Warmy Weather

Mother Nature does this funny this to Northern Arizona where she warms everything up to the point of blossom and bloom and then she FREEZES US OUT.
It is sad.

I’ve thought about how sad it is, and I remembered what my Mom told me when my three older brothers were trying to upset me.
“Don’t get upset. That’s what they WANT. Just ignore them.”

I think it was Mom’s way of saying, “Feign zen.”  So here we are.  Feigning zen.  Zennity.  And you know what?  Maybe this will turn into one of those, “fake it until you feel it” things.

 

So this is us NOT getting upset by Mother Nature. She can tease all she likes, we’re going to enjoy the warm AND THE COLD, even if it means our flowers die.
We will plant more!
Mother Nature has NO IDEA who she’s dealing with, and I’ll take a brief minute to remind her that my bloodlines are hearty, hearty, feisty and stubborn. In that order.

Here’s a picture of the roadrunner who keeps sneaking around my house.  I love him.  I’ve named him.  That’s vulnerable because if he quits coming around, I’ll go into mourning.  He’s just so cute!
20160211_135434_001When sisters won’t hold the ball for you, it isn’t the end of the world.  In fact, it’s the beginning of invention.  Creativity!  Genius!

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This is us being serious about being zen.

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Here’s the girls.  Or as Alice likes to say, “gwills.”

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“I’m Spider-Man, Mom.”

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We’ve been able to walk to the school to pick the kids up in the warm weather.  Lacy is learning about environmental issues, and the amount of trash on the side of the road bothered her.  So we picked some up.  We figured we could keep picking more up with every walk.  Why not, right?  Good turn daily, all that.  Also, I love that Lacy is moved by causes.  I want to support that because it feels like it’s an integral part of the WHO of Lacy.  Maybe someday she’ll head up a non-profit, or travel over-seas to lend aid to starving folks… either way, picking up trash because she thinks it needs to be done seems like a good idea.

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Taking us away from our theme briefly, here’s a picture of us actually MAKING ZEN instead of feigning it.

But who are we kidding?  The only thing getting made here is selfies.
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I’ve taken advantage of the warmer mornings and been able to sneak in a crisp walk.  I realized in that one walk that I have 5 abandoned buildings within two miles of my house.  It’s the cool and creepy part of living a stone’s throw from Old Route 66.

The creepy part is this fake man, keeping watch over the front of the old feed store:

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The cool part is the drawing of a cowboy watching over the back of the feed store.

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The other night, the skies looked delicious.  So peaceful.

 

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“I just want to GRAB those clouds!” I said.  Alice decided Mom was onto something, and after we went inside, she sat on my lap and hashed out every possibility to claim some clouds.
“We could get in a airplane!”
“But the windows don’t open in an airplane,” I shrugged.
“We could OPEN THEM!” She made an “opening” motion with her arms.
“They can’t open,” I said.
“We could get a ladder.”
“Do you think it would reach the clouds?” I asked.
“We could put the ladder on the roof!”
I was thoroughly impressed with her reasoning skills, but had to tell her that if we put a ladder on the roof, we would fall.”
“We could BRING THE CLOUDS TO US.”
Again, amazed at her tenacity. She was determined. So I brought her some clouds in the form of my shaving cream.
Because zen isn’t the only thing we feign around here, Mother Nature… we ALSO FEIGN YOU.

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Gratitudey Saturday

Lately, I’ve spent more time down than up.  Health issues are one of my trials right now, and I’m trying to practice (learn) acceptance.

Yesterday I woke up without a stomach ache for the first time in at least a week.  I’d been to visit my trusty Back Doc which meant my joint inflammation (which has been wicked this last week) had eased up. I got outside as quickly as I could -is there anything better than crisp morning air?  It was light outside, but the sun wasn’t officially “up.”  I had a hyper dog with me, and we kept a good pace.  I loved feeling the sun’s rays on my back as it peeked up in the east.
I came home and jumped on my yoga mat for a gentle session.  I didn’t want to over-do it.  I set my intention, “I am grateful.”  Danny joined me and let me guide him through a session with me.  I’m no yoga instructor, and it felt really vulnerable to invite someone into my session.  I listen to my gut and my poses follow a flow that my intuition dictates.  I let Danny in which was brave in it’s own yogi way.
Off my mat, I made breakfast. I sang out loud to Jerry Lee Lewis, and my family found out that Mom knows all the lyrics to “Great Balls of Fire” even if she doesn’t have the moves to go with them… just more bravery from Mom, right?  I did dishes and went outside.  I raked things and moved things.  I pulled some old leaves out of the flower bed, noticing that decomposition was taking place.  I loved that.

The cycle of life is amazing.  The leaves once gave shade and are now turning into compost -fertilizer.  They continue to serve and give, even after death.  It made me think of those who have passed away, how their service now is different but still felt, still making a difference. How death can be a door of sorts… while living, the leaves couldn’t do the job they’re doing while dead.  I think people must be the same way -doing jobs they just couldn’t do while living.

I came inside and cracked away at some online work.  I was able to clean up the house here and there… chucked out old food from the fridge and spent some time bleaching tupperware and mason jars.
I washed windows.
They are streaked, but I don’t even care.  I didn’t wash them so they’d be clean, if we’re being honest.  I washed them because it was nice outside and washing windows sounded like a nice thing to do.

As the day closed, I took a nice shower.  I skipped making dinner so Danny bought some.  I started some homemade broth in the crock pot.  Danny and I tried our hand at starting a batch of sauerkraut.

I stopped in at my grandma’s house that evening to watch Lawrence Welk with Grandpa -our weekly standing date I just hate to miss.

