The Beauty of The Plan

I was driving down the road today and I saw a little girl running in her yard. The sun was shining down on her and her waist length tresses streamed out behind her, gold ribbons dancing in the wind.
It made me think about when I was a kid, how the wind would whip through my hair, and in my youthful innocence I imagined that the wind started blowing when I went outside, just so it could play with my hair.
I know, it sounds so vain, and I'll admit to a certain level of vanity, but perhaps it was not as vain as it sounds.
In Moses 1:39 it says: For behold, this is my work and my glory- to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.
You see, right there in black and white, it's about us, all of it. The whole focus of God's Eternal Life, the thing He Glories in, His greatest work, is US.
When I was younger I didn't understand that concept. I didn't understand why it would be about us. What could matter about us so much that God would care? I thought people loved for reasonS. I thought they loved you because you were pretty, or funny, or smart, or kind, or even because you were superwoman and were all of those things at the same time.
I didn't get it, I didn't get it for the longest time, after I became a mother. Then I understood that parents and God don't need reasonS, they have A reason. You are theirs.
God loves us because we are His. Not because there is something or a group of somethings about us that make us special. He loves us because we are HIS. He loves us because we are part of Him, the way our children are part of us.
When we love a child that child carries around a part of our very essence. We watch and protect that child, long to ease that child's pain, dream for that child, and feel the breath catch in our throats at the beauty of that child.
So when that little girl was running across her yard, I watched her and God watched her. I was awed by the beauty of the moment, but God was watching her and loving her, fluttering her hair with the wind He provides for her, warming her with the sun that He lit for her.
This is the constant, eternal, love of God, a love so great that it sustains us even when we ignore it. A love so great that it provides a way for us to begin to understand it, that we may accept it. God sends us children to teach us about His love, to teach us about how important we are to Him. He gives us these souls to show us how effective a parent can be even when the child seems to not be listening; to show us that constant care for those we love can be long, hard, and unappreciated, but that it is worth it. God gives us children to show us how the process of growth is not meant to be easy, on them OR on us, but that the growth is vital to success.
That is the beauty of The Plan, His Plan.
So next time your hair is whipped around in the wind, please know, that wind WAS sent for you. Your Heavenly Father just wants to play with His darling little one's hair for a minute, because He loves you.

Beauty

In days when I
was young and thin
with sparkling eye
and flawless skin
I thought that I knew beauty,
but now I see more truely.

The gift of age
to me has been
a wisdom sage
and joy therein
for now I know true beauty,
is something that's inside me.

Beauty free, beauty light,
beauty fills all my sight.

A baby's smile,
a weathered hand,
the extra mile,
a wedding band,
I see it all around me,
for beauty shines so freely.

In skipping stones
and basket balls;
in telephones
and crowded halls;
In each I see such beauty,
for joy and love surround me.

Beauty free, beauty light,
beauty fills all my sight.

For beauty rare
is Heaven's light
it's shining there
in all that's right.
In you I see that beauty,
that look that says "God loves me."

In every heart,
in every flower,
there is a part,
that feels His power,
and that my dear is beauty;
the part of us that's Godly.

Beauty free, beauty light,
Beauty fills all my sight.

Mother of My Son

My son has been giving me a lot of stress lately. (I really think it is closely connected with his upcoming 8th Birthday, if you follow me on that.) So today when he was missing as the announcements started in Sacrament Meeting I headed out to find him, again.
It didn't take long, much to my surprise he had been outside picking me a flower, having been denied possession of one of the typical Mother's Day carnations. He handed me this little beauty and wished me a happy Mother's Day.

After we sat down he reached over and ran his finger over the petal, then reached up and touched my face. "It feels the same," he said simply, and my heart just glowed.
I know he gives his Primary teacher a work out, I know his curiosity is going to cost me thousands before he is grown, and I know most days are a battle of epic proportions; but right there, that moment, that's what is so wonderful about being his mom. There is something pure and bright inside him, a sweetness hardly anyone else knows, and as much as I wish he showed it more often, it makes moments like this all the sweeter.

Now THAT'S clever

I enjoyed a movie recently that I really didn't expect to enjoy.
It was Avatar.
I know, everyone was singing its praises back when it was out, and when it was up for awards, but I didn't see it then.
We picked it up a few weeks ago. My husband watched it after I went to bed, and then insisted I watch it the next day. I'm glad he did (usually I don't trust his taste in movies, but here I am saying, "You were right honey.")
The graphics were incredible. Notice the period. Technology can be a beautiful thing, however, that isn't what impressed me. The plot was okay, just your basic remake of a historical favorite, typical "SciFi comments on history" kind of a thing.
What impressed me was the idea of a triple layer mind control in an alien symbiotic environment where the very nature of the planet lent itself to adopting an individual who proved not only instrumental but crucial to the protection of the environment.
The more I think about it, the more I think the author was a GENIUS.
I wish I was that clever. I mean, I can be clever, but WOW what an idea.

Daring

Dear Hollywood:
I just read a blurb that flashed up on my screen, inviting me to view the "daring" photo shoot of yet another screwed up celebrity.
What cracks me up is that you people still think that getting pictures taken of you in various kinds of lingerie is daring.
Sorry to break the news to you folks, but that's not daring anymore. We've reached the point in our society that whoring yourself for a camera and trying to buy approval with your sex appeal is MUNDANE! Who cares about your crack ravaged arms and fake DD's? Please, how often have we seen that? Give us a break.
You know what is daring? Having 15 kids, and raising them well, that's daring. Daring is having morals when everyone around you is throwing their soul away for cheap thrills. Daring is teaching your kids to pray, honor that which is holy, and read the word of God.
You think you can revolutionise the world by mainstreaming darker and more lascivious deeds? HA! You're not revolutionary, you aren't even unique, you're just another drop in the downward flowing tide.
You know what? I feel really sorry for you.

I'm really only posting this for me

I just want to put it down somewhere so I will remember it, someday I may need the reminder.

A girl who read my book (the second one) came to me a few days ago and asked if she could read my book again.

I write for me, I write as a hobby, and outlet. Getting published is only a tiny part of it.

However, it is immensely gratifying that someone, especially a shy someone, would ask to RE-read my work.

That is a true compliment.

The Completion of a Quest

Ladies and Gentlemen,
It is my honor to announce that after 15 years of searching I have finally found the illusive desire of my heart.
Long ago a beloved friend gave me a rare and precious gift. Inside the deep purple bottle was contained a fragrance beyond compare. I loved it from the first whiff, and rationed the precious ounces out over the years. It was one of the few scents I could wear without feeling constriction in my chest, an unpleasant feeling I have known again and again in the intervening years.
For ration as one way, a few ounces will go away, someday, and leave one destitute and scentless.
Then, one day (as I waited for the children to pick up the toys at Grandma's before going home) I picked up a magazine. Flipping through the pages I came up on an advertisement for a new perfume. I took a cautious sniff, ready for my lungs to seize in protest, as they nearly always did.
Instead, I knew instantly that I had found it at last! That scent! It bore another name, it wore another bottle, but I knew it instantly!
My next trip to the store had me venturing boldly among the bottles I usually avoided, but alas, they did not stock it! So I found among the lotions one that had the tiniest whiff of the right scent buried under the other ingredients.
There you are, orchid sweet, I have found you, where have you been all these years?
I wore the lotion often, but though that one, perfect scent was there among the others, and I smelled so very nice indeed, I longed for a fuller experience of my beloved scent.
Then Friday night my husband decided we needed to go grocery shopping at 11:30 pm. I had my second wind (having just printed out the 5th draft of my second book) so I went along only a little reluctantly. We strolled along, enjoying the freedom that the kids regular Friday night at Grandma's gives us to be an old married couple. Then as we passed the perfume aisle a purple display caught my eye! Hurrah! My illusive scent, my passionate perfume, at last I have you! I can spray you on my arm and drink you in. At last my big nose is the hero of my body as it fulfills the role to which it was born!
At last, at last, I have found my orchid perfume.
Thank you Halle Berry.
(And by the way, the orchids at our Lowes are defective and have no scent at all, or I would own a roomful.)

Scary Thought

I realised today how incredibly close I am to forty. I suppose it means I've turned a page in my life that I can look at a span of 9 years as "close," but all the same, yikes!

It's not the big looming number FORTY that people fear, because like I did with my thirties I and looking forward to my forties. I don't fear age and rather enjoy the thought that I am proportionately closer to catching up to my mom every day that passes.

No, it's something else that scares me. I look at my forty-something friends and I realise how much have to learn, how much I need to mature before I'm there. Knowing as I do that wisdom and maturity come through attrition, yup I'm a bit scared. That's a lot of hard-knocks.

I'll take them though, and try to learn as much from each to avoid re-peat blows. I'll do it because I want to be like them, and I know not all forty-somethings ARE like these beloved women. So I've got to do it right, as scary as it is.

I suppose this is kind of what it felt like walking up to the veil between the pre-earth life and mortal birth.

On My Birthday

Now that another year is done
And I am turning thirty-one,
It's time for me to celebrate
The blessing of a life so great.
I take my opportunity
To think of all God's given me.

