things....so why do I judge myself so harshly?

So I'm making an effort to talk about my life, to post about it, and to write--be it fiction or autobiographical things--no matter how my days go. Because I want to prove to myself that I am not giving up. Not anymore. I'm growing tired of my self-pity, and I know I'll feel much better if I can uplift anyone, especially those who read this. Furthermore, if I have to complain or cry or anything of that nature, I'm going to take it one step further and end on a good note. As further evidence of believing in hope, and believing that hope can lead to faith, I will always try to end my less-positive posts with something a little less saddening.

Because that's what we're supposed to do, right?

Things are difficult, maybe we don't handle it well, but then we dust ourselves off and move forward. Because backwards is no place to go.

So here goes!

I still feel like a fish out of water. I'm still not feeling like I have any sort of regular routine going, though I often do the same things each day--they're just not the most productive or necessary things that my soul really hungers for.

I'm struggling to allow myself to love it here, mostly because Phill and I are thinking about possibly incorporating a huge lifestyle change into our summer next year. And I am fighting giving over any more attachment until we know more. (Which hopefully we will by the end of November; I'll make sure to apprise everyone of the change if it comes, and I'll still explain if it doesn't.) I know it's not helping me, or anyone else, to hold back like this. I know that. I know I should accept the wonderful things that are being given me. I know that. And still, I'm stuck. But working laboriously to get un-stuck, and forcing myself through the motions in the meantime.

I'm feeling ashamed for being ungrateful for the good things we have.

I'm feeling stressed about all I have yet to get done--unpacking the nitty-gritty stuff, finding a place for everything, editing, and so on.

I feel selfish, using the letter "I" this much.

I am emotionally eating, and frustrated at my lack of self-control, and embarrassed by the fact that it shows in my very un-toned, heavier-than-ever frame. I'm annoyed that I care so much, and annoyed that I haven't done anything about it.

(That last revelation was really hard. I want to erase it so badly that my hands are shaking.)

*sigh* Those are the uglinesses that have kept me from posting, for fear they will flow from my fingertips, unchecked, and that my detested human-ness will be laid bare for all.

But in writing them, I realize this: I am so normal. So, so normal. I am feeling nothing that no one else hasn't felt.

I am not alone.

You are not alone.


After all of that, after the heaviness of the last several weeks, I finally feel a glimmer of hope, a glimpse of what I might become if I just allow God to do His work, and let go. In sharing with you, I feel allowed, now, to move forward. Rocky as my terrain may be, wobbly as my legs might be, I have hope. More hope than I've had for a while. Enough that the tears are flowing now, and I'm ready to list all the good that I was keeping quiet.

Our house has dark wooden floors downstairs. I always dreamed of floors like these.

Our backyard is big and fenced in, and has a patio and a gazebo. It does my soul good every time I look out the back doors.

We've had a few thunderstorms since we moved here, and for the first time, I understand what is meant by the phrase "rolling thunder".....I guess that in Utah, there are so many mountains and rock formations that the thunder sort of stays contained in one place, making one big bombastic boom....but here, it truly rolls across the sky, free of obstacles and running itself out completely. I need these storms; I love them so much, but Reed hates them, and it gives me repeated chances to teach him how to replace his fear with fascination.

The boys have adjusted so well to school. Jaxon actually loves kindergarten now, which is nothing short of a miraculous answer to prayer. Reed is getting stronger, I see it every day, both academically and emotionally. I am so proud of my boys.

I get hours of alone time with Savanna every weekday, and I'm so glad I do, because she's growing up so much faster than I'd prefer. I don't want to miss it. She's taller. Her sentences are more complex. Her face is longer. Her hair is longer. She's a little mysterious, which I both love and grieve.

We have several neighborhood kids who come in and out of our house with comfort. I always wanted to be the house where everyone played....I took notes from my Sarah in Saint George. Savanna plays with little twin girls, whom she simply calls, "The grils", as in, "Mom, do you think the grils are home?" Reed plays with a boy who's here for weekends; this boy loves Legos as much as Reed does. All three of the kids play out in the front or in the back for a long time after homework is done, long enough that we have to call them in for dinner and bedtime.

Our neighbors are genuine, kind, and happy. We've been invited (and have attended) BBQ's and birthday parties. They drop everything to help when they see a need (like, oh, say, Phill's motorcycle comes off the ramp while he's trying to get it down from the truck-bed, and neighbor-guy dashes over to help until the job is done....or the 14-year-old neighbor boy who watched our cats for us while we were out of town last weekend, then emphatically refused payment).

There are trees everywhere, just big open sky and trees, and I've missed seeing so many in one place.

The library is within walking distance.

Our master bedroom and master closet are huge.

The ward is an example of the finest fellowship. The moment we walked in, we were acknowledged. We've been invited to and reminded of various functions, and we learned that the ward has been praying for families to come. (We're a very, very tiny ward.)

Overall, we could drown in blessings. I can tell you firsthand that God is merciful, and does give appropriately-proportioned blessings to balance the weight of trials.

I know I am not alone, and I know that none of us are. He's always standing ready to help.


*end-note: I am seriously considering deleting this post. I feel like a whiner. Swoop in and reassure my needy self, would you, by letting me know if you didn't feel it was too negative? After such a long effort to be quiet about my difficulties, it's hard for me to gauge anymore whether I'm being a Debbie Downer or not.

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.

Growing Pains: the facts

Fact 1: It took us about 18 days total to find a house in Grand Prairie, split up into two one-day trips and a 16-day stay (just Phill) in a one-bedroom apartment provided by the Army.

Fact 2: My beloved sister Liz allowed us to stay at her house for an entire month.

Fact 3: Liz is an earthbound angel.

Fact 4: We left our house in St. George on the 15th of July, and after the 2-week stay at my parents' and the 4-week stay at Liz's, it was a grand total of 6 weeks before we were in a house of our own.

Fact 5: When Phill got here, he found out he had been mistakenly double-slotted in a position that is being phased out.

