Peace, Love and a little Rock n' Roll

Having my son, Andy, riding shotgun through life with me has provided many lessons that I might not otherwise have learned, one of these has been that joy often comes in small packages. Right now, we are in our “York Peppermint Patty” stage. Whenever we go to the store, Andy wants a “York,” in his words, “it makes me happy.” Sometimes, we even make a special trip for one peppermint patty (and a Coke Zero)! One piece of candy will make his day, a chocolate that ironically comes in a package of “one.” I have learned that a trip to the grocery store is as much of an excursion for Andy as a trip to San Fran is for me. An hour on the swing is like an amusement park and a new song on ITunes can put a smile on his face as much as an entire concert.  I am a “slow learner,” but with Andy by my side as my teacher, I am coming to understand that joy is found in the many small moments throughout the day that simply have to be acknowledged and appreciated. I am learning to capture the magic of the scent of a single rose, the  flutter of a butterfly, the small hand of a grandchild,  the burning red of my neighbor’s maple trees and a single poem that captures the wisdom of an entire book. Fortunately for me, we move at a slightly slower pace around here. In twenty seven years, I have never been able to get across the concept of “hurry” to Andy…it simply does not compute in his mind….and generally speaking, I am a happier person because of it!

What is your Peppermint Patty delight of the day? Please share!

We are a “people of the word.” In our culture, women like to decorate their homes with words; words such as FAITH, BELIEVE, SIMPLIFY or in my case RELAX are displayed prominently around our homes. Cut from wood, stuck to walls with vinyl and cross-stitched by those with more patience, they are subtle reminders of values we hold dear. There is one word, though, that is often maligned and frequently misunderstood that you mostly likely will not find being sold at Mormon Handicraft, but if I was proficient with a jigsaw, I think I would make one for my mantle. The word is DOUBT. Like the alloy added to gold to give it strength, doubt must be added to faith to make it strong enough to withstand the wear and tear of mortal life.

 This month, many of the dear women in my life, mothers, sisters and daughters will share a message as they visit in each other’s homes. They will remind each other and themselves not to doubt and how by being valiant and courageous they can protect their children from these challenging times. And, I am afraid in the back of their minds they may think of those who have “doubted” and “not kept with precision certain covenants.” Perhaps, there will even be some pain as they reflect on this perceived lack of courage. So, for this reason, I will share my love of a word, a word often kept outside of conversations, a word often left on the fringe of discussions of belief, but yet a word deeply experienced by any seeker of truth.

 Paul Tillich, considered by many to be the greatest theologian of the twentieth century, would often remind us that doubt is not the opposite of faith, but it is an element of faith. Doubt is part of all religions and all religious thinkers were doubters. To understand doubt we must first understand faith. I love this definition by Wilfred Smith:

Faith is a quality of human living. At its best it has taken the form of serenity and courage and loyalty and service: a quiet confidence and joy which enable one to feel at home in the universe, and to find meaning in the world and in one’s own life, a meaning that is profound and ultimate, and is stable no matter what may happen to oneself at the level of  immediate event. Men and women of this kind of faith face catastrophe and confusion, affluence and sorrow, unperturbed; face opportunity with conviction and drive; and face others with cheerful charity.

The opposite of this kind of faith is not doubt but nihilism or the belief that life is without meaning, purpose or value.

 As summer wanes, I find myself spending more and more time outdoors, clinging to the blossoms in my garden, soaking in their beauty, taking a few minutes each day to smell the roses and simply sitting and enjoying the fruits of this year’s gardening season. I remain aware that in a few weeks, a cold snap will in one day kill almost every plant. I will then have to pull out the dead, rake, turn over the soil and cover it with compost while the cold of winter moves me indoors. Yet, through those cold dark months, the tulip bulbs, that last year had one bloom, will divide and multiply to put forth a show in spring-double what it was last year. My roses will be taller and more prolific and my canna lilies will eventually fill the entire space under my windows. As Jesus taught, “I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” I don’t know if that makes it easier or not. Winter brings growth to my garden, nighttime restores a tired body and “the dark night of the soul” has expanded and renewed my spirit.

So I guess, technically I am a “Mommy Blogger” even though I can‘t remember when the last time, if ever, my children called me Mommy.  It has always been Mooom, with the emphasis on dragging out the O’s. So as a “Mommy Blogger,” occasionally I must use this forum to write about my wonderful children and the cute—and amazing things they accomplish.  This blog is about my boys, Zac and Trevor, and the life lesson that they taught me this week.

