Patronage

I like slow living.  I knead my bread by hand instead of in a mixer and refuse to own a bread machine even though I like the idea of waking up to fresh bread. I knit my own socks, knowing full well that I can buy some at Target. I can even spin my own yarn starting with wool fresh off the sheep, if it comes down to it. I prefer paper for books that I buy, though electronic works well for library books, mostly because they're available at midnight and it's impossible for them to be past due. I hate audio books. It's impossible to get the pacing right and the tone is always so neutral and bland that it kills whatever mood there might have been. I like to walk when I can, instead of driving, and am actively lobbying for a bicycle so that I can go even further without having to deal with my car.

That said, I do have a smart phone (Jonathan doesn't and when he had occasion to prove such to his co-workers his office-mate leaned over and said, "I thought you were Mormon, not Amish.") and I even have a couple podcasts I listen to, mostly Two Guys On Your Head. I like the psychology discussions and it's really quite educational. I went looking for some new ones, recently, to maybe branch out, or something. There were knitting ones and trivia ones and cooking ones and history ones. I picked up a few but just haven't gotten into them. I'd have to carve out time for that and I don't feel like making the effort, most days. One really got to me, though. It's called LDS Perspectives and I listened to three or four episodes the first day. The second episode, they were talking to Brad Wilcox about his His Grace is Sufficient talk at BYU. It's amazing.

In discussing the delicate interplay between Grace and Works (see 2Nephi 25:23, James 2:20), he brings up Steven Robinson's Parable of the Bicycle, where we will never have enough but that's OK because the difference will be made up. This is so hard, though, because too many say that we've messed up too many times or we're obviously not doing our best, so what's the point? So he introduces his Parable of the Piano Lesson, in that Grace is where our mother has already paid for the lessons--for the teacher, the books and the piano--but it is up to us to practice.  My mind leapt one step further. Christ's Grace is a Patronage.

Long ago, in professions with guilds, it was common for a person with means to sponsor a youth who showed promise to an apprenticeship within a guild. Tuition was paid, often housing and meals were provided, and a career set forth. The apprentice had to study under the guidance of master craftsmen, usually for years, to become competent, then skilled, then a master himself. It was often a life's work.

To put this in more modern terms, our life is a university. We applied in the pre-mortal world, were accepted, and enrolled at birth.  We're not here on scholarship, though. Nor are we working our way through with a part- or full-time job. Christ has paid our tuition, in full, for whatever our course load, line of study, or number of degrees may be, including books, supplies, library time, a new laptop, access to the gym, room and board, and anything else you could need. Because it's already paid, we don't have to worry about minor infractions costing us our scholarship. We don't have to worry about losing hours at work because we were studying or sick and not having enough money to cover books and food. He even offers tutoring. Because Christ's Grace is like Elder Robbin's physics professor. As long as you keep coming back, keep trying, keep studying, keep retaking the test, you'll get there eventually.

And that is the beauty of patronage, of Grace. It lets us fail. It lets us fail over and over again. Christ gives us a safe place to test our skills, to learn and grow. As we look at our failures, and there are many, we can pull them apart, study them, see where we may have gone awry, and try again a different way. And maybe that second, thirtieth or four hundredth try isn't quite right, either, but we keep learning.

For it is by patronage we earn our degree, after all we have studied.

Coping With History

One of my brothers is a nerd... Ok, they're all nerds, but he flaunts it more. Anyway, he reads this webcomic called XKCD and sometimes it's beyond me. The writer used to work at NASA and plays with physics for fun. Most of the time, though, I get the joke  and its the sort of funny that gets you thinking. Wednesday's was especially timely.

It makes me wonder about what sort of celebrity gossip got swapped and dissected over fast food in the Roman Empire, or what forgotten tragedies shaped generations of Suomi. What did sibling rivalry look like in pre-colombian America? How did kimono get to be a Thing?

For me,  I'm sad for the stories that aren't here.  I could have told you about teenagers and middle school, or the end of our diapering era. There was choir concerts and trumpet shopping, the discovery of a local Christmas festival, our first big road trip and our budding flag magnet collection. I started going to an annual yarn convention and learned how to use a drop spindle. Elena grew at least six inches in the last year. Eli was added to the family. James was discharged from speech therapy but started occupational therapy, and is now getting discharged from that. Lucy has a vast array of invisible friends. Joseph has deep thoughts and a mind that is probably more broken than mine. Jonathan got a job with his dream employer. Pretty much all of us have ADD, apparently.