Fact 6: We threw a little tantrum....alas, it is what it is. This move was never meant to happen, but it happened. And so we deal.

Fact 7: The boys started school on September 6th, only about 2 weeks late.

Fact 8: Seven hours is a long time for a kindergartner.

Fact 9: I've given us a time-frame in which to decide whether we will continue with public schooling or make the switch over to homeschooling.

Fact 10: Our neighbors are beautiful people. Beautiful souls, good kids, and good hearts.

Fact 11: The people in our ward (which we'll attend for the first time this Sunday) call Phill "Fee-ill".....and I like to say it to myself every now and then, and of course to Phill.

Fact 12: We have a big, fenced-in backyard. It does ease the stress of moving. Quite a lot.

Fact 13: Jude is sleeping near me, on the floor, on his back like a dead bug.

Fact 14: I will bounce back from this mini-shock. I will look back and marvel at the depth of my sadness in comparison with the happiness I know is in store for us.

Fact 14.7: Tonight, my suitcase is still somewhere in Atlanta.

Fact 15: I have got to get better at this airport stuff.

"It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone..."

One day a few weeks ago, while I ran on the treadmill, as I listened to deeply inspiring music and felt really happy to be running, I was struck by an idea. An idea that I thought was a prompting, but an idea that I put off expressing. I'm not sure why. But it keeps coming back to me, and I realize that if I don't express it, it'll keep knocking around in my mind until I'm thoroughly beat-up, inside-out.

I was visualizing the marathon. The end, specifically. I benefit greatly from visualizing, and I have an emotional response when I do. So here I am, running, near-tears with the joy of what I am imagining (finishing!), and it hits me: I need to share this joy.

Not just by writing about it.
Not just by telling people about it.

But by inviting you--yes, YOU--to do it, too.

I promise it is worth it.
I promise it is beneficial in countless ways.
I promise that the very process of training will change your life, and awaken you to your potential. Not just your physical potential, but your emotional and mental capacity to do incredible things. It is the perfect metaphor for life, proving that when we make smaller steps in the right direction, day after day, we are actually gradually creating something beautiful that we will see after all the hard work is done.

This morning, out of the blue, I imagined myself and Jenn finishing the marathon this year. Then I skipped ahead to 2012, and there was another person running with us. Then 2013, and there was yet another. And the idea had finally completed itself in my mind:

I want what I'm doing--and what thousands more will do in October here in Saint George--to be contagious.

Here's what I hear you say:
Oh, you're so good. I could never do that.
Maybe if I was in better shape, I could do that.
Maybe in a few years.
I secretly wish I could do that.

I'm telling you, I'm not doing anything you can't do if you want to! I started from ground zero, physically speaking, and I'm starting from ground zero again this year (blast consistency! It is my Achilles Heel!).

If you don't want to do a marathon, maybe it's something else you're afraid of. Something else you want to do, but feel you aren't able to do.
You are able. 

Maybe you feel you don't deserve it. Maybe you feel unable to reconcile yourself with the kind of person who would do that--whatever "that" may be. But the truth is, you are the kind of person who would do that. The kind of person who would conquer fear and do what frightens you the most, or what seems the most difficult.

I have your back. I'm cheering you on every step of the way. I know we forget what we're capable of. That's why I'm running again this year. To remember how it felt to do what looked impossible.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.
-Marianne Williamson

The Texas-Sized Summer: Part 2

Along with the huge change in location this summer, I have (so happily) implemented some change in my career course.

A habitual prayer of mine is that I will know what God wants me to do with the things He has given me--time, my family, my health, my knowledge, and my talents. I firmly believe that all good things are from God. I don't want to waste or discount what has been given. Even more, I want to discover the things that make me ME. In short, I am getting to know myself better with each one of those prayers. And the better I know myself, the better I serve the people I love.

After the (amazing, life-changing, course-correcting) Breathe Intensive, I felt that with my Mothers project, my increased leaning and beginning towards birth photography, and my renewed motivation, I was exactly where I needed to be.

But I felt like I was missing something. Some piece of the whole picture. Something more.

I prayed and listened. I wrote, I pondered, and I puzzled until my puzzler was sore. What is it? I asked. What am I looking for?

And the answer came after weeks of this process, quietly but with unmistakable impact. It came in the form of a funny, made-up word, doulographer, one for which I wish I had the copyright. (Let's assume I do, considering no one else has nabbed it yet. Hey, nabbers! Don't nab! It's mine!)

Doula + photographer = Doulographer

A doula. I needed to become a doula.

I took this answer and held onto it for a while. I prayed some more, and listened some more. I tried it on for size, visualizing myself attending the births of friends, and then people I don't yet know. I held a newborn or two (haha) and inspected their sweet faces, thinking about the lengths their mothers had gone to in order to bring them here. And then finally, I asked: Should I become a doula?

And it was like the YES was spoken to my soul. I knew it. I knew it and I cried with relief, feeling that at last I had found the missing part of the whole picture.

I will continue with my photography in full-force. This is not a replacement to my photography, but a supplement. And while I don't think I could do a good job at both at the same time, I am happy to do either.

I'm happy that as a photographer I will have this added credential. I recognize that to ask a mother to allow me to photograph her birth is enormous. For her to say yes is for her to trust me implicitly, to ask me to be present during one of the most sacred moments of her life. I want to have something concrete to my name when I ask for that privilege, something to accompany my photos.

I have ordered and received my application packet, and from April 18th, I have two years to complete all the steps necessary to certification. I am reading the first book on the reading list, and communicating enthusiastically with one of my doula-friends through email. I feel so decided with this. I don't really see the end-product of all of this, or where I'm ultimately going. I don't care. All I know is that this is where I am supposed to be. Here, now, doing what I'm doing, which is something immeasurably comforting.

It's like coming home, making this choice and moving in this direction. A couple of days ago on the phone, my mom told me that I have a few ancestors who were photographers, and (at least) one who was a midwife. It makes my heart soar to think that perhaps I'm just doing what is only natural to me....I always wanted to say, "It's what I do....it's in my blood." :D

I do have a long way to go. But I can't wait.

