Stuffed

Expecting, in a "family way," bun in the oven, the rabbit died, positive result, scored, preggers--it's amazing how all these different words and phrases have come about to say a woman is pregnant. In some parts of England, "stuffed" is slang for pregnant. A lot of these odd sayings originated during the 1940s and 1950s in television--if a character on a TV show was pregnant, they could not say the actual word "pregnant." Heck, Jeannie the genie couldn't even show her belly button on television.

I think skinny girls have the hardest time being pregnant, if they are lucky enough to get pregnant at all. (Women with too little fat on their body will not ovulate.) But those who are able to conceive watch their bodies change, sometimes with horror, as pants get tighter and shirts seem to creep up their abdomens of their own accord. For heavier girls like me, it's pretty routine. "Oh, I can't button my pants anymore? *Sigh* What's new?" "Oh, it's because I'm pregnant? Cool, now I don't have to feel so bad!"

These skinny women bemoan each new stretch mark as they watch their beautiful bodies stretch and sacrifice to accommodate new life over a few months' time. Something they'll never understand is they are lucky--they at least have a legitimate reason to be gaining all that weight, for those stretch marks to appear, to buy bigger, looser-fitting clothes. They are also more likely to lose all that weight after labor. 

On the bright side (for me), thinner women are also more likely to have issues with morning sickness and for longer than average during pregnancy. I think morning sickness is a way to get thin women used to eating more often, since the main cure for morning sickness is constantly munching on something. A stomach with food in it is less likely to get upset.

Another challenge some thin women face is difficulty breastfeeding, since skinny women tend to be more flat-chested.  (Then again, very overweight women also have a hard time breastfeeding because of their larger chests.) Women who are too thin are also more likely to have a miscarriage. My tip for those skinny girls: drink one Frosty every evening. (I've actually had skinny friends whose doctors--actual physicians--would prescribe a Frosty for weight gain.)


Do not get me wrong--any woman who chooses to be pregnant and bring new life into the world makes noteworthy sacrifices. Different shapes and sizes of women have different sets of challenges while pregnant, that's all. It just helped when I was pregnant to think of the challenges other women experience and be glad I didn't have those problems. It's like I was saying yesterday--when we think about other people's problems, our own issues don't seem so bad after all.

Still, even with our great, logical brains that can acknowledge weight gain is expected and healthy while pregnant, it can still be depressing. I blame the media for making us women feel bad if our shape isn't a perfect 10, size 2 and bikini-ready. Ideally it should be all about health. If you're healthy enough and have the stamina to be chasing around a toddler in the next couple years, then you are good to go. 

The Physics of Attitude

I learned a new saying today, and apparently it's been around for years: "To a hammer, all the world's a nail." Phrases and parables like these have more than one application, which adds to their versatility. Each layer of truth is revealed as the applicant finds one more way the parable can apply to life.

I asked my mom what she thought this particular phrase meant, and she said it means there are limitless opportunities all around us. My dad applied it to a conversation we were having about how a person's attitude affects... well, everything. To a negative person, for example, every experience is just one more example of why God hates him. So really, both interpretations of this saying are about attitude, or perspective.

Physics also has its own application of this principle, in the form of Newton's first law: A body at rest stays at rest, and a body in motion stays in motion; or, inertia. There is psychological proof of this as well--it is easier to remain in one frame of mind than to shift schools of thought, so a person will subconsciously look for evidence as proof to why their outlook on life is correct. It is easier for a negative person to stay negative and point out all the negatives in life--as miserable as that state of mind can be--than to change his core beliefs and become a positive person.

Conversely, this means positive people are more likely to stay positive because it is easier to stay in one frame of mind than change. I think it also has to do with habits. If a person habitually looks on the bright side, habitually gives others the benefit of the doubt, habitually thinks of others first, then it is easier to stay positive.

The problem for negative underachievers then lies in making the transition from one type of attitude to another. And here is where the mind games begin. What picture enters your mind the moment you read "Don't think about white bears"? Do polar bears come to mind, perhaps with a cola in paw? Thoughts are the hardest to change or block out, but it can be done. Instead of worrying about how intrusive those white bears are, you can do one of two things. Think about something completely unrelated and focus on that, like warm apple pie, to drive out the bears, or ignore the bear's black nose poking into your mind's eye. 

It feels very unnatural to turn the other way; when we physically see something out of the corner of our eye, instinct makes us turn towards whatever it is and bring it into focus. Same thing with thoughts. But I have found that it is actually possible to "turn" our mind's eye away from whatever is flickering on the outskirts of our conscious thoughts, to ignore a negative thought and just pretend it's not even there. I think the most successful people in the world have learned this technique, as negative thinking would have beat them out of the running a long time ago.

I am not saying we should ignore the realistic negative thoughts that occur; if we never thought about natural disasters, we'd never feel the need to put emergency kits together. I am saying that as far as personal achievement and happiness goes, we need to start ignoring the negative, self-doubting thoughts. These are thoughts that whisper, "You'll never be able to do that," or "Nobody cares, nobody notices you, you're worthless," and so on. Those are the thoughts that need to be ignored and eventually replaced with positive messages.

It is difficult, learning to control one's thoughts, but it is definitely possible. It's one of the amazing aspects of our humanity--the ability to self-examine and improve. If you're ever stuck trying to find positive thoughts about yourself to replace the negative ones, ask your closest friends or family to tell you one thing they like about you. Yes, it's fishing for a compliment, but these compliments can become your greatest weapons in your arsenal against negative thinking, if you believe them. And even if you're not sure if those good things about you are true, believing in them long enough can make them true.

One other part of learning positive thinking includes serving others. When we help the people around us, whether by giving a meal to a family whose main provider just lost their job or serving soup at a homeless shelter, we begin to forget ourselves. Serving others can also provide a great new perspective: "Gee, I'm sure glad I don't have that person's problems!" Our own life doesn't seem all that bad, since there's always somebody worse off. I know it seems counter-intuitive, but losing oneself in service is often the fastest way of finding oneself. And in the meantime, we help each other out :)    

Cooking

I do not love to cook. It is one of the stereotypical "wifey" tasks I do not want to embrace, but I'd be cooking anyway if I were still single. So instead of hating the stereotype, I try and find things I enjoy about it, like the sense of satisfaction that comes when I have mastered a new recipe or just plain eating something good. Cooking does take up quite a lot of time, but it helps if the recipe yields many servings; then I can portion up the leftovers and not have to cook again for a day or two. 

Some cooks insist on using whatever is in their pantry, even if the substitution is nothing like the original required ingredient. I will make an extra trip to the store to ensure I have exactly the right ingredients, until I know the recipe well and understand how each element affects the overall flavor of the dish. My uncle says it means I cook with passion, since I insist on doing everything the right way.

With cooking it's the prep and cleanup I dislike the most; oddly enough, I took a job that was all about the preparation and cleanup parts of cooking, as a "prep cook." I arrived early in the morning, hours before the restaurant opened, and then spent the next three hours chopping, slicing, mixing, stirring and washing. So I never even got to see the end result of my efforts. It was a very unsatisfying job, but I think it gave me a little more patience with cooking.

I have never had a formal cooking class, only a few lessons about the basics from my parents. It's interesting to think about how much I have learned, just from the tidbits other cooks mention in passing. Besides browning ground beef, I have learned that milk will scald, or burn, if not constantly stirred, and if a recipe requires milk it should usually be added last, also to avoid scalding. Adding a little olive oil to boiling water can help reduce the stickiness in pasta; water comes to a boil faster with a sprinkle of salt (just be sure to account for that salt if the water is for a soup or sauce); cooked pasta, if left to cool too long on the counter, can clump together, but running it under hot tap water loosens it again. Metal gets the smell of onion or garlic off your hands; if the dough tastes bad, so will the cookie; and chopped carrots are nearly invisible in spaghetti sauce.