And I didn't write any of it here. So much history. So many stories. Write it. Write it in detail. And put your soul into it.

Hello?

It's been nearly five years. I meant to come back after just a few months. And then I had something huge and internal I was struggling with for at least a year. And then I felt like I couldn't come back unless I explained that, but I couldn't. At least, not then. And certainly not all of it. Some of you know. Fewer know all, because I usually leave out a key aspect because that takes even more explanation and that explanation is almost no one's business.

And time went by.

My heart healed as I came to terms with what I had, then broke again when my mom died. My children--five now--grew, and their problems did, too. My husband finally had a proper career, one he wanted, and that allowed us to move away from our hometown, but close enough to still visit frequently. We fell in love with our new home and were even able to finally buy a house, though the means to do so came at the cost of both my parents and the last of my grandparents. Some days, I wonder if it's worth it and say I would happily be an eternal renter if it just meant I could get answers to a few questions I have for my mom. And really, I'm not entirely sure home ownership is all it's cracked up to be. Sure, you can paint the walls and hang whatever you want on them, but you also have to deal with the roof after windstorms or the mouse in the garage. We deal with what we have, though. We got a cat. And a dog. And another cat. Then lost the dog. I'm glad we were able to give her a home in her old age but I now firmly believe that we're just not dog people. I lost another pregnancy, too. That was a triple blow--the loss itself, not having Mom to help me, and because, while it was a surprise, it was also our last. Like being handed a free cookie on the way out of the store and then a bird immediately sweeps down and snatches it out of your hand. You certainly aren't going to go back in and buy a new one, but it was still your cookie and you were planning on enjoying that.

And so we move on.

It's time for a new phase of life, now, and that brings a new set of thoughts. It's time to be back.

Urg, But Not Eep

I've been mulling over modesty, lately.  Elena's reached That Age (already?!?) so she and I got to have a few... Conversations (I know!!!) this last week.  Along with a changing body comes a change in how people perceive you, though, and while she's never had any problem showing modesty in dress, she has a long way to go for behavior, especially when it comes to how she moves in skirts.  How do I really explain modesty without getting into the one Conversation I haven't had with her and she doesn't (well, shouldn't) need to have for another couple years?

Modesty has been a pretty hot topic on Facebook lately.  There have been lots of links to articles and blog posts.  There was one that noted that the word "modest"  is only used twice in the bible, both times in an "of modest means" sort of way, advising the saints to not flaunt whatever prosperity they may rise to.  It reminded me of The Book of Mormon's mentions of fine-twined linens in the pride cycles.


On the more usual interpretation, she knows--because we've said it many times--that we keep ourselves, especially the areas covered by our undies and said undies themselves, covered up because they're not other people's business.  I was looking for something more solid than that, good as it is.  I had an epiphany, a week ago, and was able to relate the topic to something analogous but not as fraught with subtext and blame-throwing.  It takes the form of a quick Socratic question session:

Is it impolite for your brother to read your personal thoughts that you put in your private journal?  Of course it is.  That being said, is it then impolite for you to hang poster-sized prints of the contents of that journal around the house?  Your answer to that will say much. 

Then I saw this.  It's a hypothetical conversation between a man and his son.  It made me want to formulate my own for my daughter.

~
Sweetheart, there are many kinds of men out there.  And they've all looked at you.  It's because you're becoming a woman.  It's in the nature of things.  ...

It's the way they look that matters, though.  There are some men that will look at you and only see a piece of meat.  You've done nothing to deserve that, and there's nothing you can do to prevent it.  Those men will always see every woman that way.  Ignore them, they're not worth your time.  Trying to beat them in that game is a losing proposition.  It's like wrestling a muddy pig--you get dirty and the pig has fun.

There are, however, good men who will look at you as a whole person, one with thoughts and dreams, skills and talents, and a sense of wonder and adventure that will leave him breathless.  They are the men who don't want to only see you for your legs or curves, as much as those things are attractive to them, who want to respect you and treat you right.  Those are the men that are worth encouraging, those are the ones you want to attract.  For their sakes, not the others', it is most polite and most fair to not make them work so hard at maintaining the self-discipline they've been working on.