The Lord works in miraculous ways

Once upon a time, there was such baby-hunger in my heart that I could hardly handle it. I prayed (fervently, consistently) that either 1) we would have the funds necessary to make a baby a reality -or- 2) that I would simply stop being so hungry.

For months, long long months, I prayed for relief.

And then friends started to get pregnant. Lots of friends. Close friends, faraway friends, neighbors, you name it.

I had a brief and bright moment of "Everyone-Is-Pregnant-But-Me"....and then continued to pray. Asking that Heavenly Father would give me whatever I needed.

I thought maybe I needed to understand this feeling. Maybe I need to learn what it is to want a baby, given that I have been spared from ever feeling that before now.(post-edit to clarify: I WANTED all my babies...but I have never had to try very hard at all. I am well aware that that, in itself, is miraculous, and a blessing.)

Maybe I needed to understand that what I want is not always what I need.

Whatever the reason, I prayed and I waited, watching bellies grow and waiting for the worst/best part--those babies--the deliveries.

My dear sister Qait came to visit, and shared with me the news of her budding pregnancy while we stood in the kitchen. She just slipped in the announcement, almost unnoticed, amongst our otherwise-boring conversation. I hugged her close and felt a mix of aching and joy. I sat next to her on the couch each night as she nourished her body with foods I made, watched her rest, and watched her tiny swelling of a belly grow in miniscule proportions during her stay. I quietly relived the earlier months of my pregnancies, and felt some sense of happiness in watching my sister experience it for her second time. 

And then on December 31st, I got to hold the still-very-new twin girls of Cara, one of my dear friends. 

I breathed in their new-baby scent, smoothed the fine layer of hair on their heads, examined at great length the fingers, toes, folds, nooks, and soft curves of their perfect little bodies. I felt an ache, and worried that this was not good for me, and silently begged in prayer. And that is when something miraculous happened. Filling me up, bottom to top, was peace. The aching wasn't gone, but much less, and finally manageable. In its place was the ability to enjoy the little bodies in my arms, the understanding that I don't know the timeline God has in store for me, but that he will give me ways to handle whatever it brings. Longing. Loneliness. Unwillingness to let time go at its proper fast pace.

I held another perfect newborn only days later, and again was filled with peace. And something else was added--patience. I finally FELT what I have been trying to feel, which is, "I can wait. I can wait for whatever is to come. What I have is enough, and it is alright if it's all I ever have."

And then my sweet and dear friend, Sarah....

Sarah, who has kept me informed and allowed me to almost-obsess over her pregnancy. Sarah, who even asked me to document the birth, something so sacred and so personal. A part I miss most. And here is where I really begin to understand that God doesn't give us things we can handle, though it sometimes feels that way.

Sarah had a practice run, otherwise known as prodromal labor, an extended and painful episode (complete with back labor) that had her, her husband, and me in the hospital on Sunday night. (I would like to state for the record "prodromal" does not always mean "false" and most definitely not "ineffective") And while it didn't amount to much that Sarah could see, it proved instrumental for me. (Sorry, Sarah...I grew at your expense.) Once again I was watching someone I love and reliving the moments I miss--and once again that longing was tempered. I least expected to feel relief in watching my friends and family go through the experiences I crave so much, but I firmly believe--actually, I know, I know for myself--that God knows what I need. He knows how to teach me, how to help me, and most definitely, how to give me more than what I want.

So....with a lot of gratitude in my heart as it is, I'm thanking my pregnant and/or new mom friends for their (however unaware) participation in what has been a healing and learning process in the last few months for me. All my love to you.

Here's to promise!

I resist the feeling that inevitably comes to me on this day--that sort of panicked "I have to improve NOW! I have to improve greatly, this second! I have to correct every bad behavior!"

Don't misunderstand--I am all for self-improvement and quiet introspection. I just always feel that the more anxiety-inducing sides of those practices are being shoved down my throat this time of year. Urges to do everything under the sun IN THE NEW YEAR--as if this last year was total crap if we didn't do those things, and as if this next year won't matter either if we continue to be whatever it is we wish we weren't.

The darker sides of this New Year's attitude got to me recently, I'll admit, and I found myself lamenting the things I hadn't done in 2010. Lose weight. Put more pictures on the walls. Wake up at 7 and work out every day. Write more than once every three months. Blog more often. Get out of debt. The list goes on and on, and mirrors most common lists.

And then I wondered, what have I done this year? What is of note? And in this prayerful wondering of mine, I was flooded by all the little things I have done, and how they have changed me this year. Not just what I've done, either, but how our family has grown. It's unmistakable! I feel like we've turned a corner.

I don't change diapers anymore. (And I do remember a time when I never thought I'd be able to say that!)

Reed is 8, chose to be baptized (I am so proud), and a little more independent; his reading has blossomed unbelievably and his maturity is beginning to blossom, too. That makes my heart full and achy at the same time.

Jaxon knows more letters and numbers than I've taught him. He continues to improve at expressing his feelings--something that I waited for. His sense of humor has just risen off the charts, and he is a joy to be around.

And Savanna, well, she's potty-trained, and she's also very much a little girl and hardly a toddler anymore. That is strange and wonderful.

I myself have worked hard this year--and pretty intensely for a few months--to correct mistaken ideas I had, the kinds of ideas that can make a person very unhappy. Sometimes it feels like the slow progress of grinding wheat by hand, this sifting through my emotions and memories and facets of my spirit. But slowly and steadily, I have learned a few things that have been slowly reconstructing me, inside-out, and I feel closer to my Savior than I ever have. That alone is worth it to me--worth all the things I haven't yet accomplished, but continue to work on.

Eventually I'll be back into the swing of working out regularly. Eventually I will have a comfortable relationship with food and my body. Soon enough, my house will be clean most of the time. Someday I will write that book, and someday my photography business will shoot through the roof.