Parents so dear, and far away,
Put so much into today
Labor to bring me to this world,
Remain I in their love still curled.
Formed and born, then raised up in love,
The first of blessings from above.

Then to flank me along my way
Came siblings in their vast array.
Though side by side the world we met,
We see it not the same, quite yet.
Oh the things I could only learn,
From the teachers that Mom has born.

Friends came, some went, but some did stay.
They cheer and bless down to today.
Some knew me back when I was small
Some got to know me grown and tall,
But each a gift, a treasure true,
Thank heaven I was given you.

Funny and sweet, and often kind,
And so complex I've come to find.
This man who walks along with me
May not see our eternity,
But helps me grow in his own way,
And works for me all night and day.

Then came a child, with much to teach,
Learned not I from her baby speech,
But from her quiet, gentle way
Found truth in all my parents say.
Though deaf to truth, for all those years
I've learned by crying Mommy tears.

A gift I gave, on Father's Day,
A gift to whom? I hear you say.
My son, a gift, to all he knows,
To all who shape him as he grows.
In helping him be still and reach
We find the patience that we preach.

More drama than should ever be
Confined in one little body,
The fairy that could rule the world,
Nations around that finger twirled,
This force of nature I'm to groom,
And help her in the light to bloom.

Yes, blessed am I, beyond the price,
I've paid, lo He has giv'n me twice!
Through time's wisdom I can now see,
The Lord is anxious to bless me.
So I trust in His constancy,
Wait and see what He makes of me.

I turn my thoughts from of happiness,
To pain with which I have been so blessed.
For change, progress, comes not in ease,
But in dark hours spent on my knees.
Lord, I thank thee also today
For the trials I've lived on my way.

In conquering each bitter hour
I've learned my strength, and trust God's power.
There is not formed an enemy,
That we can't conquer, God and me.
I know not joy like which is from
Each trial that We have overcome.

Blessed am I beyond all measure,
Blessed beyond a great king's treasure.
No mere candle could grant a wish,
To match my over flowing dish
Of family, friends, and victories won.
Just think, the fun has just begun.

Egg hunt

Perhaps I shouldn't have put the PINK egg there.

She is such a drama queen.

I have found the lesson

Thank you to all who have so kindly, gently, and lovingly helped me. The comments on my last post and the ones on babycenter have been wonderful to read, wonderful to ponder, a balm on my heart.

As I watched conference yesterday I was filled, and only after reflecting on all of this combined have I concluded what I needed to learn. I should say re-learn, in a better an deeper way. It is something I have been taught for years, but now understand better.

The only opinion about me that matters is the Lord's opinion.

I have been blessed, truly, deeply, abundantly blessed with people in my life that love me. I rather adore myself too, which is sometimes not such a good thing... but you are all right. I have set far to much stock, for far to long, on what others think of me.

Perhaps this harks back to my childhood, when others proclaimed me ugly. Those who loved me said otherwise, but for some reason I believed the negative others. Or perhaps it was an extension of my knowledge that people are likely to be rather blind to their own faults.
Where ever it came from, I was wrong to allow others to challenge the whisperings of the spirit.

God loves the stuffing out of me, and I'm so thankful that He does. He is acquainted fully with all of my shortcomings, my secret thoughts, my desires, and my potential. He knows me better than I do, and He tells me I'm a good person. So I'm going to trust that, and try again to see the good person he sees in others. I AM going to continue to look for the good in them, I am going to assume good intentions in them. I am going to continue to see God in every face I look on.

Thank you all for helping me find my way through the fire. This side of the trial feels lovely.

I need some advice

Sorry this is so long, but you know me, I have to write it all BOOK length.

Some of you may know that I have, of late, had the opportunity to reflect in some depth on the way I handle my real-life relationships with other people.
Online I'm great. I put myself out there and don't usually see where people snicker at me, think little of me, speak badly of me behind my back, etc.
The trouble is, in real-life I've been having a lot of trouble lately. So let me explain where I'm coming from and I would appreciate some honest advice.
I have held for the last several years a strict policy of assuming the best in others. When something happens I have trained myself to look for the possible good intentions of the person who did it. I try to put myself in their shoes and give them every opportunity to NOT be a villain.
For the most part, I have found that this makes me see things from a more Christlike perspective. (Not that I'm bragging, I know I am far from perfect in this... esp with my kids, sigh.) With practice it has become my nature to think of 3-4 good motivations for an action, even if the action is "bad" by popular standards. This has made it easier for me to see others in a good light and love them in spite, or even because of their mistakes. I even get along with my mother-in-law pretty well (which will shock anyone who has known me long.)
I think I am right in this choice, most people are not cruel by nature. They are God's children, and whatever their mistakes they do things thinking they are doing the right thing. Why would anyone hold a perspective they do not really believe? Why would anyone stand for something unless they feel it is right? They wouldn't, people who know or suspect they are wrong re-think, adjust their stance, try to be more right.
The only cases of cruelty or ill-intent I have seen have been cases where it is obvious to me the person acts out of misinformation or anguish, and how can I condemn them for that?
My trouble lies in my recent experiences with people assuming the worst intentions IN ME. Somehow in this quest of new thinking I have apparently lost touch with the way others think (yes, even while trying to understand how they think. I'm not as smart as I think I am sometimes.) They assume ill-intentions of me all the time, think I do out of spite things I do out of logic and trying to balance the demands upon me. Even when I make a special effort to explain my intentions, they think I am a liar and really mean to injure them.
I really try not to make mistakes, I try to be kind, loving, and thoughtful in all I do. This recent rash of railings against me has left me teetering on the brink of depression and feeling lost.
I have realised that this is a something I really need to learn from, that something in my actions, or perspective must be lacking. This is another refining fire for me, another chance to become better, a chance to more closely align myself with the correct path. It just pretty painful right now, and I long for a sage verse of scripture to spell it all out for me. I need that ah-ha moment that suddenly clicks something inside me and unlocks the view of my next stepping stone.
So tell me, am I really supposed to live my life constantly choosing every action based on the myriad of bad-intentions others will imagine for me? Should I be adjusting my thinking to "How will someone think badly of me for this?" or "What choice will have the least amount of people angry with me?"
How do I live like that? How do I balance having a forgiving heart with living in a world where people seem to WANT to think badly of others? How on earth am I supposed to function thinking along that many paths at the same time, and all the time? My brain is already strained trying to juggle everything I've got going on.
Any thoughts? There has to be a simple solution for this. Something plain and precious, that's how God works, isn't it?
I guess I'm looking for the line between naive and truly wise, can anyone point me the right way?

Who I was ten years ago

Someone threw the questions out: "Are you the same person you were 10 years ago? Have you changed?"
Naturally this caused a bit of reflection, and I thought I'd post my thoughts here so they don't get lost.

I'm not very old, I'll be 31 next month, but I find as I age I'm kind of making a circle and coming back to be the person I was when I was very little. I'm re-learning to trust God more completely, to think well of people in the world, to love everyone, to think vividly, to give with my whole heart.
Elementary school kind of messed me up, sigh.
When I complete this circle I'll be older, more seasoned, but my ultimate goal is to get to the point where the real me is out there for all to see and not buried under all these layers of pain, sin, and worldly things. She's here inside me, and she is who I really am, I'm just not being faithful to who I am because I've let the world jade me.
There are things in my past that I am ashamed of, sigh, there are things from a few hours ago, yesterday, the day before that, I wish I hadn't done or had done better.
The thing that encourages me is that regret. It means that even though I'm not doing everything right, my intentions and desires are good, I still hunger and thirst after righteousness.
That hunger is the real me, she has always been there, and I'm proud to be her.

Another moment worth recording

My kids did not fight, argue, or yell for 30 minutes today.
I told them we would use my water color pencils and do art, but they had to be very polite to each other or the art session would be over. They were very good, used please and thank you, took turns with the single set of pencils.
Once they had finished the paintings they immediately started fighting again, but for 30 mintues we had love at home.

Small and Simple Things

I have a friend who I admire very much. She's like me, she has to create to stay sane. She is 10 times busier than I am with work, and yet she still finds time to be creative.
I noticed recently that there is a difference in our approaches to creativity, and that I have an important lesson to learn from her. You see, she does a lot of small things, little crafts. She doesn't undertake dragon costumes, doesn't stress herself over sculptures (oh dear... I have another post I've neglected to do). She doesn't burn herself out with her hobbies.
I tend to burn myself out being creative, I'm obsessive really. I know a part of it is because I crave affirmation of my talent via the compliments of others. Another part is the challenge of going bigger, doing better, than what I (or often others)have done before. The rest is the way it feels to funnel my energy into something and make something new out of raw material.
That last part is really the part that matters though. The others are my insecurities, my frailties, but that last part, that is the spark of God within me, is it not?
So I have decided to start finding some little things to do. Small projects, simple projects, little ways to put that spark of creativity in my day to fill the gaps between my big projects.
As King Benjamin said, "for it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength."
Also, as Alma said to his son, "behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass."
So if you are ever on my other blog and see something non-astounding, this is why. I'm pacing myself, at least I'm going to try.

Do you know this song?

This post is going to be a little odd.

