"...But What Does it Have to do With Flying an Airplane?”

I will not write the post that apologizes for not posting.  You've all read it on a hundred other blogs.  No I haven't blogged.  And I haven't read yours, either.  And that's OK.

With my mood swings getting more jagged, the last couple months, I've retreated more and more.  I made the horrific mistake of trying to read the Hunger Games series during one of these retreats.  Good books, but not for when your mental state is already tippy.  In an effort to keep myself stable, I've pulled back my friendships, too.  Real, tangible friends; on real, tangible outings; with real, "tangible" sunlight; on real, tangible pool water or playgrounds.  Even those aren't that often, but they give me solid ground, both literal and metaphorical, to stand on.  I suppose I've followed President Uchtdorf's advice about throttling back without really even thinking about it.

Strangely enough, my new footing is echoed in the ideas presented here, too.



As part of finding my center, I changed my social behavior.  To give me the foundation of warmth and friendship I need to build myself back up, I rely on live conversations with live people.  The need to edit, to present myself, to find the perfect whatever in the endless PR campaign of blogging and even Facebook, was just too much.  I dropped everything that took more than 30 seconds of planning.

So no, you're not likely to see an uptick in posting.  I am, however, much healthier for it.  And that's what matters.

Backfill

It's been a weird Winter, no weirder for the fact that it's May and it's finally starting to feel like Spring.  It started last October when I got shingles. 

As shingles go, it was an incredibly mild case, just a quarter-sized patch next to my right knee, but my skin felt like I had a particularly obnoxious sunburn for a week or two.  The one time James kicked my rash I curled up and cried for ~5 minutes.  Figuring that this is something that might actually need a doctor's attention I went and looked one up.  It's been a while, so I was a New Patient and I had to wait two weeks.  By then, everything had pretty much cleared up but they did a full check-up.  Including mental health.  By the end of the day I'd already seen a psychologist and had appointments with both a therapist and a psychiatrist. 

I'm usually just fine with being mildly bipolar, but with then-current events compounding things they wanted to let me talk to someone.  I went to therapy every week for months.  I met with the psychiatrist.  I got a prescription that I found out 2 days later I'm not supposed to take.   Well, I can, but Lucy can't, so I can't either.  I talked about what was going on in my life and we discussed somethings that might make things better.  And when my therapist left in March I just never went back.  It felt like all the talking did was either frustrate me because it was only talking and not actually doing anything, or make me feel sad and helpless, which is counter-productive.  It also made me fold up in on myself.  I didn't really talk to anyone else.  I certainly didn't blog.

So why now?  It's Spring.  New starts.  Also, my cat.  And that just cannot be properly covered on Facebook.

Remembering, With Love

Ten years ago we went from this:


to this:

Despite the pain and suffering, we found amazing things in the depths of our souls. All over the country, Americans gave everything they could. We served, we lifted, we donated, we consoled.

This week, my parents' home went from this:


to this:

This was my home for about five months. It's where my husband proposed to me. It's the only place my kids have ever known as Mima And Popa's House. More than 1,500 other families now have similar stories, similar losses.

Just as before, I've seen our community do amazing things. We've given money, clothing, toiletries, food, time, and shoulders to cry on. In the weeks to come, there will be lunches, rides, places to stay, furniture, and help cleaning up.

I wish that we could keep those moments with us forever--those times that prove our humanity--when we lay aside bitter differences, because they really don't matter in the end, and get on with the work of helping our neighbors, building a stronger, more peaceful and loving community.

I am my brothers' keeper. He deserves more true Charity than he's probably used to getting.

Sidetracked

Something I've noticed with falls is that no matter how badly your knees and hands are bleeding at the time, it doesn't take that long to get up on your feet and limp into the house, wash away the dirt and grime, pick out the bits of leaves or gravel, and marvel at the shallow scrapes. Surely, it had to have been worse than that--loose bits of flesh, a dire need for stitches, something like that, right? No. As I said, a thousand tiny heartaches, each a grain of sand scraping at my skin. The only reason it hurt at all is that they all came at once. One little trip, I lost my balance, and the earth rose up to meet me with such awful force. Yet with a bit of warm water and soap it washes away. You get on with what you need to do. You also wonder why you ruined your mascara in public.