Remember, your responsibility is to see yourself dressed before you leave your room, and not undo that work once you leave it.  The man's responsibility is to see you for who you are, not what your clothing may or may not hint at.  Both sides work together.  They share equal responsibility with equal reward. 

"...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.

Simon, Cat

My kids love watching Simon's Cat.  I'm pretty sure half the humor, for them, is that Simon is the name of their cat.  I know that half the time they can't remember if the Simon in the movies is the cat or the person.

We got him on a camping trip only a week or two after we got married.  Someone had left a litter of kittens and he came up and introduced himself to us.  He was such a little puff of a kitten, too.  For the longest time, he said "Mac" instead of "Mau."

He used to stalk my feet in the early mornings.  Only mine.  Jonathan would throw him out of the room.  I'd throw him out of the house.  He wanted to be sneaking through the bushes, anyway.  There were whole flocks of birds that would flutter around our patio, teasing him.

He was never much of a hunter, though.  He caught a little garter snake, once, and it got away and slithered into the hall closet.  I stayed outside until Jonathan found it and relocated it.  Simon caught a toad, too.  He was so proud of himself, trotting up with the bumpy little thing in his mouth.  Until the toad did what all toads do when you catch them.  Simon's face suddenly got this distressed/disappointed look and he spat the toad out.  I don't think he ever really tried, after that.

As a bobtail, he got pretty stocky.  Any time someone visited they'd tell us we have a big cat.  I'm always amazed at how small their cats are.

 He was my kids' first friend and, for all but Joseph, their first word, too.  He let Elena chew his ears and use his head as leverage when she was learning to stand.

He let Joseph pull fur and chase him around the house.

He was fascinated by James' smells and just happy to hang out with the quiet one.

He took naps with Lucy and they would meow to each other.

This morning, the kids found him on our front lawn.  He'd been in a fight, or something.  It wasn't horrific, but it wasn't exactly pretty, either.  Jonathan got him washed and wrapped up.  Elena kept asking to see him, over and over, even though she knew he was gone.  My mom offered a place where we could bury him.  We tried to explain it to James as best we could and even let him say bye, but I really don't know how much he understood.  Joseph immediately asked if we could get a puppy.

This is going to be a really big adjustment for us.  The kids have always had him there.  The only time I've not had a pet was those two weeks between the wedding and the camping trip.  I feel a little lost, right now.  It gives me a bit of comfort, though, to imagine him chasing bugs and maybe wandering around Dad's place for a while.  Adieu, mon chat.  We'll see you later.

Temptation ~or~ The Trouble With Monogomy

I'm getting pretty far with my sock project, but I'm getting bored, too.  I started them on the last day of February, so that's 4 1/2 months.  I actually had to rip them all the way back to the start, at one point, because they were just too tight.  Now, at a better size, I'm almost back to where I was but I want more.  I'm not very good at sticking to just one project, since I like to switch it up with my mood and the setting, and I've got all sorts of things calling my name.

I started looking at other sock patterns, a sure sign of trouble ahead.  Being all noble and stuff I decided they should be for Jonathan.  He picked a pattern from the selections I offered and a yarn from the bucket.  They're going to be awesome.  But I still want more.

I haven't worn real shoes in long time, so when I put on heels for church, on Sunday, my little toe was worn raw within an hour.  Sunday School brought cold bare feet and visions of anklets that look like ballet flats that I can keep in my purse just for occasions like this.  And I still want more.

A shawl?  A dress for Lucy?  Dr. Who stockings?  Something else entirely?  Or do I hold out and finish before moving on?

Musings on Words

Jonathan and I have weird conversations, sometimes. They might be about history and anachronisms in a movie, both good and bad; or sentence construction that throws off the meaning and/or flow of a paragraph in a novel; or philosophical reasons why that LOL cat picture just doesn't work. Many of them are a delightful mix of academic and absurd that both stretch the mind and tickle the funny bone. Every now and again we come across a real doozy.

