Another fragmentary post from August of 2012.
Ever since my life-changing Rhapsody in Blue experience, I've been trying to replicate it by carefully listening to all kinds of classical music. Though I have definitely enjoyed the new exposure, I have not had that same pure transfer of a concrete thought the way I did with RiB.
So last night I listened to RiB again, beginning to end, for the first time since that fateful even. Would the effect still be the same? I was almost nervous to listen.
Yes. The effect was even intensified the second time around.
Why was this piece different? Are there any others like it? I've been pondering, and here is what I have come up with:
1) Gershwin is pure genius. Shall I name my next son George?
Saturday, December 7, 2013
To do is to be, to be is to do, do be do be do
This is a fragment of a post I started writing more than a year ago. I know it's very incomplete, and I can't remember all the conceptual links that tied all these things together (that which came together "while I was cleaning the bathrooms"). I still find it fascinating enough to post. I believe it is addressing how I became an introvert after being married, and how it went from healthy introversion to unhealthy introversion. I'm not 100% sure how the title relates, but wondering is evocative if nothing else.
That was the quote on one of my favorite t-shirts in high school. I haven't thought about that shirt in ages, and here I am quoting it.
I went to a dinner party the other night, and sat next to a very affable and engaging couple who we had never met. I had a wonderful time and we laughed and had stimulating conversation until we regretfully looked at the clock and headed home to pay the babysitter.
All of these things came together today while I was cleaning the bathrooms.
But something subtle and sneaky and sad happened in the following years. When did I go from seeking the peace that comes from space and self-reflection and begin merely avoiding the anxiety of wondering what others were thinking of me? When did I go from seeking something wholesome and positive to merely avoiding my own self-inflicted anxieties? And how on earth did I manage to convince myself all along that they were the same thing? I lost part of my self when I did so. I lost the part of me that takes simple joy in coming to know another individual. How strange that I simply traded being afraid to be by myself for being afraid of being around others. I suppose it's not such a far leap. Both are rooted in an unhealthy dependence on others for my sense of worth.
That was the quote on one of my favorite t-shirts in high school. I haven't thought about that shirt in ages, and here I am quoting it.
I went to a dinner party the other night, and sat next to a very affable and engaging couple who we had never met. I had a wonderful time and we laughed and had stimulating conversation until we regretfully looked at the clock and headed home to pay the babysitter.
All of these things came together today while I was cleaning the bathrooms.
But something subtle and sneaky and sad happened in the following years. When did I go from seeking the peace that comes from space and self-reflection and begin merely avoiding the anxiety of wondering what others were thinking of me? When did I go from seeking something wholesome and positive to merely avoiding my own self-inflicted anxieties? And how on earth did I manage to convince myself all along that they were the same thing? I lost part of my self when I did so. I lost the part of me that takes simple joy in coming to know another individual. How strange that I simply traded being afraid to be by myself for being afraid of being around others. I suppose it's not such a far leap. Both are rooted in an unhealthy dependence on others for my sense of worth.
Blessed are the poor in memory, for they shall inherit...and blog
Oct 15, 2013
Sometimes my eyes and my heart see so much beauty in this world it wants to overflow from my brain and come out of my hands: typed, painted or otherwise documented, imprinted on a page and in my muscle memory.
It's at these times that I become frustrated by my limitations. Limitations of time, limitations of memory, limitations of ability that I hope will all someday be erased. Some people can't imagine heaven without food or animals. I can't imagine heaven without these limitations gone.
These are the things that I'm aching to imprint. There is more both in quality and quantity, but I have to be satisfied with what is. For tonight, it's enough.
First, my children. How can a mother express the love and awe she has for her children's beautiful bodies? To think that I am even partially responsible for that perfect, glowing skin, those long strong legs, those chubby baby thighs, that dimpled hand, those thickly laying eyelashes. On the one hand they're commonplace, with me day in and day out, but in between brushing off mud, scrubbing away paint, bandaging up scrapes and hosing off the last meal, occasionally I am completely taken aback by their breathtaking beauty.
Someday, though I may never have my babies back as they now are, I will be able to touch and hear and see them in my memory, not dimmed, dulled or altered as it now is, but the product of a perfect, resurrected mind. For me, this knowledge adds another layer of gratitude for the gift of the resurrection.