In the Disney Pixar movie "Ratatouille," there is a food critic character who is ultra-skinny. I've always thought skinny chefs were suspect, or at least odd, but in the movie the critic defends his lack of girth, saying he doesn't just like food, he loves it, and therefore only swallows the truly best food. It actually made sense. I will still trust a chubby cook over a thin cook, though. 

Whenever I visit someone's home and they provide a meal, I confide that they happened to cook my favorite meal: one I didn't have to make! While I enjoy my own dishes, it's fun to try new foods or variations on the classics. I think that's one reason we as a nation eat out so often: we get bored and like to try new things. (Well, that and laziness to a certain degree...) 

Plus there are some foods that I simply cannot replicate at home. I refuse to deep fry anything, for example. (I'm afraid of hot oil--I'll even make my husband cook bacon if a recipe calls for it.) I also don't know how to make tabouli, chow mein, or sushi rolls. And I definitely do NOT like homemade pizza. So there are my excuses to eat out :) 

Thunder and Lightning, Not Very Frightening

I have no recollection of any fear of rain storms. I love listening to the patter of precipitation on my window at night, a gentle tat-tatting of white noise as I drift off to sleep. Winters in California bring only rain and wind; Idaho winters start with rain, become hail and sleet, then evolve into furious blowing snow, silent ice and a late, gradual, slowly dripping thaw. But I've already written about snow--tonight I write about green California winters.

There are rolling hills just inland off the coast of California. These hills turn a gentle green in the winter, as heavy rainfall and sunny days interspersed throughout coax a soft verdant carpeting on the hills near my childhood home. In late summer these hills turn golden brown, as grasses ripen and constant sun bleaches out the green, but I always picture these hills in their spring splendor. 

My first visit back home after a semester in Idaho, all I could do was point out the car window and say, "Green!" over and over. Green is the most relaxing to the eye, and the human eye can detect more shades of green than any other color in the visible spectrum. (Hence why night vision goggles are typically that funky green color.) Countries that face a "regular" winter only have endless fields of white, which often becomes fields of grey and brown. Even evergreen trees are dressed in frosty coats for most of the frozen season.

Sometimes the California rain storms also come with lots of wind, blowing down huge tree branches, littering the roadways with leafy debris. Often the wind storms knock out power lines, and the rains can cause flooding and land slides. But I never feared the weather as a child.

I remember my father led me and my sister to my bedroom window one evening during a thunderstorm. The house shook with each resounding boom of thunder, but then my father pulled a classic trick out of the parental handbag: he distracted us. Instead of indulging any sign of fear, he pointed out amazing forks of lightning between the claps of thunder. He knelt down next to us, pointed out the window and said, "Oh, wow, isn't that neat? That's so cool, isn't it?" My father genuinely admires nature and science, and his enthusiasm was easy to catch. Since then I have never feared thunderstorms, and I want to do the same thing with my own children.

If it happened to storm in the daytime, my family would always have an eye out for sunshine peeking through the deep grey clouds: We were rainbow watchers! There is a somewhat famous YouTube video online, involving a drunk man marveling at a double rainbow. Trust me, they really are that cool. It was in my own backyard where I learned that the position of the sun at the time of a rainstorm could affect the shape of a rainbow. The higher up the sun was in the sky, the flatter and longer a rainbow; the lower to the horizon, the more arched and compact the rainbow. 

My sister and I chased rainbows on a number of occasions. Sometimes we would already be out driving on some errand, other times we would hop in the car and just go. Most of the time the rainbow would fade as clouds would cover up the sun again, before we could reach the rainbow. But one time we actually managed to come out on the other side of one! We didn't notice until all of a sudden the rainbow was behind us, not in front anymore. I think that inattention on our part is what made us miss the pot of gold... It was still a fun little adventure, as we often ended up in unfamiliar neighborhoods and had to spend some time navigating our way back home.

It's too bad gay people have turned something so beautiful into a symbol of corrupt thinking. Sorry, but even if you are born with the wrong body parts or some homosexual tendencies, it is still your choice to be straight. There are hormone supplements and therapy to correct those problems, and--most importantly--the Atonement to help heal the hurt of this kind of trial. We are all born with imperfections, and all of them can be overcome, if we simply choose to do something about it. 

God does allow bad things to happen to us, He allows us to be born with missing limbs, ADHD brains or homosexual desires, all so we can learn to rely on Him and develop into better beings. And of course, it is because of agency that this is possible. This also means we can hurt one another, if we choose not to be better people in this life. Injuries from self-centered, misguided fellow beings can also be healed through Christ's atonement. I just wish more gay people heard messages like mine here. Hopefully they'll get a chance someday. 

Birthdays and Parties

I stopped planning birthday parties for myself back in elementary school. Since my birthday is during the holidays, school would be out (one good thing: I never had to celebrate my birthday at school), and everyone would be busy with family. Also, I had a hard time making my invite lists. I was only allowed to invite ten friends (I understand why--my folks didn't have a lot of money then, and ten kids is a lot to handle, even just for an hour or two). It hurt my feelings whenever I didn't get invited to a classmate's party, and I didn't want to make anyone else have to feel that way, so I decided to not ask anyone.

So my birthdays aren't that big of a deal. It's usually a quiet family affair, with presents first thing in the morning, my dad making me breakfast, no chores all day and dinner out (unless it's on a Sunday, then we eat out sometime later that week). My aunt, uncle and cousins who live in town will stop by for cake and a visit, and that's about it. Nice and low-key.

My mom once suggested I celebrate my birthday on my half-birthday instead, so people wouldn't be busy with the holidays. It's an interesting idea, but I felt funny thinking about celebrating when it wasn't actually my birthday. Then I would have still had to deal with the pressure of creating an invitation list, and leaving people out made me feel bad. The birthday parties I do remember were sometimes awkward, anyway. One time I got two identical gifts--Barbie dolls--and I am not a doll type of girl. I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, so I did my best and smiled a lot anyway. 

I have lots of fun planning other kinds of parties, though. I've planned friends' birthdays, church Valentine's and Christmas parties, a picnic-theme party in January, wedding and baby showers, and a mystery dinner party. There's less pressure now as an adult about who I invite, and it's easier to throw a party that's not all about me. (I can be a little shy at times.)

Throwing parties is a creative outlet, I've recently realized. I like picking a theme and coordinating all the elements of a party, whether by the color scheme or types of food. For a picnic-theme party, I served Jello, potato salad, hamburgers, watermelon and corn on the cob. We set up some carnival games indoors as well, including a balloon dart game (not the greatest indoor activity...) and a game where guests could win a fish, if they managed to land a ping-pong ball in an empty mason jar.

It might seem silly to put in all this work for just an hour or two of fun, but we need reasons to celebrate, to break up the monotony of normal life. Besides, if we all host parties on occasion, then we share the work and everyone gets a chance to have fun, renew friendships and socialize in a positive environment.

Maybe I will celebrate my half-birthday this year... an "un-birthday" theme, perhaps? :) 

A "Tangled" Christmas Eve

One family tradition we have is to see a movie on Christmas Eve. (When Christmas Eve is on a Sunday, we rent a movie and watch it at home instead.) This year we went and saw the new Disney movie, "Tangled." It tells Rapunzel's story and was very well done, meeting all the expectations I have for Disney princess films. My sister would have enjoyed it as well, and it was easier to see this year's Christmas Eve film without her. Last year's choice was "The Princess and the Frog;" I cried. I have only cried during one other movie, and that was "Charly," based on Jack Weyland's novel. I haven't watched it since.