Okay, I was reading something on Random Acts of Kindness today, and all of the sudden this song popped in my head. I could hear the tune playing, and the words flowed with it, but... to tell you the honest truth I'm not sure if I was writing it or if I've heard it somewhere.

You've got to understand this is the way things come to me sometimes, they just flow, so maybe it is mine. However, if anyone can point me to a place with a song just like it I'd be grateful someone gave it a better chance than my musical talents ever will.

I've tried googling some of the key phrases to no avail. The verse is low, with emphasis on the last two word of each line. The chorus has two kind of bouncy lines at the front and then the rest is passioned.

Help!

Got myself in a real bad jam.
I knew my soul was all but damned.
I'd lost my faith, I'd lost my way.
knew my debt was to much to pay.
Then I hit bottom hard one day,
knew I had no course but pray.

Chorus:
And then in swooped my Brother,
He was there like no other.
Lifted me up and helped me stand,
and of me plead, did not demand,
"Follow me and learn my way
and all your debt I'll gladly pay."

Every day now I see the dawn
and can't believe the night is gone.
My burden's light, and I am free,
livin his way and I'm happy.
I walk this road, just move my feet
and keep on walkin' Jesus Street.

People ask why I try so hard,
and try to do more than my part.
They think maybe that I'm some saint.
I tell them all, hey, no I 'aint.
I'm just a sinner, freed from sin.
I'm just showin' my love for him.

Because in swooped my Brother.
He was there like no other.
Lifted me up and helped me stand
and of me plead, did not demand,
"Follow me and learn my way
and all your debt I'll gladly pay."

I know I can't really pay it back
but I give even though I know I lack...

Because in swooped my Brother,
He was there like no other.
Lifted me up and helped me stand,
and of me plead, did not demand,
"Follow me and learn my way
and all your debt I'll gladly pay."

What it is like to eat raw squid.

Adventurous aren't I?
What can I say? I do the craziest things for research, within reason, and I don't know where it was that day.
The first thing I should note is that when they bring you squid on your sushi plate, it is placed upon a little roll of sticky rice. Trust me, you want both in your mouth at once.
With the rice, it's not bad. Completely flavorless. I expected salty, and I was wrong. There was no flavor at all.
There was a snap to the squid when I bit into it, then as I chewed it just mixed in with the rice. It was rather unremarkable really. I didn't like it as much as the smoked salmon (now that's good stuff) but I didn't mind the squid at all. I wasn't into the brand of soy sauce they had on hand, so I only dipped it lightly to give it a little flavor.
Then my husband noticed that the thin triangles left when the chef shaped my previous mouthfuls were used as part of the garnish. He scooted them over to my side of the plate and I blithely picked one up with my chopsticks and put it in my mouth.
It was then that I discovered what raw squid is like without rice.
That initial snap was there, where my teeth met the resistance of the meat then the pressure of my jaw suddenly broke through. Then I moved the bite to my molars and started to chew. Squid is not as hardy of a meat as it would initially seem. It's like the opposite of steak, which is tender and pliant at first but resilient in the long run. Instead, squid is firm in the beginning, but then dissolves into a puddle of slime in your mouth.
The worst part was, I wasn't careful to bite all the way through, so I had a layer of slime that my teeth had created on both surfaces, but the inside remained intact. So I had to cut through the layers of slime and sever that intact layer in order to swallow.
Then the slimy sensation of it going down almost brought the rest of my eight bucks back up.
If you ever get brave enough to try raw squid, eat it with the rice, and good sauce.

Man, where's my fanfare?

I think I just figured out why my husband plays his video game so much.


He just finished a 25 person fight against some massive foe. He was going around healing everyone, which means he wasn't even fighting, he was support services.


Then as the mighty foe fell the constant stream of direction from the group leader, which blared from his headphones, was interrupted by fanfare. Trumpets and cymbals, everyone rejoiced as they divided up the loot.


NO WONDER he's hooked.

Man if I got trumpets blaring every time I completed a task in my support services roll, you'd better believe I'd be back for more. I'd smell the faintest whiff of poopy and go looking for that diaper. I'd wrestle the kid from my co-worker's arms, then once the foul foe besetting the bitty bottom and the olfactory senses of the world was conquered, I'd get that fanfare! Dum-de-da-da! Another victory for the side of good!Let all the clean bottoms rejoice!


I'd get all the kids across the street safely and then get to watch the parade in my honor.


The guy gets armor, jewels, gold, for slaying beasts. I guard the house against the monsters in the closet every night... where's my gold, diamonds, anyone? Come on!


I guess that's the difference between games and reality though, the fanfare. I'd better just put it out of my mind... no, better yet, I'm going to learn from it. I bet you I can find a fanfare audio file somewhere. Then every time I crunch out oh... 1,000 words in my book (can't make it too easy) I'll play that fanfare. Dum-de-da-da! Thora has just communicated what it's like to eat raw squid. The crowd goes wild! It's a victory over writer's block! Someone call the President!


You know what? I like fantasy. I like that someone says "ding" every time he levels-up his character. I especially like that his playing games has gotten me enough free time to write nearly 80 thousand words since July 27th, and I'm not even support roll on that, I'm the tank, I'm the head spell caster. So there!


Yay me!


I'm going to go find that fanfare now.





(I would also like to take this opportunity to formally thank my real fanfare. You know who you are, though I will never really understand why you love and believe in me so much. I could never get past all my self-doubt and keep writing if I didn't have you my lovelies. Thank you. God bless you all, because I will never be able to repay you fully myself.)

Do other people not read this way?

I got looked at oddly this week, which yes, that's par-for-the-course in my life, but it was the sort of odd look that gets me thinking.
So I'd like to put this out there and find out if I'm really that much of a freak. Feel free to comment with "FREAK!" I promise I won't mind.

When I read a book, I am in that world. I am totally absorbed in it, it is all around me, I live that book. If I'm in the middle of a good book and have to put it down to go to work, make dinner, go out to eat, I CANNOT get that book out of my head.
I literally see things differently, the elements of the book keep creeping into my reality. I'm not hallucinating or anything, but things in my life tie into the text.
This doesn't go away until I finish that book. With Harry Potter, it lasted for years because the story wasn't finished (plus, what a fun world to live in!)
I don't know if it's just something I picked up off the autistic spectrum of fun little disorders that was laid out like a buffet before my family. Or perhaps I've just got a knack for suspension of reality. It could also be completely normal, you tell me. Please. I'd like to know.
All I really know right now is I love it and I hate it. I love being able to smear myself with the ink of some other world and live it. I hate that sometimes I have to war with myself to get my head back in reality, it is emotionally painful and... well people look at me oddly.
So, if I start talking about Chinese legends or Greeco/Roman Mythology around you, please forgive me, I'm buried in my own ink, breathing it, drinking it, dreaming of it, and having a glorious time.

I got my first rejection

Just in case anyone is waiting to hear, I got my first form rejection letter today. I'm going to do a bit more research and then submit elsewhere.
And no, I'm not depressed, really, just ready to take the next step. Plus... I'm cooking two other books, lol.

If I go crazy

If I go crazy in the next couple of weeks it's for a very good reason.

No, it's not the end of summer maddness.

No, my kids have not driven me over the edge.

No, it's not my job/volunteer work.

No, it's not my dirty house.

I'm just waiting to hear from one of the best reputed book agencies in the business, and they give a four week window for a response.

Yes, my book is finished. It's been done for a few weeks now, and I've had two people go through and edit it. After changing all the "to/too"s I spent a week at my keyboard writing the query letter and synopsis. It took about an hour to get up the guts to hit send when I emailed the agents. I had to tell a friend on IM I was sending it, and she basically held my hand from across the sea as I willed my self to make that final click.

I've spent so long NOT telling people all about my book that it made me feel pretty vulnerable to nicely wrap it up and throw it to the sharks. Sink or swim little book. Sink or swim hours of research, late nights at the keyboard, characters I know like no-one else will, and intricate world that sprung from my heart.

I don't even get to watch it like I watch my kids in swim class. It's just gone, out there, completely out of my hands for the next 1 to 28 days.

So I'm trying not to think about it. I'm trying not to compulsively check my email too.

In that effort I went and spent way to much on fabric for Halloween costumes today (yes I know it's July, haven't you gotten started yet?). If you've ever taken three kids to a monstrously huge fabric store I'm sure you can guess that I didn't think about my book the entire time I was there. But the 115 minutes there and 140 minutes back? I thought about it, so I turned up the music and chair danced in the traffic jam, much to the amusement of the other drivers.

But now I'm home, and the envelope symbol on my yahoo mail icon is lit up.... ooh is it? Is it? No... it's Amazon with a sale on music to dance to in my car. To bad I just spent so much on fabric.

I think I'll go sew, or bead, or clean, or eat, or dance. Anything really to keep me busy...

while I think about it.

Thoughts on Thirty

In the year leading up to my birthday several people asked me how I felt about turning thirty. They always did it with that gleam in their eye. The gleam that revealed they expected their rather melodramatic young friend to give them a good show of grief and remorse for the loss of her youth.

I'm afraid I rather failed them, shame on me missing a chance to perform, but the simple fact of the matter is I have long looked forward to FINALLY turning thirty. After all these years, frustratingly stuck in my twenties, I'm free.

