Rat: I've never told anyone this before, but I'm a bit of a poet.
Mole: Well, I wouldn't worry about it. It's probably just a stage. I once had a shot on the trombone.
--from the dramatized version of The Wind in the Willows produced by the BBC. (One of many great things we heard as we drove this week.)
I imagine you can guess why I like this quote so much.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Scenery
First of all, thanks to those of you who have stuck with me through my drought phases here. I have not suddenly gotten sicker and quit posting. My excuse this time is that I just got back from a ten-day camping trip with all my guys.
Ten days!
What a logistical feat I have pulled off. I am quite proud. We didn’t starve; in fact we ate quite well. (I'll let you in on a little secret: you can wrap hot pockets in foil and cook them in the coals of a campfire. Yum!) All of our reservations came through. All of my planning proved accurate and effective. We did it!
I’ll spare you the detailed itinerary but, in a nutshell, we saw/camped in: Fishlake National Forest, Bryce Canyon, Grand Canyon, Zion’s, and Great Basin National Park (where Lehman Cave is). The kids earned their “Junior Ranger” badges in all four of the National Parks (and are quite proudly wearing them around the house today). I am so very pleased at how much they enjoyed it and got into all of the learning activities. The highlight of the trip was the hike down into Bryce (Navajo Loop). The kids would probably say that the highlight was swimming in Grandma and Grandpa’s hotel swimming pool just outside of Zion’s. It was all just great.
Best quote of the trip came from P when we took him to the bathroom (a pit toilet) the first night: “Oh, THIS kind of potty? I LOVE this kind of potty!!!!” (Only a male would say such a thing. There’s nothing like the breeze that wafts up upon one’s nether regions from those things . . .)
I saw a lot of beautiful scenery on this trip. And I’m feeling kind of perplexed. Why is it that I love to look at beautiful landscapes so much, but hate to read landscape poetry (or write it)? I’ve never enjoyed purely descriptive poetry. I can’t figure out why not. Even in fiction I sort of skim over the “poetic description” parts to get down into the action or back into the character’s thoughts. (I love character-driven fiction, so it’s not that I’m just addicted to action.) I guess I just prefer interior landscapes—in literature. But I sure love seeing nature in real life. Then again, I love just as well to walk around a neighborhood at dusk and peer into people’s windows. (Another kind of interior landscape, I guess.)
Ten days!
What a logistical feat I have pulled off. I am quite proud. We didn’t starve; in fact we ate quite well. (I'll let you in on a little secret: you can wrap hot pockets in foil and cook them in the coals of a campfire. Yum!) All of our reservations came through. All of my planning proved accurate and effective. We did it!
I’ll spare you the detailed itinerary but, in a nutshell, we saw/camped in: Fishlake National Forest, Bryce Canyon, Grand Canyon, Zion’s, and Great Basin National Park (where Lehman Cave is). The kids earned their “Junior Ranger” badges in all four of the National Parks (and are quite proudly wearing them around the house today). I am so very pleased at how much they enjoyed it and got into all of the learning activities. The highlight of the trip was the hike down into Bryce (Navajo Loop). The kids would probably say that the highlight was swimming in Grandma and Grandpa’s hotel swimming pool just outside of Zion’s. It was all just great.
Best quote of the trip came from P when we took him to the bathroom (a pit toilet) the first night: “Oh, THIS kind of potty? I LOVE this kind of potty!!!!” (Only a male would say such a thing. There’s nothing like the breeze that wafts up upon one’s nether regions from those things . . .)
I saw a lot of beautiful scenery on this trip. And I’m feeling kind of perplexed. Why is it that I love to look at beautiful landscapes so much, but hate to read landscape poetry (or write it)? I’ve never enjoyed purely descriptive poetry. I can’t figure out why not. Even in fiction I sort of skim over the “poetic description” parts to get down into the action or back into the character’s thoughts. (I love character-driven fiction, so it’s not that I’m just addicted to action.) I guess I just prefer interior landscapes—in literature. But I sure love seeing nature in real life. Then again, I love just as well to walk around a neighborhood at dusk and peer into people’s windows. (Another kind of interior landscape, I guess.)
Friday, May 18, 2007
Name That Tune Friday
Here you go:
"Her name was Lola;
She was a showgirl.
With yellow feathers in her hair
And a dress cut down to there . . . "
Who sings it? Can you quote any more of it?
I can actually admit while looking you in the eye that I kinda like disco. And with my new perm, I am so ready to go shine up the floor! Turn the light on the mirror ball; I've got my bell-bottoms on. Let's boogie!
