Words For This Day

Though it’s never been my intention to have a working television in our living room–living rooms are for quiet reflection or visits with loved ones–I’ve often visualized the day when I would come across the perfect television for our living room.

I visualized myself rounding a corner at an antiques store or flea market to find it.  I saw where I would place it in my room.  Then I waited, knowing that one day the hunt would bring us together.

And so it did.  Last summer as I searched the upstairs loft of a Flagstaff Antiques store my vision came to fruition,uniting me at last with the love of my dreams.

I don’t use the word “love” lightly.  If I have one rule in my search for a “lucky find” it is that before I will buy anything I must be punch drunk in love with it.  I’m talking swooning head, weak in the knees, butterflies in the stomach true love.

And so it is with my living room television.  It–along with my other finds–brings joy to my heart which brings joy to my home.

“A home has to reflect the people who live there–tell the stories of who they are–and it’s not instant.  It should be assembled and layered over time.  When our homes really reflect who we are and who we aspire to be, that’s when you have a space that everyone is drawn to.”  ~~Nate Burkus

Oh how I am drawn to my home.  We are quite in love, this home and I.  And it has much to do with the careful, joy filled assembly of my lovely lucky finds.

(This antique radio sat in the living room of my childhood home.  A television sits in mine.  I wonder what my kids will display in theirs)

 

WRITER’S WORKSHOP PROMPT:
Whom did you hide from? Write about a hiding place you haven’t used for a while.

I wanted to share something really juicy for this prompt. Having a secret hiding place and a story about hiding from someone there sounds like something that could be very exciting if told right. But because I try to stay clear of the juicy stuff on this here blog, I’ll share the story of when I got caught smoking (just kidding–that’s just rolled up paper) I mean hiding with my college roommates.

My first semester away at school I lived in the dorms. This had its perks (like not having to hear my neighbors having relations at night, but I’ll save that for another post) but it also came with a curfew. Blah. Who wants a curfew when you’re in college?

Well my roommates and I certainly didn’t like it. No we did not. What we did like however were boys. Yes we did.

Boys such as these whom we stayed out late visiting one night only to find ourselves locked out of the dorms when we returned. Oops. Fortunately someone even sneakier than we had left the laundry room door propped opened and in we slid. Woo-hoo. EXCEPT…

While in the laundry room we heard a search party going on in the courtyard, a search party looking for us. Our absence had already been discovered. Dang. We hid in the laundry room as long as we could then, coming up with the perfect plan, we ran out in a giddy, giggly fashion. And when asked where we had been we explained,

“We were just playing hide and seek in the laundry room.”

*Insert the chirping of crickets here.*

They looked at us like we were the lamest goofballs ever, but at least we were able to hide the fact that we were late and avoid getting into trouble. So whatever snooty girls who never play hide and seek or stay out late carousing with boys. What-ev-er.

P.S. Rick and I have since found the laundry room to be a great hiding place.  But then that would fit into the juicy category…

 

 

Two years ago I posted these words on Facebook,

“It’s late and it’s cold.” I told Waylon as we settled in after a long day of activities. “Why don’t you just shoot extra baskets tomorrow?”
But a goal’s a goal. And Waylon has set one to make at least 100 baskets a day. And neither dark, nor cold, nor hour of night could keep him from it.

In the course of the two years since I wrote that post, Waylon has remained as driven as ever.

So when I listened to Tony Robbins this morning and heard him explain that to achieve optimal success in any given goal one must,

“Obsess about what you want.  Focus on it continuously.  Have so much emotion about it that you’ll take massive action. Keep changing your approach.  Model someone great.  Then–after you take the first steps–rely on some grace.”

I thought of Waylon as I check, check, checked each of these items off of his path to achievement.  He loves the game of basketball and he is willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that it remains a part of his life.

I also wrote in that Facebook post,

Can I please be just like him someday? Pretty, pretty please.

Though I cannot say that I’m just like Waylon–it’s been some time since I’ve walked with that obsessed, focused, fire of emotion–there has been a change in my life that is driving me with a quiet yet firm determination to move in the direction of my goals.

And who knows, maybe if I keep it up I’ll meet with the same success as my incredibly driven boy.