Such is life. When things are going well, you do your various chores--getting the kids to school, running errands, planning meals, teaching lessons--and think nothing of it. It's just what you do. It's why I didn't have a post for every day in November, despite my ambitions. I was busy doing other things. I read books, I knit a pair (and a half) of socks, I pulled out winter clothes and put away shorts. I went to the library and the mall. I finally went grocery shopping. I earned a bit of money doing a couple different projects and treated myself to some gorgeous sock yarn. I'm not sure if all of it's going to turn into socks or if one or two balls will become a shawl, but that's for another day. I even found myself in another rite of parental passage--treating Elena for head lice. (By the way, even if you don't have any critters at the moment, tea tree oil--in shampoo or other products--both treats and prevents. I got referred to Lice Ice when I was at Walgreens and it seems to be working well.)

The thing is, though, it's, well... life. You get wrapped up in what you're doing and the next thing you know it's two weeks later and your out-of-town friends start to wonder about you. Honestly, it was only the second bad day in two whole months of shock and then recovery. These peeks inside my head are fitful and, like with the evening news, tend to come when something "interesting" happens, for good or for ill. I would like to say that I'm back to normal, but that isn't quite true. I think I might have found a new normal, though. I'll try to let you in on that, too.

Falling

I've run out of Artemis Fowls (the 7th one's been checked out so I have to wait for it to be returned) and the How to Train Your Dragons are amusing but not engrossing. Books got me through last week, but now I hang at the edge of the pit. Not a deep one, thankfully, but enough to leave me scraped up as I try to climb back out. Hopefully I won't need to. I don't want to tip the balance by saying "...but it's only Friday," either. I can feel it, though. I make up excuses to go to stores, touching, feeling and wanting to buy something--anything!--to fill the void. I leave with an empty cart only because I know deep down that it won't help. Strangely enough, the one place I don't go is the grocery store. I would love to fill bags with apples and cucumbers, mushrooms and the last of the peaches. But I don't. I don't know why. Fresh produce is something I don't mind indulging in. It's healthy as well as being delightfully tasty. It's something the whole family can enjoy, too. So why do I stay away? I'd love to insert some witty and insightful remark here, but I've run out. I feel drained, like I've been running on empty for way too many miles. I need a good cry and a long nap, but don't have the playlist or spare time for either. If you have a moment, a hug and a shoulder will do.

Clearing

I've been doing better, the last few days, but it's also the better half of my week. Plus, having gone public, as it were, I don't feel like I have to carry this myself any more. That's incredibly liberating. Just knowing I'm not the only one--not the only one who's been through this and not the only one who knows about me--frees me. I'm not sure how the latter half of the week will go. Wednesday night and Thursday morning are the usual fall-off point, but I'm hoping it won't be so bad.

I'd like to give myself a good challenge, something big to work toward besides my knitting projects and Personal Progress. It should be something that will stretch me, but it should be realistic, too. Maybe, as I'm a pack rat and I'm married to a pack rat (albeit a minimalist pack rat, if that makes any sense), I should be clearing out things from my house. I haven't yet because it's so hard finding a time to do it. Day is no good because Jonathan needs to sleep. Evening is out because I've got too much going on. Night is either the only time I get with my husband, or when I should be sleeping (which might well explain a least a part of why I'm so tired). Still, it really does need to get done. There are plenty of toys that don't get played with, clothes that don't get worn, things that haven't seen the light of day in years that can be somewhere other than cluttering our little apartment. It'll get interesting when I get to my yarn and fabric stashes. I use those! Sort of. Most of the yarn has actual plans for use, with patterns and recipients picked out and everything. Fabric is a little more iffy, but still every bit as useful. And yet they take up space, space that could be used for plenty of things, including a floor to walk on. Sigh...

Progression

The last few nights I've been working on Personal Progress. It's a different program from when I was in young. There are different requirements and different activities to check off. Most of them involve contemplation and journal writing. It's simpler, in that there are fewer things to do, but harder because they either take longer--three weeks seems standard--or require you to dig deep and really think about the things of the gospel. Having goals is good for me, right now. I like having something manageable to tackle. And in the end, I'll have a new medallion to show for my work.

Having dug deep and motivated myself to actually want to do this, I'd like to apologize to my mom for how hard she had to push me to get the first one done on time. I'd also like to thank her for doing it anyway. I can see much better now why the program's there in the first place. I'm doing it this time for the necklace, yes (I want silver to match all my other jewelry), but I'm also doing it for me, for my own growth, and to set an example for the girls. I'm doing the whole thing, too. Mothers and leaders are allowed to finish with only half the requirements, but I'm going to do it all. Maybe it's to make up for what I did to my mom, I don't know.