At last, a full adult, still physically young and full of life, but grown up at the same time. No longer when my age is asked do people stop listening when I say "I'm twe....." for I am not. I'm thirty. I am no longer in that purportedly carefree and energetic decade, no longer lumped with a ten year span of peers who freely use youth as an excuse for gross errors.

I am thirty! I'm in the decade that people write for themselves, the decade where you begin to live the life you have formed for yourself. The decade where you get to know your kids as people and not mini-me dolls that ruin your sleep. The decade where you settle into the rhythm of being alive.

It is such a relief to finally be here, finally at an age that seems to match where my soul has been all along. I'm finally at an age where the battle scars are part of the costume, introspection is socially allowed, and just wanting to experience the real things in life isn't so unusual. I'm no where near "over the hill" I'm just high enough up on the slope to have a really nice view.

So if anyone is thinking I'm secretly bemoaning the loss of my twenties and feeling old, you couldn't be more wrong. I love it. I love being thirty and I'm looking forward to forty now. These are going to be some great years. I'm going to learn so much, experience so much, love so much. I'm going to enjoy every minute of it. Come on thirties, what have you got for me?

Reading to My Son

I had already sent the kids to bed tonight when I head footsteps coming up behind me. It was my 6 yo son, who wrapped his arms around me as I typed. I stopped to give him a snuggle, intending to send him right back to bed.
Then he started reading my screen, struggling over the eloquent words I sprinkle liberally in my writing. My book was open, as I have been neglecting the laundry in favor of writing tonight. He got to where the cursor was flashing and asked what came next. So I got to brag to my son about the book I was writing and how what came next wasn't there yet, for I had yet to write it.
He was fascinated, and asked all about my book, its length, its subject... all with the excited twinkle only children can hold within their eyes. Thank heaven for little boys.
I scrolled back several pages and he crawled up on my lap. I read him the section of that story, with all the emotion and familiarity only the author can produce. He was entranced and kept stopping me to ask questions.
I showed him the special greeting exchanged by my fantasy characters, and he is so thrilled to be the first person on earth to know about that, like it's some great secret that will gain him entry into a magical place.
Perhaps it did, perhaps he is in this magical place with me. The magical place of my creation, known only to myself and a select few. All I know is I've got a fan, and it means everything to me to know that something I wrote can bring such light to my child's eye.
Even if I don't get published; if the years of typing and research and love come to naught, and the world I created is only shared with my family and friends; I will at least have shared it with my children. I will at least have given them a glimpse of what it means to create, and how delicious creation can be.

This may not mean anything to anyone else but...

I have finished the final battle scene in my book. I'm pages away from finishing my first draft.
There's a little mini-Thora jumping around gleefully inside of me, and she doesn't even mind that my husband teased me for crying over imaginary deaths.

(Oh and sorry, writing and getting my head around all the crazy personal stuff that has happened lately has rather kept me from blogging.)

I know why they call it Fall

I know why they call it Fall, and really it has very little to do with leaves.


Fall is my favorite season. There is something about that nip in the air that brings a quirk to the corner of my mouth. After being baked out of my clothes all summer, it is time to take out the clothes that cuddle my whole body and wear them in layers. I wait all year for my orange shirts to be in season, for my velvet jackets to come out of the back of the closet, for the long stripey socks to sneak up from the bottom of my drawer. It's time to show my colors again, it's time for Fall.


It's time to start making things with my hands, and thinking of giving to people I love. It's time to carve pumpkins and bake pies. It's time to stop mowing the lawn and start amassing deep and fluffy piles of leaves. It's time for cocoa and warm apple cider with a spoonful of honey. It's time for hiding with a book under a blanket on the chaise lounge. It's time to watch an enormous black and orange spider spinning his massive web from the bushes to the eaves. It's time for witches, for moonlit magic, and for buckets of candy. It's time for Fall.

Fall is the season of turning inward. As we wrap our jackets ever tighter about our chests we are warming up our hearts, getting ready for a season of love and celebration. We begin to think of all we have in a natural pre-winter inventory. While the squirrel sums up his stash of nuts we take stock of our blessings, as innumerable as they are.

Then our thoughts turn to families and friends, the true treasures of life, and we long to have them near our side. So we pull them tight around us, just like our jackets, and bask in the warmth of their love. We share a turkey, or a steaming bowl of soup, or perhaps just a late night long-distance call. We utter the words "Happy Thanksgiving," but instead they hear, "Thank you for being part of my life."

As the bright leaves cascade all around my house, and the acorns tap, tap, rattle-roll down my roof I'm taking a moment to let Autumn flow through me. I thank Heaven for the beauty around me, for my blessings, and for this season.

Autumn is when I fall back in love with life, and that's why they call it Fall.

(This is my submission for the November "Write-Away Contest" on Scribbit)

I have been "TAG"ed

Well thanks sis, lol.

The Rules for playing TAG:

• Link to the person who tagged you
• Post the rules on your blog
• Write six random things about yourself
• Tag six-ish people at the end of your post
• Let each person know he/she has been tagged
• Let the tagger know when your entry is up

Now for six random things (which is going to take some serious thought because "Numb3rs" had altered my perception of random.)

1. I have double jointed thumbs, which I realise isn't the right medical term but :p on that. All I know is that if I make a thumbs up the part of my thumb beyond the last knuckle points back towards my wrist.
2. I have an extra vertebra, my S1 isn't fused to my S2 like it's supposed to be. Which means I can really swivel my hips (ZUMBA!), but when that baby goes out of line it takes relaxation exercises and contortion to get it back in.
3. I tend to go home and cry if anyone is rude to me or sets me straight in a not-so-nice way. Pathetic I know, but what can I say? An open heart is open to it all. I'm going to keep it open though.
4. I haven't really fought with my Mother-in-law in months. Miracles really do happen, lol. I think she just figured out that if I'm making a stand, it's never on anything I'm flexible on.
5. Chocolate and oranges were made to go together, if you don't see at least two ways that applies to me you don't know me very well.
6. I hate video games.

I was tagged twice, so here's the other one.

Rules:

1. Get the book that's on your nightstand (or whatever you happen to be reading).

2. Open it to page 56 and find the 5th sentence.

3. Post the next couple of sentences on your blog, along with these instructions.

4. Do not go and find your favorite book; it has to be the one you are reading now!

5. Tag five other people to do the same.

I've been working my way through the New Testament. The other book I read is the one I'm writing and you aren't getting that!

Mark 1:28

And immediately his fame spread abroad throughout all the region round about Galilee.

I tag: Crystal, Kate/wiimiii/law, RubyJade, Bethany, Kaylene, and Jenni

Just pick which game you want to play!

Perfect Mother

Some time ago my daughter brought home something extra from school. It was a page torn from the the back of a magazine on which was depicted a cartoon super-mom complete with cape. In her innocent adoration of her mother, my daughter told me the pictured woman was me. I took comfort that in spite of all my failings, to her I'm a super mom. Then recently she brought home a worksheet about what she wanted to be when she grew up. I found it the highest compliment that she put it in writing that she wanted to be like me. The magazine page is in the back of my Primary binder (where I can stumble on it and be reassured while failing miserably at my calling,) and the worksheet is on the fridge where it has brought many a smile to my face and tingle to my nose.

I can only hope that my daughter keeps up her angelically forgiving attitude as long as I kept up mine towards my own mother. I hope that by the time she figures out how incredibly young, flawed, and inexperienced I was when she was growing up, I will have become a bit more like the person that she seems to see in me.

It's not an easy goal to reach, but then Iit is hard to find a definition of a good mother that is both desirable to me and attainable. For example, let me illustrate the skills and duties of the "perfect mother" in my culture.

The ideal woman must:

• Keep an immaculate house at all times.
  
• Decorate said house in crafts she's made with her own two hands.
  
• Take her 3+ children on visits to the park, but make these trips learning experiences packed with science, sociology, literature, and art.
  
• Teach each of her children 1-20 and a-z before entering kindergarten.
  
• Have her children evidence perfect decorum on shopping trips, in church, at social functions, and certainly at school.
  
• Read to each child every night before tucking them in, this is in addition to listening to them as part of homework.
  
• Be spiritually balanced and ready to extemporise on gospel principles with no advance notice.
  
• Cook gourmet meals from a pantry stuffed with whole wheat and legumes.
  
• Maintain her own appearance at least at a 7, even if she wasn't a 10 in the first place.
  
• Be employed in either a job, hobby, or volunteer work to "contribute to society."
  
• Bake her own bread.
  
• Be actively involved in church, holding imortant positions and going the extra mile.

The reader must be informed that these are the expectations of my culture, not my religion. Our church leaders are constantly telling LDS women that we should be kinder to ourselves. In fact, any good hearted man with half a brain would never place so many requirements on anyone.

The fact of the matter is, we do this to ourselves. In so many cases the guidance of our leaders is added to a list of chores instead of internalised. "After I clean the house and put the finishing touches on the charity event I need to practice having charity towards myself," we think to ourselves, and here's a shocker, we never get around to it!


