Month: April 2018

Because the subject of my hair came up this week in an earlier post, I decided this post from 2009 would be fitting for #tbt.

I still love going to my straight out of Steel Magnolias salon.  It makes small town life a lot more fun.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rowdy…

May 15, 2009

Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.
~Benjamin Franklin

Well this explains a lot. Because although I’m pretty good about the “early to rise” part, I, a self professed night owl of night owls, never ever go to bed early. I love staying up late and have missed the late night outings available only in the city.

So when my good friend and hair dresser extraordinaire asked if my girls and I wanted to make our hair appointment for 8 pm I thought “heck yeah we do.”

You must understand that this town folds up and goes to bed by 9.  So an appointment starting at 8 (and on a school night even) seemed so rowdy, so wild, so even better than the city (pathetic I know, but at this point I’ll take what I can get). And you know, it really was better than the city.

We went to my friend’s adorable, deliciously girly salon located at the back of her house and had our own small town, “Steel Magnolias” moment. It was so fun visiting while being pampered and styled. In fact we were having so much fun that we didn’t get home until nearly one o’clock in the a.m. –Rowdy!

And so begins my journey back to being blonde (I’m taking baby steps to move away from the very dark). Rick is so happy (what can I say, the man loves me blonde) and I’m relieved that he is the only man I need to impress.

Because when this little four-year-old pictured behind me first saw my hair he said, and I quote,

“Mom you used to not be the ugliest one in our family, but now you are.”

So precious.

 

In my last post I mentioned that I want change but I didn’t mention what that change will look like.

I didn’t mention it because I don’t know.

I do know that things are changing–evolving–in my life with or without me.  I want it to be with me.  I need to change and evolve too.

I planned an imaginary trip to an island–where I could live free of outside influences and opinions–and thought carefully about what I wanted to bring with me.  My family would be my first choice, but this is a solitary journey.  A time to find me.

I soon learned that–aside from a few items–I couldn’t pack for my imaginary trip.  I couldn’t pack because I don’t know what I want.  Not fully.  I don’t know the me that fits into my changing life.

“The real thesis of yoga is not that you get your health, your well being, your inner peace from outside yourself, which is what our culture often teaches us, but rather we have it already.

If your happiness and well being are found in what you have to get, then everyone has power over you.  But if the question becomes, ‘What am I doing to disturb my own inherent health and well being?’ that’s very empowering because that you can do something about.”  ~~On Yoga: The Architecture of Peace (Netflix)

Through the years I’ve both really wanted to and really not wanted to begin the practice of yoga.  The really not wanted to has always won.  Until now.

“When we’re practicing yoga we’re able to connect with our inner feelings, with our thoughts.”

Now I’m ready to explore yoga and meditation as a means to create change.  Yoga and meditation will be my journey to the solitary island.  Yoga and meditation will be my time to find me.

I’ll find me so that the next time I go to pack that imaginary suitcase, I’ll know exactly what to bring.

Because I’ll know exactly what I want.

And exactly who I am.

 

Rick was very disappointed when he came home to pick me up for our date and found that I had tamed the beast that is my hair.

But it had to be done.

Because, as I always tell my kids when they say I should just let my hair be its natural wild self, “I grew up in the 80s which means I can’t still be walking around with 80s hair. I’d look like I don’t embrace change.”

And I want to always embrace change.  Fully embrace it.

But sometimes I wonder if I really do.

Many years ago I first heard the question, “How much money do you spend to impress other people?”  To which I immediately answered, “None.  I don’t care what other people think.”

But I had to call my bluff when–after contemplating further–I realized that if I were leaving to live alone on an island, aside from life sustaining items and a crate or two of books, I could leave most of what I currently own behind.

“Make friends with change.”  ~~Ram Dass

It turns out–if I’m being truly honest–I spend quite a bit of money trying to fit in with social norms.  I wonder if I do the same with change.  I wonder if I sometimes resist change in fear of the judgements of others.

“Here’s the deal.  People are judging you every second of the day.  That can be an excuse for you to hide, not live fully, speak up, and follow your heart, or it can just be an objective fact and you can go on living your one wild and precious life, freely, unabashedly, gratefully, with a wink and a messy haired smile.”  ~~Angela Meyer

I read this quote this morning and my mind broke out into cartwheels.  Cart-Wheels!  The idea that everyone is always judging me–whether it’s true or not–was strangely liberating.  “They’re judging me anyway.”  I told myself.  “No matter what I do.  Which means I can DO WHATEVER I WANT!”