We wound down to a few episodes of “Rosemary & Thyme” -a show we aren’t even ashamed to say we love.  It’s like Scooby-Doo for grown-ups… and middle-aged ladies.
Then I lit a little lamp and we all snuggled up in my bed for scriptures.  I read from a children’s book and sent them off to bed.

As I stepped in an old cow trough -now filled with dirt, getting ready to be planted with all manner of cool stuff -to wash the outside of my bedroom window, I thought, ‘Today is amazing.  But if I were 16, today would be the worst.’

I remember hating days like that -days filled with dailies.  A day without something HAPPENING just felt so wasted.

But when life has hit, when sorrow and pain hit hard, when health takes a dive… days like yesterday feel completely miraculous.

Raking flower beds that will be filled with leaves again soon.  Washing windows that will be dusty again in days.  Washing dishes that will be dirty again tomorrow.  Cleaning a fridge that will be filled with filthy food again in a few months.

It doesn’t feel pointless anymore.
It feels blessed.

I crawled into bed with sun-kissed cheeks, and as I got ready for church this morning, I didn’t bother covering them up.  In earlier years, I’d put on extra foundation to cover up, to make my skin look more even-colored.  But this year, all I feel is proud… proud of the pink skin, proud of the streaky windows.

I used to feel like life was wasted if I did “meaningless” things.  I felt like in order for my life to matter, I had to be seen by people who matter.
But I’m finding for me that life serves a deeper, higher purpose in the thick of those seemingly meaningless tasks.

And that as I rake leaves, I’m seen by God.
And that the people who matter actually live with me.

On Monday, we sat together around our kitchen table and talked about faith.  We poked some seeds into some little peat pots and softly asked them to grow, grow, grow!

Yesterday morning, I woke up to the most beautiful green sprout I’ve ever seen.  One of my seeds decided to answer my call.  It feels so fragile, so weak.  But it is so precious to me.  Gardening is not something that comes natural, but I love everything about a seed growing into a fruitful plant.

It reminds me of faith and hope, service and stillness.

It reminds me of raking and compost.

It reminds me of growing up with a family who gardened together through gnat clouds and choke weed.

It reminds me of change… because if a seed can sprout under my guiding hand, surely change is real.  And surely, if I can find peace, purpose and a heck of a lot of gratitude while pushing dirt and washcloths around, change is really real.

Movies. Plants. Midas.

It has been so warm.

Two weeks ago, I was curled up in the fetal position under three blankets, wondering if I’d ever survive the day. I did. And I’m so glad because the past week has been wonderfully warm. My anxiety keeps popping up and whispering super sweet things like, “It is too early to be this warm, watch out… something awful is coming.”
Today I decided that little voice is right -something awful is coming. Something awful is ALWAYS coming, so why not get out in the sun and shovel some dirt around, amIright?

I came home from work, polished off some leftover salmon and then went to work moving dirt around. It feels good to do that. There’s something therapeutic about dirt. There’s wonderful scientists out there who have proven the content of natural anti-depressants in the soil. Gorgeous little fact. And I think there’s something really character-building about doing something methodical that will never stay done. It builds good folks. It builds the kind of folks who are fun to do dishes with, anyway.

Tonight, we planted some seeds for Family Home Evening. Danny read some scriptures and talked with the kids about the importance of “watering” our faith. As the kids asked questions about the seeds they were planting, Danny said, “Not all the seeds will grow. Sometimes you get a seed that is perfectly fine, and it just won’t grow.”
A light went on for me.
Gardening is that seed for me.
It is a perfectly good seed, but things just don’t grow for me. Gardening works wonderfully for other people, and thank goodness because I like plants and food and the whole idea of the whole process.
For dust thou art, and all that.

But like the the cursed twin of Midas, every plant I touch withers and turns into ashes.
My flower bed houses jump ropes and sun-bleached squirt guns and dead leaves. Nothing grows in it. Maybe it’s because it is covered by my porch’s overhang, and flowers don’t like full shade. BUT MAYBE it’s because I TOUCH IT.

The past few years (gosh, has it been that long?) I’ve been dealing with health stuff… gall bladder stuff. I’m still dealing with it, and it is really messing with my ability to upkeep my garden. I’m not up for bottling and harvesting like I used to be.
But this year, I really want to try. I know I don’t feel well, but I’m hoping the combination of natural anti-depressants and beautiful green foods will help out.

Being sick also means I watch more movies. And while my addiction to movies is well known, I will say that movies have always made me come alive. They are magic, my friends. I love story lines and characters and dialogue.
I hate wasting time on a bad movie, and I love becoming a better person because I watched a truly inspiring movie.

The other day, I stumbled on “The Wedding Date” and I remembered having seen it… years ago, when I was newly married. I couldn’t remember the plot (beyond “the awkward girl ends up with the pretty boy” because that’s the plot OF ALL THE MOVIES), so I turned it on.
In the beginning of the movie, Debra Messing is running around her apartment, getting ready to fly out of the country for a wedding. They make a big deal out of her quirkiness, and while that’s all well and good, I just have to point out that she puts her house plants in her sink.
It’s a simple thing, really.
But it struck me.
Like, “Hey. I should get some houseplants so that when I fly to England to attend my sister’s wedding with a hired male escort, I can leave them in my cutesy apartment sink too!”
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To say I’m influenced by subtle advertising would be an understatement. But I make no apologies because God promises to make all things work together for good.
So even if I kill the plants, good will come of it.
Like maybe I’ll stop buying plants.
Or I’ll hire someone else to keep them alive and learn to accept myself AS I AM, not as I would have me.