But seriously.  Can I please be just like him someday?

(Waylon’s first game as part of his 7th grade team)

 

“One of the worst things about losing my mother at the age I did was how very much there was to regret.”   ~Cheryl Strayed

My father passed away when I was 21.  21 and full of the “faith as a grain of mustard seed” which meant that I could remove the mountain of my father’s cancer.  At least that’s what I told myself.

At that age my perception of faith–as pure and good intentioned as it may have been–was lacking in understanding.  For I believed that in order to “prove” my grain of mustard seed faith meant that I had to plant my feet firmly in the knowledge that my God would cure my father, never deviating from that truth in thought, word or deed.  I would show absolute faith at all times and never, never “let them see me sweat”.

I did not yet fully understand the example of my Savior when He said,

“Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me:  nevertheless not my will but thine, be done.”

Because of this, my relationship with my father at the end of his life–what had been the most authentic relationship I had ever experienced with anyone–became one that was filled with formality and artificial pleasantries.

Only after his death–with my façade shattered–did I recognized that I had been fighting so desperately to make lemonade that I was actually drowning in it.

Such has been a pattern in my life.  In times of trial, disappointment or sorrow I have been quick to break out my juicer and Pollyanna my way through it.  Because I have an absolute testimony in an eternal plan and “I know in whom I have trusted”.  My Savior is my salvation and “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me”.

But in all of this I failed to recognize one of my Savior’s greatest examples, a gift, tucked within the pages of John…

“Jesus wept.”

Jesus, the very pinnacle of faith, the author of eternity, the keeper of His Father’s will… wept.

Through His example I have learned that though it my be true that I have an absolute testimony in an eternal plan and that”I know in whom I have trusted”. That my Savior is my salvation and that “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me”, I can still hurt and mourn and grieve and weep.

So when (as I mentioned in an earlier post) I recently found myself spending most days unable to leave my bed, I knew that I was not running away from my trials–to have pulled up my bootstraps and painted on my best Pollyanna would have been to run away from my trials–I was facing them in the purest truth possible.

I wept.

I wept until I could feel His arms around me.  I wept until I could receive His teachings and understand His will with added clarity.  I wept until I heard Him cry–as He had with Lazarus–“come forth”.

And then I took up my bed,

and walked.

I cannot go back and weep with my father, tell him how scared I am or talk to him about his fears but I can go forward in new found faith–even as a grain of mustard seed–in the will of my God.

And with added patience and empathy for myself and others I now remember that, before the rising,

Jesus wept.

 

 

Although Monday is not normally a “throwback” day I decided to do a repost anyway because these words written in 2008 mirror the thoughts in my heart today.

Happy birthday to my beautiful girl.

Easton’s 8th Birthday

January 15, 2008

Nearly 11 years ago I sat in my baby nursery happily taking apart the crib. I was happy because it was my first time putting it away since I had started having children. We’d move one baby out just in time to move the next one in. I felt like three small children were enough for awhile and wanted to take a little break before having my next child. It was at this moment that I heard a voice say, “I want to be born.”

Taken aback I asked, “Now?” To which she replied “Please.”

I told her to go tell her father because he was even more adamant about waiting then I was.

That evening as I stood at the stove making dinner, Rick came home from work and told me that as he was sitting at his desk that afternoon he had a very strong impression that we were supposed to have another child. Of course I burst into tears because I realized that this sweet little spirit had followed my instructions and gone to tell her father (that’s just like Easton).

I was troubled that after this wonderful experience, I was unable to get pregnant for nearly two years. I worried that perhaps I had not acted quickly enough on this prompting (I had waited a few months before trying to get pregnant) I prayed often about it and wondered if perhaps this sweet little spirit had gone elsewhere.

One night during prayer my Father in Heaven allowed me to see my beautiful daughter in the spirit form. Wow! She was magnificent! Glorious and radiant above any person I had ever seen. I was in awe of how perfect she was and became quite convinced that she would be born with some sort of physical or mental disorder, for truly she had to be too great for this world.

Shortly after this experience I became pregnant, but to my sorrow the pregnancy ended in miscarriage.