"Her name was Lola;
She was a showgirl.
With yellow feathers in her hair
And a dress cut down to there . . . "
Who sings it? Can you quote any more of it?
I can actually admit while looking you in the eye that I kinda like disco. And with my new perm, I am so ready to go shine up the floor! Turn the light on the mirror ball; I've got my bell-bottoms on. Let's boogie!
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Mate Bait
. . . I’m not anymore. And I am coming to accept it. To tell you the truth, it’s not as if I ever was all that much of a catch. I was never the type of girl that guys cross a room to meet, or beg my roommate for my name and number, etc. I was the girl next door, the one you “had to get to know.” I grew on you.
But anyway. I got sick of waiting for my hair to grow out last week and went and got a perm. Yes, people do still get perms, at least according to my stylist. I haven’t had one in probably twenty years. I’ve been sick. I didn’t care that much. I was up for taking a chance. So I did it.
Yikes! Looks like I stuck my finger in a socket.
The funny thing is that it brought back memories of all the bad perms and haircuts I’ve had over the years, and all the crying I’ve done after each one. This time I didn’t cry—well, maybe a little, but it was more because I had a doctor's appointment that day (right after the perm), and the doctor wasn't helpful and I felt that the bad hair was just adding insult to injury. It wasn’t so much that I cared what people were going to think and that I was afraid to go out in public. I discovered that I didn’t care anymore. Sure, I look like Carrot Top or Bozo the Clown. But I’m sick. I feel sick. I act sick. I look sick. How does having bad hair change anything? It just doesn’t matter anymore.
But as I think about it, I see that it’s not just that I’m sick. It’s also that I am getting old. I turn 37 next month. !!!!!! That’s officially “pushing forty,” isn’t it? And I realize suddenly that I am not mate bait anymore. As in: no one cares how I look. How I look has no effect whatsoever on what people think of me anymore. I’m just a “lady in the ward.” People know me because of my calling, because of my kids, possibly (dream on) because of my writing. But no one cares how I look.
This is freeing. And also a little sad. I somehow missed out on the phase in which I am hot and feel hot. (Isn’t everyone entitled to at least a few years of that? A month? A couple of days?) I kept planning to lose weight, find the right haircut, etc., and I never really got there and now it’s gone. I can daydream about what it must feel like, but I’m realizing now that I’ll never experience it. Aaah, sigh. It wasn’t important. But would have been nice. (I have, however, lost the weight. I am in a size six now. I am svelte! But I don't even care now because for me it is a symbol of not feeling well.)
Meanwhile, I am less afraid to look people in the eye anymore. So I’m middle-aged with a bad perm. Also dark circles under my eyes. But I’m alive. My life is good. I can do an awful lot considering how I feel. I’m actually quite happy. What does it matter? It’s kind of nice to move from caring to not caring, from worrying to just being. I’ll take it. I don’t mind getting older—I’m only just now beginning to feel like a grownup. It’s a good life.
While I was at the doctor’s office, I picked up a magazine (Salt Lake City) and found a feature on local bands. And there in the picture was my first crush, the guy I adored—and was sure I would eventually marry--at age 14. He didn’t look any older. I figure he must be 40 or so, but he looks like an overgrown teenager. Still playing Mr. Cool with his little band. That was pretty bizarre. I wondered what it would be like to run into him at the mall or something—would I be embarrassed about how I turned out? I look pretty much like your typical Mormon housewife. Is that bad? Well, I’d like to think he would look at me and think, “Wow!” But I’m pretty OK with thinking that he’d probably say to himself, “Well, she turned out just like her mother.” That’s not a bad place to be. I like my mom and am pretty proud of how her life turned out (and the huge turnout at her funeral tells me she had a big impact on the world, housewife and all).
It’s nice to know that I wouldn’t trade my life for a cooler, posher, chic-er life. It’s nice to know that I like who I am, perm or not.
In other news, I’m told Dialogue will publish two more poems of mine. And, even more exciting, I got a package in the mail from my friend Mark a couple of days ago, and inside it was . . . a chapbook of MY POETRY!!!!!!! The guy went and printed up a booklet of the poems he could find of mine online. All stitched up with a cover and a picture and everything. I love it! It’s so cool to hold it and flip through it! I can’t imagine that anyone else would ever care, but it’s got me dreaming . . . could I ever produce a book? Maybe? Someday?
I suppose I’d have to get my brain back first. But I will. I will heal; I know it. I am thinking healthy, faithful thoughts. Meanwhile, Mark made my day. What a guy.