But for now, I'm going to continue at this same pace, still determined and still mindful of what I need to change, but in no way frenzied. Not panicked about the things I haven't done yet, because the word "yet" holds a lot of possibilities.

So if I'm going to promise anything this year, it is to to remember that word itself--promise. We have promise. We have possibilities.

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.

Hurts So Good

We had a relaxed, quiet Sunday--my favorite kind. Phill put a roast in the crock-pot early in the day, and by 3:00 the delicious fragrance was wafting through the house. We all lounged on the couches, alternately napping, cuddling, and watching movies.

When dinner rolled around, Phill set the food on the table and I followed with dishes. We sat down and immediately the kids began their familiar chorus: "This looks weird." "But I don't like beef." "What are those black spots?" "Can I eat just three bites?" I could feel the annoyance rising within me and fought to keep it under wraps. I remembered something my beautiful cousin posted a few days ago--something from another someone who was definitely inspired. I kept my voice level as I answered with the same calm answer, numerous times: "This is dinner. If you don't eat it, you'll be hungry." I decided to actually spoon-feed Jaxon to get him to try his food--"Oh! Actually I like beef." and convincing Reed to have a few more bites of potatoes before he had more mandarin oranges.

Gradually their protests died. They weren't wolfing down the food, but they were eating, and their voices weren't raised in a dissonant chorus anymore. I realized my extra effort to be patient with them had produced a new environment.

Though they were still loud, the sounds became happy. Then they tried to talk to me all at once, and I found myself surrounded by their joyful voices, all trying to get me to listen to them....and suddenly something that is so often hard for me to handle became music to my ears. I looked at their faces and laughed with them, relishing the fact that they want to talk to me, they want my attention, they love me....and then that love--which is always there but sometimes obscured by all the daily detritus--that love just bowled me over and I wasn't just laughing, but crying, too. How blessed am I? And who am I, to be so blessed? What on earth did I do to deserve such abject joy? It bowls me over at times, so much so that I can hardly stand it, and I understand the phrase, "I love you so much it hurts." Moments like these are the ones I file away for reference in those times when the feeling doesn't come so readily. Moments like these make the difficult times worthwhile.

Burning the Beans

When Reed was born, my mom came to stay for a few days, offering comfort, advice, and an extra pair of willing arms. In my very-emotional postpartum state (my Unexplainable Crying would hit at about 4:00 every afternoon...), she joined forces with Phill to help me navigate that rocky terrain. It is one of those times when you just need your mother. I hung on her every word; I looked to her with each new unknown.

During her visit, I mentioned that I didn't know how to make chili, and wanted her to help me make some. She was more than willing to help. The day she was to leave, we decided it would be helpful to make the chili to have ahead of time for dinner that night. She got the beans simmering and showed me how to make everything just so; I'm afraid I was too much in turmoil to listen. She was leaving, and it was now solely up to me and Phill to figure out how to be parents (armed with the answers to desperate prayers, of course). She told me, "Just remove them from the heat after I leave."

When Phill left to take her to the airport, I sat down in the cushy armchair in our basement, staring at brand-new Reed as he slept nearby in his pack-n-play. I began to feel a disturbing sense that my anchor had been dislodged, a feeling of Oh No What If He Does Something I Don't Know How To Fix, and began to cry helplessly, as helplessly as my newborn did when awake and hungry. I let every feeling wash over me; my fears, my anxieties, my aching wish that my mother could still be next to me. Then I calmed down, wiped my tears, and resolved to be hopeful.

And then I remembered the beans.

The beans! The beans I was supposed to remove from the heat right after she left! The beans....oh, beans.

I went upstairs and dissolved into a(nother) crying mess when I saw the blackened mess that had adhered to the bottom of the pot. I sobbed over the pot, staring into the smelly mixture and saying, "Stupid beans...stupid, stupid, stupid beans! Who wants chili anyway?!" and then, defeated and purely sad, "Oh, Mom....I burnt the beans." And at my lowest: "How will I take care of a baby if I can't take care of beans?"

Eventually Phill came home and helped me piece myself back together. Eventually my hormones stopped their drowning tides. Eventually I learned to take care of my baby, and beans, too. But at times when I would think of my mom, wondering if I was doing this right, or thinking it might be easier to have her living closer by, I thought of the beans again. How much I missed her. How I forgot about time because the aching was too much.

Today I had parent-teacher conference. I tend to brace myself for this sort of thing, since I often drive home making a mental list of all my inadequacies, and feeling in general unworthy to be a mom. This time wasn't too bad--the areas of concern were my own, and I felt (for once) that his teacher and I are on the same track. We discussed his wandering focus, and how it affects his performance. I quietly pondered ways to help him learn to concentrate, and came up empty-handed....what am I supposed to say? "Reed, let's talk about concentrating." No-go. He is seven.

On the drive home, with that un-anchored feeling settling into my chest, I prayed for some sort of inspiration. And I thought to call my mom.

Far away in Boston in that school of brains, she is learning about learning. She is honing her gift for understanding how a person's brain works and tailoring her teaching to fit that need.

I started the white bean turkey chili that Phill loves, and while I cooked, I pressed a few buttons on my phone and felt immense relief at hearing her voice.

"We had parent-teacher conferences today--"
"Oh, sometimes you just have to throw that out the window..."
"Right. I'm okay; I had my shields up."

I minced the garlic and onions while delivering the minutes of my meeting, then asked,

"Mom, how do I help Reed focus?"

"Well, you can ask him some questions that help you figure out where his attention tends to wander."

I added the turkey.

"What questions?"

I added a little bit of broth.

"You could say, 'Reed, when is it fun for you to pay attention? When is it hard to pay attention? What do you like to pay attention to? What helps you pay attention?"

There it was. As always, her approach was so simple, so laid-back, and so direct. The same message I always got from her: You have all the tools to be the kind of mother your children need. You can do this.