While reminiscing on missions and Nauvoo and such, Jonathan remembered an English class he had taught. One of the students asked what the difference between "some-" and "any-" (somewhere/anywhere, sometime/anytime, someone/anyone, etc.) was. As the teacher, he did the best he could but even a decade later still wasn't satisfied with the answer he'd given. Now, he asked if I could do any better. At the beginning, I stumbled along, just as most of us would. There were a lot of wells and ums involved. I could feel the difference, almost taste it, but just couldn't describe it. I eventually decided that some- has an implied restriction, as if there was an expectation on the asker's part, that simply isn't present when any- is used. Think about walking into a darkened room and hearing a noise--there's a vast difference between the question "Is someone there?" and "Is anyone there?" The former includes the expectation that there is a person in the room making the noise, while in the latter the asker might have already written it off as wind, settling objects, or even a pet.

Have you ever tried to explain something that's barely explainable?

Scattered Thoughts

I'm having a hard time finishing things, right now. That doesn't make for exciting blog posts, though, so I thought I'd give a smattering of starts.

1. James has gone from what I'd expect of a 1-year-old to what I'd expect of a 2- or 3-year-old, speech-wise. He still doesn't use full sentences (can, just doesn't) and you have to know him to understand him ("pee-wah bupper!" "pifa!") but he's using more English, will pull out phrases he learned in therapy or hears around the house, and knows colors, numbers (1-12, out loud, and 1-10 in print), letters (all upper case and some lower case), and is working on house-hold objects. And, after a month of calling me Daddy, is starting to get Mom and Dad straightened back out.

2. All three of the kids are taking turns reading during scripture time. Elena can plow right through a half-dozen verses, Joseph can sound out enough big words to make it through a verse or two, and James identifies all the capital letters.

3. I've finished at least 9 knitting projects, this year. Some of them are very small and simple, like booties for the baby, while other take more time and significantly more brain-power, like the stranded mittens I set aside while Dad was in the hospital. Other projects are stalled in their fifth incarnation because I can't get the pattern to work. Socks are coming, starting next month.

4. The baby is measuring right on for her age. Everything is still pointing to mid-June.

5. My hip isn't hurting as much as last time. I think walking to school twice a day, combined with our Ward's twice-weekly yoga group and my concerted effort to use my hand to lift the bad leg (instead of straining something trying to lift it with the usual muscles) has helped. In any case, it only hurts when I do something to it, rather than hurting all the time no matter what.

6. I say "hip" or "back," even though it isn't either of those, because they somehow feel more genteel than "rear" or "pelvis."

7. Breathing is getting harder, though. Positions that are comfortable for my hip tend to crush my lungs, and positions that loosen up my lungs hurt my hip. The only thing that works for both is to lie on my stomach, but that's starting to require more and more elaborate setups to accommodate the belly.

8. Is it normal to be absolutely exhausted, all day every day? I wasn't this tired in the first trimester, but now I'm dragging around all the time.

To my Very Best Friend,

The last two weeks have been rough. What should have been a simple hospital stop (if you can call it that) for my Dad turned into a sudden four nightmarish days of his final illness and passing, then another three of quiet arrangements. From the very first phone call, you were there with a hug and a shoulder to cry on. You took on all three kids without a second thought as I spent as much time as possible with my mom and brothers. You rearranged your schedule, you put off important tasks, and you called in reinforcements so you could go with me for the hard parts. You didn't blink when I felt I needed to go back to the hospital at 9pm and asked no questions when I didn't come home. You made sure I was where I needed to be, even if it meant odd car arrangements or soothing a screaming James who was not happy that his mom was leaving him. Again. And when the end came, you were by my side holding my hand. When I came unglued, you were there to hold me. Thank you for being my best friend, my husband, my love. I don't know what I would be without you.

Experiment Upon the Sparkly Word

Through a friend, I found a link to the tumblr blog Reasoning With Vampires. It's basically devoted to tearing apart the writing in the Twilight series, one sentence at a time. It got me curious, though. Were the books really so horrifyingly awful in situ as they are when you take them point by point. Obviously I needed to actually read one. I refused to spend a single cent of my own money on it, though, and didn't really want it coming up on my library record, either. (I know, "Who cares?" I do.) So I borrowed a copy from another friend, who'd gotten hers second-hand for $1. Even better.