Thanks to Debra Messing and a little “soul seed” that took root a few months ago, I finally bought a houseplant. Did you know they’re like $3 at Wal-Mart? Three dollars to change your lives, folks.
In the name of quirkiness, spend the cash!

I’ve missed greenery during the winter months, and I know a live plant will help clean the air in my home. Working in a mechanic shop means half the air I breathe is exactly the kind of air people are complaining about in Washington. I grew up around it, so to me it just smells like home.
It’s reminiscent of Judy Garland thrusting grease-paint into her uninterested fiance’s face during her final film, “Summer Stock.”
“Smell that…”
“What is it?”
“Grease paint!”
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Not everyone understands the draw of the grease paint, the same way no one understands the draw of PLAIN GREASE when you’ve grown up smelling it.
But sometimes I sit tapping my toes on concrete under bright florescent lights, inhaling grease and occasionally some exhaust… and I think, ‘it wouldn’t hurt to have a little plant in here…’
Not to stay, right? Because it would surely die, right? But I could carry it around. I could be an entirely new breed of woman! Gone are the days of tans and platform shoes and giant sunglasses and puppy toting! IN ARE THE DAYS OF JEANS AND WOOL SOCKS AND GIANT MESSY BUNS AND PLANT TOTING!
It could be a revolution.

That’s what got me to buy the plant, you know. The idea that my three bucks were changing the world.
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The kids named it Meeka.

Meeka is the name of the fictional Panda I made up. Why? Because when your niece asks you to play Pandas on a lazy Sunday evening, it becomes necessary to promote yourself to MOTHER PANDA and put all the little pandas down for a story and a nap.
It is easier to make up stories than crawl around on the floor, and so Meeka was born. Amen.

Now Meeka lives on in our little green plant. This green plant hails from the South Pacific which is perfect because South Pacific happens to be the name of another great musical. Here’s a song straight from my “Happy Tunes” playlist to your ears -compliments of South Pacific:

And since we’ve already had a little fling with “Summer Stock” let’s throw in this song -also on my “Happy Tunes” playlist. Cleaning the kitchen goes a lot quicker when you’ve got this beat:

Meeka doesn’t need much water and isn’t high maintenance about light either. It seems like it was planted with me in mind, that it sat on the shelf waiting for me to make the three dollar decision to change the world.

But the story doesn’t end there… for Valentine’s Day, Danny bought me a hanging plant. The good news is, I’m aware of it still. I have watered it once. I have moved it around so it gets lots of love and light. The good news also is that Danny buying a plant shows that he believes in change -that I can change, that I don’t have to stay black-thumbed. What better gift can you give on Valentine’s?
The bad news is I lost the little tab it came with and have no idea what kind of plant it is, where it came from or what it needs.

It’s the Midas Twin Curse.
Blackened Ashes.
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Maybe I’ll name this one Ash?

If you could tell me what it is, I’ll be really grateful. I’ll even show it by never, ever touching your plants.

I’m hoping my houseplants will increase my level of cuteness like they did for Debra Messing. I’m also hoping they will give me the confidence to really garden this year. Heaven knows my health needs it.
And by heaven, I mean Gene Kelly.

Valentines

Because I’ve been so sick and taking care of other sicklings, I haven’t ordered and written on Valentine postcards this year. I’m bummed about that. But I’m grateful for technology.
Because I get to share these babies with you anyway.  I love making these silly cards -I love giving my brain space to be creative when sometimes I can’t even remember if I’ve showered or not.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my loves!
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Sick Day

In keeping with the tune of our season, my body has decided to come down with a cold. Again.
This cold is the kind of cold that makes staring out the living room window feel like hard, productive work. If the air around me moves at all, it causes pain.
Washing my hands is torture, but I endure it well because clean hands are very important when you have a job to do. And if I don’t stare out the window, who will?

Erma Bombeck is one of my heroes, and I love an essay she wrote when she was given a diagnosis that could mean (and eventually did mean) death. It is titled, “If I Had My Life To Live Over” and it is full of brilliant gems.
One of which reads:

I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren’t there for the day.

I have always wrestled with anxiety, and I’m pretty sure my very first mortal thoughts were riddled with anxiety.
It’s a logical notion, given that I was born stark nay-ked with a bunch of strangers staring at me, and I was 100% incapable of doing anything about it.

Sicknesses love my anxiety -they latch on to each other like old friends and sit back and have a sick laugh as I frantically bleach and monitor the little foreheads running around my knees.
“Why did you cough? What was that? Did it hurt? Do you hurt? Are you hungry? Why not? You look pale. Do you feel pale? Danny, is he pale?!”

My chest would tighten when I’d find out someone the kids played with was puking.
My heart rate would rise when I’d read a facebook status about one of the kids’ classmates checking in at Urgent Care.
I was always confused when Danny would kiss me while I was sick because I was always very careful to show lots and lots and lots of affection in OTHER ways when he was coughing.

Danny doesn’t have anxiety like I have anxiety.

Working the 12-steps, I’ve found the BEST medicine for my anxiety. I didn’t start working the steps for my anxiety, and I was thrilled when I started finding freedom from anxiety as a natural by-product of applying 12-step principles to my life.

With this new-found gusto, I have relaxed when it comes to sickness. I still give the kids lots of vitamins and good food, but my chest tightening has decreased dramatically.

I’ve been replacing ANXIETY with ACCEPTANCE.
I accept that my kids will puke sometimes. I accept that I will get sick. I accept that my immune system works well.
Bearing this in mind, I kiss my husband when he’s coughing and we swap cold sore stories.