And what I want is change.

Yep, change and me are fixin’ to become the very best of friends.

 

Today I lay on a boulder outside my house, letting the sun and vulnerability wash over me.

My foot still hurts.  But taking care of it is hard for me.

It was five years ago that I had a severe panic attack, large enough to send me to the hospital. The difference between this attack and others I have had was that this time I was completely alone.

Without a lifeline to keep me grounded and present in this world, I began to spiral, slipping away into a cold, dark death far different than the loving reunion my soul knows death to be.

I knew. Knew. That without help I would disappear into nothingness. Forever.

Because of this experience I have become at odds with my instincts–because my instincts are skewed.

So I push and I fight and I prove.  Prove that I am stronger than my mind, that I am stronger than my body, and that I’m not crazy.  I fight so hard that sometimes my healthy instincts get ignored.

It’s said that we create what we fear and in trying to prove I’m not crazy, I’ve engaged in the crazy act of hurting my foot again and again each day instead of allowing it to heal.

So today I lay on a boulder outside my house, letting the sun and vulnerability wash over me.  I felt crazy.  Crazy for lying on a rock at midday where others could see me.  But I didn’t run from it.  I listened to the wind-chimes, the birds, and the bees.  And most importantly, I listened to my body.  I nurtured my foot and let it rest.

“I’m faced with the paradox that I as a human with a human emotional heart, want to take away your suffering, and at the same moment there’s another part of me that understands that suffering is grace.  Suffering is the sandpaper from the spiritual point of view that is awakening people.  And once you’ve started to spiritually awaken, you reperceive your own suffering and start to work with it as a vehicle for awakening.”   ~~Ram Dass

Panic and anxiety have truly been a vehicle for my spiritual awakening.  Through these I have come to know God as He has succored and strengthened me.  But though–in all of this–I have found joy in my Father’s grace, I have failed to offer that same grace to myself.

So today I lay on a boulder outside my house and offered myself grace as I listened to the wind-chimes, the birds, and the bees while nurturing my wound.

Until with the buzzing of the bees, a little voice in the back of my head said, “You’re home alone.  If you get stung by a bee you could die.” (panic doesn’t care that I’m not allergic to bees) So I jumped up and, ignoring my foot, began tidying up the porch.

Seems I’m not fully awake yet.

But oh how I’m enjoying the journey as I work to get there.

 

Rick and I recently watched the movie, “Breathe”, a true story about a family’s struggle when one of them is stricken with Polio.

The movie showcases the strength of the human spirit and the love of family so beautifully.  We loved it.  But what I didn’t love was seeing the fate of people left to live their lives in an “iron lung”.  A scene in the movie depicting this–freaked! me! out!

“I would never want to live in an iron lung.”  I told Rick on our way home from dinner with friends last night. “I think I’d much rather die.”

He agreed and we moved on, changing the subject to talk about our friends, how good it was to see them and how blessed we are to know them.  “Maybe we should get a Razor.” Rick said, reflecting on the love our friends have for off road adventures.

Turning down our street I thought of our home.  Our home.  Our own little space.  I then looked at each neighbors home. Their own little spaces.  “If you think about it,”  I said, “These homes we live in are like glorified iron lungs.”

Rick laughed but the thought–the thought of entering our own personal box each day, locking ourselves away from others, the world and life–lingered in my mind.

Just before falling asleep Rick asked again, “So should we get a Razor?”

“I don’t know.”  I answered. “If we’re going to spend the money we should probably fix up the kitchen first.”

I stopped myself and looked at Rick, “But I guess that would be spending money just to decorate our iron lung.”  I said. “We should definitely get a Razor.”

And today…

today I did my writing outside.

I wrote outside and I breathed.

 

 

“I have to say my prayers sitting up in bed because my knees don’t bend.” My Aunt told me as I lay in a sleeping bag on the floor beside her bed.

Sleepovers with my Aunt were the highlight of my childhood and watching her faith filled me with a determination to always kneel to say my prayers.    I’d do it for her. Because I could.

Only I haven’t fully lived up to that commitment.  More often than I’d like to admit, I fall into bed and groan, “Ugh, I forgot to say my prayers.” I try to roll back out again, to use the knees I’ve been blessed with, but many times I pray where I lie, hoping my words will still reach heaven.  I’m pretty sure they do.