To make a long story short, short enough to blog…We had a broken pipe on the main water line to the cabin. Over the summer, a pond had formed in the front yard which had to be dealt with by someone. In our hectic and crazy lives, this meant the someone was the boys. As this wasn’t the first time this happened, Zac, Karsten and Trev enthusiastically headed to the cabin armed with bulldozers, shovels and a blowtorch  for a little Tonka time. (Time passes) After digging up the pipe and putting in a new one, there continued to be a small, sometime large leak, in the pipe that could not be sealed. More soldering, more pipe, more fittings, more frustration. In between working full-time and in Trevor’s case, two jobs and school, the boys kept going back, trying new things and every time the water was turned on—still leaking. Eventually, we called “the professionals” –Ha Ha—they didn’t know what to do except bill us! Grandma and Grandpa came to stay at the cabin, rubber tubing from an old bike and metal clamps held the pipe long enough for them to vacation a few days, but certainly not for a long winters nap. Each night, I watched the news, “please don’t let it freeze in the mountains yet!” As Zac told Grandpa, “Now it has become personal!”

Meanwhile, down here in the valley I would talk to Zac and sense his frustration as nothing seemed to be able to fix the problem. One day, near tears, I said to Steve,” I just don’t know what we are going to do about the pipe.” He said, “Colleen, some problems in life are just very hard to solve, Zac knows what he is doing, he will figure it out.” So, once again Zac and Trevor grabbed my VISA card and went to conquer. But this time they spent time with the professionals at Standard Plumbing explaining the problem. This led Zac to learning some new, very high heat 1400 degree, welding skills. This led to Trevor masterminding the fittings, this led to many, many more hours in the hole, surrounded my mirrors so they could see all angles of the pipe at all times, this led to a lot of YouTube time learning how to “braise”—not the kind you do to a steak. Anyway, it led to the phone call. I knew from the first “Hi, Mom—that the problem had been solved—the joy in Zac’s voice, the relief, the sense of accomplishment after nearly a month of trying everything, there was total happiness on the other end of the line.

So why am I blogging this rather mundane story? Because, I just keep thinking that in my own life I have several of my own “leaking pipes” that I am tempted to simply give up on. I woke up this morning with Steve’s voice ringing in my ears, “Colleen, some problems in life are just very hard to solve, you can do it.” I woke up with a little more resolve that I would face them and hang in there to the end. I woke up with a reminder that perseverance can pay off.  And I woke up with a smile on my face—thinking, hey Zac has friends at Standard Plumbing, maybe I will finally get my leaking toilet fixed (the one the last plumber gave up on!)

A few months ago, I dropped my camera. Fortunately, the camera was still working but the lens did not focus as sharply as it had before. Taking pictures lost its fun, as I would post and notice that everything was blurry around the edges. Anyone as nearsighted as I am knows the unsettled feeling of not being able to see the world clearly. I still remember the day in fifth grade that I got glasses; the interesting thing about not seeing is that with no frame of reference you have no idea that you can’t see. Driving home from the eye doctor with those new multi-colored glamour frames was both unsettling and eye-opening. The world suddenly looked clearer, brighter and sharper (even though I looked nerdier). My most reoccurring dream/nightmare has revolved around not being able to find my glasses or needing to put my contacts in and not having the time or solution to get them in before I am forced to leave the house! (And, my second is dropping my camera again—remember the strap!)

Perhaps, this is why I find it unsettling when other areas of my life have been blurred around the edges or when I feel like I cannot bring complicated concepts into focus. Recently, I have replaced the lens on my camera and photography has once again become joyful. I have also found new lenses to help me bring into focus many of the deep questions that I have pondered for so long. I am finding peace and joy as I enter the second phase of what Carl Jung popularized as the two halves of life. While the first is dedicated to security, success and certainty the second is “more magical, less predictable, more autonomous, less controllable, more varied, less simple, more infinite, less knowable, more wonderfully troubling than we could imagined being able to tolerate when we were young.”—James Hollis

 It is a paradox that while I now have to search the house for “readers” to see the words in my scriptures and other great books—when I do begin to read they are so much more in focus and clear. I am seeing with clarity a prodigal God and learning to love wastefully, relish useless beauty and appreciate the simple pleasures of a bike ride or cup of coffee with a neighbor. I am often embarrassed by our license plate, a hand-me-down from Steve, as I drive around town, half the time too “SCATTERED” to remember where I am headed, but in the quiet of my office and heart it conveys exactly how I feel —

Since it is my birthday, I might as well do what all bloggers do best and write about me, me me! This is really a continuation of my “anniversary blog” which was also all about me, me, me and my thoughts on how I have changed. Today’s blog is about how much I have stayed the same!