Other Christmas Eve traditions we celebrate include visiting old family friends, baking cookies and delivering them, and reading the Christmas story in the New Testament's book of Luke. My dad has a wonderful chocolate chip cookie recipe he has perfected over the years, and I am on my way to perfecting a Snickerdoodle recipe. One family brings homemade fudge, rocky road and hot cocoa mix; one family always gives Disney-themed gifts; and another musical family carols to us every year. Then, just before bed, my father reads us the Christmas story as told by Luke in the Bible.

While most Christmas traditions seem artificial, just like the Grinch thought of the villagers of Whoville, Christmas would still happen even if all these traditions were stripped away. There will be times I can't be home for Christmas--I'll miss the treats and visits--or the day will come when my father is no longer able to read us the Christmas story. But Christmas will still come, and my thoughts will still turn to the Savior's birth.


I think we human beings need traditions in our lives, reasons to celebrate, even if they can be superficial. Visiting with friends, exchanging small gifts and sharing food are all wholesome activities. Christ wants us to be kind to one another, and if giving a gift is a means of showing that kindness, then He would approve. Maintaining friendships with those who strengthen and uplift us is also a worthwhile pursuit. Good friends bring out the best in us and provide us the opportunity to serve others, and service is a way to become more Christlike. Sharing also helps us be less self-centered.


All in all, I had a good Christmas Eve. Not great, because I still feel my sister's absence, but I am on my way to enjoying them again. It helps to know my sister would want me to be happy at the holidays. And maybe my children will take her place in my bed on Christmas mornings in the future, as we wait for Daddy to come get us and start the celebrations.


Merry Christmas, readers.

 

Remembering Rachel

My sister died one year ago today, from complications due to cancer. Most of you who read my blog probably already know her story, but I wanted to write about her again anyway. She was my best friend; she still is, but part of friendship is being able to rely on someone and go to them with your problems. I can't really do that anymore. I know her well enough to imagine what she'd say in a given situation, but it's just not the same.

Today the three of us--me, my mom and my dad--visited my sister's grave. We brushed off the headstone, rearranged the fake flowers and American flag someone had placed nearby, and wiped off some spattered mud. Then we arranged a dozen white roses--her favorite--over her grave. We stared at the stone, sharing thoughts about this daughter and sister, arms around each other. I have never lost someone so close to me before. I have had grandparents pass on, but I was ten years younger at the time and did not feel as close to them. 

I'm still not sure how often I should visit my sister's grave. I know there are no real rules, so whatever I decide to do is the right thing to do, but I like the structure some social protocols create. A part of me didn't want to visit the grave. It is the one place I feel her mortality the most, the reality of her absence, and the pain of her loss the most. It is also one of the few places I feel okay crying, and since my mother always told me crying is healthy, that must mean visiting my sister's grave can also be healthy.

Since my sister's death, I have tried to make myself face those painful reminders she is no longer here. The worst reminders are: visiting the graveside; the television show "Gilmore Girls;" listening to any song from the "Wicked" soundtrack, but especially "Defying Gravity;" her birthday; and the song "At Last," as performed by Ella Fitzgerald. I believe in facing fears, and fear of emotional pain is something worth overcoming. I have since started watching "Gilmore Girls" again, because my sister would want me to continue to enjoy the activities we did together. I think I will visit her grave at least once whenever I visit my hometown. It gets easier each time.

As soon as you start avoiding a certain activity, movie, song, it becomes harder to work up the courage to do it the next time. It would make my sister sad to know I stopped doing anything that reminded me of her. It's okay to think of her and feel the twinge of loss whenever I see a new Disney movie or a guy she would find attractive. I can still enjoy those things.

Still, I think there will always be a couple songs I won't be able to listen to anymore. It hurts too much to imagine that love song, "At Last," as it would have played at her wedding reception. It also makes me question God, and I do not like that feeling. I have faith that the Lord knew what He was doing, taking her from us so early, but there are a few times when I can't help but wonder. Some might say I shouldn't deny myself asking these sorts of questions, and I agree that it is healthy to ask hard questions about your religion. In this case, though, it would do more harm than good to question God's will. That is why I don't enjoy this song anymore.

The thought of my sister, my friend, passing on to the next life is bearable most days. It is hard, but I believe that God does not give us any trials that are beyond our capacity to bear. I am meant to learn something from this experience. If nothing else, I can empathize with others who lose people close to them. In a way, I have experienced a new level of mortality, since everyone will know someone who dies.

So for now, I will continue to remember my sister. I will tell my children all about their crazy, adventurous aunt; I will trust in the basic good of humanity; I will chase rainbows to find the end; I will sing into wooden spoons; I will keep going to Disneyland until the day I can't even sit in a wheelchair; and I will continue to look on the bright side of life. "Spiritually minded is life eternal," or, smile. 

Puppy Love

I miss my dog the most when I am away. Don't get me wrong--I also miss and love my family and friends. I just can't pick up the phone and call or boot up the computer and video chat with my dog. (Trust me, I've tried. He doesn't get it!) So when I say goodbye to Rascal, it's like saying goodbye forever, and when I say hello, it's like he's waited his entire life for that moment.


When I arrived for our Christmas visit, Rascal barked at first (he's definitely not a sight hound). But once he caught my smell, he sprinted across the house, tail wagging and tongue lapping. When he gets really excited, his whole rear end wags, practically lifting his back paws from the momentum. He just couldn't believe I was back! Rascal also smiles, which looks a bit awkward on a dog with his shape of muzzle. And then when we put him in the family room for the night, he immediately started crying, a high pitch whimper; he wanted to sleep with his sister! So, of course, he got his way.


Rascal came into our lives about six years ago, as an adoption. My sister and I got the brilliant idea to buy our mother a dog for Mother's Day, since we were both out of the house, going to school. Our mom is the type of mother that needs something to care for, a companion for when my dad is working, and a reason to go out and exercise every day. A dog would fulfill these needs, for only about $150 from each of us. 


My mom had resisted the idea of a dog over the years, claiming they have terrible fleas and shed everywhere. We insisted that veterinary science had advanced since she had a puppy in her youth and flea control is much better. But Rachel and I both knew our mother would fall in love and ignore the few drawbacks if we could find just the right puppy.


Most dogs in the shelters were rottweilers or chihuahuas, either too aggressive and ugly or too yippy and ugly, except for one dog. Rachel was checking the last shelter near our hometown, walking past rows of cringing, shivering chihuahuas and snarling, foaming rottweilers when she heard one tiny whimper. She turned around, locked eyes with Rascal,  and knew he was the one. (Kind of sounds like a love story, doesn't it? :) She saved his life!


After that it was just a matter of convincing our mother to get in the car and drive to an unknown destination--we had to let her meet Rascal before we finalized the adoption. My mom loved how affectionate this little black and tan dog seemed, and wanted to name him "Kisses." Fortunately we were able to convince her otherwise, or rather Rascal did. All dogs adopted out from the city shelter must be fixed and he was pretty weak and inactive for the first couple of days. My mom thought we adopted a dud! But during his first week home, Rascal climbed up onto the dining room table, to which we said, "Oh, what a little rascal!"


Since his adoption, Rascal has caught and eaten lizards, small birds, spiders, flies and other insects; he has dug underneath fences and taken himself for "walks;" he has licked faces and nipped very few fingers; he has hidden from vacuums and blenders; he has attacked mailmen and barked madly at teasing squirrels; and he has comforted us when sad. I have always wanted a dog of my own, and since having Rascal in the family, I want a dog of my own even more. He has wagged his way into our hearts, and while not all dogs have the same personalities, most have good temperaments, and I will now always prefer dogs over cats. Sorry, cat lovers, but a dog has captured my heart between his furry little paws! Rachel always was a good judge of character. 