So to my fellow exhausted and overworked LDS moms I offer this perspective. You are raising children, not a house. None of us will be judged on judgment day on the number of vegetables we masked with jello salad. The parable of the talents wasn't talking about toll painting, it was talking about spiritual gifts, Things like listening, forgiving, and sharing are the things we are to invest and reap the rewards of. He was telling us to use what gifts we DO have to build His kingdom, not that we are lacking if we do not develop more.

One of my dearest friends says she doesn't have any talents, and yet she is a really great friend and teacher. She greets new people at church all the time, she has a great shoulder for crying, she has a really positive attitude, she double fills her multiple callings, and she supports her husband in his good works. Now that's a good woman.
Personally, I sing, dance, paint, sculpt, plan parties, decorate cakes, sew, crochet, write, and make yummy Italian. My REAL talents, though, are my ability to love people and my desire to bring them joy. Those are the talents that God cares about me using, those are the talents that I need to invest myself in. The others are just fringe benefits to being me and ways to supplement my REAL talents.
What each of us needs to do is find out what her real talents are and invest herself in them. In our efforts to beautify the world we really need to start with making ourselves more beautiful inside. Make kindness a priority. Slow down just a bit.
The dishes will be there tomorrow, the laundry will always be heckling you from the couch, there will always be another meal to make, silver to polish, phone call to make... the world is not going to stop being so DEMANDING. You have to learn to tune it out, and get tuned in on the things that really matter.
Kind, meek, charitable, temperate, forgiving, long-suffering; those are the words that you want contesting for room on your tombstone, those are the skills that you need to master.
In Matthew 6:33 the Saviour admonishes his disciples "But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you." If they in their tasks as fathers, husbands, and disciples were to set aside the aspirations of their society and put following Christ as their first priority, how much might we prosper from a similar mindset?
Instead of wasting our time in search of perfection, if we took every moment and looked for the good we could do in it, then the perfection would come to us.
I know, I ask the impossible, I ask you to give up the pursuit on which you have based your identity. I ask you to somehow find the time to stop and think in each moment when you hardly have a moment to think. It's the only way though, it's the only way we are ever going to conquer this world.
Stop doing all the things that make a person the "perfect mother" and start to BE a more perfect person.

All of the sudden I'm a soccer mom

Alright, so none of my kids are in soccer, but I'm assuming everyone else in the world knows that's a demographic label for all mothers with kids in "activities," right? The embarrassing truth? I'd never really realised I was one until recently, is that horrible?

I have to admit, I wasn't really prepared to dive in to this portion of my life. I don't know why, I just kind of expected a few more years of reprieve before I had to juggle games and practices with work, hobbies, church calling, more hobbies, and husband. In point of fact I would probably have neatly avoided this whole whole "activities" experience if I hadn't moved to a community where "community" is so pervasive.

I had hardly moved in before a friend at church was asking if Tali was going to take dance, or even Jay, there are lots of boys at the studio she goes to... what about Jordan? So I look in to the price... uhhh no. Then I mentioned to her that I was going to need a part time job, and she hooked me up with my job.

It's a great job. I work with kids, I have great co-workers, great bosses, take dinner with me, get a discount on our family membership. Which is to say I am now plugged in to "activities."
I'm still getting used to this whole way of life. It's not at all a bad thing, it's just different from what I expected. This is just not a page I ever really expected to be writing on in my life.
To be honest I've still not completely defined to myself why this is such an odd fit for me, why I feel so awkward at the sidelines of my son's t-ball practices or watching my kids on parent day at swim lessons. I just feel like this is "old hand" for everyone else, like they are easily taking the steps in a line-dance that somehow I've completely missed out on learning. "Hey, who wants to bring snack for after our first game?" The volunteer coach's wife asks. The gears in my head were still catching up with her question when someone else had already volunteered. I just really hope I didn't look as completely inept as I felt at that moment. I mean, snacks, yeah, I heard soccer moms did that, but... am I a soccer mom now? I guess I am. I guess I was the summer before last when I was watching my kids take swim lessons and I just didn't know it.
But... I'm NOT a soccer mom! I'm not! I'm a bookworm, seamstress, creative, computer-junkie, kind of mom. I'm the kind of mom who makes pointy ears for all 25 kids in the class to wear in the play and who brings in strawberries for snack.

I'm... I'm... I'm not who I thought I was. I've been tricked!

I don't even know how to handle all this soccer mom stuff, I mean... wasn't I supposed to have an opinion on soccer mom types before I became one? Over-protective, laid back, competitive, which am I? I find myself cheering for every clank of ball and bat, be it our team or not... and then I think, "Am I doing this wrong? Am I supposed to participate more, or less? Is my son stuck out on second base the rest of the season? How many innings are there in t-ball? Why are there 9 innings in baseball anyway, and who gets more at bat? Why do they wear batting helmets when no one is pitching? Why didn't I think to bring lawn chairs and bottled water like everyone else?"

I just don't get it, I feel so... dumb! I'm not used to feeling dumb. But when it comes to sports and kids activities I simply don't know what I'm doing. I'm so out of touch that the whole thing feels very surreal. I was sitting there in my lawn chair at his second game, bottled water in hand, and it just felt like I was living a day out of someone else's life. There is NO WAY I was really sitting in a southern park in October watching a t-ball game while a bluegrass band practiced nearby. How did this scene get in my plot?

And now we've come to the part of my post where I sum it all up and say something sage that makes my Daddy proud and my sisters miss me... but tonight I'm out of sage-ness. So I think I'm going to take my hormonal, chubby, soccer mom self to bed and have a good cry to help get my head around all this. I'm going to take a few hours to figure out how I got from where I was to where I am, and how much of who I was I gave up getting to be who I am.
Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'm sure that some time tonight I will reconcile all this. Then with the morn I will take solace in the fact that, at the very least, we do not CURRENTLY own a mini-van. Both labels might have killed me.

There is nothing so universal as individuality

Yes, I came up with that on my own, thank you.

It's true though, there really is nothing so universal as individuality. Taking the statement as a whole, in the entire human family there are no two people exactly alike. Even twins vary in their experiences and outlook, and while there are common threads in nearly every heart, no two hearts will experience life the same way.

If we were put in a centrifuge and by sheer force lumped together with like minded persons we would still find in each layer of humanity a richness of variation and complexity that is un-chartable. Each person is entirely and beautifully unique.

Individuality is an interesting word though. In it's archaic sense it meant something that could not be divided, inseparable. Then after the "indivi" part we find the word "duality." This is interesting to me simply because duality is being two things at once. Indivisible dual nature, what an intriguing concept.

The theology which I subscribe to informs me that the two sides of my soul are flesh and spirit, the two key elements in my personal evolution, and the struggle between them decides the direction I take in this life and in the eternities. The purpose of this life is to learn to bring the flesh into subjugation to the spirit, to overcome the lust and desires of the flesh in favor of the quiet and favorable needs of the spirit.

I see people all around me who do all they can to express their individuality without taking into consideration what it really means to be an individual. It's not about what color you die your hair, your clothing style, how many various and sundry groups you belong to. Your individuality is really about where you stand in the process of perfecting yourself, and if you are even aware that this process is the goal of your existence.

I am as guilty of imperfection as anyone, but I often wonder what people are thinking as they go about their lives. Is introspection really as rare as it seems? I wonder how it is that people can be represented as polar opposites and yet in many ways be so alike in their individuality? I wonder if, as life on this spinning rock draws to a close, people die as alike as they are when they are born? Do most of us learn what we lived to learn? Are we as wise as when we first opened our eyes?

All those moments between birth and death, and what do they teach us, what do they prove? Just this, we have to choose. We much each choose the conquering part of our dual nature, and in doing so we reveal as a race the true nature of mankind.

I have great hopes of what that summation will reveal, don't you?

The reflection in my childrens' eyes

When I was younger people would comment to my mother how good her kids were, and she would always blame all the goodness on having started with good stock.
The nature verses nurture debate will last forever, but I like to think that every child reflects two sets of parents. Each of us reflects his or her earthy parents, be they biological or adoptive, and heavenly parents, the ones who fashioned our souls.
I think my mother had a point, my kids are certainly better people than the influence of their family and friends could have possibly made them. There is something in their eyes that reflects goodness known longer than their sojourn under my roof. There is a spark of love in them that is eternal and perfect, and the proof of divinity lies within that spark.
I live in wonder of all that God teaches me about Him and I through my children, and I thank Him for them every day.

I collaborated on a song recently

My friend sent me a file with a rought melody in it, she said that it was a song she had been writing and it needed words. As soon as I heard it I could feel the words coming together in my soul. So I put the kids to bed that night and sat down to see if I could pin those words down.

To tell the absolute truth though, I didn't write the words alone, and my freind didn't write the music alone. If you want to know who we had helping... read on.

He Loves Me Because I’m His Daughter

In a world ever changing I’m trying to grow,
and among all the paths pick which one to follow.
But among all life’s mysteries, this one thing I know,
That He loves me because I’m His Daughter.

I have beauty and promise I don’t always show.
If you look at my head you won’t find a halo,
But through all of my struggles this one thing I know,
That He loves me because I’m His Daughter.

So I pray to him each day, and through his guidance
I’m finding his ways… this I always know
That He loves me because I’m His Daughter.