But whether I remember to pray before or after I climb into bed I always say a second prayer the moment my face hits the pillow.  “Thank you for sleep.” I whisper, overcome with gratitude.  “And–as desperately as I desire to learn to sleep on my back–thank you for tummy sleep because oh does it feel glorious!”

In church yesterday a woman shared that she likes to live her life in a manner that makes her feel she has “earned her pillow” each night.

Though I know sleep is a gift from God, freely given whether I earn it or not, I really love the idea of working for it.

Grandmother, on a winter’s day, milked the cows and fed them hay,
slopped the hogs, saddled the mule, then got the children off to school,
did a washing, mopped the floors, washed the windows, and did some chores;
cooked a dish of home-dried fruit, pressed her husband’s Sunday suit.
Swept the parlor, made the bed, baked a dozen loaves of bread,
split some firewood, and then lugged in enough to fill the kitchen bin;
cleaned the lamps and put in oil, stewed some apples she thought would spoil;
churned the butter, baked a cake, then exclaimed, “For heaven’s sake,
the calves have got out of the pen!”–went out and chased them in again.
Gathered the eggs and locked the stable, back to the house and set the table,
cooked a supper that was delicious, and afterward washed up all the dishes,
fed the cat and sprinkled the clothes, mended a basketful of hose;
then opened the organ and began to play, “When You Come to the End of a Perfect Day.”

I have always loved this poem.  Reading it fills me with a surge of energy, power and a desire to prove that I’m as bad a Mamba Jamba as ‘grandmother’ was.

And now that I’ve written about it… Well, now it’s go time.  I’m ready to tackle this day!

And tonight when I climb into bed–whether I remember to say my prayers before or after–I’ll know that I’ve earned my pillow.

Which is good because my new fangled silk pillowcase has to be earned somehow.  Apparently silk is good for the hair and for the face of a tummy sleeper like me.  But we’ll just have to see about that.

 

A few days ago I listened to some of the words spoken at the funeral of President Thomas S. Monson and was impressed by this remark, “In a time of Selfies, he sought selflessness.”

It was also said of him that he lived to be able to say, “I feel I’ve done some good today.”

I too want to live as President Monson did.  I want to work toward selflessness and in doing some good each day.