First of all, may I say, it wasn't awful. How can I say that? Because it's not great literature. "So wait," you say. "It's not awful because it's not great literature? How does that make sense?" Well, there are levels of quality in fiction writing. There's literature, there's novels, and then there's romance novels. Romance novels are not known for great character portraits, thrilling plots, or thought-provoking themes. Mostly, they're about how this one guy is hot for that one girl and the two of them eventually become an item. So, as romance novels go, Twilight isn't awful. (For reference, Highlander Christmas--which is about neither a highlander nor the celebration of Christmas--has the most non-sensical premise I've ever heard of, characters that don't seem to have any reasons for anything they do, a lot of continuity issues, a plot that is utterly absurd, and no known grounding in either reality or fantasy. Oh, and a whole lot of false advertising. You were so right to apologize for that gift, Mom, and it wasn't your fault at all.) I do have a couple of major complaints about Twilight, though.

It was dead boring. Sure stuff happened, but I didn't believe any of it for a second. There was no conflict, no tension. By about 50 pages in, the main "danger" in Bella and Edward's relationship seemed to have been handled and tamed. Everything was fine. No matter what Edward said about how it wasn't safe for her to be near him, everything was cool. It was obvious nothing was going to happen.

On the other side, though, there was a lot of danger in the actual relationship. The back of the book has this quote on it: "About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire." Cool. "Second, there was a part of him--and I didn't know how dominant that part might be--that thirsted for my blood." No problem, it's all under control. "And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him." Danger, Will Robinson!!! I adamantly object to the fact that the author makes it sound like people have no choice in who they love, and that anything is forgivable and can be shrugged off with a simple "but he's pretty" or a "but I love him." No, no, no! And this is what you're telling impressionable teenage girls is the epitome of perfection in a relationship? No! That is just all kinds of wrong, and even more dangerous to their psyches than the normal romance novel. The others might get her knocked up--this might get her killed. Jonathan highly objects to Edward's G-rated sleep-overs, as well. Real teenaged boys do not have that sort of self-control and should never be allowed to test it like that.

I was kind of glad when the psychotic murderer started stalking her (not Edward, despite the evidence) and something finally happened in this book. I was so done with it.

Unfortunately, the damage was done. And there was a teaser at the end of the book. So I read the other three. They were a lot more interesting, with actual plots and conflict, and everything. I can see why people are Team Jacob (though I was kind of leaning toward Team Van Helsing), and I can absolutely empathize with Bella's emotional pain. That's what happens when someone you love breaks your heart, and it really does hurt that bad. Another quote, if I may, one I read long ago: "Of all the agonies of life, that which is most poignant and harrowing--that which for the time annihilates reason and leaves our whole organization one lacerated, mangled heart--is the conviction that we have been deceived where we placed all the trust of love." (--William Henry Bulwer) I'm kind of proud of her for soldiering on, despite how bad she was at it. (Edward's the one who actually curled up in the fetal position.) Still, I'm not really sure that Bella should have ended up with either one of them. And the whole pregnancy-in-a-month thing started messing with my head, making me think I had all those symptoms, which was not even possible. Wait, that was the fourth book. What was in the third? Ah, yes, the blackmail engagement. That was classy. The rest of the book was surprisingly forgettable, considering it was the most "normal" of the series.

In the end, my overall opinion is "meh." They were readable, but I don't think I'll read them again. For better books, try Alex Flinn's modern fairy tale retellings, or the Artemis Fowl action/adventure series. Even The Sisters Grimm were way better than this.

P.S. I forgot to put in there, the first time, that their relationship was so one-dimentional and completely unbelievable in how neatly it all fell together. It was the coat-hanger the story was draped on, but that's about it. Also, Bella is not the protagonist. I'm honestly not sure who is, but it's not Bella. There is zero character development on that girl. She is immature, self-centered and manipulative right up to the moment her heart quits beating--only because she no longer has anything to manipulate anyone into, really. The scary thing about her is that it's subtle. She's not overt in her jerkishness, it's more like she doesn't realize she's doing it. Except that she does know, and does it anyway. And she thinks she's being sooo grown up and reasonable about it.

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.

Crawling Out

I crashed hard. A thousand little heartaches piled up, one on top of another, until I crumpled under the strain.