There are good works and service that I strive to do,
and because of his blessings I seem to come through,
Then with each of our triumphs we prove this is true.
That He loves me because I’m His Daughter.

Through devotion and strife, I’ll prove with my life,
That I’m like him because I’m His Daughter.


If you want to hear the tune you can find it here, the person singing is my friend who wrote the music, and due to the recording conditions and the tune not being suited for her voice it's not the best recording in the world, but I still love it. I figured those who love me will love it too.

A prayer for the letter T

The difference between thought and though,
and this is something I should know,
is not but a letter, the letter t.

A single letter the difference defines
between excuses and errors prevented by time,
by tact, by taboo, by temperance and by me.

For what is “Thora,” but another t-word?
And what effect do I wish when “Thora” is heard?
My actions decide what the definition shall be.

Lord help me to think, and to pray ere I act,
to retrench my impulses and exercise tact,
that someday my title be a credit unto me and Thee.

Thora 6/14/08

Most Peaceful Trees

In the passage of time and throughout history,
be there anything as peaceful as a tree?
What but a tree could grow so large or tall
and not have bullied his way at all?

Each starts as a seed so passive as he moves
born on the wind, eaten, shuffled into grooves.
Then he nestles into the cool damp earth,
and waits patiently for his eventual birth.

Slowly he exercises the wisdom of eons,
and extends first his root, forever to lean on.
Only once he is rooted in times greatest treasure
does he reach to the sky in potential unmeasured.

Gently he grows, gracefully extending his boughs
dancing on the wind as only arbors know how.
With each sweep and bend in his undulating dance
He captures the viewer's heart, as if in a trance.

Then rest the gentle tree when naught disturbs him
and soaks up the sunshine that sprinkles upon him.
And whilst he is still, high above the ground,
his roots he extends without making a sound.

But there in the trunk, an insect invasion
the tree first confronts it with gentle persuasion
"I'm not tasty I'm tough, just look at this bark,
surely there's a tastier treat in the park."

But not dissuaded the ravaging parasite
bores into the tree and administers it's blight.
Defenses breeched he can naught but bleed,
and pray before his death to scatter his seed.

Then scatter he does, his last gift to the world
his young to grow up all leafy and knurled.
To dance and to play us the raspy leaf song
and grow to the sky so slender and long.

And to fill the void that is left by their sire,
once to the forest floor he has at last retired.
Whispering, "The worst damage he ever did at all,
was the day that his greatness, expired did fall."

Then with the autumn as each shivers and grieves,
and divests it's self of its opulent leaves,
they cover the dead, their beauty now shorn,
and in branches and sticks, his passing they mourn.

But once come the spring, his memory celebrate
and send forth new leaves, a memorial ornate,
and with dancing and music to celebrate life,
a sound more beautiful than dulcimer and fife.

Rejoice oh ye young trees, rustle and bounce,
spread forth your joy, despair thou renounce,
for life is your purpose, your being, your song,
and bestow it thou dost, thine whole life long.

Breathe in and breathe out oh generous tree,
Send forth sweet breath to each living thou see,
Gently nudge us aside, when thy way we do hinder,
And reward our lea with thy wondrous splendor.

Thora 6/14/08

My Dad's the Greatest Guy

When I was a kid they had a talent show at church, and I sang a special song for my father while my mother played the piano. It was called "My Dad's the Greatest Guy," it was from a tape of kids songs we had at home, and it was a resounding success. The primary goal, making my dad proud, was evidently accomplished by the way he just beamed the whole time. I was also asked to sing it in church the next day, so I guess it wasn't to bad of a performance (even if my brother did mess up the cue cards).
Thinking back though, the song listed lots of generic guy things (being strong, throwing pitches), but it really failed to list why MY dad is the greatest guy. Considering that I didn't really know my father well until I was an adult, it think it's about time I set the record straight.

My dad has been a cop all my life, and sadly some people will never know him as anything but that. Being a cop is a huge chunk of a person's identity, and I have always been proud of the way in which my father had protected and served his community. He's a hero, and he's a bit of a ham... pun intended.

There is so much more to my father than the badge though, so much more than the excellent marksman and karate black belt. My dad is a renaissance man. My dad does it all.

If I ever have a question about anything, my dad is my personal google. Why is it hotter at lower elevations and colder on mountain tops? My dad knew. Need a few quotes from Chaucer? My dad can recite them. Who's his favorite daughter? All 7 of us are. How to calm a baby with colic? My dad can do it in seconds, with kids that aren't even his. What are the key points in the history of the Knights Templar? He can orate upon them. Want to know the location of Nevada ghost towns? He'll drive you there. How to say "Your lawyer is on the phone," in seven languages? He knows that too.

I think my favorite thing about my dad though is the poet in his soul. It is from him I learned to never be without paper and pen. He reads my writing, I read his, and through it we share a connection. As much as I am like my mother, I really think that I look at the world more like my father does, through the lens of a writer.

Some people look at a beautiful scene and wish to capture it on camera, my dad and I look at it and begin composing in our hearts. Then suddenly the words come spilling out of our over-stocked hearts and we scramble to catch them on a page before they are absorbed into the infinity of language from which they sprang.

For us, words are a labor of love and a vessel to convey the wealth of emotion with which we have been blessed. Words are precious gems to us and more powerful than "The Elder Wand." We simply cannot fathom how some people can go through life and not constantly seek for new words. So many people spend their life describing all their highs and lows with the same shallow four letter words. People like my father and I find that grossly ill-beseeming. With the breadth and depth of the English language one would think that the power of words would appeal more to the general population.

Perhaps I inherited this writer’s gene from my father or perhaps it’s something I learned by proximity, but that’s why I love my father so, we share this secret. His soul is as complex and multi-faceted as my own, and I shall always cherish the relationship I am privileged to have with him.

(Are your allergies bothering you, Dad? Well, Happy Father’s Day.)

Perhaps I will get old, after all

For as long as I can remember I've dreaded getting old.
It's not so much the wrinkles and grey hairs that frighten me. I think I can handle losing my "beauty," or at least I'm determined to accept it gracefully.
It's not a fear of death either, because I am so very confident in my beliefs of what's on the other side of that wispy dark veil.
What my fear of being old is really about is being infirm, being a burden, and having my mind slip away.
I know I'm not alone in my fears, at the very least they were shared by one of my Grandmothers, who committed suicide when I was a pre-teen. My mother supposes it was because Grandma was losing her independence and couldn't face a future of her body gradually failing her, a little at a time.
I'm sure that others join me in fearing the loss of mental capacity, Alzheimer’s or other "dementia" disorders are a daunting prospect. A future like that, perhaps languishing for year after year in a care facility, or lashing out during a spell at one of the people we love most, is terribly frightening.
However, I’ve had the fortune recently to have a learned a little about this subject from a woman in my area. I’ve never met her, but I work for her daughter.
My manager, K, is one of the most genuinely pleasant people you will ever meet. Sometimes I have been suspicious of people who smile all the time, like they were hiding a darker side under that perma-smile, but K isn’t at all like that. I honestly believe that K just decided to be a happy and lovely person, and she does it very well. She’s an inspiration to me.
One day though, she seemed to have misplaced her smile, her eyes bore the shadows of pain and exhaustion, and though I barely knew her I walked up and gave her a hug, she seemed to need one. It was then I learned that her mother, F, has a brain tumor, an inoperable one that by all medical calendars should have quieted her pulse long ago. K is the driving force of F’s emotional support system, while raising two great kids, being active in church and community, and excelling at her demanding career.
K is my hero, needless to say, and I’ve added her to the list of people I worry about (while driving or cleaning or enjoying a relatively quiet moment at work.) I wonder at how she holds up in such a circumstance, how she even puts one foot in front of the other much less goes about doing so much good.
Then I realized this morning as I was reflecting (while driving, of course) on the relationship between the aged and their children, that K’s mother’s condition isn’t anywhere near as much of a burden as it is a blessing to her daughter and general acquaintance. In these, the last vestiges of her mortal life, she is giving her final gifts.
To her daughter, she gives the opportunity of service, and the chance to see beyond her mother’s activities and really see her mother. She has learned in these last years the person her mother is, something so many of us may never know.
To her husband she gives a fond farewell, a chance to really demonstrate in these final years the love that he has nurtured for her all along.
To her friends she also gives an opportunity to serve, that precious chance to step outside themselves and care for another. They are also blessed with a valuable reminder that life is short, and love is too important to be suppressed in favor of the mediocre daily pursuits of our lives.
Lastly, to this particular complete stranger she unknowingly bestows a gift of wisdom and peace. As I scurry throughout my life, striving to serve my friends and family while I am still able, I shall remember F. Perhaps I will get old, after all. Perhaps I will lose control of my limbs and eyes. Perhaps I will not remember things as clearly, or perhaps I will eventually become so disconnected from the world around me that my children will see a hollow shell where their mother once was. I just pray, that in that day they will have learned the lesson that God finally got through to me. People age so that the younger learn that part of us will never die. Age is the very evidence of the immortality of the soul.
Thank you F, you are my hero.
Happy Mother's Day.

What is a woman?

What is a woman,
when you look at her core,
under scrutiny what is found
that was overlooked before?