Last night, I really felt this cold coming on. I made a huge batch of chicken soup -enough for dinner and then some. I spent the evening under a blanket.
Before climbing into the bed that Lacy had made (something she loves to do, bless her) I went into the kitchen and gargled Organic Apple Cider Vinegar WITH THE MOTHER.
As I threw it back, I could feel the burn. I practiced my off-the-mat yoga.
I observe the pain without reacting. I relax.
My tight shoulders loosened and I felt very brave.
So
I
Swallowed.

I chased it down with about a gallon of tap water… it was the closest thing.

“If I don’t wake up in the morning, it’s because the vinegar ate through my innards,” was my goodnight bidding to Danny.

I did wake up. Praises.

In the past, I would take note of a cold and sort of live in denial. I would work AS MUCH AND AS FAST AS POSSIBLE before the cold forced me to curl up in a desperate fetal position, surrounded by medicines and tissues and water bottles and devices to stream crappy romantic comedies to remind me that no matter how crappy I feel, there are always crappier movies.

But today, I leaned on acceptance. I feel well enough to push through. I could have probably cleaned my house today with some iron will, but my body needs to rest. I thought about Erma Bombeck and I thought about self-care.
I popped a vitamin, drank some water and repeated my vinegar gargle/swallow from the night before… why? Because I felt exactly like Annie Oakley when I woke up.
Tough, gritty. It’s all very satisfying.

I looked at the blood I hacked up and called into work.

I threw on a gentle yoga to get some good, healing juices moving in the right direction.

I curled up in a chair with a few good books, a cup of tea and a diffuser running in the background:
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Instead of fighting against it, I accept it today.
I accept that I am sick, that it is okay, and that I will do what it takes to allow my body to heal. And nothing is falling apart. Things are falling just as they should.

The last two years have taught me that it’s okay to release the constant tension in my shoulders and chest. It’s okay to get present with where I am, to be sick or well or happy or sad.

Today I am sick and happy.
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Healthy Foodie Fiasco

I love going into health food stores.
I love going into health food stores because just walking around in one makes me more healthy. That’s how it works, right? Inhaling the air and atmosphere of health food stores is bound to improve my overall health. I walk out a little taller, a little paler and delightfully crunchy.

Now that you know that I love going into health food stores, I need to be honest: I love going into health food stores ALONE.
On Saturday, we took the family into the city to bulk shop for toilet paper (and other essentials worth trading for valuables: chocolate, for instance) before the big storm hit. We like to make sure we’re prepared. Also, there’s a Pita Jungle in the city. I like to be full as much as I like to be prepared.
Pita Jungle is like a health food store in that all I have to do is INHALE and I’m healthier. Everyone who works there is healthy. Everyone who eats there is healthy. Danny and I spent about 15 minutes trying NOT to look at the tanned calves of a man wearing 5″ long shorts in 5 degree weather. We failed. Calf envy is no respecter of persons.
NOTE: “tanned calves” in Pita Jungle are WAY WAY different than the tanned calves I grew up around. Moo.

Whole Foods is conveniently located next door to Pita Jungle, and after we’d sort of filled our bellies and felt pretty healthy albeit ashamed of our white calves, we took a brave stroll into the health food store to look around.
With all of my health issues and chronic stomach pain and inflammation, I’ve been spending more time in health food stores and in the health food section on Amazon.
“Let’s go walk around and get a feel for the layout of the store,” I suggested. Danny went along with it because he’s my best mate.

The first thing you see when you walk in is SUPERIOR PRODUCE, and they put red produce next to green and yellow produce, and everything looks shiny and tempting.
Red carrots?! I felt a sudden need to own them, just because. There were tiny potatoes and leeks!

Behind all of the produce, we found milk. MILK IN BOTTLES. ORGANIC. There was kefir, all manner of kefir! And yogurt! My brain started racing at all of the options. I finally have to turn away and run straight into a kindly, pale woman offering samples of vegan tamales.
What is this world?
There is a gluten-free option for everything, and the kids I get lost in homemade soaps that smell like the woods and honey and lavender and also old ladies and musk. The kids almost knock the display over, but we recover just in time.
We finally have to turn away and run straight into a kindly, pale woman offering samples of green smoothies.
The kids inhale them and I take a sip.
That taste. I lick my lips. It’s familiar. What is it? I like it, what IS it?
Suddenly it hits me: The Feed Store. It tastes the way The Feed Store smells… The one where TANNED CALVES are of the MOO variety, the one where I’ve made many happy memories with my father, the one where I play with baby chicks and buy baby plants and admire the saddles and rakes and piles of alfalfa bales.
The children want to buy the mix to make the drinks, but I know I can just take them to The Feed Store and let them inhale the air… it’s cheaper and tastes better, more authentic.

My eyes run all over the supplements, and my mind can’t digest everything happening to me.
So many vitamins. So many minerals. So many supplements. So many powders and oils and pairs of sweat pants hanging next to them, begging me to work out with them.

Just before my brain explodes, I find them.
In a tiny, tucked away corner there’s probiotics. PROBIOTICS. Shouldn’t they be AT THE FRONT?! WITH A SIGN?!
Like, “Hey, we have store filled with treasures that will not stick to your system if your guts are screwed up which they probably are unless your mother is crunchy… so buy some of us, take us home and swallow us whole. After a month, come back with happy guts and let us fill your body with what you need.”