California or Bust!

Our journey began at about 6 a.m. yesterday in Idaho, and it ended at about 11:30 p.m. in California. After five hours of driving, three different planes in four different states, we finally made it. Our trip reminds me a little of the 1980s movie, "Planes, Trains & Automobiles." It was a long day, but I would do anything to get home for Christmas. (It's also why I didn't put a new post up yesterday!)


I was surprised at how few people were at the airports. I expected the five days before Christmas to be extra busy. My guess is that due to the economy, people are either just staying where they are or they're driving. Oh, and for your information, if your flight has a major delay (one of our connections was delayed nearly two hours, making our already long layover a total of five hours long), Southwest will try and get you seats on a different plane at no extra charge. Very nice. 


I saw all sorts of people traveling yesterday, but what made me sad was to see children traveling alone. They were obviously shuttling between their divorced parents. What a lousy way to spend the holidays--divided between two people you love. I actually can sympathize now that I'm married. We have to divide our holidays between my parents and my hubby's folks! But at least that's sharing more love, not less.


It's also amazing how coming home after a long separation feels so oddly same. Change in this life is the only constant, but my hometown always feels the same. Over the years new housing developments have popped up, old theaters have been torn down, empty fields have become strip malls, and yet it all has the same feel. I know someday my parents won't live in the same house anymore, either because they finally moved or they passed away, and I wonder if I will ever feel this "same old home" feeling again after that happens. I suppose age and time are the only ways to find out.


I am a big advocate of teenagers and young adults leaving home for a time, either for college or a mission, preferably at least one state away. It is amazing how your perspective changes with just a little distance from everything you experienced while growing up. There are new friends to make, new foods to try, different lifestyles to consider, new philosophies to embrace, all because someone decides to leave home for a while. (By "different lifestyles" I mean the difference between a super-organized home, for example, and a less organized, more spontaneous one--not experimenting sexually or anything like that.) It also aids the parent-child separation process, a catalyst for helping that relationship evolve into more of an adult-adult relationship. (Of course our parents will always be our parents, no matter how much they respect us and see how we've become independent adults.)


Getting back to our Christmas vacation... For my baby, his grandma's house is completely new--we've been away for four months, and at his age that's plenty of time to forget! It's been babyproofed and all decked out for a toddler's pleasures. He has all sorts of new toys to play with, a house to explore, and a dog to chase around. And I'll be glad of a break--his grandparents will play with and entertain him every minute they get, to soak up as much baby time as possible.


In the future, we might not be able to spend so much time together during the holidays. Once my husband settles on a career and finds a good, steady job, I'm sure his vacation time will be a lot more constricted compared to that of a college student. So for now, I am grateful for the time we have, and I will do my best to enjoy every minute and soak up every beam of California sun that I can!

I'm Not Graduating, I'm "Commencing"

Whenever I attend a graduation ceremony, the event planners insist on calling it a commencement--a beginning, not an end. It's true that the end of one event of our lives is usually the beginning of another, but that is not what all the hullabaloo is for: We worked hard to finish, so by golly we're going to celebrate the end!

I remember my college graduation. The school had decided to divide up the graduation into two parts. The night before, each department had its own diploma ceremony in different buildings across campus. My department was in the Eliza R. Snow Building at BYU-Idaho, one of my favorite buildings. It is the music building, where I took several choir classes, attended many performances and practiced with my barbershop quartet. For whatever reason, all the graduates in the Language and Letters field were allowed to say their own name as they crossed the stage. I included my maiden name, and I did not rush. My parents took me out to Craigo's for dinner afterward, and my mom tried a Cookie Monster for the very first time. She still talks about it.

For my high school graduation, I was part of an elite group of singers (the graduating seniors who happened to also be in choir) and we sang the National Anthem for a stadium full of people. My gown was white, my sister had straightened my hair for me, and my dad had bought one of those pricey but beautiful orchid leis for me to wear. I ended up using the same exact fuchsia and white orchids in my wedding bouquet. I did not attend grad night; I had a group of close friends come over and play video games all night instead.

Oddly enough, I also had an eighth-grade graduation ceremony. It was a little silly, but I wore a pretty cerulean-blue dress and matching blue butterfly earrings. After the ceremony there was a dance--my first boy-girl dance. The night was memorable, but none of us kids really needed the ceremony. We would have been just fine with (and were MUCH more excited about) the dance!

I think my sister in law's graduation ceremony was a little tough to watch today. Not that it was too long or boring--it was only about an hour--but I am still struggling to find my identity outside of the world of academia (I am an excellent student). I miss school, even almost four years later. I am also a little sad that I will never see my birth sister cross a stage and receive a diploma like that. My parents will only ever have the memory of my graduation. Although what is a piece of paper to my deceased sister? She graduated the biggest class of them all, summa cum laude, and my parents couldn't be more proud of her.

Perhaps all commencement ceremonies will have these highs and lows for me from now on; there are usually lots of emotions anyway at this stage of life. The last day of elementary school, the last day of seminary, the last day of the mission, the last day as a single person, the last day as a student, the last day as a couple without kids--all of these days carry great significance. 

It's all part of life. Congratulations, sis, and I hope you have an easier time adjusting to life outside of school than I did! 

Gift Giving

Many of us get caught up in the gift giving mania of Christmas, feeling pressure to get everyone we know a present, even if we really don't know them all that well. I love giving gifts, even if there is some pressure to get just the right thing. It's especially difficult when there are a few of my friends and family who have it all, or at least the means to buy it. It's more fun to get my less well-off friends gifts because they appreciate every little thing.  Little things are pretty much all I can afford right now.

Over the years I have learned to categorize my friends and family in two ways: those I give gifts and those I give candy canes. That might sound petty and cruel, to say a friend is "only a candy cane friend," but that's not what a candy cane means when it's from me. When I give a candy cane, it's my way of saying, "I don't have a lot of money to share my earthly goods, but I wanted to do something to show my gratitude for your influence in my life." Perhaps that's a bit much to expect a simple candy cane to say, but hopefully my friends understand it anyway.

My mother taught me a long time ago not to share so much. I first remember hearing it when she told me and my sister not to trade food when we were in elementary school. Everyone knows about the lunchtime tradition of children swapping parts of their lunch with each other. So after my mom got upset with me a few times hearing me talk about it, I simply stopped telling her! In later years I found out she was primarily concerned with her children getting enough to eat; we were quite poor for many years, so it was a valid concern. She assumed we would trade away our food for less than it was worth. I'm sure she was also concerned about germs--who knows if other parents wash their hands before making their kids' lunches, or what happened to the lunch once the kid got a hold of it.

Another sharing philosophy my parents believe is that gift giving is a luxury. It is sound advice, but not something I necessarily abide by. I love sharing. It feels like a need to me. I like making other people happy when they realize I was thinking of them. I like how it makes me feel when I give. (There goes altruism...) So perhaps my compromise at Christmas is only giving candy canes after a certain point. If I could, I would love to give so much more! Buying and making presents is fun!

But maybe there is good reason we cannot physically give to everyone we know. Our circle of acquaintances has a built-in self-destruct, as it were, where it collapses in on itself, similar to a body suffering from Gigantism. My circle of friends can only extend so far; there comes a point when I am unable to spend enough time with them to keep qualifying the relationship as a friendship. Also, children who are given everything they want often do not appreciate what they have and become unhappy, spoiled, and dissatisfied later in life. Then again, maybe I'm just trying to comfort myself because I can't give the killer awesome Christmas presents that I wish I could give.

