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!



This is us being serious about being zen.



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



“I’m Spider-Man, Mom.”



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.







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.

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:


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




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



“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.”
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.


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!”
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!”
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.
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.

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.


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!




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.

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:

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.

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.