And here, because I claim not to care, is the Hair. (It needs a capital letter because at this point it would probably require its own plane ticket.)
But anyway. I got sick of waiting for my hair to grow out last week and went and got a perm. Yes, people do still get perms, at least according to my stylist. I haven’t had one in probably twenty years. I’ve been sick. I didn’t care that much. I was up for taking a chance. So I did it.
Yikes! Looks like I stuck my finger in a socket.
The funny thing is that it brought back memories of all the bad perms and haircuts I’ve had over the years, and all the crying I’ve done after each one. This time I didn’t cry—well, maybe a little, but it was more because I had a doctor's appointment that day (right after the perm), and the doctor wasn't helpful and I felt that the bad hair was just adding insult to injury. It wasn’t so much that I cared what people were going to think and that I was afraid to go out in public. I discovered that I didn’t care anymore. Sure, I look like Carrot Top or Bozo the Clown. But I’m sick. I feel sick. I act sick. I look sick. How does having bad hair change anything? It just doesn’t matter anymore.
But as I think about it, I see that it’s not just that I’m sick. It’s also that I am getting old. I turn 37 next month. !!!!!! That’s officially “pushing forty,” isn’t it? And I realize suddenly that I am not mate bait anymore. As in: no one cares how I look. How I look has no effect whatsoever on what people think of me anymore. I’m just a “lady in the ward.” People know me because of my calling, because of my kids, possibly (dream on) because of my writing. But no one cares how I look.
This is freeing. And also a little sad. I somehow missed out on the phase in which I am hot and feel hot. (Isn’t everyone entitled to at least a few years of that? A month? A couple of days?) I kept planning to lose weight, find the right haircut, etc., and I never really got there and now it’s gone. I can daydream about what it must feel like, but I’m realizing now that I’ll never experience it. Aaah, sigh. It wasn’t important. But would have been nice. (I have, however, lost the weight. I am in a size six now. I am svelte! But I don't even care now because for me it is a symbol of not feeling well.)
Meanwhile, I am less afraid to look people in the eye anymore. So I’m middle-aged with a bad perm. Also dark circles under my eyes. But I’m alive. My life is good. I can do an awful lot considering how I feel. I’m actually quite happy. What does it matter? It’s kind of nice to move from caring to not caring, from worrying to just being. I’ll take it. I don’t mind getting older—I’m only just now beginning to feel like a grownup. It’s a good life.
While I was at the doctor’s office, I picked up a magazine (Salt Lake City) and found a feature on local bands. And there in the picture was my first crush, the guy I adored—and was sure I would eventually marry--at age 14. He didn’t look any older. I figure he must be 40 or so, but he looks like an overgrown teenager. Still playing Mr. Cool with his little band. That was pretty bizarre. I wondered what it would be like to run into him at the mall or something—would I be embarrassed about how I turned out? I look pretty much like your typical Mormon housewife. Is that bad? Well, I’d like to think he would look at me and think, “Wow!” But I’m pretty OK with thinking that he’d probably say to himself, “Well, she turned out just like her mother.” That’s not a bad place to be. I like my mom and am pretty proud of how her life turned out (and the huge turnout at her funeral tells me she had a big impact on the world, housewife and all).
It’s nice to know that I wouldn’t trade my life for a cooler, posher, chic-er life. It’s nice to know that I like who I am, perm or not.
In other news, I’m told Dialogue will publish two more poems of mine. And, even more exciting, I got a package in the mail from my friend Mark a couple of days ago, and inside it was . . . a chapbook of MY POETRY!!!!!!! The guy went and printed up a booklet of the poems he could find of mine online. All stitched up with a cover and a picture and everything. I love it! It’s so cool to hold it and flip through it! I can’t imagine that anyone else would ever care, but it’s got me dreaming . . . could I ever produce a book? Maybe? Someday?
I suppose I’d have to get my brain back first. But I will. I will heal; I know it. I am thinking healthy, faithful thoughts. Meanwhile, Mark made my day. What a guy.
And here, because I claim not to care, is the Hair. (It needs a capital letter because at this point it would probably require its own plane ticket.)
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Wealthy
Good things about yesterday:
I didn't throw up.
I didn't get a speeding ticket.
I didn't get in a fender-bender.
My kid didn't pee on anyone's new sofa (although he did the day before).
None of my kids' teachers called to say they are struggling.
None of my kids came home sick.
The washer didn't break.
The car didn't break down.
No one crashed into the twin towers.
My father didn't have a stroke.
I didn't say the wrong thing to my mother-in-law.
