winds unexpected

Movin' On

2011-10-05T08:06:00.000-07:00

Friends and Followers: Winds Unexpected has moved to wordpress to flee from malicious code--doesn't that sound cool? Malicious code--not that I actually know what that means, it just sounds so Bourne Identity. Go to wordpress.com and type in Winds Unexpected to find me. Thanks!

In All Fair-ness

2011-08-26T07:34:00.000-07:00

The freckles on my arms have reached that critical mass that almost makes it look like I have a tan. OK, so maybe it doesn't rise to the level of a "tan" exactly, but it could be called a "beige" or maybe an "off-white." Perhaps in the spirit of journalistic accuracy I should call it what it is--a plethora of summertime freckles, a veritable galaxy of tiny points of pigment that don't quite add up to a tan. But a girl with Scandinavian and Scottish genes has to take what she can get.

Summer wardrobe,
Denali National Park style

I should have grown up in Alaska, where long sleeves and beanies in August are the norm. Growing up in sunny California I felt conspicuously pale. The Beach Boys didn't help matters much--you remember the lyrics: "The west coast has the sunshine and the girls all get so tan . . . " All except me, that is. My legs were the color of Wonder bread (and I don't mean the crusts) while my friends spent carefree days at the beach or pool and quickly took on a gorgeous bronzed finish. This was before the days of SPF 30 and so a few hours in the sun left me with a painful sunburn that faded slowly back to a slightly deeper white. Nothing even close to a tan. My nose peeled continuously from Memorial Day until school started in September.

Mom assured me that my "fair" skin was an asset. (We all knew that "fair" was just code for "whoa girl, let me put some shades on to cut the glare from your legs!") She tried to comfort me with the thought that in 30 years my friends would have leathery wrinkled hides from all that sun worship while I would be dewy and youthful. Somehow the thought of my peers shriveled like prunes didn't help a lot when they were singing "Blinded By the Light" at the top of their lungs from the boat while I water-skied. I just smiled and waved my pasty white arm. Every summer my futile quest for some color continued. What was I thinking? That I would suddenly develop late-onset pigment and look like a Coppertone ad?

No more. A tan? Meh. Who needs it? In fact, these days I slather 70 SPF sunscreen on my cracker-white extremities or just suit up like a beekeeper when I go outside. My legs continue to blind innocent bystanders but I can roll with it. The best thing about middle-age is that it doesn't bother me anymore. A faux-freckle-tan will do just fine.

Soul Song

2011-08-08T11:08:00.000-07:00

What makes a baby humpback whale leap out of the water, head to tail, and twist himself over to land on his back with an enormous splash? Twenty or thirty times, no exaggeration. It looked so much like joy. Do whales feel that breathless exuberance for existence, the irresistible soul-singing that bubbles up just because and must spill out somehow? He breached again and again, close to our little excursion boat, almost as if he knew he had our attention and wanted to make it good. I longed to know what it felt like to be him that day. I'm pretty sure it felt like joy.

I love it when reality exceeds expectation and even Planet Earth can't hold a candle to what I see in front of me. Alaska has made me rub my eyes in disbelief all week, certain that I must be imagining that brown bear pulling salmon out of the river or the other-worldly blue glacier cracking and thundering as a massive wall of ice breaks off and slumps into the bay. And I've heard that song--the low-thrumming wordless tune that has no contrived melody, but that I know at my core--and something in me sings along with the fireweed and the dolphins and the enormous bald eagle perched high above Juneau harbor.

Yesterday we pulled off the side of the highway in Denali National Park to watch an enormous mama moose grazing with her baby. She moved her substantial bulk with such unlikely grace that every motion spoke to my spirit. Of creation and of connection. So I awake this morning and stretch, keenly aware of my Creator. And I feel on every side the vast luminous web of existence that holds us all up and connects us each to every other. The song takes on meaning without words. My soul translates it simply, "Life is good." As inadequate as words are, you might recognize the music. I'm pretty sure it sounds like joy.

Ambiguous Ambivalence

2011-07-29T00:08:00.000-07:00

Ambivalent. What a great word. Say it out loud. You know you want to. Or maybe you're ambivalent about words in general. Lately I have felt ambivalent about blogging. Living life has seemed more interesting to me than writing about living life. So the fate of Winds Unexpected remains ambiguous (another one of my favorite words, this is a good night for gratuitous word-slinging. And yes, I like gratuitous too. Ooooh, life is good. Really good.)

The blog may stay alive simply to provide me a place to use really cool four-syllable words. OK, so call me a total dork, but I love words. Love. Confession: I dream of reading the dictionary cover to cover. It would be fun. Really. Scombroid, intumescence, dahoon. See what I mean? Try it. Kedge, mungo, trunion. Looks like Winds Unexpected stays, at least until I feel unequivocally "done" with it. Right now I'm just mostly done.

Indulge me in a whim though, please. Overcome your ambivalence long enough to share a couple of your favorite words in a Comment. I promise I will say them out loud in your honor. Go ahead.

And in the name of word-dork solidarity, here's a word-of-the-day challenge. Use the following word in the next 48 hours (in a logically sound sentence during conversation with a real person.) The word is: profligate. Go for it, my friends, and return and report.

Eight Things I Learned From My Dad and One Thing I Hope Is True

2011-06-15T06:11:00.000-07:00

1. “The Lord only made a few perfect heads. The rest He put hair on.” Bald is beautiful.

2. “You can’t take it with you.” Success is not measured by how much stuff one accumulates.

3. “Jerie, pick up your feet.” On backpacking trips and in life you miss a lot if you keep your eyes on the ground and drag your feet all the way. (And the people behind you don’t much like hiking in the cloud of dust you kick up.)

4. “I’ll eat any flavor of ice cream, as long as it’s chocolate.” Need I say more?

5. “Enough is too much already.” It’s OK to leave the margins open and allow yourself some space to simply be. Some pursuits are not worth your time and focus.

6. “Drive like everyone else on the road is an idiot.” Take responsibility. Stay alert. Don’t be one of the idiots.

7. “Take your time going and hurry back.” Nothing matters more than spending time with the people you love. Prioritize family-time, don’t just pay it lip service.

8. “Life’s too short.” To worry. Or hold a grudge. To criticize or let the sun go down on an argument. To live in fear or be a slave to the opinions of others. To waste time or squander opportunities. To not say “I love you” or dance in the living room or speak a kind word. For cynicism, doubt and smallness of spirit. To eat red licorice when there’s black to be had. To not laugh every day and pray every day and take a nap when you need one

1. The apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree. Dad—I want to be like you when I grow up. I hope I never roll far from the roots that nourished me or the lovely shade of your generosity, your faith, your wisdom, your integrity, your intelligence and good humor. You never lectured me, you simply lived the lessons I needed. Thank you for being a truly exquisite human being. And my Dad. I miss you. Thank heaven for eternity, because I’ll never be done learning from you. Happy Father’s Day. I love you.

What lessons, spoken or unspoken, have you learned from the father-figures in your life?