I was remembering the other day the way that Rylan would growl, "Mess!!", low and menacing, every time he spread abroad his toys. He was about Anders' age when he would do that. To remember made me laugh, and then I told Rylan and Evie, who were delighted by this evidence of his babyhood. Rylan has waxed old on me overnight. He is in love with his kindergarten teacher and a classmate named Ava (Who me? Jealous?!?) and insisted this year on being a ghost for Halloween and making his own costume. He's been refusing to read books outside of what he's assigned for school simply because he says that's all he can read (trust me, I know better, he reads everything else from the cereal boxes to the street signs with no problem), but today I walked in and found him reading a book to Evie with no stumbling or hesitation. When did he get big? Yet big he is. My heart breaks and subsequently swells every time I renew this realization.
Evie calls a PBJ a "Peaner and Jelly Sandwich". She also substitutes "I don't wait for" for "I can't wait for" (as in, "I don't wait to eat our vegetables from our garden!", uttered today) and has invented the contraction "amn't" in place of "I'm not". I've never written any of these down, but she's been doing them for years. She just turned four, as she's very proud to tell any and every one. One of her favorite things to do is to collect pet bugs from the backyard. Some of her favorite recurring names for them include "Kathy" and "Coco", and I had to permanently ban the use of tupperware for potato bug homes, because we were starting to run low. She is earnestly striving to prove to me that she is responsible enough to own a dog by caring for "Cootie", a hissing cockroach gifted to her by my disobedient father. I keep telling her I'm not sure if or when we're going to get a dog, but she's undeterred from talking about it constantly. That, and a pet iguana. She must have a smidge of her mother in her.
Trevor and I are absolutely gaga for Anders these days. His round, cherubic little person tots from one episode in his little life to the next, emptying cupboards and wreaking havoc on everything he encounters. We are absolutely ruined for him ourselves. He looks like me, which is so incredibly satisfying, and when Trevor is holding him and I see his little blonde head against Trevor's dark, I melt. He is quieter than our other babies, but incredibly expressive. His flirty smiles and scowls alike delight me. I just can't get enough of that baby; I'm head over heels.
How do I explain that this mess of facts to me means beauty? Even the cockroach?!? I want to remember, and I am not known for my memory. So I am drawn back to my blog.
Speak That I May See Thee.
In a year, if I am struggling with depression, I can read this and remember. I can see both them and myself as we truly are-- the way I see them now.
Sometimes my eyes and my heart see so much beauty in this world it wants to overflow from my brain and come out of my hands: typed, painted or otherwise documented, imprinted on a page and in my muscle memory.
It's at these times that I become frustrated by my limitations. Limitations of time, limitations of memory, limitations of ability that I hope will all someday be erased. Some people can't imagine heaven without food or animals. I can't imagine heaven without these limitations gone.
These are the things that I'm aching to imprint. There is more both in quality and quantity, but I have to be satisfied with what is. For tonight, it's enough.
First, my children. How can a mother express the love and awe she has for her children's beautiful bodies? To think that I am even partially responsible for that perfect, glowing skin, those long strong legs, those chubby baby thighs, that dimpled hand, those thickly laying eyelashes. On the one hand they're commonplace, with me day in and day out, but in between brushing off mud, scrubbing away paint, bandaging up scrapes and hosing off the last meal, occasionally I am completely taken aback by their breathtaking beauty.
Someday, though I may never have my babies back as they now are, I will be able to touch and hear and see them in my memory, not dimmed, dulled or altered as it now is, but the product of a perfect, resurrected mind. For me, this knowledge adds another layer of gratitude for the gift of the resurrection.
I was remembering the other day the way that Rylan would growl, "Mess!!", low and menacing, every time he spread abroad his toys. He was about Anders' age when he would do that. To remember made me laugh, and then I told Rylan and Evie, who were delighted by this evidence of his babyhood. Rylan has waxed old on me overnight. He is in love with his kindergarten teacher and a classmate named Ava (Who me? Jealous?!?) and insisted this year on being a ghost for Halloween and making his own costume. He's been refusing to read books outside of what he's assigned for school simply because he says that's all he can read (trust me, I know better, he reads everything else from the cereal boxes to the street signs with no problem), but today I walked in and found him reading a book to Evie with no stumbling or hesitation. When did he get big? Yet big he is. My heart breaks and subsequently swells every time I renew this realization.