For often at first glance
a hurried label is attached
and with a group or genre
her identity is attached,

But what shallow judgements
will so very often fail to see
is women have so many sides
they number infinitely

She's not a jewel to be shaped
to produce a transparent glitter
but a thing of much more worth,
that glowing crowns befit her.

Nor is there a woman born
who's soul is an open book
for casual study to comprehend
or to be known within a look.

To truely know a woman
to know just what to ask
is the labor of a life time
the reward within the task.

For even when you know her
enough to love her true
you'll find she's only begining
to unveil herself to you.

If she ever stands before you
her secrets known and sure
rest while you can, for inside
she's not who she was before.

While the why of woman's changes
has stymied philosopers of the past
today I shall reveal it to you
the motivation known at last.

While men do daily struggle
the whole universe to subdue
a woman's heart whispers low
"the universe is you."

Creation, flux, revolutions,
the fires and the seas,
the violence of clashing worlds,
the gentle hum of bees.

Kings, prinicipalities, riches,
such frail and passing shades
in comparison to a woman
their glory wanes and fades.

So, by your side she'll toil

perhaps herself unknowing,

strive you harder than she

lest you be found owing.

For she is the embodiement
of power, greatness, charity.
Alas, poor man have ever
you seen her with clarity?

For where you see a woman,
through the lense of eternity
glimpse with me my friend
the Goddess that will be.

Thora
T.E.L.H. May 5, 2008

I'm still writting

I know, I know, I haven't posted anything in nearly a year. Bad Thora. I have been writting though, mostly in my book (100+ pages, woohooo!) and today I had the presence of mind to put something on here that I wrote. Good Thora. Enjoy!

How May I Bear For Thee?
To bear another's burden, what will that mean today,
As I go about my duties and watch the children play?
Will it be a sore knee kissed, or kind words after a loss?
Will it be a chasm of guilt, that only I can reach across?

Will what is needed be my hands, making something light,
Or is my shirt what's required, to soak up tears tonight?
What tools have I to fit me for the holy work of God?
Perhaps naught but my feet planted firmly on gospel sod.

Perhaps my lips through prayer can serve and help a suffering friend,
or with kind words and true intent a long felled fence may mend.
Better yet still, perhaps I could erect no boundary fence,
but there I'll plant a garden, where love grows thick and dense.

Today my oven may bake God's way into a lonely heart,
or perhaps my phone today will His words of peace impart.
At the very least I'll stop and think, before speak in jest,
that no idle words of mine will pierce another's breast.

I'll meet the weary of the world each door that I pass through,
and the service that is needed is never something new.
It's time and patience, forgiveness, and work with good intent,
true service be naught but good hearts on worthy labor bent.

So I'll "bear another's burdens, that they may be light,"
and through my simple services I'll help the day be bright.

Thora 4/16/08 (written to get Stivey's mental juices flowing for her talk in church)

Minorities

A few days ago someone came to my Babycenter LDS board and put up a poll question:
Are there minorities in the LDS church? Explain.
The poll answer options were yes and no.
So as soon as I read it, red flags go up everywhere in my mind. There were several ways to interpret that question, and most of the responses had traps ready to spring if used. If nothing else, 4 years on Babycenter boards being goaded by "trolls" has taught me about people being trapped with their words, so I responded thus (typos and all):

ummmm Wow, interesting question.
If you are looking at numbers, then by "race" (who made up that dumb term anyway? We are all human.) I'm fairly certain that "whites" come in second behind "hispanics," "blacks" and "asians" I have no idea which would rank next in the numbers. In the USA "whites" are the majority, in Africa "blacks" are, in Mexico and South America "hispanics" are the majority.
I think we tend to concider ourselves a collective people. Personally I would class us as a minority in and of ourselves.
We also have different perspectives on the origins of various nations because of what our religion teaches us, so if a huge portion of the planet is of the house of israel... then what does any minority definition matter?

So here are my questions: Who ISN'T a minority? What defines what a minority is? Who defines whom is a minority? Why do we let these distinctions define our relationships with each other? When are people going to start looking beyond one dimensional classifications? Why do we even have a term for this when in one way or another it can be applied to everyone?

I'm white, for some that's the end of the story. I'm white, so supposedly I know nothing of suffering, nothing of persecution, nothing of bigotry unless I'm the one dishing it out. People look at me and see red hair, stark white skin, and they see nothing else. By that I am judged "safe" by some, and "a risk" by others.

In reality I am a member of several minority groups. My people have been driven and slain and oppressed at different stages throughout history, and mostly by each other. I have Native American blood, I have Jewish blood, I have English blood, I have German blood, I have French blood, in short I have good old American mutt blood. I am the product of generations of people who struggled to survive in a lifelong battle against oppression, poverty, and politics. You name a form of bigoted persecution and it's been done to my people, even slavery.

That's not what really makes me a minority though. People didn't throw rocks at me because my last name was Germanic, or because of my obviously Native American facial structure. No, they threw rocks at me because I'm LDS. I'm a minority in open persecution season.

My point is this. We are all minorities, therefore there are no minorities. We all come from the same roots, each branch of the vine just took a different path up the wall than the others. No matter how you trace it, religiously or scientifically we all come from the same place, we are all human. Sub-divide us as you will, we are all basically the same.

Whom among us doesn't long to be loved? Show me one person who wasn't teased as a child. Bring me one person who has no burden. Search the secluded places of the world and find me one person who has never made a difference in another person's life.

I think these lines that are drawn to divide us are as stupid as exiling all the knitters in the world to some empty rock to avoid the click-clack of needles.

People are people, worthy of love, respect, and assistance, no matter how much or little melanin they have in their skin or what their perception of the divine. There is one race, the human race, and the sooner we all accept that the better off we will be.

So Mrs. Staats, whomever you are, there are no minorities in my church. Thank you.

Keona Marie

Hanging out on an internet board for parents gives me plenty of opportunities to talk about this subject, I guess that's why I've not posted here about it. Helping other women get through this, and helping people relate to those who've been though this, is kind of a mission of mine, a mission I share with untold millions of women through out the world and throughout time. It's time I should post about it here, as it's a big thing to me.
Advance apologize to those who love me but do not know this story, it was to to hard to tell at the time, and is a different kind of hard now as I fear hurting you with what I wasn't strong enough to share.
You see in February 2003 I got pregnant (a very common thing I've noticed, November seems to be a favorite for giving birth.) It took us a bit to get used to the idea, as we hadn't been planning on three kids yet, but I was getting excited and doing the dreaming thing.
I've found that women tend to start dreaming and hoping for their child long before it is born, and the moment we start loving a child is the moment its existence is suspected. I'm told there are women who don't feel this way, but I've yet to confirm this one single time. Nevertheless, I feel this way. A child is a gift to be cherished every moment, through morning sickness, and high school, and sometimes death.
I just never really expected to cherish through death.
I knew something was wrong with this pregnancy. With my previous two I had FELT them there (skeptics be-gone, I know what I felt). With this pregnancy though, I just didn't feel an extra little someone hanging around the house. It was un-nerving, and I tried to reason it away, but when the spotting started, well I knew what was happening. At 8 weeks gestation there was nothing for doctors to do, and my hopes and dreams were packed away in the parts of my mind I try not to disturb.
I was a mess, but I tried to muddle through, pretending it was no big deal.
I got pregnant again immediately, another accident. I embraced this new life. A child! I was so sure it was a girl, too. By the end of the "risky" first trimester I was in full swing of the dreaming and the planning. We picked a name, Keona. It means "gift from heaven" in Hawaiian. Joe's best friend is half Hawaiian, and closer to us than some of our family, so we felt it appropriate. I vacillated on a middle name. The initial choice was Faye, it seemed to flow so well. However, after a few weeks I chose Marie instead. Marie is one of my sister's middle name, and I liked the biblical and familial connection of the name better than the meaning of Faye, which is Fairy.
I thought of her as Keona Marie all the time, and watched my belly expand so beautifully to accommodate her form. An early ultrasound was ordered, and I watched that little heart flicker on the monitor. I was totally in love with this child. The presence I felt around the house was the sweetest I've ever known. Completely kind, selfless, loving, and cheerful. I couldn't wait to meet her and have her in our family.
At my 17 week check up my dear friend and brilliant physician, Dr. S (Dave, to me) had a bit of trouble finding the heartbeat we had heard a month before. I teased him a bit, and eventually he went to get another Doctor to give it a try. Dr. D came in and tried her hardest. I won't go into the feats of dexterity we performed to try and hear that little heart, but we just couldn't find it. So an ultrasound was ordered across the street at the hospital, and my husband was sent for. It was very late by the time we got into the ultrasound room, the face of the ultrasound tech was a bit to impassive, I ignored that, clinging to hope.
Dr. D was off saving someone's life with the other Doctor on duty, Dave's best friend Dr. B, so by the time they got down to talk to us it was after midnight. I didn't mind the wait, I adored my doctors, but each moment I waited I lost a bit of my will to believe that everything was fine.
Their soft and kind faces destroyed my hopes, and a wall of fiery emotional pain enveloped me even before the words "no heartbeat" could reach my ears. Through the smoke that billowed from my carefully crafted dreams they explained my child had stopped developing at 13 weeks. Four weeks, a month, she had been dead and I hadn't known it. A month my child had been loving me from the opposite side of life from where I wanted her to be.
We went home to rest, and the next day my husband and I discussed our options and decided on a D and C. I didn't like to think of doing the same thing to my deceased child as so many women do to kill their alive but inexplicably unwanted child. (The thought of THAT happening makes my soul scream in agony, but that's a whole 'nuther soap box). However with my history of excessive bleeding with childbirth (facts of life for many red-heads) a natural conclusion to this pregnancy seemed dangerous. Dr. S pulled some strings and got me the best at the hospital, and that concluded my mothering of Keona Marie, "gift from heaven" "bittersweet."