We said our goodbyes, I put the lid on the pot, set the timer, and went to sit down and let my thoughts simmer with the chili. I thought about how intelligent she is, and how determined she is to become informed about those things that are foreign to her. I thought about our few homeschooling years together, remembering how arduously she tried to help me focus....and how I didn't really learn to focus until years of her efforts and my own. How I still struggle to narrow my focus, now and then, and how she manages still to bring my eyes back to where they need to be.

And I ached. I wished fiercely and silently that she lived next door, so that I could bring her french fries (she loves them) and talk to her about learning and mothering and maybe laugh until we cry. I even pondered how I could maybe bring her chili sometimes, as a little joke.

The chili.

The timer went off and I hurried to the pot, lifting the lid to enjoy the beautiful dinner I had prepared....and smelled smoke. Before me was a perfect-looking chili, but devoid of liquid, and when I scooped some of it aside, black charred beans--the product of not near-enough broth--greeted me.

I broke out the cereal and milk, and sat at the table with a lump growing in my throat until Reed said, "It's okay, Mom. You're still a great cook."


Some days I burn the beans.
And then some days my mom doesn't seem too far away.

It will all be alright. I can do this. I have all the tools.

Who wants chili anyway?

thought--

I was having a little wall-to-wall conversation on Facebook with a family friend--one who was my older sister's best friend when they were 12 and I was 9. I was thinking how wonderful it is that as we grow up and become moms or do the things that many other people do, too, the age number just melts away. I was trying to organize those thoughts and this is what I came up with--

Motherhood is the great equalizer.

Suddenly those who are five, ten, or several years older are made ageless with the things we have in common--pregnancy, birthing, nursing, nourishing; teaching, protecting, guiding; service, anguish, exhaustion, joy; uncertainty, frustration, hope and faith.

In these ongoing and fatiguing endeavors, we are without the emotional tethers of the year in which we were born. Our maternal experience is unique, but we are all in this together.

Abby

May I tell you a little bit about my sister? She's on my mind today. She, her wonderful husband, and her beautiful four little girls, will be coming to visit on Sunday, and they will stay for Christmas and the New Year. It's going to be chaos, and I am BEYOND excited!

If you know Abby, you really can't help but love her. She is generously friendly, and always interested--interested in people, places, progress.

This may not sound like a really great compliment, but--she is useful. I like to refer to her as a researcher. If I call her and say, "Abby, such-and-such happened and I'm wondering what could be the reason", she is Googling in no time, or drawing upon her pre-existing wealth of knowledge, hammering out an answer, sometimes long after I've given up.

Abby is also an incredibly good listener. When she listens, you can feel that she is patient and will allow you to emote until you are blue in the face. Then she is first, compassionate. Second, practical. And third, determined. So that whatever issue you were venting about has suddenly become not an issue, but a plan of action.

When we are together, we lift each other up. Our more-mundane mothering duties become less burdensome. We are joyful in our labors. We laugh until we cry. Or we cry until we laugh. :)

Abby is resistant when people call her Superwoman, which happens quite often. (You'd call her that if you knew her, too...) She feels that it conveys some idea of being unattainable or above the rest, and she doesn't care for that at all. But when I call her Superwoman, what I am really thinking is that she stretches. When she doesn't want to, she does it anyway. When she is tired, she keeps going. Despite the fact that she already has four little souls depending upon her for their health and happiness, she stretches, so as to gather more into her large circle. (At this point, I'm thinking perhaps I should call her Elastigirl?)

She walks to the library, to the post office, to the park--with her four girls, who she home-schools. When people stare at her stupidly because she has two babies in a double stroller, one held close to her in a baby carrier and one walking alongside, she smiles and stares right back, happy and unabashed.

She sits in the doorway of her daughters' bedroom each night to read to them and sing to them as they drift off. At first they are restless, but she is still, and then they are asleep.

Although Abby is my older sister, she is vulnerable enough (and humble enough) that she will call me and cry if she needs to. And because I learned it from her, I can listen and help her come up with a plan of action that will dry her tears and help her be hopeful again.

Abby played the soundtrack of my formative years. When I was 5 and she was 8, she sat at the piano, practicing primary songs while I laid under the piano bench, staring at her calves and picking on her; she played on, unperturbed. When I was 10 and she was 13, she played romantic songs that I could sing to--songs that made me dream and feel grown-up and beautiful. (Les Mis, anyone? Phantom of the Opera?) And tested me on my knowledge of TV show intro songs. (I was good, really good.) And when I was 15 and she was 18, she played Gershwin and Debussy and Chopin in the livingroom while I laid on the couch, listening, crying and daydreaming and finally letting go. When I listen to the music she played during all my growing-up years, I can see her playing, and she isn't far away.

Abby, whatever drove me to write this particular post today, as unrefined and unedited as the writing is, I just want you to know that I love you--and how I love you.
(The woman herself...)Her beautiful work:
(As my grandma would say, "You do good work, honey....")

And her biggest fan, this man

Of Angels and Accomplishment: The Marathon Post

October 2nd, Friday night, I was pretty wired. I worked very hard to calm myself (oxymoron) and kept telling myself, "This will be worth it....this will be worth it...." I kept quietly chanting to myself, "To see if I can....to say I did." Refreshing my motivation and reminding myself that I was prepared as possible.

I didn't expect to get much sleep, especially because I was looking forward to my sister's arrival, but I surprised myself by sleeping from 11:30p.m. to ONE MINUTE (!) before my alarm was supposed to go off--4:19a.m. I woke up with that horrible squirmy feeling in my stomach, but also felt a little thrill of excitement as I put on my running clothes, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and took deep breaths.

Phill just kept smiling at me, totally happy and calm--as he always does in situations where he knows I will end up happy, no matter how nervous I begin. :) In the car I ate a banana, some Myoplex (BLEH....), and a lot of Gatorade. There was so many cars on the road, which I found somewhat comforting--so many people doing the same thing that morning.