Evie calls a PBJ a "Peaner and Jelly Sandwich". She also substitutes "I don't wait for" for "I can't wait for" (as in, "I don't wait to eat our vegetables from our garden!", uttered today) and has invented the contraction "amn't" in place of "I'm not". I've never written any of these down, but she's been doing them for years. She just turned four, as she's very proud to tell any and every one. One of her favorite things to do is to collect pet bugs from the backyard. Some of her favorite recurring names for them include "Kathy" and "Coco", and I had to permanently ban the use of tupperware for potato bug homes, because we were starting to run low. She is earnestly striving to prove to me that she is responsible enough to own a dog by caring for "Cootie", a hissing cockroach gifted to her by my disobedient father. I keep telling her I'm not sure if or when we're going to get a dog, but she's undeterred from talking about it constantly. That, and a pet iguana. She must have a smidge of her mother in her.
Trevor and I are absolutely gaga for Anders these days. His round, cherubic little person tots from one episode in his little life to the next, emptying cupboards and wreaking havoc on everything he encounters. We are absolutely ruined for him ourselves. He looks like me, which is so incredibly satisfying, and when Trevor is holding him and I see his little blonde head against Trevor's dark, I melt. He is quieter than our other babies, but incredibly expressive. His flirty smiles and scowls alike delight me. I just can't get enough of that baby; I'm head over heels.
How do I explain that this mess of facts to me means beauty? Even the cockroach?!? I want to remember, and I am not known for my memory. So I am drawn back to my blog.
Speak That I May See Thee.
In a year, if I am struggling with depression, I can read this and remember. I can see both them and myself as we truly are-- the way I see them now.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Chasing the Rooster
I'm desperate. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He's not large, or even especially showy, but his dull red feathers still manage to offset that silky understated green tail. I run with every fizzle of energy I possess, but I'm not fast enough. He is ahead of me and to the right, just out of reach. I'm not fast enough.
I haven't been feeling well lately. I have no energy, and the times I would have spent reading, writing, thinking, creating, have been replaced by sleeping. Sometimes I even fall asleep when my children are still awake, and then jerk back to life, feeling guilty and afraid. But all day, all I want to do is sleep. At Trevor's insistence, I went to the doctor and was diagnosed with post-partum hypothyroidism. Some of it's symptoms include fatigue, depression, hair loss, and weight gain. How many "post partum" diseases are there? I thought I already dealt with the only post partum disease out there.
Fortunately, treatment is simple: a straightforward synthetic hormone that simply replaces the hormone your body should be producing and is not. The downside is that it takes between three and six weeks before the symptoms of hypothyroidism subside. I have been taking the hormone for 10 days. Since taking the replacement, I have crazy dreams every night. The most regular visitor in my dreams is a small rooster.
I run beside him, but my existence is irrelevant to him. In a manner that is familiar only to those who dream, he is a rooster but has eerily lost so many of his roosterly qualities. His gait is almost mechanical in it's regularity, fast but not erratic. He doesn't make noise or startle at the noises around him. His steady plodding regularizes the world, but I am still wild with emotion. I must go faster. How can I go faster? I must breathe deeper, pump my arms harder, launch off of each stride more quickly. What can I do to go faster? Where is the finish line? He cannot get by me.
I have lost myself. Where did I go? Did I lose myself when I stopped doing what I usually do, or did I somehow simply stop being what I inherently was? No one outside my house notices a difference, but I am not myself. I am quick to anger; the house is not too clean, the dishes are not all done. Things with deadlines get done. Diapers get done, children get fed. And every night I sleep.
Where is the finish line? He will never stop. Haven't I spent my all? I can't keep running. How do I keep running?
In the breath between sleep and wakefulness, I know the rooster represents my health. Such an interesting balancing act, our souls. Our behavior is such a delicate dance, a give and take partnership between our bodies and our spirits. Is it more excusable to behave poorly when our bodies are not functioning properly? No, but I believe it is more understandable.
Things with deadlines get done. I am a Relief Society teacher, and my lesson has a deadline. I have been studying the upcoming lesson, which is on repentance.
This time there are people cheering me. I still don't see the finish line, but I can go faster. I'm not yet fast enough, but I can go faster. I see the finish line and lengthen my stride.