Not that that's what Christmas is about... I guess in this case I do give gifts more for my own sake than for others, and that's not what we should be thinking of at this time of year. A while ago I realized how important it is for us as human beings to have something to celebrate--traditions. Not only that, but considering how easily our minds forget vital information, we need at least a yearly reminder of Christ's Atonement. (Heck, us Mormons take the sacrament every single week to remind us of the promises we made when we were baptized; it's surprising we don't have Christmas once a month!) 

Christmas focuses on the Savior's birth, and I think it's for a few good reasons. One, we celebrate that someone as great as Christ lived at all, (that He still lives); two, since babies represent new life, that it's never too late to create a new life for ourselves and become better people; three, Christ condescension to earth in a mortal body is when the Plan of Salvation hit the final stages of fruition.

The real purpose to giving each other gifts at this time of year is to remind each other of the greatest gift of all: of Heavenly Father allowing His only Begotten Son to be killed for everyone else's sins, and for Christ choosing to suffer and conquer death--giving Himself--to save each one of us. That's why the best gifts come when we give at least a little bit of us. When that happens, of course we're happy that it makes the receiver happy. They're accepting who we are, a small reassurance that we still matter to them. That joy in making others happy with our gifts is probably a small measure of what Christ feels when we accept His gift. How beautiful to taste that in any measure!

I hope this helps anyone who is getting stressed out about Christmas this season. Sorry for the cliche, but what counts the most in gift giving is the thought.   

Being Alone

My apologies for not posting last night--totally skipped my mind! Anyway, today's post is about being alone. It is not good to spend too much time alone. We are social animals and have needs that can only be met by other flesh and blood creatures. Our minds become damaged, start playing tricks, without regular contact with others; perhaps this is why some of the worst torture involves solitary confinement. But my mind keeps turning to a particular movie quote and the parallel it represents to our very real fight against Satan.

In the fifth Harry Potter film, "The Order of the Phoenix," Luna Lovegood and Harry have a brief conversation about Voldemort's return. Harry is upset that no one seems to believe him, and he feels utterly alone. Luna replies, "But I suppose that's how he wants you to feel... if I were You-Know-Who, I'd want you to feel cut off from everyone else. Because if it's just you alone, you're not as much of a threat." This line rang true to me the moment I heard it, and it still rings true. It is more subtle than the traditional war term "divide and conquer," where an opposing army would literally cut enemy soldiers off from one another, but more insidious because of its subtlety.

Since graduating college and having a child, I have spent a lot of time at home, alone. I have never considered myself an extrovert, but even this much time alone is trying. The monotony itself is bad enough; add a testy toddler and forget about adult conversation. Like I said in my playgroup post, I can't get a meaningful word in edgewise, even when I do make the effort to leave the apartment. And this is why Luna's comment to Harry is so important to me: Satan wants me to feel cut off from the world, forgotten, because on my own, I am not as much of a threat.

In our church, there is a program for the women called the Relief Society. The organization was established back in the 1800s as a way of keeping track of the members' needs. The current system assigns two women to visit a few sisters, once a month, during what is called "visiting teaching." This way every member (ideally) is guaranteed at least two lines of contact with the ward, the bishop, the church, and every sister is given the opportunity to feel the Spirit in her home. The bishop can't always visit every member, in each of their homes. That is why visiting and home teaching are so important--the individual members of the ward act as eyes and ears for the bishop, and we all share the responsibility of caring for one another.

During these visits, the women share messages of the gospel with each other and try to ascertain if the sister being visited has any needs that the ward can help fill. This can range from priesthood blessings, to meals when they are sick, to babysitting and even yard work. It's also a way to become friends with people you might not otherwise get to know. A lot of the time visiting teachers are able to find out these other sisters' needs because of their persistent, regular visits; the sister comes to trust her visiting teachers and can confide in them.

This program is very valuable, and nearly perfect, in theory. The problem I have is inconsistent (or nonexistent) visiting teachers, during the times in my life when I could benefit the most from them. I try very hard to separate the weaknesses of the individual visiting teacher from the overall program. I even make it a point to be an extra good visiting teacher myself, taking the lack of attention as a reminder to visit my sisters more often. It still hurts, though. I didn't even get a sympathy card from my visiting teachers when my sister died last year. (I really need to let that one go... I did receive a few cards from other friends, so I know at least someone was thinking of me.)

So not only am I cut off from the world because of the nature of being a mom, and because of snowy winters, I am made to feel neglected because I expect these visiting teachers to care about me. The extra tricky part here is I have to forgive these unknown women. And not for some altruistic reasons--if I hold on to any grudges towards these women, I am only hurting myself. Keeping that pain will make it hard for any future sisters to visit me, and it could cause me to lose faith in the entire program. Then I will be isolating myself, making it even easier for Satan to get to me!

Well, I'm on to you now. As Jesus once said, Get thee behind me, Satan! 

Does anyone else feel a little triumphant right now? Because I really am not alone. I have many friends and family who care about me, and many others that I can care about. Sometimes the best cure for my "woe is me lonely blues" is to serve someone. Good thing I get to go visiting teaching tonight. Oh, there's another great quality about the visiting teaching program: it can take our mind off of our own problems! :)   

Dreamy Guys

I had an interesting dream last night. Now, most people dismiss dreams as random neurons firing off during one's REM cycle, and anything viewed in dreams is simply a byproduct of those random electrical signals. I think dreams serve other purposes, including wish fulfillment and problem solving, and sometimes even more.

In last night's dream, I was at a theme park during the Christmas season, but instead of a line to see Santa, there were hundreds and hundreds of people waiting to see Harry Potter. I remember constantly going back to check the line; I wanted to see Daniel Radcliffe at the end of his shift, close to when the whole park closed. I ended up in the small Christmas cove, along with a dozen or so young people close to Radcliffe's age. We were trying to talk to him about the Church, guiding his questions, seeing if he'd ever considered where he will go after this life. The dream ended before we really got anywhere, but he seemed interested in what we had to say. 

The really funny thing in this dream is all these youth had not coordinated among themselves to be there at that exact moment. Most of us in the room didn't even realize we were all LDS until we started talking with Radcliffe. It was as if we were meant to be there, to share the message of the gospel with him so he could hear it from his peers.

This could easily be viewed as one of those random neuron dreams, especially since I had just been to church during the day, and since there was lots of Christmas music during the program. I also just finished watching Harry Potter films one through six last month, and my sister-in-law went with her husband to the new Harry Potter theme park. So there's plenty of fodder for the arbitrary take on dreams.

On the other hand, I have often thought about what I would say to a celebrity, if I ever met one, particularly the ones whose work I admire the most. I even wrote a fan letter to Hugh Laurie, star of the TV series "House." In the letter I complimented his work, but I also encouraged him to participate in anonymous acts of service from time to time and to keep his family a priority in his life. So perhaps this Harry Potter dream was a product of that wishful thinking, of wanting to share the gospel with those that are the least likely to hear it, but could benefit the most. And I mean their influence could help spread the Gospel and benefit many others.

Speaking (writing) of Hugh Laurie, I have had plenty of dreams with Greg House cast as the leading man. (Freud would probably say something disgusting right now in regards to that.) In my defense it's not like I watch the show all the time, only the weekly episode while the current season is on TV. Now that I think about it, most of my dreams are about men, and not always the good ones. Jeff Winger (Joel McHale, "Community") is another character that often shows up in my dreams, and he can be quite a jerk. So much for the wish fulfillment dream philosophy.

Other dreams I've had involve visits to former schools, talking with old friends that I haven't even thought about in years, flying--lots of flying--and sometimes what I study in school. I was taking a French course in high school and I remember having a dream where I was explaining to someone all the different forms of questions there are in French. (I had been studying my French vocabulary right before bed; I think that might have influenced this particular dream.) So not a problem per se, but my brain was still trying to help me learn the material. 