I didn't deposit the check into the wrong account and bounce a check (although that happened twice last month).
My husband didn't get hit in the eye with a softball.
I didn't completely forget about any carpools and leave kids stuck somewhere.
It wasn't my turn to set up the visiting teaching appointments.
I didn't have to prepare a lesson on missionary work.
The air conditioning worked in the car.
I didn't hurt anyone's feelings (I think).
I didn't have a paper due.
The taxes were already done.
I didn't have to grocery shop (yeah!).
I didn't have to buy new bras either (yeah!).
I didn't have to call any doctors to beg them to order tests (at least not yesterday).
I didn't have to scrape frost off of the car.
No PTA meetings.
I didn't have an earache or a cold sore or a canker.
The kids stayed in bed once we put them down.
I didn't have to fast—but I chose to, and was physically capable of doing it.
It was a beautiful spring day and I spent time holding still and listening to birds and wind.
I read some, worked some, prayed some, sang some, played some. After dinner I hung with my kids and then went to bed peacefully. . . is there a better definition of wealth than this?
I didn't throw up.
I didn't get a speeding ticket.
I didn't get in a fender-bender.
My kid didn't pee on anyone's new sofa (although he did the day before).
None of my kids' teachers called to say they are struggling.
None of my kids came home sick.
The washer didn't break.
The car didn't break down.
No one crashed into the twin towers.
My father didn't have a stroke.
I didn't say the wrong thing to my mother-in-law.
I didn't deposit the check into the wrong account and bounce a check (although that happened twice last month).
My husband didn't get hit in the eye with a softball.
I didn't completely forget about any carpools and leave kids stuck somewhere.
It wasn't my turn to set up the visiting teaching appointments.
I didn't have to prepare a lesson on missionary work.
The air conditioning worked in the car.
I didn't hurt anyone's feelings (I think).
I didn't have a paper due.
The taxes were already done.
I didn't have to grocery shop (yeah!).
I didn't have to buy new bras either (yeah!).
I didn't have to call any doctors to beg them to order tests (at least not yesterday).
I didn't have to scrape frost off of the car.
No PTA meetings.
I didn't have an earache or a cold sore or a canker.
The kids stayed in bed once we put them down.
I didn't have to fast—but I chose to, and was physically capable of doing it.
It was a beautiful spring day and I spent time holding still and listening to birds and wind.
I read some, worked some, prayed some, sang some, played some. After dinner I hung with my kids and then went to bed peacefully. . . is there a better definition of wealth than this?
Friday, May 04, 2007
Poetry Moment
The trick she said is keeping
the table empty enough
for God, whether you expect him for lunch or not.
-from “On Being Asked Have you ever written about Jacqui’s paintings?” by Lance Larsen, which appears in In All Their Animal Brilliance.
I love this little tidbit from one of Lance’s poems. It speaks to me deeply about the yearning for inspiration in my writing. It’s such a dance, keeping my mind empty and loose so that I can make an artist’s connections, while still keeping discipline in my life and work. The trick is to know what stage I’m at in creation, and which attitude to put myself in. The yoga and meditation is helping me be more receptive in my life in general. I see the fact that yoga came into my life at this time as one of God’s tender mercies. I can’t imagine how I’d be coping with this illness (yes, it still continues) without it.
BTW, I got a personalized rejection today, inviting future queries. Worth celebrating, no?
the table empty enough
for God, whether you expect him for lunch or not.
-from “On Being Asked Have you ever written about Jacqui’s paintings?” by Lance Larsen, which appears in In All Their Animal Brilliance.
I love this little tidbit from one of Lance’s poems. It speaks to me deeply about the yearning for inspiration in my writing. It’s such a dance, keeping my mind empty and loose so that I can make an artist’s connections, while still keeping discipline in my life and work. The trick is to know what stage I’m at in creation, and which attitude to put myself in. The yoga and meditation is helping me be more receptive in my life in general. I see the fact that yoga came into my life at this time as one of God’s tender mercies. I can’t imagine how I’d be coping with this illness (yes, it still continues) without it.
BTW, I got a personalized rejection today, inviting future queries. Worth celebrating, no?
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Lilacs
Sage is a summer morning jog, when the sprinkler water is hitting the cement and the sky is wide.
Jasmine is a hot bath and then buttery sheets.
Jasmine is a hot bath and then buttery sheets.
Lilac is a combination of those two feelings. The thing I love about lilac is that it is the essence of freshness, outdoors, and yet it has a little bit of the jawline skin of someone you love mixed in. It's intimate without being closed. It says hope, renewal, life more abundant: spring.
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