It’s easy to get discouraged, to feel like I’m not doing enough for others, but then I’m blessed with reminders–like this throw back post written in 2011–that some of the most important work I’ll do in this life will happen within the walls of my own home.

~~~~~~~~~~

Lucky me…

June 11, 2011

Tonight while trying to watch a movie with Rick, two of my little ones came into our room and started arguing over who got to have “mommy and me time”. I tried to tell them that they could both spend time with me but that I would first like to finish my movie so please go upstairs and wait.

They were reluctant, unhappy and in need of my time and attention so I asked myself, “hey self, can this silly movie bring even a fraction of the fulfillment and joy to your life that these little ones are offering you right now?” To which I answered myself, “Um no self I don’t believe it can.”

So I walked away from the movie and gave each of my little ones a piggy back ride up the stairs to the family room, where we sat together and read “Stone Soup”.  It was quite lovely.

Later as I stood in my kitchen preparing a roast for tomorrow’s dinner I thought to myself how very lucky I am to have so many people who want to spend their time with me. I’m very loved and this is a wonderful feeling indeed.

And as the words to the hymn “Have I done any good in the world today” played through my mind this evening (as it often does when I replay my day) instead of feeling like a bit of a failure for not reaching out to do this that or the other for my neighbors and friends, I thought of my sweet little family and answered…
Yes, yes I have.

 

I learned in my youth that summer cottages in Babylon are very easy to come by.  And though my stay there was short lived, even a brief stint in “the midst of wickedness” can cause a lot of damage.

So when I say I believe in Christ I mean it.  But more importantly than believing in Christ is that I believe Christ.  I believe Him when He says He has ransomed me.  I believe Him when He says that I am free and that I am His.

“I will never say, think or do anything to suggest that I am less than any other person.”  I wrote from my college apartment. “To do so would be to deny Christ and that is something I simply cannot do.”

“When something is over and done with, when it has been repented of as fully as it can be repented of, when life has moved on as it should and a lot of other wonderfully good things have happened since then, it is not right to go back and open some ancient wound that the Son of God Himself died to heal.”  ~~Jeffrey R Holland

The Son of God died to heal me and I have never gone back to reopen the wound of my sins.  But when a new wound was created through the sins of another I was forced to more deeply consider the question,

Do I believe Christ?

Do I believe Christ when He says He has ransomed all?  Do I believe Him when He says that all are free and that all are His?

Do I believe the Son of God died to heal even those who hurt me?

Through the sins of another I was left to decide if I could open my heart to one who–escaping Babylon–came to me for refuge.  Could I deny asylum to another, knowing it is only through the grace of my Lord that I have found shelter myself?

To do so would be to deny Christ and that is something I simply cannot do.

So to all those who give up their cottage in Babylon–and even those who don’t–come on over.  There’s room for you here.

 

 

To be honest I felt excited when, in 2006 my husband and I packed up our lives and moved to a small town.  I thought the change would be good.  I thought I would love it.  I thought wrong.

I sabotaged my happiness by not letting go of the past.  By keeping one foot (along with my heart, body, mind and soul) firmly planted in the city, I could never fully embrace the glorious “now” offered in my new home.

Until, completely fed up with myself, I wrote the following words and began to make a change.

I’m missing and have been since I left the city
To live the small town, country life.
I thought I could pack myself up
Right along with the books, linens, and fine china.
As if moving all of my worldly treasures
Would be enough to make me want to go,
But it wasn’t.
I dug in my heels and stayed behind.
Trying to live my new life without me has been hard,
Very hard.
Occasionally I go back to fetch myself,
And what fun we have.
Eating at our favorite restaurants,
Visiting the museums,
And shopping.
Oh the shoes!
We bond when we buy shoes,
And I believe that maybe this time
It will be enough to keep us together.
But I always go back to the country alone,
Empty.
Longing for myself is killing me,
Robbing me of joy.
It’s time for me to move on,
To dump myself for someone new.
Someone who will share this slow paced,
Simple life without complaint,
Someone who will fill my life with new breath
Instead of choking me with reminders of the old.
Yes, I’m dumping myself,
But we can still buy shoes together, okay?

On Instagram this morning I stumbled upon a feed that made me realize that I have again been resisting change in my life.  That I have again been longing for myself–a different, past self–and in turn have robbed myself of joy, choking on reminders of the past.

I then sought out more Instagram feeds designed to strengthen and encourage until, empowered, I felt ready to do what must be done. I’m ready to embrace the glorious “now”. I’m ready to breakup with me.

It’s nothing personal we just want different things these days.  I need someone new. Someone who will share this new chapter of my life without complaint. And I’m excited.  So excited. To finally meet the me I’ve worked a lifetime to become.

But I will still need new shoes.  You know, from time to time.

 

 

It was my senior year of high school when I saw people in the trees outside my house, an event I’ve never talked about since.

“I see people standing in the trees.”  I told my boyfriend, burying my face in his shoulder.

“What are you talking about?”  He asked.

People, too numerous to differentiate, stood at the level of the tall cottonwoods that lined the ditch and no matter how often I averted my eyes, when I looked up they were still there.

I’ve never spoken of this event because at the time I felt certain I was crazy.

Adding to this feeling of insanity was the fact that I felt a strong impression that Benjamin Franklin was among those in the trees.  Benjamin Franklin?  Why would he be there?  Yet the name came so clearly to my mind that I couldn’t deny it.

It wasn’t until years, maybe decades later that it dawned on me.  While it seemed quite unlikely that Benjamin Franklin the founding father was watching over me that night, finding a guardian angel in Benjamin Franklin Johnson my three times great grandfather made me feel that perhaps I wasn’t so crazy after all.  Perhaps there really had been people standing in the trees.

“We have no idea what family really means.”  My friend’s husband told her after his near death experience.  “Family is everything.”

And I believe him.

So when I received a message from an old friend recently, telling me that his parents wanted to gift me with an original painting they had received from my father, I felt a thrill of excitement.

I want my dad’s energy–pieces of who he was–in my home.  I want my kids to think of and know a little something about the grandpa they never met.  I want them to feel the strength of family.

It’s for this reason that I–after all these years–decided to share the story of the people in the cottonwood trees.

I want my children to know that those same guardian angels that came forth at a very critical time in my youth are watching over them now.  I want them to know that among those guardian angels are their grandpas, cheering from the front row.  And I want to ask them, should they ever see people in the trees, to keep their eyes wide open and to wave hello for me.

Because they’ll be seeing their family.

And family is everything.