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Tags: Father's Day

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19 Responses to “Eight Things I Learned From My Dad and One Thing I Hope Is True”

Doug Lim 15. Jun, 2011 at 9:31 am #
Very beautiful and well said. We all miss your dad Jerie.
- Jerie 15. Jun, 2011 at 1:19 pm #
  Thanks, Doug. We are both blessed with amazing parents, aren’t we?
Craig 15. Jun, 2011 at 12:51 pm #
.
1. You see that ditch? You get to dig it. If you do it well, you might get paid next time.
2. Everyone has too much potential to waste on McDonald’s and television…
3. …but Miller Time is a universal principle.
4. Bald is a little prettier with a tan and a good attitude.
5. Pain really is temporary, and chicks really do dig scars.
6. It doesn’t matter who started it, you’re responsible. Get the solution.
7. Wow, Jerie has hot sisters, or daughters, or cousins or whatever.
- Jerie 15. Jun, 2011 at 1:33 pm #
  Hee hee. So true–everything looks better with a tan, even cellulite. #6–we need your Dad in Washington, eh? #7–my daughters, three of the most amazing people on this planet.
  - Craig 15. Jun, 2011 at 2:19 pm #
    to your credit, I thought they were sisters.
    - Craig 15. Jun, 2011 at 2:19 pm #
      I mean YOUR sisters
    - Jerie 15. Jun, 2011 at 4:24 pm #
      You are my new best friend–keep talking.
Julie 15. Jun, 2011 at 1:26 pm #
Too many to list. I’ve been blessed with the very best father and grandfathers. Dad showed me that nothing is more important than integrity. I think he learned it from his dad.
- Jerie 15. Jun, 2011 at 4:26 pm #
  We are the lucky ones, aren’t we?
heather y. 15. Jun, 2011 at 2:16 pm #
Your Dad is awesomely handsome and you should seriously consider putting his words of wisdom on a t-shirt. I am envisioning it starting small, with family and friends sporting the look then it catching on like wildfire because it is all so, so true.
I’ll take mine in brick red with white letters, extra large.
- Jerie 15. Jun, 2011 at 4:30 pm #
  Got it. Your t-shirt will be in the first batch. My Dad was just a couple of months shy of 85 years old in that picture. He was amazing right up to end. I’ve got good genes!
JourneyBeyondSurvival 15. Jun, 2011 at 2:41 pm #
1. Know your capabilities- Do what you gotta do to take care of you and yours. But don’t pretend to be something you’re not. Be honest with yourself.
2. Family is worth it. If you can’t make it through University, work as a deliveryman. Work hard. Work hard for 25 years. Go camping for every vacation. Never have AC in your life. Never.
3. Everything tastes better when camping. Sleep outside as much as possible. Cook in Dutch ovens. Use porta potties
4. Babies are heaven. Never needs an explanation if you know my father.
- heather y. 15. Jun, 2011 at 9:33 pm #
  Please tell me your Dad lives where there are mountains to go camping in. The one thing I will never get used to is camping in the mid-west. There is no escaping the heat and humidity! Of course, you also said your dad doesn’t have air conditioning, so he has already proven he is immune to heat rash. Very tough man.
  Who doesn’t love a man who loves babies? That is touching.
  - Craig 16. Jun, 2011 at 12:19 pm #
    Don’t you know? You’re supposed to grow gills, become immune to mosquitoes, and spend your days camping by the lake — whereupon you spend every possible daylight hour bathed is cool, muddy water. Like a water moccasin.
Jerie 15. Jun, 2011 at 4:40 pm #
I love your Dad!!! Camping = heaven. Dutch ovens = favorite. He sounds awesome. Can I share your Dad? I miss mine.
- JourneyBeyondSurvival 15. Jun, 2011 at 8:42 pm #
  You shall come join our camping reunion in July. He will make his famous Dutch Oven Potatoes. Red skin new potatoes (skin on of course) + eggs + insane amounts of Velveeta cheese.
  My mother will make her world famous cobbler, and my dad will probably con us all into making hand cranked ice cream. Again.
  We’ll all explode nice and comfy together becoming gooey juicey brothers instead of blood brothers. It’ll be fun.
  - Jerie 15. Jun, 2011 at 9:51 pm #
    I’m in.
Kathryn 15. Jun, 2011 at 10:48 pm #
“Love the brick!” (my grandfather was a bricklayer) — work hard, love the work you do and you will do it better and live a longer happier life. You’ll find your own heaven on earth no matter what you do.
- Jerie 16. Jun, 2011 at 12:04 am #
  I love that. Those three words are deceptively simple.They actually indicate a profound attitude on your grandfather’s part. I wish I knew him.

Originally posted on The Peanut Gallery Speaks
http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/06/eight-things-i-learned-from-my-dad-and-one-thing-i-hope-is-true/

Help Me Pho-bi Wan Kenobi, You're My Only Hope

2011-06-09T10:06:00.000-07:00

Don't tell Emeril, but four days in the culinary mecca of the South drove us to the brink. One more heavy Southern meal or Creole fry-fest would have pushed me into complete gastrointestinal meltdown. That's how we found ourselves fleeing the French Quarter yesterday and driving across the Mississippi in search of salvation--a simple bowl of Pho. I know, I know. Vietnamese food in Dixie? But it was our only hope of survival. Minerva, our trusty GPS, found Pho Tau Bay for us. Yes, it was a dive, but I almost cried with joy when the waitress brought a heaping basket of fresh raw bean sprouts and crisp purple-green basil to the table. The steaming bowl of fragrant broth that accompanied it soothed my angry stomach. I'm sorry, but Southeast Asians are the Jedi Masters of food. The Force is strong with Pho.

What is it about New Orleans that makes fried foods sound like a good idea? Not to mention the fact that bacon and pecans each constitute their own staple food group there. I tried to make healthy choices, like ordering a side of greens or mashed sweet potatoes instead of fries. Right. The menu should have read, "A bowl of crumbled bacon garnished with incidental collard greens" or "butter and candied pecans topped with a dollop of sweet potatoes." My arteries are hardening just thinking about it.

Frog legs and alligator appetizer. It is as sick as it looks!

Full disclosure. I have eaten all of the following in the past five days: Jambalaya, red beans and rice, gumbo, crawfish etouffee, shrimp creole, alligator, frog legs, cheese grits, black eyed peas, red fish, drum fish--and that was the lighter side. Disturbing quantities of deep-fried-anythings made their way past my common sense and straight into my belly: batter fried shrimp, crawfish, calamari, mushrooms, oysters, powdered-sugar-coated beignets. And don't even get me started on the pralines--a confection whose only three ingredients are butter, sugar, and pecans--go figure. They really shouldn't be as utterly delicious as they are, but there you have it.

I woke up this morning in my own bed, delighted to open my battered-and-deep-fried-free-zone fridge and eat a pear. Period. Aaaaah. My close encounter with Cajun cooking didn't kill me after all. So, if you're traveling this summer and find yourself completely maxed out on rich foods--use the Pho, Luke. Let the Pho guide you to a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant and you'll be fine. It's an old Jedi trick.

Praline Photo Credit:[IMG]http://i237.photobucket.com/albums/ff56/lyndonm1/b841.jpg[/IMG]

A New Orleans ABC

2011-06-05T18:39:00.000-07:00

Bob and Jerie fly to New Orleans with Allison. It is hot. They walk and walk in the hot sun. See Bob sweat. Sweat Bob, sweat. What do they see in New Orleans?

A is for Alligator--A big one named Al. He lives in a swamp.

B is for Boat--Bob and Jerie and Allison ride a boat into the swamp to see Al the Alligator.

C is for Captain--The captain of the boat throws marshmallows into the water and Al swims to the boat.

D is for Dentist--Al eats a lot of marshmallows every day. His teeth will rot and he will need a dentist.