I haven't been feeling well lately. I have no energy, and the times I would have spent reading, writing, thinking, creating, have been replaced by sleeping. Sometimes I even fall asleep when my children are still awake, and then jerk back to life, feeling guilty and afraid. But all day, all I want to do is sleep. At Trevor's insistence, I went to the doctor and was diagnosed with post-partum hypothyroidism. Some of it's symptoms include fatigue, depression, hair loss, and weight gain. How many "post partum" diseases are there? I thought I already dealt with the only post partum disease out there.
Fortunately, treatment is simple: a straightforward synthetic hormone that simply replaces the hormone your body should be producing and is not. The downside is that it takes between three and six weeks before the symptoms of hypothyroidism subside. I have been taking the hormone for 10 days. Since taking the replacement, I have crazy dreams every night. The most regular visitor in my dreams is a small rooster.
I run beside him, but my existence is irrelevant to him. In a manner that is familiar only to those who dream, he is a rooster but has eerily lost so many of his roosterly qualities. His gait is almost mechanical in it's regularity, fast but not erratic. He doesn't make noise or startle at the noises around him. His steady plodding regularizes the world, but I am still wild with emotion. I must go faster. How can I go faster? I must breathe deeper, pump my arms harder, launch off of each stride more quickly. What can I do to go faster? Where is the finish line? He cannot get by me.
I have lost myself. Where did I go? Did I lose myself when I stopped doing what I usually do, or did I somehow simply stop being what I inherently was? No one outside my house notices a difference, but I am not myself. I am quick to anger; the house is not too clean, the dishes are not all done. Things with deadlines get done. Diapers get done, children get fed. And every night I sleep.
Where is the finish line? He will never stop. Haven't I spent my all? I can't keep running. How do I keep running?
In the breath between sleep and wakefulness, I know the rooster represents my health. Such an interesting balancing act, our souls. Our behavior is such a delicate dance, a give and take partnership between our bodies and our spirits. Is it more excusable to behave poorly when our bodies are not functioning properly? No, but I believe it is more understandable.
Things with deadlines get done. I am a Relief Society teacher, and my lesson has a deadline. I have been studying the upcoming lesson, which is on repentance.
This time there are people cheering me. I still don't see the finish line, but I can go faster. I'm not yet fast enough, but I can go faster. I see the finish line and lengthen my stride.
In my studying, I found this quote by Richard G. Scott from a talk entitled, "The Path to Peace and Joy":
Each one of us is commanded to both repent and to call upon God continually throughout life. That pattern allows each day to be an unspoiled page in the book of life, a new, fresh opportunity. We are given the rejuvenating privilege of overcoming mistakes of commission or omission, be they small or profoundly serious. Full repentance results in forgiveness with spiritual renewal. One can feel the cleansing, the purity, the freshness that accompanies sincere repentance at any time in life.This is not a new concept to me, but it struck me newly. Repentance is not just for serious transgression. It is a path to peace and joy, a gift any time we need to draw nearer to the Lord and receive of an increase in His strength. We should desire these things constantly: we should repent constantly. Maybe, like plagues and famines, hypothyroidism is just a call to repentance. Sometimes I think the Lord gives us our challenges as long as there is still something to be learned from them.
Last night, with everyone in my dreams cheering me on, I caught the rooster.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Satisfied
I was born with growling digestive juices in my mind.
No matter how much was fed me, sensory input streaming in, crammed into my synapses, I still craved more. I had wondered sometimes if it was possible for me to reach saturation, a point of satisfaction where I'm not grasping for more. Like someone starving, I was always occupied by the securing of my next mental meal, and yet, when I got it, it was swallowed whole, in big painful lumps, as I was already out of the moment and looking for more.
I have no idea what kind of psychological dysfunction gives birth to such brain binging, but this extreme hunger has been a mixed blessing all my life. I have experienced so much in my quest, but quantity sometimes overpowered quality when I couldn't process the incredible amount of input I was receiving.
Being a stay at home mom has helped immeasurably. It was the equivalent of sitting at a beautiful, crystal-lit table all in white, with gorgeous presentation and thoughtful portions, served one course at a time. I was forced to be in the moment. Never in twenty of my previous lifetimes would I have understood what this qualitative breathing space would do for me.
I've realized that there is a delicate balance between opportunities for growth and space for mental digestion. There must be time to reflect, time to step back outside of the process of progression to remember what we are becoming. Again, motherhood offered the perfect meditative backdrop. My children are constantly taking me back to the beginning, which is also the end.
Last week, for the first time in my life, I realized I've hit it. I am saturated. I am satisfied. Not that I'm done learning, but I'm done grasping and cramming. What's on my plate is enough. I have things worth pondering and time to ponder it in.