Perhaps this is why we are often told to or ask if we can "sleep on it," when presented with a difficult choice or problem to solve. Idioms have to come from somewhere, and I think that if they persist through the generations, there must be some truth to it.

Then there are dreams that seem like messages that we wouldn't come up with on our own. The Bible tells several stories where dreams came in to play, like when Joseph interpreted the pharaoh's dreams about the fat and skinny cows. Turns out those dreams were premonitions of the years of famine to come, a warning to stock up on food while the harvests were plentiful. More relevantly, many mothers and pregnant women have dreams about what gender child they will conceive, weeks before doctors can tell. Not terribly important, but still pretty cool. 

And sometimes we have dreams of deceased relatives. This can easily be explained using the wish fulfillment idea: we miss our lost loved ones, so we imagine being able to converse with them once again. It's quite easy to create these conversations in our dreams because we have many memories stored away and we know exactly what they would say in pretty much any given conversation. 

While this may be true, I want to believe there is sometimes something more to these sorts of "visit" dreams. I cannot know for certain in this life; there is no way to gather scientifically concrete information from a dream. But since I believe our spirits, the part of our being that is truly our own unique essence, lives on after this mortal coil, I also believe it is possible to still communicate, spirit to spirit, if only rarely. I also think these types of experiences, the real ones, are very special and shouldn't be shared lightly. (Broadcasting these experiences is how you get yourself a nice white jacket that makes you hug yourself...)


I hope I never stop dreaming. For at the least, they're entertaining. At the most, enlightening and special.

Music

I love music. Listening to and performing music is one of the best experiences one can have in this life.  Sometimes I forget how much I love music, and my life feels rather dreary. It's hard to participate in even a simple church choir when the baby's needs come right at the same time as choir practice. Other times I'm so busy taking care of domestic needs that I forget to listen to music. But every time I start singing again or turn on the radio, it's like reconnecting with an old friend, and I remember how much I like and need uplifting music in my life.

My musical career started with nursery songs my mother sang to me and hymns in church. From there I learned piano, then delved into playing with a band on a saxophone, then branched out into the choral area of music. I have played the sax in marching band, orchestra pits, and regular concert bands. I have sung in high school and college choirs, church choirs, a special live church pageant and I even had my own barbershop quartet for a while.

I'm not a solo artist; I might have the pipes for it, but I enjoy making music with others. It's the same feeling that players on any sports team feel when everyone is playing their best and achievements are made that can only happen as a cohesive unit. It's especially important for me to sing in groups now that I'm home alone most of the day. There are social benefits as well as spiritual from singing uplifting music. I also like to be a leader in my section; I can't exactly lead anyone when I'm home alone.

Creating music is an amazing process and a very interesting art medium. Music isn't like a painting; once a song is done, it's over. One note follows another, each new note quickly dying out, fading from existence forever. A painting, once completed, can still be examined for a lifetime afterward. Fortunately music can be written down, steps to dances can be recorded, but it is in the moment of performance that music comes to life.

I love good music, but it is also a great example of how one can have too much of a good thing. I find that sometimes I just need to be somewhere quiet for a while, so I can sit and think about my day or my life. If there is noise of some sort constantly going on, even sacred church hymns, you can't refocus. So remember to turn everything off once in a while and just be still!

*Steps down off of soap box* My mother in law made me realize a short while ago that I'm actually quite picky about the type of music I enjoy. I don't like rap (which isn't really music, but so many people think otherwise that I have to mention it as a type of music I dislike), most hip-hop, anything "screamer" or heavy metal. I also dislike classic rock and country, but that's more of a sound style preference. Some country songs have quite nice lyrics, and I know that classic rock paved the way for my favorite artists. The music I do like includes bubble-gum punk, alternative, indie and some pop, but not everything within those genres. I'm still picky about the particular artist, down to the album or song. 

I think this pickiness is because I am so sensitive to how music makes me feel. I remember working on the school yearbook in high school one afternoon, and I was getting really agitated and upset, angry even, for no apparent reason. I finally figured it out: someone was playing Linkin Park on their computer. That music was making me feel angry, manipulating my emotions! I did not like that feeling at all. So most of my music is selected to make me feel happy.

How many teenagers or young adults can say they pay attention to how their music makes them feel? I think it is a very important skill to develop and then get rid of the music that makes us less human. Just because a song is "high-quality," as in it was made using the best recording equipment, the best artists sang the most skillfully, does not mean the lyrics are any good. Our spirits are sensitive to those subliminal (or not so subliminal) messages. I can't help but wonder what would happen if the people living in the ghettos were cut off from their violent music and could only listen to songs with uplifting messages and clean language. I think there would be a great improvement in those areas.

More localized, what would happen to the slum parts of ourselves if we only listened to good music? (Good meaning positive lyrics, not just "high quality" sound or well-written melodies.) I think we would become better individuals. 

It irritates me that this question is only meaningful to those who want to improve. People who think this life is all we have see no problems with settling and sliding a little in the morality department. And yes, music really does have this much power. So rock on, but not all the time, and be willing to give up some of your music if it's not making you a better person. 

Leveling Up

Just a short post today--I picked up my World of Warcraft expansion pack "Cataclysm" yesterday, and I'm really excited to work on leveling up before I take off for the holidays. Ah, questing: the best artificial sense of achievement money can buy!

Girl, You're Amazing

How often are we told in our society that we aren't good enough? That the only way we have any real value is by being better than someone else or super skinny? I just read an article in a parenting magazine about anorexic nine-year-old girls. Body image is the last thing girls that young should be worrying about! I struggle with extra weight myself; America is the only country where its poorest people can still be overweight. But I hate barfing and I enjoy food too much to consider starving.

Our capitalistic society encourages competition, where the only measure of self-worth is success, and success comes from comparison to others. I remember my first encounter with this kind of measuring. I was at my very first piano recital, around age 10. The program had the newest, least experienced students play first, and ended with the students who had been playing the longest. The last student, who was about 17 years old, played "Flight of the Bumblebee," an amazing and fun piano piece. Instead of enjoying the beautiful music, I started to cry. 

Now, I had made quite a bit of progress since starting lessons. I had learned all kinds of basic, essential musical theory, including how to read time signatures, how to recognize sharps and flats, and how to count out the rhythm in a measure of music. I was also learning to coordinate my fingers' motions to match what was written on the pages. But all I could see was how little I knew compared to the other pianist. I felt ashamed at my efforts.


There are many people in this world who feel ashamed because they do not measure up to their peers. I say the only person we should measure ourselves against is Jesus or our past selves, but you have to keep it balanced. Jesus is the perfect example of someone who is light years ahead of me; I can either be so discouraged to the point of giving up, or I can become too pious and think I'm worth more than anyone else because I behave so much better. Same thing with comparing our current self to our past self: I can either be discouraged that I've made so many mistakes, or I can become complacent and stop trying to be better.

I have long since stopped taking piano lessons, but I still play the piano. I am probably what most would consider an intermediate pianist, and I am okay with that. I actually feel closer to Christ when I play the hymns and have the verses running through my mind. It is a way I worship Him. 

I was also able to provide music at a funeral dinner a few years back. A young couple had lost their baby girl, hours after her birth. Members of the ward Relief Society were in charge of the dinner--it was a time for the ward to show their love and support for this young couple's loss. Since there were so many people helping set up, I found myself at the auditorium's stage, where a piano was hiding behind drawn curtains. I played hymns for nearly two hours, ending with some children's Primary songs I plinked out with only one hand, since I didn't know them well enough to play with both hands. The parents found me afterward and were very grateful for the calming spirit the music brought to the dinner. A professional pianist could have done no better.