E is for Environmentally Incorrect--What the heck is Captain Garrett doing feeding high-fructose-corn-syrup-laden mallows to a twelve-foot-long alligator in a nature preserve anyway? Couldn't you toss him something manly like a small mammal or at least a hot dog? And as for Al--what self-respecting carnivorous reptile opens his razor-toothed maw to snap up Jet Puff marshmallows for tourists with camera phones? At least hold out for some chocolate and graham crackers, Al buddy, S'mores should be in your contract. The swamp is a really neat place. Captain Garrett thinks people should give him money because he knows how to throw marshmallows really well. He should give Al a cut for consuming all that sugar. I bet he doesn't.

More ABC's from the Big Easy tomorrow!

Endearing Things

2011-05-31T23:09:00.000-07:00

Dogs have wet noses, but it's not snot. They kiss you, but it's actually more like being licked. With fine-grain sandpaper.
Babies have rolls of fat on their thighs, but it's gorgeous. They are blissfully unconcerned that they look like the Michelin Tire man and they don't go on diets.
Kindergarten kids choose their own clothes sometimes. They think that pink and blue stripes look good with red floral patterns. And that sweat pants were made to be worn tucked into cowboy boots.
White haired ladies do yoga sitting in chairs.
Girl Scouts sell cookies from little red wagons.
Three year olds might sing their prayers once in while, just for the joy of it.

Heaven

2011-05-28T13:05:00.000-07:00

Heaven = Waking up when you feel like it on a Saturday morning and lying there looking at your best friend in the world, thinking that he is even more attractive to you than he was 29 years ago. He opens his eyes and you lie there entwined and talking about anything until someone thinks of pumpkin-pecan Belgian waffles. The slow, familiar kitchen dance commences--spooning at the sink, brushing hips as we turn from stove to fridge, a silent smile passing between us. Waffles that taste as good as they sound, Mason Jennings singing love songs in the background. Does it even matter what we do for the rest of the weekend?

Wikiddiction

2011-05-25T05:56:00.000-07:00

My husband has become a Wikipedi-holic. No lie. I find more than a bit of irony in this new development. The man is an attorney–he makes his living by having the facts on his side and his ducks in a row. Legal-eagle by day, he has taken to recreational “research” by night in one of the most singularly unreliable sources of information known to man. But that’s the fun of Wikipedia.

Anything can trigger a Wiki moment. The more obscure the object of your curiosity, the more entertained you’ll be. The unfathomably enormous pool of useless (not to mention good natured-ly inaccurate) information will astound you. And once you dip a toe in the waters of Wiki-land, it’s like Alice through the Looking Glass. You just don’t know what you’ll find around the next corner.

My favorite recent Wiki-adventure began when I popped a bag of microwave popcorn. Bob looked at the bag and immediately wondered, “Who is Orville Redenbacher? Or isthere even such a person?” Holy Kettle Corn, Batman! This calls for a Wiki-Search! Instantly, Redenbacher trivia filled the screen, a veritable Orville extravaganza, bow-tied bliss. Are you ready?

Orville Redenbacher was a real person, and that’s his real name. Yep. He earned his fortune in fertilizers, then turned his attention to his true passion in life. You guessed it–popcorn. Do you know where selling a whole bunch of popcorn will take you in this great nation? Read it and weep for all the opportunities you could have had if only you had been a geeky-looking-popcorn-obsessed man with a weird name. You could have:

-Been celebrated in the Valparaiso, Indiana Popcorn Festival, baby.

-Appeared in the coveted role of Grand Marshall of the Popcorn Parade.

-Received an honorary doctorate from Purdue University.

-Starred in this classic television commercial (Click below to watch “76 Difference.” Now. It will make your day.) Classic 1976 Orville Commercial

-Died a wealthy man in your jacuzzi at the age of 88.

Are you inspired to follow your true passion in life? Or maybe just to spend a little time on Wikipedia?

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve Googled or Wiki’d lately? Come on. ‘Fess up.

Photo credit:

http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk199/MeatLoffSurpriz6/Heros/OrvilleRedenbocker.jpg This post originally appeared on the Peanut Gallery Speaks. http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/05/wikiddiction/

To Bic or Not to Bic--A Hobbit's Manifesto

2011-05-24T09:40:00.000-07:00

I hear Summer breathing down my neck. How can I be sure it's Summer, you ask, and not Darth Vader or one of those smoosh-faced-dogs-that-slobbers-a-lot-and-breathes-like-a-chain-smoker? (Relax, dog lovers. I use the scientific nomenclature in the previous sentence only for the sake of journalistic accuracy. If it offends you, get your pug some help for his pack-a-day problem. That's what the Nicotine patch is for.) No, it's summer all right, even though the weather doesn't feel summery yet. She taunts me, pressures me from behind with an insistent imperative: "Shave your legs already. This is America, not Hobbiton." I love Summer, truly. But I wish she would back off a little. Why do I feel like I have to justify myself year after year?

Today I speak for the few, the proud, the stubbly--the bold women who find better ways to spend fifty bucks than having a leg wax and better uses of time than sitting on the edge of the bathtub with a razor in hand. Who first generated the commonly accepted equation Hairless=Feminine anyway? No doubt it was a man named Gillette or Barbasol with razors and shaving cream to sell. It probably dawned on him that his market would double overnight if he convinced the female half of the population that they needed to shave something, anything. And women bought into it--big time.

In spite of my strong inner-Hobbit and my latent hippie side, I buy into it more than I care to admit. At least half of me longs to be like my ninth-grade Social Studies teacher, Ms. Byars. She was young and hip and had a gift for generating stimulating discussion among twenty-five kids who had never heard of Anwar Sadat and thought Camp David was a summer rec program, but could recite a detailed biography of Mork from Ork. Ms. Byars made us think, but most of the buzz around school focused on her hair. Not the long russet curls on her head--no, we fixated on the tufts underneath her arms and the fur on her legs. Most days she wore batik skirts, often with a tank top. Unabashed by our whispers and stares, she lifted her arm to write on the blackboard or pull down the world map. I watched, amazed at her unapologetic "natural" look. She was sensational.

Sometimes I can pull off a Byars-esque confidence and reject the razor for a time. Especially in winter my Hobbitness asserts itself. Hobbits, you remember, are hairy little beings right down to their feet. They are content to stay at home (but surprisingly tough when cornered) with a crackling fire, warm meals, slippers, and their fuzzy extremities. That's me from November to March. Easy. I wear long pants in the winter anyway, right? Every Spring I vow not to bow to the arbitrary standard of feminine beauty established by the corporate marketing machine (hiss), but when the sun comes out my conviction crumbles. I cave to societal pressure and grudgingly buy the three-pack of shaving gel at COSTCO. Principle loses to peer pressure once again. Pathetic, I know. The only shred of rebel attitude that remains is this: I will not shave every day. Once a week. Period. OK, maybe twice if we're vacationing at the beach.

So if you see me at the pool with my Day-6 stubble, get over it. Respect my small hippie-hobbit act of defiance. Or try it for yourself, and tell your friends to break the shackles of smooth-legged servitude. Join me to lead a revolution! I have a dream . . . Give me your tired, your poor--your stubbly sisters yearning to breathe free . . . When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one woman to dissolve the bands which have connected her to her razor . . . We the women of the United States, in order to establish Justice, preserve sanity, and secure the blessings of Liberty from shaving . . . Somebody stop me. Don't feel compelled to join my crusade. I can assert my right not to Bic without fear of persecution. This is America. I'll wave my freak-flag alone--o'er the land of the free and the home of the shaved.