This is not at all the direction I was planning on taking this, but as I wrote I just can't help but learn again that motherhood is what has done this for me. I am so grateful, not just for my children but for the plan of happiness that made me a mother. It has brought me back to the place where I hunger and thirst no more.
No matter how much was fed me, sensory input streaming in, crammed into my synapses, I still craved more. I had wondered sometimes if it was possible for me to reach saturation, a point of satisfaction where I'm not grasping for more. Like someone starving, I was always occupied by the securing of my next mental meal, and yet, when I got it, it was swallowed whole, in big painful lumps, as I was already out of the moment and looking for more.
I have no idea what kind of psychological dysfunction gives birth to such brain binging, but this extreme hunger has been a mixed blessing all my life. I have experienced so much in my quest, but quantity sometimes overpowered quality when I couldn't process the incredible amount of input I was receiving.
Being a stay at home mom has helped immeasurably. It was the equivalent of sitting at a beautiful, crystal-lit table all in white, with gorgeous presentation and thoughtful portions, served one course at a time. I was forced to be in the moment. Never in twenty of my previous lifetimes would I have understood what this qualitative breathing space would do for me.
I've realized that there is a delicate balance between opportunities for growth and space for mental digestion. There must be time to reflect, time to step back outside of the process of progression to remember what we are becoming. Again, motherhood offered the perfect meditative backdrop. My children are constantly taking me back to the beginning, which is also the end.
Last week, for the first time in my life, I realized I've hit it. I am saturated. I am satisfied. Not that I'm done learning, but I'm done grasping and cramming. What's on my plate is enough. I have things worth pondering and time to ponder it in.
This is not at all the direction I was planning on taking this, but as I wrote I just can't help but learn again that motherhood is what has done this for me. I am so grateful, not just for my children but for the plan of happiness that made me a mother. It has brought me back to the place where I hunger and thirst no more.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
A day of tendermercies
In the past, I haven't included very many of my spiritual experiences in this blog, thinking those were appropriate for another space. But the nature of this blog and it's purpose and title convince me that there is no better place for experiences that are spiritual. If this blog is intended to record my learning and in order to better understand myself, this is an essential part of it. What better learning to record?
This last week I had just about had it. Rylan had a bad asthma attack last week and by Wednesday he was still grumpy like he always is after an attack and I was losing my patience with him (not that I ever have that much to start with, sigh). Evie was having a serious case of diarrhea, so not only were there lots of diapers to change but the poor girl had a wretched diaper rash from it burning through, no matter how quickly I tried to change it. When Trevor left me that morning, I was dreading the day. I could muster no enthusiasm for it whatsoever.
You know what though? Wednesday was wonderful. The kids were happy, we spent some wonderful time together, everyone started to feel better, the missionaries came over for dinner and they were fun, my family got bragged about and I was so happy to hear how well they were doing, and all in all I couldn't have asked for a better stay-at-home day.
I know it was a gift, and I'm grateful for the Lord's awareness of me and for His tendermercies.
This last week I had just about had it. Rylan had a bad asthma attack last week and by Wednesday he was still grumpy like he always is after an attack and I was losing my patience with him (not that I ever have that much to start with, sigh). Evie was having a serious case of diarrhea, so not only were there lots of diapers to change but the poor girl had a wretched diaper rash from it burning through, no matter how quickly I tried to change it. When Trevor left me that morning, I was dreading the day. I could muster no enthusiasm for it whatsoever.
You know what though? Wednesday was wonderful. The kids were happy, we spent some wonderful time together, everyone started to feel better, the missionaries came over for dinner and they were fun, my family got bragged about and I was so happy to hear how well they were doing, and all in all I couldn't have asked for a better stay-at-home day.
I know it was a gift, and I'm grateful for the Lord's awareness of me and for His tendermercies.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Sculpting
I've been painting a portrait of Rylan and last week I felt like I was carving his face, not painting it.
His face doesn't have enough dimension. Darken the shadows.
The brush hits the canvas.
Chink chink chink.
Every stroke of the brush is a tap of the chisel, darkening, digging deeper, creating his face.
His face doesn't have enough dimension. Darken the shadows.
The brush hits the canvas.
Chink chink chink.
Every stroke of the brush is a tap of the chisel, darkening, digging deeper, creating his face.
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