I had learned to love playing piano for the art itself, not because I am better than someone else at it. We would all be so much healthier in our lives if we could love something for its own sake, not how it is compared to someone or something else.

Comparisons aren't the only way we undermine our self-worth. Bad relationships can also skew your perspective. Not hearing enough words of praise, genuine compliments, or hearing how important you are to another person can make one seriously doubt their worth, especially in long-term relationships. (My mother would refer to this as one's emotional bank account--loved ones need to keep a positive balance by making regular "deposits.") I have since learned that if one person, even a very important person in my life, doesn't make these regular deposits, I am still a worthwhile person. Which leads me to share another personal experience.


I was driving back to the apartment when a love song came on the radio, by Bruno Mars. I had heard it a couple of times before and enjoyed the sentiment, but I didn't think anything of it. It is a young man singing to his girl, and the chorus goes like this: 


"When I see your face,
There's not a thing that I would change
'Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are.

When you smile, 
The whole world stops and stares for a while.
'Cause girl you're amazing,
Just the way you are."


For whatever reason, this song struck a chord with me today. It made me feel so good! I didn't picture my husband singing it to me, or any other person; rather, it felt like my heart was singing it to my head. It was a rare moment when I felt completely at peace with myself. Most of the time I am regretting my decisions, wishing I could be somewhere else, further along in my life. But for a moment--the length of a simple love song--I genuinely loved myself, as is.

We should all have the goal to feel this way about ourselves at least once in a while, the utterly balanced feeling that comes with acceptance of who we are and where we are at in life. My sister must have felt like this all the time--that's how she managed to do so much good in her life. She was able to forget herself and serve others; she knew she was centered and could focus on helping others become centered.

Go listen to this song, if you can. Feel amazing about yourself, too!

Playgroup

I may have my own child, but that doesn't mean I like other people's children. I have become a lot more comfortable around babies since having my own, but there is still that initial hesitation when meeting with people who have children of their own. And I definitely have a hard time with any large group of children. This is why I only attend a play group once a week--that's all I can handle.

Playgroups are popular in places like Idaho, places that have what I call a "real winter." It gives the mothers a chance to see another adult face and the kids get a chance to play with different toys and interact with peers. In my neighborhood there are two meetings a week, with one mom hosting Tuesdays and another hosting Thursdays. 

I have only managed to attend the Tuesday meetings, and just this hour and a half a week is almost more than I can handle. It's hard enough getting out the door with a toddler in tow; I really have to change my expectations for the day now that I'm a mom. I can't even go to these playgroups expecting a real conversation, because I never know when my kid is going to have a fit and need to go back home, or if the other kids will play at a decibel level below a jet engine taking off.

So there's the element of my own child's temperament that day, but then there is also the playgroup's own dynamics that come into consideration. Most of the time it is absolute chaos! Not that I blame any of the mothers--there is bound to be lots of noise and fighting when ten children under the age of 5 are gathered in one two-bedroom apartment. (I hope that's not a fire hazard...)  And while this behavior, this chaos, is completely normal for children, I am on edge the entire visit.

I am willing to endure this edginess for a couple hours a week because I know the value of creating opportunities for my little one to socialize. He gets a chance to play with someone else's toys, to look at a different set of walls and deal with children his age. All the kids expose each other to the concept of sharing... germs and toys alike. It is in this setting where toddlers and preschoolers learn basic social rules, like waiting one's turn, or expressing oneself with words and not tantrums.


Intellectually, I understand all of this. But it doesn't help ease that chalkboard feeling as little ones cry and fuss, try to get into the garbage, open cupboards, drink out of someone else's bottle, spread out every single giant Lego piece across the floor, rip pages out of books and chew on myriad plastic flotsam bits. It's hard enough allowing my little one to explore at my own apartment; multiply that by 10 and I can barely concentrate.


Then there's the discipline aspect of child rearing. When do I step in and rip the toy from one child's hand and give it back to my own kid? When do I just wait and watch to see what my little one will do? When do I get the other parent involved? This is one reason I hated babysitting when I was younger--I felt powerless, that it wasn't my place, to do anything that might involve disciplining a child. I still don't know when to step in. I hate feeling out of my element, and other people's children do that to me.


Yet it is something I will have to deal with from now on--it's kind of implied now that I have a little one and he will eventually start bringing home friends. At least it's a gradual adjustment.

Writing

Someone asked me the other day when I decided to become a writer. My first thoughts turned to a summer reading program held during my elementary school years. Why would my brain make that kind of jump? She had asked about writing, not reading. But perhaps all good writing comes first from good reading.


I remember my parents challenging me and my sister, using money to motivate us to read. We were offered a penny a page for every book we read that was at or above our reading level. I remember getting excited because I had plans to read "The Hobbit"--that was worth over three whole dollars! I already enjoyed reading at that point, though. The money was just an added bonus. 


The earliest example of regular reading that I can recall is that of family scripture study. That's right--a four year old was reading from the Bible on a regular basis! I actually think that's why I read out loud so easily now; many adults struggle with that skill, surprisingly. I also think that early study of scripture is why I have an easier time understanding Shakespeare than the average person. True, the languages aren't from the same centuries, but it helped get my mind used to making transitions from one style of English to another. 


It's funny though--aside from scriptures, I never remember seeing my parents read when I was growing up. They still don't read much, from what I can tell. Neither of my parents have a great love for non-religious literature, so it surprises me that I love reading so much. I guess it's possible to teach your children by something other than example.


The summer reading program challenge must have taken place around third or fifth grade (I skipped fourth). I had managed to read over a hundred books that summer break, the most of any other student in school. My award was a white gym bag duffel from the Olive Garden and a certificate for a free dinner there. I was so excited; I remember thinking that it wasn't even hard for me to do, that I could have read more books if I had tried.

Now I realize that my first passion truly is reading. Thomas Jefferson is attributed with saying, "I cannot live without books." So it is with me. My first attempts at writing began in elementary school, when I wanted to enter the Young Authors story writing contest. I was too intimidated to turn in anything. In sixth grade I tried writing again, but it's easy to see how much Jack London's "White Fang" and Jean Craighead George's "Julie of the Wolves" influenced my attempted story. (Those were a couple of books I was reading at the time.)

As I moved on to junior high and high school, my writing became focused on the books I had to read for classes: book reports. Writing was simply a tool to express my thoughts about the literature I read. It's the same way now and it is why my ideal job would be to read books and get paid to do so, like an editor or publisher, offering my opinions along the way. Another job I would enjoy is teaching literature courses to college students. That way I would get to read all kinds of books and then spend all day talking about them. 

So for me, writing is a means of discussing literature. I do enjoy the crafting that goes on as arguments form and connections are made, though; I think my love of reading has since translated to a love for writing itself. That's why I started this blog, or so I thought. Now I think that maybe I should include book reviews here, since reading is what started me writing in the first place. We'll see!

Champions Among Us

There are rabid fans in every country around the world, those ready to defend the honor of "their" team, "their" champions. They act as though their devotion could actually impact the outcome of professional athletic competitions. Very few question why the sports industry continues to pay their athletes millions upon millions of dollars to hit a ball with a stick, or kick a ball into a net, when there are crazed, adoring fans that practically foam at the mouth while watching their stars in action.  I absolutely question these payouts, this obsession with athletes.

The biggest issue I have with professional sports is the idea that these glorified entertainers are paid obscene amounts of money to play games, while there are members of our society providing essential services at minimum wage rates: namely, anyone who grows and harvests food. We MUST have food to eat to survive; we certainly do NOT need professional athletes.