As I stood working in the kitchen one afternoon, the presence of a male spirit was there with me. I felt his love as he simply said, “Thank you.” then he departed. I felt joy that I had been able to give him this service before receiving the precious little girl that I had been waiting for.

Five months later I finally became pregnant with my wonderful Easton. She is strong in mind and body and still every bit as glorious as I had witnessed her to be. She is a choice daughter of God and I can’t wait to see all that she will accomplish here on earth.

I thank my Heavenly Father for my little butterfly and for all that I have learned and will continue to learn as her mother.

 

The unforeseen circumstance in my life that I spoke of in an earlier post was a doozy.

It took my breath, sucked it right out of me, and knocked me so off balance that I spent many days hiding in bed, secured beneath my heavy down comforter.

I desperately needed the help of my Savior.  He truly was my only hope.  So I went to the place where I knew I would be surrounded by His spirit the most.  I went to the temple.

Once there I entered the dressing room, locked the door behind me and surrendered, allowing myself to crumble, sobbing as I released my pain in the safety of my Savior’s embrace.

Much has happened since that time.  Miracles.  True miracles.  And though I no longer go to the temple for solace I find myself waking every Saturday with the anticipation of a Christmas morning because Saturday is the day I get to go to the temple.

While in the temple this morning I was so engulfed by the spirit–God’s perfect peace, His brilliant love–that I thanked Him, reverently, gratefully for allowing me to spend that time with Him.

He then left me with this message to calm a question in my heart, “You don’t have to be perfect.  You just have to testify of His perfection.”

And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

“The temple provides purpose for our lives.  It brings peace to our souls–not the peace provided by men but the peace promised by the Son of God when He said, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you.  Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”    ~Thomas S. Monson

(always check the men’s section at the senior center thrift store for great retro “old man” sweaters like the one I’m wearing here.  Also–a thrift store is a gallery walls best friend)

I grew up in what was then the outskirts of Mesa, which meant that for the majority of life’s activities we had to take a trip “into town”.

“Into town”, whether it be for doctor, dentist or grocery, always included a visit to the thrift stores.  Thus my love for the search of a “lucky find” (a term I borrowed from Wallace of “Wallace and Gromit” fame) was born.

I now live in what could be called the outskirts of the hub of the White Mountains, meaning that I must travel for stores and the like in neighboring Show Low or Pinetop/Lakeside.  And just as in my childhood, these trips always include the search for a “lucky find”.

Today Easton and I took one such trip to visit her orthodontist.  Then, with our breakfast of Super Nachos in hand (trips into town also always mean food), We waited patiently for my particular favorite type of thrift store to open.  The beloved Senior Center.

Senior Centers are the best for “lucky finds” of the vintage variety and I am a little bit into (read obsessed) with the vintage variety.

After scoring these salt and pepper shakers

(because I remember them from my grandparents’ house and if I remember them from my grandparents’ house then Rick will surely remember them from his grandparents’ house which will cause us to gaze at them together as we wax nostalgic and tell stories of our youth and smile.  It’s so good and so worth a dollar)  I turned my attention to the sale they were having on all things winter.

“We’re having trouble moving our winter merchandise this year.”  The nice thrift store lady told us.

“Oh we’ll be happy to help you with that.”  I told her.  “Even without snow we’re still cold.”

“Are you from the valley?”  She asked.

“Well, I did grow up in Mesa but we’ve been here almost 12 years.”  I said.

“And you still haven’t acclimated?”  She seemed surprised.

I never will nice thrift store lady.  I never, never will. (see post here)

It wasn’t until we returned home that I made the connection (even though I’ve been doing this forever) that this–my love for thrift stores–is not simply about the pursuit of a “lucky find”.  It’s a tradition carried forth from my childhood.  It’s a mother and daughter walking side by side in an exciting journey of discovery and creativity.  It’s pure, perfect–nostalgic salt and pepper shaker–joy.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

WRITER’S WORKSHOP PROMPT:  Describe your worst winter weather story.