I look for a good probiotic, and my mind again begins to heat up. Seriously, one more spark and the whole thing will go BANG.
Probiotics for health! Men’s Health, Women’s Health, Kids’ Health, Calves’ Health. Danny picks up probiotics for prostates, and I remember that one month in 1994 when I read an article in the Reader’s Digest about Prostate Cancer and was racked with horror over the fact that I had FOUR OF THE FIVE SYMPTOMS. I had no idea how to tell my parents.
They’d be devastated, and I couldn’t handle the pain of being The Person Responsible for Causing My Parent’s Devastation.

Shouldn’t there be “Start Here” aisle in Health Food stores?
When I land on a new blog written by a stranger, there’s always a handy “START HERE” tab I can click on for direction. There’s directions in the furniture I buy.
And I will say that it is not a little bit disturbing that there’s maps to make my way around most cemeteries BUT NO MAP FOR THE HEALTH FOOD STORE.

We pick up two small bags of dehydrated fruit and make our way to the check out line where Alice tried to steal a healthy caramel.
We feel pretty holy, walking out of Whole Foods. After inhaling the air, our posture is decidedly better. We check our calves and decide there is marked improvement.

Two hours later, I’m standing in the check out line at Sam’s Club.
Two hours in a warehouse.
That means all of the healthy, holy air has circulated OUT of me and into The Building That I Swear Houses 3 Zip Codes.
My lungs are filled to capacity with consumerism at this point, and my calves are smaller. Paler.

The woman in front of me has at least $300 of food… and I long for it.
Pre-made dinners and corn dogs and packaged stuff to put in lunches. It all added up to about 4 hours more free time than I’d have with my gluten-less purchases.
I sneer at my carrots. Stupid, red-less carrots.
I sneer at my rotisserie chicken. Stupid, corn dog-less chicken.

I try practicing gratitude to pull my out of sneer mode.
“I’m grateful for the food we have, the family we have to eat it, the family who gets to learn about cooking because I *get* to prepare all of the meals instead of sticking them directly into the oven…”
My Gratitude Game is slipping, so I re-center.
“I’m grateful for Danny’s job that helps pay for the food and my job that helps fill the gaps and gives us enough to buy magic honey at the health food store.”
Suddenly the honey in my cart looks dumb.
Suddenly I feel like the milk in my cart is poison because it isn’t hanging out in a glass bottle and it has horrormones in it.
Suddenly, quite suddenly… I realize: I hate going into health food stores.

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Chocolate, Crap and Choosing

Alice has finally decided that she will potty train, so I’m going to need you to pray for me. I think childbirth is probably easier to bear than potty training because it is over after 2 hours at least and 90 hours at most. But potty training? Who knows?! And there’s no needle to numb the hazy pain that accompanies Mother’s pain while toddler potty trains. No nurses to hand you generous cups filled with cold water, no one cleaning the room that may or may not have peed on carpet because SOMEone moved the Minnie Mouse potty into the living room and removed the bowl because bitty toilet bowls apparently look better on the dog kennel and NOT in the bitty potty, no one asking every five minutes, “How ya doin’?”
All of this I must do for myself.
It is a duty I will not shirk.

In the check out line at the grocery store yesterday, the cashier grinned at Alice because Alice naturally invokes grinning from strangers, and she said, “She is just a miniature you. She has lighter hair, but that’s so cute. She’s just you.”
I laughed, nodded at the gobs of chocolate on the conveyor belt and said, “She has my attitude and my chocolate addiction.”
Alice snatched a bag up and tucked it like a football, “MY chocolate.”
Point proven.
We had to go for a chocolate run because chocolate is how we are potty training.
Because
(here’s where I get deep)
“Give a child a diaper and she’ll crap her pants. Give a child a chocolate for not crapping her pants, and she’ll spend 60% of her day on a training potty, trying to get more chocolate.”
Serious chocolate addiction going on here.

Speaking of crap, I woke up to some from my dog again. He has the weakest stomach of all of the dogs in the whole entire universe. Waking up to that sound reminded me of when I meditated on Thursday morning to the sound of another dog coughing up hair.
It is REALLY hard not to giggle through meditation when things like that happen.
I talk to myself and it goes something like:
“Get present, be present. Accept life as it IS, not as I would have it.”
*dog hacking*
pause
*dog hacking*
*Alicia biting her lip, trying to not to laugh out loud and almost failing*

This morning I decided that the dog hacking and crapping would not control my attitude, energy or day. I got up from cleaning up crap and I sat on my mat.
I meditated and then got up on my mat.
“I choose,” was my mantra.

But then I laughed when I hit downward dog because between my legs I could see a The Only Dog Who Doesn’t Hack or Crap Inside But Who I Nicknamed Dopey Because HE JUST IS SO. SO. INCREDIBLY DOPEY. like chase-the-flies-in-the-sunbeam-until-your-wet-nose-hits-the-window dopey.

I am the WORST at mindfulness because my mind is always talking to me in narrative form.
So many narratives go with seeing a dog while doing down dog while surrendering hacking and crapping dogs.
Just so many.

Namastay away, dog.
One Sun Salutation later, Dopey Dog’s tail whacked my face as I ascended into my second Downward Facing Dog.
You can’t imagine what this did to me, but I will say that laughter is the best medicine. I think it is a form of natural yoga: release, endorphin rise, all that.

After my twenty minute giggle rush mingled with twists (and, let’s face it: farts), I went into the kitchen to make my morning protein shake mingled with kefir (see “Farts” previously). I dumped in milk, frozen spinach leaves, vanilla protein shake mix, kefir and frozen bananas. The only thing missing was cocoa powder.
Which I suddenly remembered I used the LAST of yesterday.
I hate that feeling.