Photo credit: http://www.freefoto.com/images/1210/11/1210_11_58_prev.jpg

Mamma Mia, I'm My Mamma

2011-05-04T06:34:00.000-07:00

I knew my mom really loved me the year that I made the Plaster-of-Paris pin at school. Mr. Callahan had mixed up an extra-runny batch of plaster. The idea was to pour a thin stream out on wax paper until it spread into a circle that would harden so that we could etch a Mother’s Day greeting on the surface. My classmates poured out lovely, symmetrical discs of pristine white. Mine turned out looking more like an amoeba. I vowed to redeem myself by decorating it with stunning artistry.

My attempt at a smiley face turned out as oddly-shaped as the amoeba and the word “Smile” somehow did not end up centered. The letters slanted up from left to right, each a little larger than the last. I half-heartedly painted it blue and glued a safety pin to the back hoping to transform it from a plaster protozoan into an accessory–legit jewelry. Even at that tender age I recognized the truth: I had created something heinously ugly. My awkward offering embarrassed me, but for lack of any other gift, I handed it to my mom on Mother’s Day morning. She ooohed and aaaahed over it appropriately and told me that she loved it. Parental perjury. I didn’t believe her until she emerged from her room an hour later, all dressed for church and sporting that monstrosity of a pin proudly on her polyester dress. “I chose a blue dress to match the pin,” she told me with a smile. And she wore it to church, by golly, and kept it on all day. I wasn’t sure whether I was pleased or mortified, but I knew that mom loved me.

I have never forgotten that she wore the pin. Stuff like that sticks—unwritten lessons on giving love and receiving gifts and wearing parenthood in public without apology. So yes, I wore the orange and green macaroni necklace my son made in Kindergarten to church, and even heard myself ooohing and aaaahing before saying, “I love it” like a play-back of my own mom forty years ago. The tissue paper “stained glass” salad-dressing bottle is still my favorite vase and the popsicle stick ornaments will be on my Christmas tree every year until I die. They remind me to relish the sweetness of unshapely grace and to embrace every expression of love—even the ones that look like amoebas.

What unspoken parenting lessons did you absorb when you were growing up? Do you find yourself doing and saying the things that your mother did?

This post originally appeared at The Peanut Gallery Speaks

http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/05/mamma-mia-im-my-mamma/

On Lilies and Life

2011-04-23T12:18:00.000-07:00

The Calla lilies look almost too perfect to be real. They spring up every March and April along the fence in our side yard. Planted by someone whose name I do not know, they thrive in spite of my neglect. I neither water them nor tend them. My dog pays them a little more attention. He methodically tramples them under his big goofy paws in the hottest part of summer. Then he flops down on top of their cool green leaves and sleeps all day in the shade. Certain that they can't possibly rebound from such abuse, I watch the fence line dubiously year after year. And the lilies bounce back greener, denser, more vibrant every Spring. It defies reason, but there they are, rioting and gorgeous. They make me happy.

Tomorrow is Easter, the culmination of another Holy Week, and I can't stop thinking of the lilies. They remind me of life and of the Life. "Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live:" (John 11:25) And I recognize the miracle of life that springs up again and again in my soul. When I feel thirsty or trampled down or doubtful, He pours out living water or takes my hand and raises me up or whispers hope. And I bounce back year after year, greener and more vibrant.

Tomorrow I will sit in church and sing--hymns of wounded hands and an empty tomb and that bright morning that followed darkest night. In my mind I will picture the stone rolled away and the linens carefully folded long ago in far away Jerusalem. But mostly I will picture the lilies blooming in my own backyard--reminding me of life everlasting and eternity that begins today. Here. Now. Again.

Core Strength

2011-04-19T08:45:00.000-07:00

Wendy carries a clipboard and her work wardrobe consists of t-shirts and running shoes. No wonder she always seems cheerful when I show up for our appointments--it's 2:00 pm and she's still in her sweats. Sweet.
Her smile does not fool me though. She's there to kick my trash, and she always thinks I can do a little more. Usually she's right. Five years ago I would have laughed at the idea of paying good money for a personal trainer. Hans and Frans? Thanks, no. Work out in an air-conditioned gym? Lame. I would rather ride my bike up to Del Valle or run with my dog or swim laps or hike Brushy Peak. Yeah, well, five years ago I couldn't have really told you anything about Parkinson's Disease either.

Prayers are answered in a lot of ways. Sometimes the answer involves a clipboard and lot of work and some pain. Wendy is one of those answers. This is not about sculpted abs and toned triceps, it's about being able to manage the stairs in my house and use a keyboard and tie my shoes. It's about being able to body surf with my grandkids and whitewater kayak in Alaska in August and Lindy Hop with Bob and ride my bike to Yosemite next Spring. So Wendy works me . . . hard. Some days I just want to lie on the mat and cry or take an ice pick to the Bosu ball. But Wendy reminds me that, "When your core is strong, everything is stronger." So I keep working . . . hard. And the pain pays off, gradually. It always surprises me when I find that I can bear more weight or do more reps or maintain my balance better that I could eight weeks ago. Why should it surprise me? Wendy knows her stuff. I wish I had a dollar for every time she has said, "Keep your core engaged!" But I have something better to show for it than a fistful of singles--core strength.

Lately I have thought a lot about my other Core--my capital 'C' core--that singular essential center of my being that is not vulnerable to Parkinson's disease or any other physical limitation. If anything, Parkinson's has helped me put on spiritual muscle. But soul-building is hard work, painful even. Sometimes I just want to lie on the path and cry. Then a quiet voice reminds me to keep my Core engaged. So I keep working . . . hard. I work to trust God and to love His children and to hope tenaciously. I apply myself to patience and optimism and inner-stillness. Most of the time I cannot perceive my own progress. Now and then, though, I find myself surprised by a deep serenity and stability pooling inside me. I can bear life's weight better and keep my balance no matter what the world throws at me. When my Core is strong, everything is stronger.

Someday my Parkinson's will outstrip even my best efforts, and Wendy's expertise, at core training. That's OK. It will never outstrip my opportunity to develop Core strength--capital 'C' Core.

Puzzled

2011-04-13T06:14:00.000-07:00

Puzzled

Powerless. I am powerless against the New York Times. Not the whole thing. I can walk away from the front page, especially if the news is bad. Sports Page? No problem, I check the MLB standings, and skim the stats. Done. On a vulnerable day, the Weather Page may suck me in for a while. Why, you ask? Who knows? Something about checking the temperature in Oslo and the humidity in Managua makes me happy. (I think I mostly love it because it makes me feel a little better about my outrageous California mortgage payment to realize that while I hop in the pool on an April morning, they’re still wearing thermal long-johns in Sniezka or sweltering in Ahmedabad.)

My helplessness starts and ends on The Puzzle Page. For a capable (somewhat), productive (sometimes), and intelligent (debatable) adult I have a stunning lack of discipline when it comes to The Crossword and KenKen. (Eight Across: “Period between Shaban and Shawwal”; seven letters; starting with an ‘R’. RAMADAN. Writing the bold block letters in pen makes me disproportionately happy. And why can I not resist KenKen? I don’t even like math, but show me the freebie “3” in the corner and I’m a goner. ) Pen flying, I cannot stop until every square on every grid has a letter or a number in it. Don’t even think about pulling me away to brush my hair or scramble eggs (warm breakfast at my house means I leave the milk out.) Nope. Not until I figure out the “region conquered by Phillip II of Macedon” that ends in a ‘Y.’ Aaah, Thessaly.