It gets harder as time goes on. I know a couple girls who are due the week I was. I'm thrilled for them and happily read their blogs, eager for more news on their growing bellies. It's still a reminder of what I lost, though. I would have been in maternity pants, by now. I would have been feeling little popcorn kicks and hiccups for a couple weeks, already. I would have been gearing up for my 20-week ultrasound. It bothers me that I don't even know if we'd have wanted to find out what we were having. We never got far enough to discuss it. The others are moving on, each new development a beautiful discovery, and I'm right were I was, empty and unchanging. Like a fly trapped in amber I feel lost in time, forever stuck just as I am now with no means of escape. Worst of all, I'm not sure that it's time to break free, yet. I want to climb back up on that horse, show it who's boss and that I control my life, but mine is not the only life that will be affected. As much as I hate it, I have to wait.

Still, I'm grateful for friends and a husband who will literally lift me up and get me going when I'm down. I don't know what I would do without you.

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.

Bumps in the Road

The hardest part isn't the loss of the pregnancy. The Lord made it abundantly clear that we'd be getting this one back. He's promised me certain things and he's going to deliver. Just not this time. It might not be this year, or this decade, or even in this life. And I'm OK with that. A promise is still a promise. No, the hard part is the loss of being pregnant. It's like being cut off in the middle of a thought, having the station fade out just as you find the song you were hoping for, or (perhaps most accurately) getting laid off. I feel incomplete, hanging in mid-air. There's no climax or denouement to this story.

It's the little things that get me the most. My ice crunching habit showed up right on time at the start of the second trimester, except that I was technically post-partum, by then. It drives me nuts, this compulsion to dip into the ice bucket and fish out chips when I don't have a "reason" to anymore. I was OK with having it all end until my mouse was hovering over the "unsubscribe" button for my Your Pregnancy This Week emails. Clicking meant admitting that it was over, done, and not coming back. I felt the same when I put my small handful of maternity shirts back in their box with all the others. All I could do was stare at it and cry a little. I pine for the missed experiences--Elena's speculations on the sex and number of babies (she tried to convince us I was having twins, at the end); James learning about babies when he's still so small, himself; being pregnant in winter (first time!) and new life with the spring. All our plans that had been thrown so far off are back to where they were--or are they?--but it feels so odd and off-balance, now. That Easter due date feels slightly bitter. Or maybe not. It's so hard to sort things out, and it keeps changing, day to day. I wonder if October will be hard for me, next year. There's no way of telling where my life will be by that time. I take things day by day, and if that doesn't help, minute by minute. It's the only way to get through.

Pieces

The day of our final ultrasound we sat in the car outside our house for such a long time after driving home. I couldn't go back in, couldn't just be Mom and pretend that everything was normal. The kids were so excited for this baby, how could I tell them it was gone? My beautiful visiting teacher hustled my boys away so we could have time alone. Jonathan had been up late with me (remember: works nights, sleeps days) so he immediately crawled into bed. I curled up with him, drained and directionless, and slept most of the day. The previous week had been so intensely spiritual, I'd been absolutely sure something survived. I'd even daydreamed scenarios of telling people about my miracle baby--"I had a miscarriage, but this little one pulled through." No dice. I dragged myself to school to pick up Elena, but I was quiet, subdued, wrapped in sun hat and sunglasses so she couldn't see my red eyes.

It's so easy to hide, to not let others see our pain because we don't want to explain or make excuses. It's especially easy for me, already turned inward by nature. I pull a cloak of solitude around me, unwilling to share because I don't want to hurt any more. This one is too big, though. I need to probe and lay bare this splinter in my soul. If I leave it to its own devices it'll just fester and poison all around it.

Despite how lonely I feel--or perhaps because of it--I crave the society of other people. I need someone to talk to, or just stand next to. After a while, though, it's starts to feel a little... forced. Do they understand? Do I want them to? I don't want to explain it again, but if I don't, well, maybe I should just find somewhere else to be. The spiral downward and crash when I'm alone at night hits me the worst. I don't sleep well, I'm always tired. I've started falling asleep at odd moments, the last few days.

That's not to say that there aren't bright spots. We really have been blessed. This could have been so soul-shattering, but wasn't. Even so, while we may not be broken, there's a lot of bruises. Some of them refuse to come to the surface, too. There's still so far to go.