When Phill dropped me off at the park (where all the buses waited for us to board and be driven to the start line), and I stepped out into the October morning, I was immediately shivering from cold and nerves. I needed safety pins to pin my bib number onto my shirt (accidentally threw away the ones provided), and felt much more worried about it than I needed to be. Somehow (it was no coincidence), I bumped into another lady who also needed to find some safety pins, and we stuck together in our mini-predicament. She told me that this was her second marathon, that she had two kids, and that she would be happy to stick by me 'til the start.

Dear Ellie,

You were an angel. I'm glad I didn't slow you down, and I'm so glad you were there that morning. Because of your calming presence, I was able to relax my shivering-nervous muscles and thrill at the start of the race. A thousand times: thank you.

At the start line were bonfires, which was heavenly--it was 39 degrees. The cold penetrated my thin shirt and my anticipation made me shiver uncontrollably until I finally found a good spot next to one of the fires. People of all shapes and sorts sat around, lit up beautifully by the glow of the flames. People talked and laughed, ate, slept, stretched, listened to music. There was a general spirit of friendship and helpfulness. In spite of my little anxieties, I felt very safe and sure.

The start of the race was a sea of moving people, as far as my eyes could see. The air seemed electric--my limbs were frozen by cold, but I was on fire; I had finally started! Finally, finally, finally! was all I could think.

That first mile flew by....it was unreal how fast it went. And the next, and the next, and really, the first 6 miles were surreal. I was thankful that my legs didn't un-freeze until mile 9, when there happened to be an aid station being manned by several people in my ward. (The great Eagle project of one of the young men we love.) I almost cried with joy and said, "People I know!" Note: You readers will be proud to hear that I drank two cups of water or one cup water/one cup Gatorade at every aid station. I was masterfully hydrated.

I have to say that the volunteers are so wonderful. They make the experience even more enjoyable (yes, running 26.2 miles is enjoyable....on many levels....) and they were nothing short of encouraging and kind.

As I ran, the pesky flu (or whatever it is) that had plagued me the two weeks before showed no mercy. I coughed and coughed for the first 20 miles, until I really didn't have enough breath to cough anymore. You can imagine that my lower abs were quite sore.

For three miles--mile 11 to mile 14, I'd guess--I talked to an old man who said this was his twelfth marathon. He said he didn't start 'til his late forties, and that when he first started, it was with a pair of deck shoes. "Then I bought some new shoes and thought, 'This is like running on a cloud!' If I could do a marathon in deck shoes, I can do lots more in these shoes!"

Dear Mike,

You were personable and funny and sweet and strengthening. I liked your stories. You amaze me.

At mile 17, my enthusiasm began to be a little slow in coming. I could feel that my body was tired, and I felt a little overwhelmed at the prospect of 9 more miles. But I was still excited, still happy, and still very much mentally in the game. My right calf was cramping a bit, and the balls of my feet were sore, but I knew I could keep going for quite some time, provided I distracted myself well enough.

Distraction arrived in the form of Cathy from Payson, a mother of seven and grandmother to (?), who was doing this marathon for the third time. She was walking, she was tired, and she looked somewhat despondent. I decided to talk to her because she looked like she needed some company as badly as I did.

We talked for five miles. 17 to 22. She told me about her struggles with a couple of her children, and her pride in the good choices that they were now making. She shared events from her life that closed the gap in our ages. We quickly bonded over those long five miles, and we kept each other going.

Dear Cathy, You are a wonderful woman. I am so happy to have made your acquaintance, especially in the setting of the St. George Marathon. You distracted me and made it easier for me to keep going. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Arrive mile 22. We were just about to town, and I parted ways with Cathy to use up a little of the second wind I had. (Second wind....more like fifth, really.) At about mile 23, I was overcome by the enormity of what I was doing, what I had left to do, and by the pain. I simply sobbed while I ran. (It sounded really hilarious....a little like a barking seal, but a barking seal that's sort of under some anesthesia.) Every part of my legs, arms, abs, and upper back was sore, cramping, or burning. My lower lip began to tremble, a funny little thing that seems to happen to me after mile 17 or so.

Enter Melanie.
"Hi, sweetie! What's your name?"
"Rachel."
"Okay. Rachel, we can do this. I know you're tired. But we can do this, okay?"
"Yes."
"We're going to do this!"
"Yes!"
"Water?"
"YES..."
And she hands me a fresh bottle of water from her husband's water belt--he was walking alongside her, simply there to help her. It was her third marathon. Her dad biked next to us, relaxed and chatty, a cheerful distraction. Two very tired girls ran alongside us, and soon she recruited their motivation, too.
"What's your name, honey? We'll get through this."

Melanie, you were yet another earthly angel on that run. You make me want to run it again, just so that I can help people who are doing it for the first time. Thank you. Thank you.

She asked me questions, questions that helped her get a sense of what would motivate me most, and questions that took my mind off my pain. I told her that my husband was in the Army, waiting in uniform with other uniformed Army men at the finish line, and that I was very ready for him to catch me. Quietly I realized that for the last half of the marathon, I really had been running to Phill.

Melanie's father listened to us with a quiet smile, and then rode off slowly towards the finish line, which by this time was about 2 miles away.

Then, at mile 25, my weary eyes caught sight of her old dad on his bike, riding towards me, with a uniformed man jogging behind. A uniformed man with his arms in the air and a gigantic grin on his face.

I fell to pieces. I sobbed "Phill! Oh my goodness!" over and over, and he was quickly at my side, saying, "You're almost there, sweetheart! Only a little more! You're doing so great. I'm so proud of you." And I continued to cry the weirdest-sounding cry of my life. (I recall crying, "But it's so uuuggglllyyy...."--I was referring to most everything in general; my form, my crying, the way my body felt.) I tried to walk instead of run--thinking that a rest was good--but my legs just gave out beneath me. Lucky Phill was there to catch me and tell me that I needed to keep running, or my legs would cramp--because they were so used to this motion. He whispered sweet nothings to me all the way to the last turn, then did something that I will never forget and for which I will never stop feeling utmost love and gratitude.