Most days my benign, if slightly geeky, addiction to the puzzle page doesn’t cost me much, maybe twenty minutes. But I don’t really have time for it. Maybe that’s what makes it so irresistible–that and the chance of actually completing something, anything, in a single morning. As a writer, I start many things and finish few. Multiple projects simmer in my mental kitchen at any given time. Juicy words and free-floating sentences and brilliant half-thoughts twine and dance in my head by the thousands. Some converge and take shape. Others splinter into endless variations on a theme that never quite settles down and becomes something. Even the ones I seize and hold captive on the page take on a life of their own and often defy closure. Contrast that with The Crossword—that lovely masterpiece of symmetry and order. Each clue has an answer. One answer. Words and letters are tightly contained in tidy boxes on a carefully constructed grid. Nothing slops over or slips away or slumps into nonsense. Twenty minutes seems a small price to pay for the empowering illusion of mastery over words, that fleeting third of an hour when everything falls into place. It’s the least puzzling part of my day.

What benign addiction helps you get through the day? Is your writing an orderly process or a literary free-for-all? What’s your best “writer’s tip”?

photo by trs 125
This post originally appeared on The Peanut Gallery Speaks http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/04/puzzled/

Hatchet Job

2011-04-08T16:52:00.000-07:00

You know those moments when you're aware that your life is totally in someone else's hands? You have no option but to trust the skill and training and common sense of another human being. Like when your flight experiences landing gear malfunction. Or at the top of a Class IV rapid in an open raft. Or as they wheel you in to the OR for emergency surgery. All you can do is pray that your surgeon didn't cut class on the day they covered hysterectomies or that your pilot got 100% and a gold star on his forehead for acing the "Emergency Landing" simulation with a cool head. Or that your river guide didn't throw any magic 'shrooms in his omelet that morning (fat chance on that one, but you can hope.)

Well, I had one of those moments this week and survived. Barely. And it wasn't (isn't) pretty. But I had to trust her. I don't have the skill or training to do her job. So I stayed in my seat, trying to remain calm while she worked. And she worked--actually created a piece of work. On my head. Yep. It's the week of the really, really awkward haircut.

Ironically, I don't worry about my hair much on a day to day basis. Low-maintenance is my middle name. (OK, not really, but if I had a middle name I'm pretty sure that would be it.) This week, though, I needed a confidence boost. I am speaking at a conference in three weeks and I thought a nice fresh 'do would provide a little lift. D'oh. I ended up on the wrong end of a pair of scissors wielded by a stylist who needed to talk. I guess she figured that as long as she kept snipping, I would keep listening and giving sympathetic feedback. She had a captive audience/therapist that she could hold hostage with just a few flicks of her shears.

I had removed my glasses, so I didn't fully see the extent of the havoc she wreaked until it was too late. But whatcha gonna do? Say "Put it back! Now!"? When even my near-sighted eyes could discern that we were approaching the point where the hair on my head was shorter than the hair on my legs, I started to pray. She must have seen the look of panic on my face, because she stopped clipping and pulled out her blow dryer to dry the stubble that remained. I headed home to start damage control. Still working on it. There's always the option of wearing a paper bag on my head for my speaking engagement. That would be a first, no doubt.
Hey, Dallin Oaks delivers great talks with much less hair than I have. Besides I learned a few things:

Lesson # 1--Never look for self-assurance in a salon chair.

Lesson #2--It's worth the trouble to put in your contact lenses before getting a haircut.

Lesson #3--It's just hair! It grows. You want longer hair? Put on more mascara.

Lesson #4--The paper handle-bag from the Verizon store is the ideal size to fit over an adult head. Bonus:
the clean, professional black/white/red graphics will match with almost any business ensemble.

So, do you have a heinous haircut saga? Make my day and share it!

April and a Number of Things

2011-04-04T23:36:00.000-07:00

So what's not to love about April? Daffodils. Asparagus. Daylight Savings Time. Easter Eggs and Opening Day. General Conference http://lds.org/general-conference/watch/2011/04?lang=eng&vid=882381302001&cid=4. Income taxes. (Oh yeah, income taxes. Well, five out of six ain't bad.) Calla lilies and artichokes and sandal weather. Cherry blossoms and my birthday. (It's OK, we're still ten for twelve.)

I remember the first poem I ever memorized. My Little Golden Book of selections from A Child's Garden of Verses had dog-eared pages and no back cover--I had literally loved it to pieces. Mom read it with me in her tilt back chair and we learned the whole book by heart.

The world is so full of a number of things,

I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

Scoff if you must. Call me Pollyanna and find yourself some soul-blasted-world-weary emo poetry that you think describes "real" life more accurately than Robert Louis Stevenson's sunny little couplet. You can keep your so called "Realism." Not that the troubles and tragedies and terrors of this anguished world are not real. They are real. I know that. But they are not the only realities and their seeming prevalence does not diminish other real things: faith and hope; authentic joy and triumph; waking up next to the love of your life every morning. Integrity and compassion and generosity are as real as corruption and callousness and self-interest. Light still chases away darkness, even a little light. Ugly things are "reality"--just not the only reality. Georgia O'Keefe said, "Nothing is less real than realism. Details are confusing. It is only by selection, by elimination, by emphasis that we get to the real meaning of things." Real things, any number of them. Like a daffodil. Or an artichoke. Or another April.

What do you love about April? How do you focus on the optimistic face of "reality"?

Hand Me Down, Hand Me Up, Hand Me Anything

2011-03-23T00:09:00.000-07:00

The Little Jumper That Could

I was definitely a girl ahead of my time. Long before “vintage” became trendy and someone coined the term “re-purposed,” I served as the poster child for sustainable, responsible consumerism. That sounds high-principled, but it really just means I wore a lot of hand-me-downs. As the fifth of six children, much of my wardrobe and other stuff had previously belonged to one or more of my siblings. The undisputed Queen of Hand-Me-Downs, I took other people’s cast-offs with unembarrassed glee.

Living at the end of the distribution chain had its joys. Think about Christmas. Not only did I get to open my own presents, I could watch my two older sisters open their gifts and savor the certainty that the keyless shoe skates would eventually make their way to me. Time was on my side—that blue and white checked maxi dress would be mine. All good things came (only slightly worse for the wear) to those who waited.

My family’s total mastery of the hand-me-down concept is embodied in the holy relic I fondly think of as The Little Jumper That Could. If you look at each of our 1^st grade school photos you’ll see what I mean. There it is, the LJTC gracing my smiling oldest sister on picture day –purple corduroy, sweet floral ribbon trim and tiny round white buttons. Four years later it crops up in another school picture, this time on sister #2. But wait, how did I luck out? I wore the Little Jumper That Could in TWO school pictures: first grade and second. By 1969, when the above photo was taken the jumper had faded to a weary lavender color and the ribbon had curled at the edges.

Sadly, the system sort of broke down when I hit adolescence. My feet would not stop growing. Tagged “gun boat feet” by my brothers, they quickly overtook my sisters’ dainty shoe sizes and threatened to take over the planet. No more hand-me-down shoes. Oh, and then I got tall—taller than my oldest sister almost overnight. Passing clothes down the line became senseless.