Some might argue that these competitions provide an essential outlet for our natural urges, that we can only exist living on top of each other in such dense human concentrations because we have sports to watch. (Again, like the spy shows and movies, it is a cathartic experience.) Give the masses a well-matched championship "fight" and they can cheer and celebrate their brains out, ready to go back to their workaday lives come Monday morning.

I still don't see much stock in sports, though. Sure, for kids and teenagers it can be a healthy outlet, a great place to learn about working in teams, seeing what comes from discipline, and it's a great workout. Our brains function at a higher capacity when we exercise regularly. But that should be enough. 

Also, sports should not come before the arts programs in our schools, yet time and again the arts continue to suffer. Music calms us, develops the mind; sports bring out our more base natures. Hormonal teenagers need the arts to calm them, not just sports to act out their angst.


Getting back to the idea of champions--I find it intriguing how sports fans feel the need to identify themselves with these athletes. Are they truly happy cheering for this stranger's success? When studying human history, we observe a few key people rising to power, sometimes out of obscurity. Did we really want these people to succeed and support them because we believed in them, or were we as individuals too scared to reach for the stars ourselves?


Perhaps this is circular: we don't believe that the average person can really make it, so we focus our efforts supporting the few who seem to have "the right stuff." Only a few make it to the top, so we don't even bother trying to be spectacular. Thus the elite few remain few in numbers, from one generation to the next.


Here's another point of view: Maybe there are so few true champions because there are only that many truly great people out there. I, for one, do not believe this. We all have star material in our makeup, but for whatever reason, only some of us pursue and develop that material. And I attribute that attitude to society only being able to handle a handful of stars.

What would we do if at some point in our existence we all became equals? Revel in our magnificence, share lots of love in perfectly matched tennis matches? Or be miserable because our former acts of measuring self-worth--through comparison--are now pointless? But imagining what this situation would be like is like trying to imagine nine dimensions, when we can only comprehend three. In other words... another blog entry :) 

Secret Agents, Spies and Sympathy

The allure of a secret identity, powerful hand weapons and mystical martial art skills has intrigued the general population for many a decade; much longer if we include entertainment outside of visual media. And yet there is a darker side that I find is not often highlighted as we cheer for the secret heroes of our time. I have recently started watching a television series, called "Chuck;" it was one of the last tv shows my sister enjoyed, and since she can't tell me why she likes it so much, I started watching it to find that out on my own. 

While "Chuck" is entertaining and has its comedic moments, I find myself left feeling sad after nearly every episode. Perhaps a large part of this is due to the fact the main character, Chuck, is my sister's age, and my sister's type--she never married--and I am sad she did not find her own Chuck in this life. Many of the songs featured in the show are also the ones she listened to around the turn of the millennium; not sad in it of themselves, just by association.

Personal reasons aside, I find the show sad because of the life the main character has to lead. He has "greatness thrust upon him," as Shakespeare once wrote, and leading the life of a secret spy with no prior training, maintaining all kinds of military secrets, is mentally and emotionally intense. It's practically impossible to get to know oneself as part of a couple, the basic, fundamental unit of society.

Even if someone like a spy manages to find love, how do they maintain those relationships? The short answer is that most just do without. Our own real heroes, like the military, probably experience the same pangs of lost time and extreme anxiety as our fictional spies, wondering if they will live to see another sunrise, wondering if they will ever be able to come home. And that's just the ones who happen to be overseas for extended periods of time.

What about the very real members of government who work on classified, confidential information? Relationships are based on trust, but these people can't tell their own husband or wife about the work they do. That's an entire third of their lives that can't be shared, based on a typical eight-hour work day; another third is consumed by sleep, leaving only one third of their lives open for discussion.


That is probably an extreme example, though. Still, why the allure of an alternate reality, when we see the characters sacrificing so much? You can't tell me that mint juleps in Japan or a mambo in Morocco is worth being in a constant state of fear, of having to sever all ties and cease to exist, if the occasion calls for it. 

It does feel good to be able to defend oneself or to defeat an opponent, to know you possess those abilities that lead to power over others. But something I've learned is that there is always someone better than you. It's not smart to base your self worth on how you match up to everyone else. Then you either get too cocky or you lose confidence; both will get you dead, in the spy game at least.


Perhaps it just feels good for us viewers to be able to worry about someone else's problems for a change; it's an exercise in sympathy and relief, that our problems aren't nearly so bad. Some might even say that watching programs and movies like "Chuck" are cathartic; we as a general population can't go around shooting up bad guys, making out with random hot people, or saving the day, so we watch fictional characters do it. There aren't enough padded cells in existence to contain us if we tried. (And perhaps that's also why Comic-Con is so popular...) 

Or maybe we all like to believe there is more going on around us than we can see, thousands of secret plots weaving all around us, invisibly maintaining our precarious existence. Most of us want to be a part of something bigger than us; films and television shows can fulfill that desire. (Religion can do that, too--we LDS are fortunate enough to know that we ARE part of something larger than ourselves.)

Still, I feel for characters like Chuck, because I want everyone to find happiness and fulfillment in trusting, loving relationships. We all deserve that chance. I hope the writers of this particular show find a way to let Chuck have those things (I'm still in Season 1); I hate those "realistic" shows where everyone dies at the end! Give me a happy ending, any and every day! 
 

 

Snow Rant

Even if it is an urban legend, the idea that Eskimos had fifty different words for snow is much more believable now that I live in snow. Of the winters I've spent in Idaho, I have noticed several different kinds of snow. There are big, feathery, fluffy snowflakes that fall ever so softly; there are round, pellet-like bits of snow that look like the styrofoam beads found in many bean bag chairs that jump like popcorn when falling on the dead grasses; there are icy, flat bits that look like the fake, iridescent plastic snow found in many store window displays.

Snow can  be beautiful, but it is a dangerous beauty. I wrecked our car driving on an icy road one winter, and I have resented the snow ever since. Not to mention the real danger of freezing to death on the highway, if one happened to slide off the road into a deep enough snow bank at night. I constantly have to clear the white stuff off of my car, lest reduced visibility cause another accident, or the car doors get frozen shut from melted and refrozen snow.


I now understand why in so much literature winter is referred to as a time of rest, of slowing down and reflecting. I grew up in a place that had mild, rainy winters; I never had to stay home because of weather, nor was I afraid to travel. I used to wonder why the natives in Idaho drove so slowly--it's because they are in the habit of driving as if there was still snow on the ground! And now I am inside, hibernating like many other North American mammals. Too bad I can't wake up in May having used up all my fat stores... 


It's also no wonder why there are so many summer babies born here, or rather, so many babies in general; not much else to do on a cold winter's night! Some might blame it on LDS tendencies for proliferation, but I don't think it's just us. Not that the poor babies can even go outside once they're born--most moms around here have to cocoon their babes in impossible layers just for a quick grocery trip.

If I hadn't grown up in a mild climate, none of this would bother me. It would be the norm, and I wouldn't have such cravings to go out and DO stuff in the middle of January. Or I would be able to act on those urges and participate in the many winter sports available. Skiing is expensive, though! Season passes cost $400 and up, plus the cost of transportation to the mountain, and sometimes even separate lift ticket costs to get up the mountain! There is also the hundreds of dollars spend on gear, like boards, boots, jackets, pants, goggles and gloves. Who would have thought that weather could make it so expensive just to go outside? 

Other costs include gas wasted warming up one's vehicle before every excursion and the increased heating and water costs. In older buildings, the thermostat must be set at a minimum level and the water must be constantly trickling to prevent frozen pipes. Then when an old pipe does burst, it costs hundreds and even thousands to repair the damage. So much for conservation efforts; there's not even a recycling collection service, just a few bins in the Wal-Mart parking lot.


All this in the pursuit of higher education... Maybe someday I'll see these sacrifices as worthwhile. And maybe not.