It is the panicked, rushed desperation that comes when you pour your favorite cold cereal and then remember that you used the last of the milk THE NIGHT BEFORE when you were up at 11 pm, eating your favorite cereal in bliss-filled solitude while the kids slept.
You start thinking of quick ways you can get milk without having to put a bra on.
“Is there any dry milk? Can I water down yogurt?” You rifle through the fridge…

I went to that place.
A vanilla protein shake on a day like this! On THIS DAY?! I won’t bore you with my cycle except to say that THIS DAY IS A CHOCOLATE DAY.
“No dry chocolate powder…. what? where?… I could MELT the toddler’s potty training chocolate…”
In desperation, I opened the pantry and began  The Panicked Rifling.
I decide The Panicked Rifling is an option for my band name if and should I start up a Rock/Folk Band.
My hands pass over the vinegar, the baking soda. They find the Nutmeg on her side, poor girl. But this is no time for heroics.  It’s every woman for herself.  Sorry, Nutmeg.

Then they land on it.
The Cocoa.
The Sam’s Club size Cocoa that I’d forgotten about.

In that moment, it was as if Alicia From the Past reached through the pantry cupboard with an understanding smile and said, “You got this. You got today. Take this and go forth.”
I smiled in gratitude and before fading into the pantry, Bing-Bong style, Past Alicia whispered today’s mantra, “You choose…”

It was powerful.

I’m happy to report that the dog crap has not set the tone for the day.
But in the course of honest accountability, I will say that IF there had been no chocolate, THAT WOULD HAVE SET THE TONE FOR THE DAY.

But we take progress in all it’s forms around here, and today we will raise a glass to it.
A glass filled with chocolate milk.
which is on sale at Safeway right now, justsoyaknow.
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Seeking

Last October, I started working as a Social Media Director for a SA Lifeline -a non-profit out of Utah dedicated to helping individuals, marriages and families heal from the effects of sexual addiction. This means I spend a few hours a week posting updates, reading articles to retweet and cruising the internet for inspirational and helpful tidbits to pin.
It is eye opening and uplifting for the most part, but I have to be careful with my time. I have to be VERY deliberate with my time online, especially when I’m researching healing from sexual addiction.

There are a lot of trolls out there. I’ve come across more accidental porn in the last few months than I have in my entire lifetime.

My personality is pretty peppy and puppy-like, so when I’m hit with a slew of cynicism, it feels like someone kicked me.
Kicked puppies are the mopiest.

Two nights ago, I sat on the edge of my bed. The kids were fighting in their room, and I was just so stretched. I felt pain. Where was it coming from? Social media. It is a tough place to be sometimes.
So get off? Right?

Sometimes that is the answer. But right now it isn’t. I can set more boundaries for myself in the form of time spent on and sites visited, but what was pulling at me was a few articles written and passed around social media -articles written about why the LDS church is at least false and at most a cult. This struck a hard chord, reverberating the pain aim directly at me in October when I was found by some really angry people who had left the church.
“When her husband leaves her and gets his children away from the cult, he will be so happy. I hope he finds this forum and freedom.”

I wonder if maybe I’m dumb. For staying, I mean. Is there something WRONG with me? Am I some kind of blind sheep just wandering with the flow of the crowd? Am I brain-washed like they say? Am I incapable of thinking for myself AND NOT EVEN AWARE OF IT because I’m so brainwashed?

It really hits a core issue in me: I’m doing it wrong.

When I began a 40-day yoga program after the online bullying, that was the message that came through and through and through.

You’re doing it wrong.
You’re standing wrong.
You’re breathing wrong.
You’re weight isn’t distributed properly.

I’d get off the mat, and the message traveled with me.

You’re cleaning wrong.
You’re dressing wrong.
You’re parenting wrong.
You’re eating wrong.

I realized -this was painful -that I’ve lived this way for a long time. Believing and fearing LIVING WRONG.

I want to get it right which is an okay desire, I think. But when perfection is driving that desire, it can get really defeating. I’ve been whittling away at this belief with God. We’re utilizing tools like counseling, affirmations, music, yoga, scriptures, prayer, church going. I’m learning how to dance with grace. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean that I’m DANCING GRACEFULLY. That isn’t going to be part of my earthly story. What I mean is that I’m learning how to make God’s Grace part of my life.

That means I’m progressing.
That does not mean that I’M THERE.
Truthfully, I won’t be THERE on this earth. This is a life-long journey, whatever that looks like.

The other night on the edge of my bed, I felt that old belief ringing in my ears with kids fighting in the background.
“You’re RELIGIONING wrong.”

I hate that.

I ran toward the pain, just like yoga teaches me to do, and started praying. I prayed myself to sleep, and my pillows and blankets felt more welcoming than normal.
Lately, prying myself out of bed has been really hard, but that next morning I woke up early. and easily.

I opened my scriptures on my phone, started reading one of the Sunday School lessons I’m going to teach in February. I landed on this:
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That word: receive. It kept popping up. I thought about a discussion I’d had with my Sunday School kids, about how receiving is a verb, an ACTION word. It is a beautiful act of gratitude, digesting, processing and acting upon, all wrapped up in one little word.

By then, the sun had started creeping up. I opened the curtains in my living room and sat on my mat, facing the light. I crossed my legs, closed my eyes and let my hands fall in my lap, fingertips touching.
I assume my meditation position naturally now.

I inhaled, imagining my breath wrapping around my spine, touching every tense part of my being.
I exhaled, imagining the old musty night escaping -evaporating in the radiant morning light.

In my stillness, I felt a communion with God. I felt as if I were simply sitting with Him. I didn’t say anything… but He did.
“He that seeketh shall find.”

I’ve heard it so many times before, and I have understood it. But in one sacred moment, God whispered it in such a way that I understood by the Spirit THE FLIP SIDE.