A letter to Dad from my college aged self–stuck in very cold Idaho:
Dear Dad—

This… that… the other…
….blah, blah, blah yakkedy, shmackkedy…

…but as far as marriage goes—I don’t think it is going to happen here. I have a very strong felling that I need to come home and see what happens. I can’t say it’s because of Rick—I do enjoy being with him and I’d like to see him again—but I don’t know if that is why I feel this way. I just think that Arizona is where I need to be again. Maybe I’m wrong, but I won’t worry myself about it. But I do know that I could never endure living my life in the cold country. It would cause marital strife. It would—I have never been so miserable! I love this school but I hate the weather and it causes unhappiness in my life. I’d much rather live where it gets to be 110 plus. I like that, it’s in my blood.

My counselor asked me if I was coming back next year and I said No Way!!! He said that I shouldn’t choose a school based on the fact that I don’t like the weather. Ask me if I wanted to hit him! It is not a matter of disliking it a bit—I have never been so uncomfortable! Now why would I make myself suffer like this again on purpose?
…If I have my way I’ll never live near the snow again.

Fast forward 20 years…

I live near the snow again!
Though I can happily say that it is not causing marital strife, I still HATE it. It still causes me to feel uncomfortable, unhappy and very miserable and I’d still rather be living in 110 plus temperatures right now.
So you see, every winter weather story is my WORST winter weather story because
I HATE WINTER!
But at least I still have my Arizona boy to help keep me warm. Now that’s something.

 

I read a post on Instagram this morning that reminded me that I had not yet written of the experience of my 30 days of reflection without my reflection.

Though the project only lasted–due to unforeseen circumstances in my life–for 17 of those planned 30 days, its insights deeply changed and blessed my life in ways that I hope will forever remain with me.

I will not speak of everything I learned but I will share that my main take away from this experience–and the reason I was reminded of it from the Instagram post–is that the culprit for much of life’s dissatisfaction is perfectionism.

I realized this in the early days of my experiment’s end when–feeling like a guilty child engaging in a forbidden activity–I still only looked at myself briefly with side-eyed glances just long enough to see that my makeup and hair were done properly and that I was

Beautiful.

Truly beautiful.

Because without the hypnotic pull into perfectionism that (I’ve decided) is orchestrated by demons that live just beyond the looking glass,  I had no flaws.  Without perfectionism I saw the light of Christ reflected in me. Without perfectionism I saw His truth.  Without perfectionism I saw His love.

I saw this same beauty in the Instagram post I read this morning.  The beauty of a loving family.  Yet the author saw flaws.  Her flaws.  She spoke of how she nearly didn’t post the picture until… she changed her focus.  From flaws to truth.  From flaws to light.  From flaws to love.  The love of her beautiful family.

Though I dare not claim that my 17 days of reflection without my reflection has freed me from the pull of perfectionism, covetousness and comparison (perhaps in this world of orchestrating demons I will never fully be free of such things) the understanding I have gained grants me a reprieve, a quick escape back to a place of truth.  Back to a place of light.  Back to a place of profound gratitude instead of a place of “Why hast thou made me thus?”

Back to a place where I am His.

And I am loved.

(When I watch my daughter Easton create I see my dad. Such beautiful magic.)

About five minutes into “The Greatest Showman” I began to tear up and continued to do so until the movie’s end.

But it was during the car ride home, while my girls and I discussed the magnificence that was “The Greatest Showman”, that I really let my tears flow as I expressed to my girls the gratitude I felt for all of the people who don’t let their fears stop them from creating works of genius for the rest of us to enjoy.

“We are all capable.”  I told them, “Each and every one of us has the power within us to create something amazing in this world but most of us will never do it.  Most of us will let fear win.  And I’m so grateful for those who don’t listen to their fears because it is they who create such beautiful magic for the rest of us.”

Although the magic I create will never show up in the form of an epic musical–because epic musicals are not in my particular area of genius–I still want to allow it to show up.  In any form it chooses to take.

Because I know that if I give my magic room to show up it will continue to grow until…

“Every night I lie in bed
The brightest colors fill my head
A million dreams are keeping me awake
I think of what the world could be
A vision of the one I see
A million dreams is all it’s gonna take
A million dreams for the world we’re gonna make”

And that–the magic of our own dreams–is the greatest joy of all.

(This quote found on my inspiration wall reminds me that I was born with not only the right but also the responsibility to create.  As was every other child of God. So let the magic flow.)