But I never outgrew my love for hand-me-downs. I still pick up interesting items from assorted family members. Most of my inherited attire these days actually comes from my daughters, Hand-Me-Ups I love my Grandpa’s plaid Pendleton jacket. My Dad’s big gray sweater has become my writing attire—it’s keeping me warm right now. Dad wore it so often that putting it on feels like summoning him to act as my muse. Sometimes it just feels like one of his hugs. No trendy new sweater from H&M can do that. I like clothes with a little history, a little piece of someone I love, a couple of stories to tell. I like my hand-me-downs.

Where do you fall on the hand-me-down continuum? Rather die than wear used? Or do hand-me-downs make you happy?

This post originally appeared on The Peanut Gallery Speaks.
http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/03/hand-me-down-hand-me-up-hand-me-anything/

Built-In BFF's

2011-03-19T08:30:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a big family. A big loud, chaotic, close, loving, happy family. A unique family culture developed over the years, shaped by the influence of my parents and the six distinct individuals that they spawned. OK, you are correct . . . "unique family culture" pretty much translates "serious weirdness." But it sounds better, right? A few weeks ago four of the six siblings gathered with our mom and various spouses to celebrate my sister's fiftieth birthday. (My older sister, mind you.) As always, we laughed a lot and ate a lot and the conversation whirled at a dizzying speed.

At one point I sat back and tried to listen to the banter as it must have sounded to our waitress or to the slightly intoxicated people at the neighboring table. A peculiar lexicon evolves among siblings, based on shared experience and a common way of processing life. We spring along easily with one another's jumps in logic, follow each other's verbal shorthand fluidly. So much Sandholtz-specific vocabulary flew that a random passer-by would have no idea what we were talking about. It made me smile. Few things in life make me any happier than sitting around with my siblings. My life came fully equipped with built-in best friends.

I don't know how my mom did it. No doubt she occasionally longed to trade some or all of us to a passing camel train. Or she could have run off with the caravan and returned after we had all finished high school and become reasonably civilized human beings. But no, she and Dad stuck it out without killing or maiming any of us--even through our most annoying or obnoxious phases. (Mine stretched for more than a decade. The 1970's must have felt like a century to my parents.) And they liked us. No really, they liked us and so we liked each other. Still do. No gift mom and dad gave me even touches the gift of siblings--not even my Burgundy Cherry Schwinn three-speed or the Barbie Beauty Center.

There's something deep and durable about a friendship that develops between two people who share a bunk bed, or a tube tent on a backpacking trip, or the rear cargo area of a Plymouth station wagon on a cross-country road trip. Who called for help when I shoved a rock up my nostril while the parents were gone? Taught me how to cut open a golf ball on Dad's work bench? How can I not feel devoted to a sister who walked me down the dark hall to the bathroom (all ten feet of it) every night for years because I was afraid of boogey men or a brother who let me climb on the back of his mo-ped and hitch a ride to Livermore High School? Who but a sibling would welcome me and my four kids to stay in his home for seven weeks so that I could attend the last term I needed to finish my bachelor's degree or farm her own children out to friends so that she could fly eight hundred miles to help me after an emergency surgery or take time to read an essay at midnight and give thoughtful feedback? My siblings make me laugh out loud and let me whine now and then and inspire me with their sheer goodness. We fit, like old jeans or broken in Vans--comfortable, familiar, easy. Our pasts are intertwined, our present and our futures as well. We are part of each other's eternity.
BFF's.

What do you love about having siblings? What's your favorite sibling memory?

Chaos Theory

2011-03-02T08:10:00.000-08:00

Today is my day to post on The Peanut Gallery Speaks. Meet me there to be impressed by my mad organizational skills. http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/03/chaos-theory/

Unplugged/Tuned In

2011-02-24T12:10:00.000-08:00

We spent the long weekend utterly unplugged. No iPod, no laptop, no internet to surf. Even my cell phone stayed in the car where it could vibrate all day and I would remain blissfully oblivious to its intrusions. Heaven. Honestly, it felt like heaven. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if I found out that Heaven actually resembled Sea Ranch on a long February weekend with good friends. Check your ear-buds at the door and forget wi-fi. The only way to hear this music is to unplug.

The playlist? Docile waves spill over sand in ceaseless rhythm then pull back with contented sighs. Seagulls state the obvious and small birds titter the morning news. Narrow freshwater rivulets gurgle down the bluffs and leap over the cliffs, laughing. Mighty surf pounds on black rock, crashing and roiling and then rushing back to mount again. Ocean music mesmerizes me. I never tire of listening. Sitting by the sea, eyes open or eyes shut, I am captivated.

Still, something odd happens when I spend a few days on the coast. When we first arrived at Sea Ranch and stepped out of the car, the sounds of the ocean washed over us. The beauty and power of the music almost overwhelmed me. That night I opened the window slightly and listened in the dark until I fell asleep. By the following afternoon, I had to remind myself to hear. In the midst of everything unfolding around me--good conversation, good food, a good book, a bad cold, a crummy hand of cards--the music faded into background noise that scarcely pierced my consciousness. Waves continued to crash, the ocean had neither moved nor shut down for the night. While my attention wandered, the music remained constant. But unless I deliberately tuned in to the sounds of the sea, they became mute to me.

I notice the same tendency in myself when it comes to tuning into the eternal in day to day life. When I live mindfully--choose gratitude, look for the good, open my heart--a breathtaking song overwhelms me. My soul knows the music and recognizes the voice of the Maker. But too often I get absorbed in the immediate, the daily, the hand of cards I hold at any given moment. Life distracts me and I miss Him. His voice becomes mute to me. My attention may wander, but He remains constant. "Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep." (Psalm 121:4) Amazing what a long weekend at the ocean can do. This week I stop and deliberately listen for the Divine. The music sweeps me up in a dance that I have long known but am learning new. It captivates me, mesmerizes me. Unplugged. Tuned In.

Put Cupid Out of a Job . . . Fool Proof Valentine Recipe

2011-02-14T12:07:00.000-08:00

You need a quick, classy, clever Valentine, right? Something unique and romantic that doesn't cost an arm and a leg? Easy. Write a love poem. No, really, write a poem for someone you love. Instant romance. Free. You can't beat that. Two dozen excuses for not writing a Valentines poem have just sprung to your mind. Nice try. You don't have to be a Nobel prize winning poet or an English major or anything like unto it. Go for a haiku. Haiku is lithe, elegant, and avoids the pitfalls of cheesily contrived rhyme. The format is simple: Three lines; five syllables then seven syllables then five syllables again; no rhyme required. Five-Seven-Five. OK? Like, ummmm, this:

slice of morning sun
falls on your bright face and dims
by comparison

or

my heart still drums that
mad elated rhythm when
you walk in the door

or

you are my springtime
coaxing into bloom bright buds
that yield sweeter fruit

Try it. You'll get hooked. Write a haiku for someone you love or a haiku about anything. If you feel like sharing, include your haiku in a "Comment" and make my day. We'll call it our First Annual Valentines Day Haiku Fest. I triple dog dare you. Happy Valentines Day!

Nothing Says "I Love You" Like . . .

2011-02-09T07:33:00.000-08:00

Grade school. Every February. The teacher handed out white paper lunch sacks and red construction paper and doilies. I got most excited about using the paste. It came in a tub with a plastic stick in the lid for spreading the sticky stuff (or for licking, in my case. The paste had a pleasing peppermint-ish taste that I couldn’t resist. What a great dual function school supply– an adhesive and a snack. Score!) Once I had made my sack as pink and red and heart-covered as possible (and cleaned the paste stick thoroughly with my tongue) I taped it on the front of my desk and the waiting began.