Whatsoever man seeketh, he shall find.

If we seek joy, we find joy.
If we seek peace, we find peace.
If we find happiness, we find happiness.

And all three are vastly different, this I know from experience.

It also follows that as we seek pain, we find pain.
If we seek negativity, we find negativity.

Most of the negative things I seek, I don’t conscientiously seek… but I find them nevertheless.

“He that seeketh shall find” has always felt empowering to me. But yesterday morning I felt the gravity of what God was telling me settle in my soul… it is as empowering as it is damming.
The mind is powerful, so powerful. It is capable of harnessing success, failure, health, sickness, peace, sorrow. The power of the mind has been a fascinating topic of research for ages.

I was listening to some Neville Goddard a few weeks ago, and I loved hearing the passion in his voice -he truly believes in the power of imagination.
I appreciated that I’d listened to that before I’d ended up on the edge of my bed a few nights ago -it helped me RECEIVE the message from God. I can seek out darkness or light, and it will be added unto me.

My mantra as I raised myself out of meditation and into Mountain Pose was simply, “I release.”
I spent 30 interrupted minutes (kids!) sending that mantra through my being, “I release.” I walked off my mat and tossed a question through my mind, “What am I seeking today?”
It brought so much self-awareness. I found myself skipping songs on Pandora that just didn’t VIBE with that I was seeking -not that they were awful songs, but their tempo wasn’t quite right or the voice or the general FEEL of the song. I moved some decorations around. I finally wiped the cobwebs off the light over the table.

I find those who stay in the LDS church are generally more quiet -not writing viral blog posts or trying to argue their points. They are content, peacefully striving to live what they believe. Messing up, picking up, and working on their personal progression.
There are so many loud voices that are against the LDS church -writing viral posts and arguing their points. I don’t find peace there. In the forum fully directed at me, there was no love, no allotment for imperfection, no peace.

Which sphere do I seek?
The one that allows for small, blessed mornings on my mat when God speaks to me while I sit at his feet. That is what I desire.
As I seek light, there is no room for the shame that whispers, “you’re doing it wrong.”
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That’s what I want to leave my own kiddos -the knowledge that what they have inside is the RIGHT THING, and to SEEK after their own divinity and intuition. I want them to know they can trust themselves implicitly, and to leave off anyone (or anything) who plants doubt there.

If I left nothing but a legacy of SEEKING LIGHT, that would suffice.

Pretend Primary

When you’ve lived with someone infected with chicken pox, you don’t get to roam around much. Mom calls it, “precautionary” but I call it “bunk” because my house stinks. Sometimes literally. Sometimes literally as a direct result of me.
And when it keeps me from going to church, I bring church to me and my babies.

“Listen, babies. I do the lesson from my phone.”
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January 22nd Went Like

It is a truth universally acknowledged that I have the makings of a decent mother and a wretched housekeeper. Lots of people who love me accept this, and I think I’m getting there.
But let me tell you about today.

I started to. Earlier. I started two posts. I tried to make some stuff funny that wasn’t really funny at all… like the toddler dumping Gatorade powder all over the carpet. Wait, that’s not exactly accurate. She was dumping Gatorade on dried up food that was on some crayons that were in the hole in the bottom of the sea on the carpet.
I also tried to joke about how much sleep I’m not getting, but that’s not very funny either. I erased everything because I was crying at that point, and I decided to try again. I started writing out life’s present mysteries, but… that sucked even more.
Because I don’t know lots of stuff about stuff, probably because I don’t remember what life with sleep looks like. And then I watched a commercial online, one of those heart-string tuggers, you know? and I cried again.

I felt failure packing up all around me.
I decided I was falling short in every possible area. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, socially. My parenting? Please. Don’t. Don’t talk about it, don’t bring it up. I’m the worst. I’m just sure of it. And my housekeeping?! I don’t think it is possible to be WORSE than I am at housekeeping.

It was a sad place to be. For like, an hour.
After that, I morphed into some kind of emotional gladiator. I felt proud of my messy house because it is just PART of me. I began sort of strutting around, like, ‘yeah. this is me. this is how I do. or don’t do. or something.’
I took the kids to the store for milk and while buying milk, Lacy.
(I have to pause here and mention that she is not contagious anymore. She is scabbed over. Scabbily Scabs. She said, “okay mom, I’ll go in the store and if ANYONE says ANYTHING I will just say, “it is zits, I have zits.” And I smiled big and told her she was funny. I remember lying to people about my zits though, “I fell…” so I guess she gets that from me?)
Lacy stopped me in the middle of pulling milk from the cooler and said, “I want to cook something FRENCH for dinner.”
Today is Friday, and we loosely follow a tradition called “Fancy Friday” where we eat dinner off of real plates and use a tablecloth and candles. Lacy decorates the table and we make dinner as a team.
Earlier this afternoon, while I was reveling in my messy -sitting next to but doing nothing about clean laundry on the couch -Lacy made French Toast for lunch. I guided her, but she did it all. It was delicious. SERIOUSLY.
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Lacy loves to bake and cook -she loves the kitchen. As I took huge bites of the two gluten free pieces she made me, I wondered if maybe something else I should strut around with -aside from my mess -is the cool stuff I pass to my kids, like cooking. I’ve spent hours in our kitchen with Lacy in the sink, on the counter, at my feet. I love it, and she saw me love it, and now she loves it.
“This,” she said, as she ripped up gooey pieces of syrupy bread and munched, “Is so good. I want to clean the kitchen and cook for THE REST OF THE DAY.”
She remembered this very ambitious vow right next to the milk at the grocery store.
“I want to make a FRENCH dinner,” she said, though her tone was mostly, “We are going to make a French dinner.”
I googled, “easy french dinners” and found a recipe I couldn’t pronounce but had about 1/2 of the ingredients at home. We bought what we didn’t have and hauled our loot to the park. I meant to go home, but it was warm outside and the park was there and…
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We finally made it home, cleaned up and made a french dinner. A Fancy French Dinner.
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I had to Google how to pronounce what that is.