It's interesting, writing things down. I'd like to save both books for posterity, but I'm sure my kids will be far more interested in this one than the old. It's more personal. Right there in my own handwriting are my thoughts on the Savior's atonement, what I need to do to stay worthy to enter the temple, and what I think it means to be a daughter of God. It's an incredible legacy. If any of you have the opportunity to do the program again, do it. Even if it's your third of fourth time around, there's more to learn and more you can share.

60 Frames per Second

I wrote the first three all in one sitting. Everything seemed to flow out of me, needing only a little structure for it all to fit together. Since they were understandably depressing, I've chosen to focus on brighter things, today.

I've found I notice so many new details in this quiet new world my brain inhabits. So many things have slowed down, and as they glide past I can't help but see colors and smell scents and feel textures that were only a blur in passing, before. I'm not sure why I was so eager to get on with things, be somewhere else, do something different, before. Now I want to savor every last drop of life. I want to catch it in a jar and breathe it in over and over again.

My closest, most readily available sources of comfort are my children. I cherish my walks to school with Elena, even when it means waking a literal hour before dawn. Six is a fantastic age. She can carry a normal conversation, and her perspective on everything is fascinating. We've even started talking about feelings and the quirks of each other's personalities. I like getting those peeks inside her head. She's still affectionate, but not so smothering, anymore. Even better, she lets me show her the same. I can share my love of reading with her, too, and we've gotten to discuss both Harry Potter and How to Train Your Dragon in the last couple months. (By the way--HtTYD, the movie, is nothing like the book but brilliant on its own merits.) I honestly hope the next few years are like this because I really am enjoying it.

I've discovered a hidden well of patience, with Joseph. I let him run in circles and he happily wears himself out. We hadn't been to a park in a while, with all the weirdness of life, but we're venturing out again. He's got a wonderful imagination. He perches his PlayMobil pirate on top of the Sonic kids meal parrot and they fly around. We laughed forever about that one, a pirate on a parrot's shoulder. The pirate also has a couple of pet dragons (four life-size and realistic-looking toy garden lizards) and they have amazing adventures. Joseph tells some really funny stories, too. They don't make much sense but he laughs so hard through them that it doesn't seem to matter. Now that he's got most of his letters down (uppercase, at least--we're working on the others) I feel like I've got a better handle on how to teach him to read. Elena pretty much taught herself, so I'm kind of new at this.

James is both a solace and a frustration. He's one of the snuggliest two-year-olds you'll ever meet and wants to be on or near me most of the day. If he's not in my arms, he's sitting on my lap. If I'm reading a book, he wants to sit next to me. If I'm cooking, he wants to see what's in the pot. I love having him near, and I love hearing him giggle while we play our little games, whether tickles after diaper changes, peek-a-boo, or his odd silly-face game. We give loads of fives and he's started saying "Bye! See you!" and waving when anyone walks toward the door. I think a few of the See Yous might have been Love Yous, but it's hard to tell. The down side to this is when I reach my limit of being touched and get the Mental Itches, or when he's into everything in the kitchen during dinner prep. Jonathan's usually home during those times, though, and I can pull away into my quiet time with a cutting board and sauce pan.

My calling helps, too. I thought I was called because I felt I had so much to share with the girls, but I really do think the timing is because I needed them around me for this. Both they and the other leaders have been a God-send. They force me to socialize instead of sitting quietly in the back of the room the way I would have if I'd stayed in Relief Society.

Finally, I love this time of year. As beautiful and refreshing as Spring is, as riotous as Summer is, or as magical as real Winter can be, I love the way Fall feels like everything is settling down to rest. It mirrors my favorite time of day, late evening, when everything quiets down, curls up with a good story, and watches the sun set. I love the cloudier days, the nip in the air, that slight drizzle that gets things wet but never soaks, and the crunch of leaves underfoot. I love the smell of woodsmoke and cinnimon, roasted pumpkin seeds and hot bread with soup. Best of all, living in Central Texas means that Fall lasts for months. Sometimes, it'll bypass Winter alltogether and keep going all the way to Spring. Those are my favorite years. I wonder what this year will bring.