"Okay, love. I'm going to go wait at the finish line. You've got this."

And he sprinted to the finish line to let me, his wife, finish the marathon with every bit of personal victory intact. No one next to me, holding my hand or pulling me along. Just me, just my finish.

Phill....I love you. Deeply.

I was surprised that there were still people there to cheer, besides my sister, brother-in-law, nieces, and kindred spirit Jenn--but there were enough people that the cheering filled my ears and seemed to elevate me to another plane altogether. I was floating....floating and sobbing and smiling and laughing. Phill stood with his arms open wide and I jumped (well, at that point it was a pretty weak jump...) into his arms and finally, finally let my muscles stop moving. (Oddly hard to do.)

My clock time said 7:06:00. My official (chip) time was 6:58:21. I have felt somewhat sheepish and self-critical for the last several days over how long it took me to finish--but I'm telling you....I feel very proud of myself now (finally, almost a week later)!

I ran for almost seven hours! I finished! I did exactly what I set out to do! I trained for months, waking up early, which we know is something I hate and always struggle with....I worked my training around schedules: my own, my children, Phill's. I have come to the realization that the marathon was really the reward for what was as big an accomplishment--the preparation.

I keep whispering to myself the words that were on my medal, reminding myself that I have the strength to do something difficult, complete with preparation and follow-through.

Finisher. I am a Finisher.

To see if I can--I can--to say I did--I did.
photo-credit: Eric Hanson
post-script:
Eric, thank you for coming! Thank you for supporting me, and thank you for making it easy for Abby to help me out. Thank you for taking the photos. I am so happy to have a record of this great event! Also, thank you for walking me to the bathroom six times on Saturday when my legs were like lead.
Abby, thank you for coming. Thank you for listening to me talk down my nerves on the phone several times before the actual marathon. Thank you for driving in the night with your husband and babies to simply be with my family. Thank you for the meals you made, the pampering you gave me, and the love and attention you showed my babies. Jenn, thank you for coming. Thank you for taking care of my babies while I ran. Thank you for crying when I was done and had no tears left myself. Thank you for helping me get comfortable afterwards. Thank you for keeping my sister, brother-in-law, and husband company and entertaining my children and nieces for seven hours Saturday morning.
To my other family, friends, blog-readers: Thank you for every supportive comment, every kind gesture, every prayer, every thought sent my way. I am forever grateful for your support and encouragement. You make it fun. You lift me up.

Of Food and Foundations

Because I have been feeling much more hungry than usual for the last four months as a result of my training, I have given much thought to food--mainly to how I feed my family, and how I want to be fed.

My little sister sent me a text this morning that said, "My weight rarely changes; it's like my [body] shape decided itself a long time ago." My reply was, "If you think about it, our bodies DO somewhat choose their shape early on. We were blessed to be raised in a home where sound nutrition was the norm, which set us off in the right direction." (Do I sound smug? My grandma says I'm smug. But she always says it with a smile, so I don't know if she's serious.)

I grew up in a home where we were nourished well--both in quantity and quality. My mom stayed at home with us seven children, and had several hearty, healthy dinners that she kept in regular rotation. We didn't stay away from any one food group, but we didn't indulge in any one food group much, either.

Moderation was the goal.

We were taught not to tie our emotions with food in an unhealthy way--i.e., do not pacify with food. But we did use food as a communication tool ("Rae, let's make some cookies while you tell me about your latest crush.") and learning tool (chocolate chip math, anyone? Family Home Evening lesson about taking care of our bodies?), and we bonded around the dinner table.

This is where that line between emotion and food is blurred for me--some of my sweetest memories are marked by a family meal. Thanksgiving, of course, but also dinners here and there where we were simply together and happy around the table. On Sunday evenings, when Monday-dread was looming and church-tiredness started to set in, my four sisters and I would make chocolate chip cookies. Always we ended up laughing or confiding, feeding each other's souls.

So I do believe that it is natural to have some emotional ties to food, and even healthy. So long as food is not the only way by which we work through emotion.

I was talking to my grandma once about the wonderful meals she served when I was little and we stayed at her house in the summers. She still makes amazing meals, when her aging spine lets her. I said, "Grandma, I miss real food. You know. The food you make. Food that just is what it is....real butter. Real mashed potatoes. Corn on the cob from your garden out back. Don't you think there's something to be said for the way we used to eat?" She gave an emphatic "Yes," but then laughed and said, "Except for the lard. And the fact that we were laborers back then."

I'm grateful to have been given a foundation in my childhood of good nourishment and an active lifestyle. I feel like it has definitely shaped how I eat now, and how I am teaching my children to eat. I am learning that extremity in any direction isn't healthy....if I want a cookie, I will eat a cookie. But I most certainly don't need 12 cookies. :) (Sometimes I do eat 12 cookies. No exaggeration there.) I do think that if I eat plenty of produce during the day, it is alright for me to have some hefty "real" mashed potatoes for dinner. And I also believe that now and then, it's alright to have a day when we simply eat what we want, because we want to. Even that isn't bad--in moderation.*

Everything in moderation.**

*I would like to state that I am in no way an expert. These are simply my opinions, and you can feel free to take what I've said and throw it out the window! :D
**I would also like to state that in our family we are free of any allergies, which makes it quite easy to eat a variety of foods.
***Thirdly (is that a word?), in general, I eat at about Great to Medium on the spectrum of healthful food choices. I'm not a health nut, but I do try to stay away from McD's and such.

words to live by

While my last post communicated that as stressed-out moms, we're not alone, secretly, I have lately been feeling rather lonely-ish in my various efforts as a mother. Not because I don't think anyone has gone through more difficult times as a mom, but because I'm just in the throes of it; I'm a little weary, and I am having a hard time seeing an end in sight. (Oh Jaxon, WHEN will you decide to go to the bathroom ONLY in the bathroom?) It's more than the potty-training stuff. It's the contention. I am trying--so hard, so hard--to teach my children to be kind to each other. Most days I feel like it's definitely going to be a very gradual process. As in, maybe in a few years they'll go more than an hour without fighting over something.