Alice loves that video. She calls it, “Coco Blah.” I heard her watching it and saying, “What?” after the first pronunciation and then, “oh, Coco Blah.” after the second.
We loved the Coco Blah and started making plans to make it again as soon as possible. like tomorrow.
Lacy and Trent decorated the table, and Lacy said, “I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t ask, but I set out chips and salsa too.”
Because nothing goes better with Coco Blah than chips and salsa, don’tchaknow.

In the middle of the meal, Lacy pointed out that the sparkling cider looks just like pee. Trent giggled about that while Alice reflected on her own cider and affirmed that YES IT DOES. And then she went pee and came out without pants. or underpants.
She handed a diaper to Danny.
“No,” he said, “You’re a big girl.”
“But I want to be a baby,” she said.
“Life is hard,” I shrugged, “I mean, we took her away from nursery and now we are taking away her diapers.”
“I don’t like primary,” Alice said, “I’m a nursery gwil.”
Gwil = girl.
“But you’re a big girl, and you can use the potty,” Danny said.
“I want to be a baby and I want to be a nursery gwil.”
“You know why she hates Primary, right?” Danny looked at me.
“Why?”
“Structure.”
I won’t bother you with where she gets that, I will only say that two days ago Danny rearranged all of the clothes in my dresser drawer and now I can’t find anything in all the organization… so the clear offender is him, right? Because that’s just crazy making, right?

About 20 minutes later, Alice emerged triumphant from the bathroom and earned herself a trip to the convenience store for her own pack of gum. Is this prize outlandish? It MIGHT be viewed that way, but here’s the thing: Alice is TERRIFIED of the toilet. She faced the terror, and I’ve been promising her for weeks her own pack of gum if she’d go number 2 in the proper place (it IS Fancy Friday, after all).

And.
Well.
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The kids agreed on helping Mom clean up dinner when we got home from the store. And instead of helping, they fought and teased and got louder and louder. Pretty soon, they were throwing bits of food… and I was cleaning alone.
So I stopped.
“You guys said you would help and you aren’t. We had a nice dinner this Friday, but I’m cancelling Fancy Friday for next week because this behavior just isn’t okay. I’m sorry you’ve made this choice. You need to go to bed now.”

I was bummed. I like hanging out with those kids, especially on Friday nights.
A few minutes later, Lacy came out to cry and apologize and ask for some anti-itch meds. I told her pain is easier to handle when there is PURPOSE behind it.
I’m reading some Viktor Frankl right now, and he’s the man. The Finding Purpose in Pain man.
“Having chicken pox right now is hard, but when we think about how having them now means our body is getting STRONGER -SO STRONG IT WILL NEVER GET THEM AGAIN -then it feels better inside, even if our outside is still hurting a lot.”
“Right,” she nodded, we’d had this conversation last week.
“So you’re hurting right now. That’s normal and we usually DO hurt when we make a choice we didn’t really MEAN to make.”
“Right,” she sobbed a little harder.
“If we can find a reason for the pain, give the pain a job… won’t that help?”
“Like?”
“Like… what can you learn from tonight?”
“To never be distracted by TRENT!”
“Orrrrrrrr to walk away from people who try to keep you from your goals?”
“Okay, yeah.”
“Something to think about, right?”
I looked up to see Trent watching us from the hall.
“I’m feeling sorry too,” he said.
Lacy scooted out of the kitchen and off to bed.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, pulling him close.
“Like tomorrow will be JUST. LIKE. THIS.”
“Like what?”
“Us. Going to BED all EARLY.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, holding his skinny little arms -this kid just won’t EAT, “It will be like that.”
“WHAT?!”
“Did you know that when you think yucky thoughts, yucky things happen?”
He shook his head and looked up at me with those lovely, large brown eyes I just can’t get enough of -so expressive.
“I was doing yoga yesterday and listening to a very smart man say that the most powerful tool in our body is our imagination… that if we imagine bad stuff, it kind of starts happening. Like if we imagine that Mom will be sad and send us to bed early, then it is more likely to happen. BUT if we think about staying up LATE and imagining all the fun we will have, thinking of good and happy and cool things to do, THOSE kind of things are more likely to happen. Does that sound like an experiment you’re willing to try?”
“Just need a paper and pen to make a list,” he said, perking up.

And as they went to bed, I decided something.
1) I’m PMSing. Because so many emotions. It is other-worldly.
2) Dr. Pepper doesn’t get enough credit for its medicinal purposes. But today it got me to a park and through a fancy meal of Coco Blah and salsa when only a few hours before all I really wanted was to have Joy drag me around while I touched everything and turned it sad.
3) Something I said to Lacy hit home as it came out of my mouth.
“I’m glad you’re my mom. You’re a good one,” she said.
“I am!” I said, “I AM a GOOD MOM and a terrible housekeeper!” Lacy laughed.
“And I’d rather be a good mom and terrible housekeeper than a bad mom and a great housekeeper.”

So here’s to today! And being a woman! And being me! And potty training and French and trips to the store for milk that turn into fancy dinner plans because structure really IS the worst!

No.
Hormones are the worst. I think even Jane Austen would raise her quill to that.