During the week leading up to Valentine’s Day the doily-enhanced “mailbox” filled up with cards and treats from my classmates. The torture became acute as I wondered who put the box of conversation hearts in my sack. A BOY?!? Finally February 14th arrived along with a room mother in cat’s-eye glasses bearing a tray of pink frosted sugar cookies. We tore into our mailboxes and began the process of analyzing the cards, reading them carefully for each delicate nuance. The conversation hearts came from suck-up Andrea. What a let-down. Most of the boys gave out dumb Hot Wheels and Batman Valentines with messages like “You’re on track, Valentine” or “Biff, Pow, Zap—you knock me out.”L-A-M-E. But Bobby T. gave me a Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp Valentine that said “I go bananas for you.” That can only mean one thing. Nothing says “I love you” like a chimpanzee in a three-piece suit with a briefcase in one hand and a banana in the other, right? Aah, romance.

These days, I confess, Valentine’s Day does nothing for me. Don’t get me wrong, I consider myself a true romantic. I just don’t pine for diamonds or long-stemmed roses or perfume. (A little high quality dark chocolate always sits well, though.) Those things seem trifling, flimsy even, next to the year-round-real-life-doily-free Valentines that Bob fills my life with. I recognize them for what they are– “I go bananas for you” materialized. Like Bob buckling my ski boots when my left hand refuses to cooperate then taking the blue square runs instead of the black diamonds so that he can warm my hands on the lift and ski just behind me to rescue me when my Parkinson’s wins and I fall. Or when he stands at the kitchen sink during “crunch time” for a dinner party, washing dishes in the wake of hurricane Jerie, wiping the counters clean just as the doorbell rings. Dancing with me in the living room. Laughing with me late at night or just letting me cry. Back scratches and checking the air in my tires and taking down the Christmas tree. Nothing says I love you like work and compromise and playing Scrabble three nights in row and cleaning up after four kids who have stomach flu. Romance indeed. No Valentine that money can buy could top it. Unless maybe Bob could find a tub of that paste . . .

In your world “Nothing says I love you like . . .”? What would your ideal Valentine be?

This post originally appeared on The Peanut Gallery Speaks. You can follow the comment thread there.

http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/02/nothing-says-i-love-you-like/

Seeing With My Other Eyes

2011-02-01T18:31:00.000-08:00

Lydia stood up in front of hundreds of complete strangers and sang her heart out with earnest blue eyes. She had somehow managed to find clean tights and Sunday shoes among boxes stacked three deep in the house she had just moved into. After the first song she walked bravely to the pulpit that dwarfed her pixie-like frame and spoke clearly into the microphone, prompted by a woman she had met only moments before.

Lydia is four years old and that Sunday marked her first week in a new church congregation. The children presented the program at the service that day. I sat on the back row of the chapel and wept because I knew that my grand-daughter hadn't wanted to move in the first place and that reserve often overtakes her in new situations or among strangers. But not that day. She raised her eyes and lifted her voice and I saw her. I saw her ancient, magnificent soul filling the space above the pulpit, not a bit like a pixie. I sensed the towering being she has always been and will become more completely on her life's journey--ablaze with pure light, her hair lightly brushing the vaulted ceiling above her, blown by an unseen wind. Then my eyes came back into focus on the small girl in the pink sailor dress with the ponytail. An intense wish filled me, a desire to take Lydia's hand and walk with her, to lead her and to follow her. And I resolved to always see her with those other eyes, and to treat her as the luminous eternal creature that she truly is.

Several questions have lingered in my heart since that cold Sunday morning. What if we went through life with our other eyes wide open? Would it change our responses and interactions day by day if we worked to see in one another the divine, the majestic, the essential? Could we more readily extend respect or patience or compassion to our fellow travelers if we tried to see others as God sees them? How did Lydia tap into her bigger self to rally the courage and confidence to stand and deliver in a new and unfamiliar place? I suspect children have an easier time believing the words they sing at Primary on Sundays,"I am a child of God, and He has sent me here . . ." When we truly understand that simple yet profound truth we can do anything. Our understanding of our own worth and the worth of every single human being we encounter enables us to respond with generous hearts and to stand like Lydia in frightening situations and sing our hearts out.

I've heard of rose-tinted glasses, and I suppose that they could cast a certain lovely softness around our view of the world. But at some point the glasses will come off, or get scratched or stepped on and my view of life would go suddenly gray. I would rather keep my soul-eyes open instead and discern the beautiful and true selves of God's children who cross my path. So don't be surprised if you feel familiar to me when we meet as strangers along the way. I may not know your name, but I know your Father. And when I look at you with my other eyes I can see the resemblance.

Gym Dandy

2011-01-19T06:45:00.000-08:00

Today is my day to post on The Peanut Gallery Speaks. Click on the link below to meet me there and share my January gym woes.

http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/01/gym-dandy/

One Girl, Ten Years . . . A Decade Distilled

2011-01-10T12:13:00.000-08:00

Six months ago my extraordinary friend Sharon shared something profound with my family. She had written a brief review of the past ten years of her life. Her short synopsis touched me, and not just because I love Sharon. From the vantage point of a decade of accumulated days we discern patterns and purpose that we easily miss in the moment. I decided then that I would follow Sharon's example. January of a new decade seems like a good time undertake the exercise. Hold on to your hats, it's ten years after all!

2000 - 2010 A Decade Distilled

At the turn of the millennium every one of our five bedrooms had an occupant. Our kids and their friends came and went freely--the traffic through our kitchen never ceased. I grocery shopped at COSTCO, bought five dozen eggs and four gallons of milk at a time. Now four bedrooms sit empty most of the year. I buy one gallon of milk and Bob and I might manage to consume it before it expires.

Ten years ago we had two computers for the six of us at home. My verrrrry slow internet connection seemed fine--until I got a taste of DSL and then, holy cow, high-speed wireless. Now we have four desktop computers and seven laptops among the same number of people.

In 2000 we had never met Robbie Taggart. We couldn't have dreamed what a blessing it would be to have him marry Julie and join our family. Now we have trouble remembering what our family ever did without him.

A decade ago our children had four vibrant, living grandparents--two on each side. Bob lost his Dad in 2005 and his Mom in March of 2010. My Dad passed away in May 2009. I'm not sure we anticipated how much we would think about them and miss them on a daily basis. I was present when my Dad slipped into the next phase of eternity and also when my first grandchild, Lydia Taggart, entered this world with her eyes wide open. Emerson and Oliver arrived eagerly, bringing joy, joy, joy. What's in a name? I used to be called Jerie, Mom, Jer, Sweetie, Sister Jacobs, Mrs. Jacobs. Now three amazing little people call me Nana.

Ten years ago our four children attended three different schools--we juggled Elementary School, Middle School, and High School expectations and events simultaneously. All four have since graduated from Livermore High School. Julie, Robbie, and Allison have all graduated from BYU with their Bachelor's degrees and Robbie has finished his Masters program. I actually donned a cap and gown myself in 2000 after I returned to BYU for a summer term and finished the last three classes I needed to complete the Bachelor's degree I had started almost two decades earlier. What're a couple of decades in the eternal scheme of things?

We have sent a son and a daughter and aging but energetic parents on full-time service missions.