But I'm not actually posting to complain. I'm posting to say that I read something this morning that made me feel so much better. So hopeful, and so much lighter. I know that what is frustrating me right now is not so huge, especially compared to some bigger things I've been through, and of course compared to some enormous adversity suffered by those close to me. But I also know that the Lord is aware of even my smallest issues. And even those smallest issues matter to Him.

Here's a snippet of what I read in the September 2009 Ensign this morning:

From Lessons from Liberty Jail by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles

"...we must not succumb to the fear that God has abandoned us or that He does not hear our prayers. He does hear us. He does see us. He does love us. When we are in dire circumstances and want to cry, 'Where art Thou?' it is imperative that we remember that He is right there with us--where He has always been! We must continue to believe, continue to have faith, continue to pray and plead with heaven, even if we feel for a time our prayers are not heard and that God has somehow gone away. He is there. Our prayers are heard. And when we weep He and the angels of heaven weep with us. When lonely, cold, hard times come, we have to endure, we have to continue, we have to persist...Keep knocking on that door. Keep pleading. In the meantime, know that God hears your cries and knows your distress. He is your Father, and you are His child."

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. :)

E.R. (Eavesdropping Rae)

I have this problem.

I love people. As in, I'm very interested in people and their lives and their conversations and sometimes I eavesdrop.

That's right--I eavesdrop sometimes. I guess you might say I'm still 13 that way? And maybe that's why I like photographing weddings. Because in that forum it's my job to be nosy, to be interested, to be looking and recording. The worst I get is the occasional cranky face or please-no-not-photos! face, and I have to tell you that doesn't sway me a bit. I click and smile. So cruel; now I have your soul in my camera. (Wow. I sound a little ruthless! I'm not, though; trust me.)

Anyway. Yesterday I woke up with fiery burning pain in my chest. Determining that it was not me-about-to-cry and not a quarter-life heart attack, I got up to give the kids breakfast and get them dressed. The second I got up, I was dizzy and could feel my head throbbing loudly. It was all I could do to dress the sweeties, feed the sweeties, then tell the sweeties I had to lay down. Phill dropped by with some allergy medicine. We thought it might be the new green in the backyard. But three hours later I had chills, not to mention no relief from the medicine.

Phill came home (oh, my hero!), and I took to the couch. I did call a few family practices and had no luck with an appointment for that day. So I just thought I'd wait it out. Unfortunately, it puts somewhat of a damper on life in general if it hurts to breathe! So I finally told Phill that maybe we should go to InstaCare. We had a neighbor come over and with Phill, give me a blessing (thank you very much, Mike), and then we went to InstaCare while our sweet neighbors watched the kids. (Have I mentioned my amazing neighbors? They take the cake. Oh! I should make them cake!)

Can you envision what I looked like? It looked much worse than it was. The chills were making me shake like a leaf, my face was flushed with the effort to breathe comfortably, and I had been crying, so little mascara-filled tears had painted faded-black rivulets down my sad face. Oh, poor me. :) They sent me to E.R., saying that more extensive testing was probably needed.

So....this is a long story and you might be drooling as you're asleep at your desk. Sorry. I wax wordy. Zipping forward: Fever of 101.8; they gave me Tylenol and Motrin and got me in one of those key-lime-pie-green hospital gowns that so conveniently open at the back. Every nurse/doctor there was very kind, I must say! Dixie Regional Medical Center. (I read that on a sign about forty times while waiting.) I was thoroughly puzzled over. Chest x-ray, blood test, that other test. (The guy asked, "Have you ever done a urine test?" I laughed. Very hard. Then said, "Well....I have three kids. So. A few times, yes.") Sorry for typing the word "urine" on my blog. Twice.

Moving on....to what I was going to talk about in the first place! While I waited--and oh, did I have quite the wait--I quietly tuned in to the goings-on around me. I knew my problem was low on the scale of emergencies. I was sleepy and drifted in and out while I listened.

I heard a baby cooing to her parents after she had a test done. I heard the lady next door talking to her husband and son, saying, "I'm still waiting. I'm okay. Don't worry." She also said: "I can't think of a better way to spend a day than covered in sugary icing and flour." I smiled and wondered if her cake decorating was as good as it sounded, then thought how cake sounded really good.

I also must shamefully admit that I really listened hard when I heard things like "What we think you have is--"

But this is what happened.

"Okay, good news and bad news. The bad news--CLICK"--the door was shut.
Or "This is what's going on. You have--CLICK".

Thank goodness for privacy, right? (pfft....I was just curious! No harm done...)
Ultimately, though, I gleaned more from this than just a handful of sneakily-gotten information.
I grow ponderous when laying on a bed waiting to hear my fate. Wait 'til you hear what my fate was. It's lame.

I listened to the baby cooing and heard her parents talking about how cute she was, how well she was handling everything, how they hoped she was alright and not too terribly sick. I remembered how when our children have been sick, particularly in the E.R., our hearts turn to them and every healthy thing they do is a revelation and a blessing. I heard a lot more loving words in there, as opposed to stressful talk. It was soothing to hear everything happening around me. (so please forgive me for my well-intended nosy-ness? At least I don't tell other people's secrets--just mine)

Even the lady at the front desk, an elderly petite lady, made helpful conversation while I sat out-of-breath, waiting. A gust of wind came in through the closing doors and she said, "You know, there are so many of those little flower petals blowing around in this wind! Every time I open my garage, they get blown in." I forgot my aching lungs and smiled, imagining this cute lady standing in her garage, flabbergasted and surrounded by white cherry blossom petals carried on wind.

Oh. Are you wondering what I had? Well, I told you it's lame--they don't know. They figured it's a virus (given the fever) and sent me home, my fever down. It's alright. Aside from feeling rather silly and even a bit sheepish today, I'm functioning better and in much less pain. At least I made my little e.r. visit fun for myself, listening to the conversations around me and composing this post in my mind all the while.