I'm sure you know that three years later, as I write this, I'm crying over my keyboard. It's the revisiting the memories in detail that brings the tears. Thankfully, I have healed enough that I can mention my losses with out blubbering. I mention them a lot though, online, on the board that I volunteer host for Babycenter. We have losses, they blindside us every once in a while, and then someone who only skimmed over a previous conversation on loss will all of the sudden need to hear the words of comfort we offer again and again.
To each of my shattered and agonizing sisters I offer a few simple words of comfort and guidance.
Your loss is as real a loss as any other. You loved your child, and your child deserves to be mourned and honored as much as any other child who has passed on before us. Don't tell yourself that "it was just a pregnancy" or that you were "only __ weeks along." You and I and millions of others know that's a lie, don't lie to yourself. However much you loved this child, that's how much you need to grieve for it.
So cry, rant, rave, scream at the sky or that blastedly blank expanse of ceiling, lock yourself in your room, tunnel under your covers, and let it out. Let it out until you can't let out anymore, then slowly start to fill that gaping chasm in your heart up again. Hold whomever you have to hold, the Father of your child, a sister, a friend. These are the people your child would have loved, these are the people who would have filled your child's life, now let them fill it's death.
Losing a child can destroy you, okay so it did destroy you, or a part of you. It destroyed the part that blissfully went from good prenatal check-up to the grocery store, the part that saw your monthly "Aunt Flo's visit" as an annoyance and not a cruel reminder of the way you've been robbed.
Nothing I could ever say is going to take away your pain, but to be honest, I don't want to. I want you to hurt with me, just a bit when you see a new baby. I want you to cry out inside when you hear of another loss, because I am crying out inside too. I want to open my arms, and pull you into the embrace of every woman who has felt this pain, who has by some miracle survived this crucible. WE KNOW.
I know for a time you will feel alone in your pain, like no one else mourns the death of the most amazing person who could have been. In time you will see, though, that your child does not go un-mourned, or un-loved. We mourn your child with you, we honor your child with you, please know that. Please join us in the the secret society of women who can reach beyond time, distance, race, creed, and their own pain and support a beloved sister. Please, learn the lesson I learned from my "bittersweet gift from heaven" Keona Marie.

Jay's Hair

As I've posted about how cute Tali can be, I thought I'd post about something Jay did the other morning. He insisted on taking his wizard's cap with him on our trip to the store. Any other hat I might have objected to, but I just can't object to him wearing a pointy black hat in public, I'm to much of a Potter freak for that.

We are getting out of the car and he stops at the door to put it on his head. "I need to put my hat on so my hair won't get wet, I just bought it."

Just bought his hair... Okay Jay, whatever you say.

Then days later he is talking to my dear friend Amanda and her Fiance Dan. He asks, "Do you like my blonde hair? I wear it all day long. It keeps my brain from falling out into the duck poop water." (note: any time he refers to the duck poop water he is talking about the famous fall off the bridge in 2005).

Sometimes I'd like to see the world the way Jay does, it seems much more interesting from his point of view.

Mommy, where is your ammi?

It was just to cute and I had to share.
The kids and I went down to Florida for the weekend. My husband was down in Boca Raton at training for his company and my sister and her husband had just welcomed thier first child. So on the way down I'm on the phone with my husband and Tali pipes up in the back. "Mommy? Where is your ammi?" I'm thinking, ammunition, ammulet... no she wouldn't know about those... is she saing Auntie?
"Where is what?"
"Your ammi."
"My what?"
"Your ammi."
"My ammi..." then I had to laugh. My husband thought it was funny to.
I couldn't figure out how to explain this to her, I mean if I said "it's not your ammi it's Miami," she would hear "It's not your ammi, it's my ammi." I just couldn't get it across, and she can't read so spelling didn't help.
We reached my husband and then met my sister and her husband. He had to show them the cute thing Tali was doing. "Tali where are we?" "We're in Mommy's ammi."
Bless her, can I just keep her this way?

A moment worth recording

Today I took the kids to Super-Walmart for some odds and ends we needed. While passing through the fresh produce department Talitha was interested in a large head of cauliflower and asked if we could get it. Smart mothers don't let moments like that pass, the prospect of getting a single bite of vegetable down a 5 year old's throat is worth the cost of the entire head. So buy it we did, and they started begging for it as soon as it came out of the grocery bag. I broke it up into bits, dumped them on a plate with carrots and glopped ranch dressing onto plates.
"That cauliflower is pretty good, isn't it Jay?" I asked (making sure to frame the question with the response I desired).
"Yeah," he replied.
"I love cauliflower," Talitha interjected.
I figured I'd better write that down or no one will ever believe it happened.

The Moments That Bind Us

In life there are just a few moments that are shared by the majority of us. Birth, death, 9/11, falling in love, these almost universally shared moments seem to act as the glue that holds the human race together.

I recently discovered that I had left one of these moments off my list. It had just never occurred to me that sending my child off to the first day of school could be one of those milestones in my journey through humanity. As I mentioned to people that my daughter was starting school, though, I noticed a spark of emotion in the eyes of those around me. It was as if, for a moment, we shared lives. In that moment my child was their child, my anxieties and hopes were reflected and enhanced in the mirror of their eyes.

Someone told me, I'm not sure who, that it doesn't get easier when it's your second child or third. Sure you know the drill, where the library is, how to put money on the lunch card, what kind of backpack to buy, but the feeling is the same.

On Monday I got up at 5:30 am, to the distinctly annoying beep beep of my alarm clock, hauled three kids out of their unconscious state, and poured cereal into them. Then it was time to dress them all, get the crazily curly hair into decent looking pigtails (braids just were not happening), locate the shoes and get out the door. This shouldn't take an hour, but it did, and then some. I thought we were good when we got out the door at 6:43. Then the traditional pictures had to be taken, and the little ones strapped in the jogging stroller. Just as my 5 year old led us out of the driveway we saw the bus pass the end of the block. We weren't off to a good start.

Luckily the school isn't far, I have her ride the bus so I have to get in a walk every morning, and once I've gone 5 minutes I might as well go 30 right? I digress, sufficeth to say I could still get her to school quite easily and on time, but I would miss the "first bus ride" photo opportunity. So I drove her over to the school and joined the line in the circle drive. I stopped the car, took a few pictures, got her out, took more pictures and pointed her to the door where she should go in.
Armed with a tour of the school on open house night, instructions on asking grown-ups for directions ("Honey, you see the badge, that means they are a teacher, not a stranger, you can talk to them."), and a backpack complete with a cold lunch, my baby girl walked through those doors and into a new segment of her life.

I didn't cry then, I was a tough mama with two kids in tow... In a tow away zone... But I'm tearing up now. It's not that she's not a baby anymore, or that I can't tolerate the hours of her absence, it's that from now on I'm a stranger to a part of her life. I can't help her. For seven hours a day she's at the mercy of a room full of kids. If my own school experience had been less painful perhaps my fears could be dismissed, but I can't shake them.

This week I have wanted to home school her more than ever.

She came back from school completely exhausted and refused to discuss the events of the day with me. Only with a little nap and a lot of coaxing from her Daddy did she reveal to us a few snippets of her day. She doesn't like it. She doesn't know anyone, she has little one to one contact with her teacher, the events of the day are unfamiliar. I feel like an ogre sending her back, but she needs to go to school, she needs to learn, and with the way my life is I really can't homeschool, so I have to send her back into the fray every day for the next 13 years.

So this is what that look of pity and shared pain was about. They all knew that kids don't like school and that I faced a battle. The assurances that she'll be fine were just those scripted things that society had prepared for us to say, to hint at but not reveal to much about those few moments that bind us. "She'll be fine." "_____ is a good teacher." "This is a good school." "It takes a little getting used to but you'll get the hang of it." "This is such an exciting time." Scripted, scripted, scripted, all these things are repeated at schools all over the world. Every parent hears them, every parent says them. I will say them myself someday, once I have fully stepped into the new pool of experience that waits to surround me. Just once I'm going to tell someone the truth though. That it's like cutting off your arm and feeding it to an alligator. That I wished I could turn myself into a bug like Rita Skeeter and hide under my daughter's collar and then hex anyone who was going to hurt her. I couldn't though. I could only stand by, and let her go, and hope that I'd said "I love you, your wonderful," enough times that she might remember it when someone else tells her she's not wonderful. I only hope that somehow my love can counteract the evil forces she will battle for the rest of her life.

Some days being a Parent is the hardest thing in the world. I guess that's why it's what glues us together, if only for a few moments.