In the past ten years I have wandered through twenty-seven states of the USA. I have eaten reindeer in Norway, wild boar in Tuscany, fresh lobster in Nova Scotia, bangers and mash in London, sandwich cake in Sweden, ripe red papaya in Mexico, gallo pinto in Costa Rica, halvah from a vendor in Old Jerusalem's maze, "St. Peter's fish" on the Sea of Galilee, lamb and couscous at the end of the dusty canyon trail to Petra in Jordan. (And San Francisco is still my favorite city in this wide world.) Kayaked the Rogue River and rafted Costa Rica's gorgeous Pacuare. Climbed Half Dome. Hiked the Zion Narrows from top to bottom. Zip-lined in the rainforest. Trekked Kauai's Napali Trail. Rappelled. Caved. Tried snowboarding (once, thank you very much. I'll stick with skis.) Pulled a pioneer handcart through the Sierra foothills (twice, in a long skirt.) Sea kayaked in Monterey Bay, watched orcas up close in Victoria BC. Jet skiied in Mexico and the Mangroves of Costa Rica. Jumped off rocks and cliffs into various bodies of water (some of it deep enough to land in safely, D'oh.) Hiked through the Devil's Garden and the Fiery Furnace and spent a night in Purgatory (do you detect a pattern?) Rode a bike along the edge of Fjords. Floated in the Dead Sea, body surfed in the Pacific Ocean, waded in the Atlantic, snorkeled in the Red Sea.

Broke a leg. Passed a kidney stone. Was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. Started wearing progressive lenses (yes, that's just a fancy word for bi-focals.) Lost 55 pounds and cut my hair short. Found gray patches in my hair and happy wrinkles around my eyes.

So, there you have the condensed version. Seems a lot changes in ten years. But the truly important stuff remains. Faith grows, gratitude heightens, hope endures, love multiplies. I cherish my family more than ever and appreciate the goodness of God and the grace of Jesus Christ to my very core. Thanks, Sharon, for motivating me to look back. Thank you for the reminder that daily drops in the bucket become mighty waters and that joy and strength accumulate by bits. Even the hard, sharp-edged pieces that looked dark or ugly or impossible to work with when life first handed them to me are now an essential part of the beautiful pattern that is emerging. And I wouldn't trade any of it. Here's to another defining decade, and to eternity.

If you boiled your last decade of life down to two pages, what would it look like?

Looking Ahead

2010-12-29T06:01:00.000-08:00

As a child I felt both excitement and dread as New Years approached. The prospect of staying up past midnight and making lots of noise almost outweighed the apprehension. Almost. Every New Year my family gathered for “Highlights and Resolutions.” I didn’t mind the highlights– each of my five siblings and I shared our favorite experiences from the past year. But my stomach would knot as the highlights wrapped up and Round Two commenced. Resolutions. This part of the ritual began with Mom reading our goals from the previous year out loud. Why did it seem that my focused and disciplined siblings always managed to tick through their goals effortlessly and thoroughly? My cheeks burned as Mom read my unrealized good intentions from twelve months past. It sounded like the sharp rap of a gavel to me. Acting as my own judge and jury, I pronounced the verdict. “Failed.”

Year after year I endured this uncomfortable family tradition and a rebellious loathing for goal setting grew in me (at least public goal setting.) I avoided anything that smacked of “resolution.” Eventually it dawned on me that, in spite of my dismal track record with New Years resolutions, I did live with purpose and focus. The things that mattered to me were rarely quantifiable—not goals that I could write down in a tidy sentence and check off a year later. Soul-making takes effort and measuring my progress was profoundly personal. Comparing my path to the aspirations or achievements of any other person only discouraged me.

Several years ago while driving down the freeway at sixty-five miles per hour I heard my four-year-old daughter squeal from the rear seat. “Stop Mom! Stop! We’re going backwards!” Allie was staring round-eyed out the window on her left. A trucker in a huge semi had barreled up from behind, and was rapidly passing us. The tall, fast-moving side panel of his trailer completely filled Allie’s view. The truck’s speed and size created the illusion that we were moving backwards.

After he passed we laughed at the sensation of going backwards on a busy freeway. But I have never forgotten that moment and the realization that I sometimes gauge my life’s journey with my eyes fixed on the travelers in the lane beside me. I see the speed of their progress and think, “I’m going backwards!” I have to remind myself to drag my eyes back to the road in front of me. Looking ahead I realize that I am moving forward. In fact, I am clipping along in the direction of the dreams I most desire. It doesn’t matter where anyone else is going or how fast he gets there. I'm keeping my eyes on my lane and looking ahead.

How do you avoid the “comparative self-worth” trap?

*photo credit
This post originally appeared on The Peanut Gallery Speaks. You can follow comments there.

http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2010/12/looking-ahead/

Christ In Your Thoughts and a Dime In Your Shoe

2010-12-13T14:52:00.000-08:00

A quote from Henry David Thoreau hangs on the wall next to my bed, where hopefully I see it every day. It consists of one word repeated three times. "Simplify. Simplify. Simplify." I resonate to Thoreau's unembellished advice for laying hold on life's goodness. But this time of year presents a challenge to even the most simplification-converted soul. I have to remind myself to keep room for Christ in my Christmas--lots of room.

My heart longs to throw the door wide so He knows to come right in, no need to knock. I hope He will find us at home. Please, don't let us miss Him in favor of the demands of an over-crammed calendar. Will He find a place to stay and visit with us ? Maybe we should clear the counter of goodie plates and focus instead on good will to men, worry less about the decorative mantle piece and more about peace on earth. Is there room amid the baubles and bright lights for the Light of the World? How can I remind myself of the simplicity of the angel's good tidings of great joy? My nineteen-year-old son provided an answer to that question. He is serving as a missionary in Argentina and will spend his Christmas far away from home and traditions--but closer, I think, to the pure purposes and import of this holy season. Can I share a bit of one of his recent letters? His simple suggestion has transformed my holidays:

"I want to share with you all something that changed my week. Something special. Last Monday, our District leader challenged us all to put a small coin in our shoe for the course of the week and as we walked every day, every time we felt it, we were to remind ourselves of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. How it helps us. How it helps everyone. I can´t quite explain how special of a week this became. When you think about Christ and His Atonement every few minutes of your day, things change. Every step I took, I was reminded of my Savior, what He did for me, what He suffered for me, and how grateful I am to Him. And so I challenge each of you to do the same. Stick a dime in your shoe this week. Everytime you feel it there in your shoe, slightly uncomfortable as it may be, think about our Redeemer´s Atonement in your life. In addition, think of one thing your grateful for and why. That´s a secret I´m learning. The secret to a happy day is to have a grateful heart. Focus on what we have rather than what we might lack. And when we walk, thinking of Christ every step of our day, we will feel Him closer, walking along beside us, His hand on our shoulder. I challenge you all to do this this week. Walk with Christ in your thoughts and a dime in your shoe. I promise you that you will see and feel a difference in your week. So I hope you do it. And I would love to hear back from anybody who does it and the experience they had."

So, I will keep a dime in my shoe from now until Christmas. And I will keep Christ in my heart, at the heart of my celebrations, as the heart of my home. Join me if you yearn for things simple and sacred this Christmas. For a mere dime we can invite the Savior in. I believe the words of the old traditional carol: "No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin; where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in."

What do you find helps you stay focused on the true meaning of Christmas? Share already . . .

O Holy Night--O the Pain

2010-12-08T09:21:00.000-08:00

My friend Wyatt responded to yesterday's post about O Holy Night with a rendition that pretty much tops anything heretofore known to humankind. Give it a listen if you need to smile today. But I warn you--it hurts. Hurts so good. Merry Christmas : http://www.thesneeze.com/mt-archives/000570.php