A few weeks ago, at the cabin I grabbed some macramé jute and began to tie knots and make a bracelet. Like any good crocheting grandma, I can do it with my eyes closed. You see I came of age in a macramé world. Maybe, it has something to do with the fact that during a time of my life when so much was unraveling, I felt comfort in being able to tie those knots and hold my world together. I would macramé belts. I made wall hangings. I could whip out a pot sling faster than most people can say philodendron (well maybe not). Tying knots was in my soul. …as was a plethora of other creative endeavors. Not only could I macramé—I could decoupage, I could sew, I could make mosaics and I could pour out a lovely set of sand candles to light my bohemian bedroom. My hours were spent creating….creating a world I had some control over. I don’t know when I stopped. I don’t know why I stopped. But somewhere a long the way my world became less of my own creation and more of one thrust upon me. Oh, I digress, it is so easy to do when one is talking about me, me me!

 My little macramé bracelet got me to thinking about those things that are so engraved on our souls, so much a part of our being that while they may be temporarily buried under the cares of life, they are always waiting to reveal themselves, once again, as our truly authentic, genuine, individual selves. There is something freeing about turning fifty, whoops fifty-one, that allows you to slough off the phony facades and dead layers of expectation. And, what I have found you are left with is, basically what you started with, the wide-eyed, the ‘world is my canvas,’ Junior High you ….only much wiser and with better hair.

While the years have changed me, deep down the years have also sheltered me and let me remain the same especially, when it comes to the things I love. My love of books, my love of social justice (I was trick or treating for Unicef long before I went to the halls of the United Nations), my love of cats and sports cars (o.k. don’t laugh unless you are willing to post 8^th grade pictures of yourself on the world wide web), my love of the mountains, my love of family, my love of  dancing, my love of writing, my love for my sisters, my love of the truth, my love of swimming, my love of church, my love of hot Arizona nights (that one is burned into my soul),  my love of chocolate and bar-be-ques, my love of the Beatles and Carol King, my tolerance for diversity, my desire to make the world a better place, my insistence on kindness and integrity and the value I put on hard work, —they were all there at McKemy Junior high dressed in a halter top  and bell bottom pants.  In this ever changing, expanding world it is comforting to know that some parts of me, are just me, me, me… always have been and always will be. I think I will go tie a knot.

What parts of the junior high you, you, you are lying right below the surface of your life?

When I was eleven, my cousin Cindy took us to the drive-in to see the movie Willard, a bright and cheery movie about rats overtaking the world. Up to this point, I had avoided horror movies at all costs. My mind had no images of Linda Blair’s spinning head in The Exorcist, or shower stabbings from Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. I had no mental pictures of flocks of birds dive-bombing our house. (Although there was that one unfortunate incident where the student council of Hudson elementary showed The Blob as an after school movie, complete with little red and white boxes of popcorn. I could never look at Jello without shuddering again). But then came Willard, and for years after visions of rat-infested neighborhoods would creep into my dreams. I would run from the room when the “Dialing for Dollars” movie on Sunday afternoon would show the re-run. Even Michael Jackson could not convince me of the emotional attachment one might have to a rat, with his academy awarding winning performance of Ben, the scarier sequel to Willard.  Into adulthood, I have mostly managed to keep my mind riveted on “sunshine, lollipops and raindrops” as I have carefully made my movie selections.  That is until last weekend, when I once again had the experience of seeing another “horror” movie, a movie that disturbed my sleep, a movie that has me looking over my shoulder into my past, a movie that left a pit in my stomach—Steve and I went and saw The Help.

After reading and loving the book, I couldn’t wait to see how it would be portrayed. I had fallen in love with the tenacity of the character, “Skeeter.” She has given me the courage to speak out against some of my own generation’s prejudices. The movie was cast perfectly. I mean who doesn’t love Sissy Spaceck or Emma Stone. The vintage dresses and earrings made we want to run home and put on some bright red lipstick. And the southern cooking, you could almost taste the fried chicken. Plus every “southern” movie always causes a pang of homesickness for my own very southern Nana. I loved it…. I loved it that is until that one scary, horrible scene!  The scene where “Celia Foote”….poor, misunderstood Celia Foote is left standing on the porch while all the ladies quickly hide under the table pretending not to be home. Like a rat climbing up my leg, I wanted to shake it off and scream…instead I just shuddered.

 My friend Kimme said it best…”The Help is high school on steroids.” Maybe life at times is high school on steroids.  The Help is more than a story about racial prejudice; it is a story about human life and human foibles and speaks to what it means to be kind, no matter what our circumstances. It shows how important it is to acknowledge each other, to reach out to each other, to say “I am sorry I made a mistake,” to help each other when we are down and most importantly, to open our circles and hearts to include those who may be different. And for me, at the center of the entire movie was Celia Foote—poor misunderstood Celia Foote.

  As many may have not seen the movie, I will say no more …but to acknowledge that one scene on the porch. I can remember when I have been left standing on the porch, pie in hand.  More horribly, I can acknowledge the times I have been one of the ladies hiding under the table…caving to the peer pressure around me to exclude someone from the group. Fortunately, every generation has their Atticus Finch to remind us once again how important it is to be kind. A beautiful movie is helping us to remember this summer. Hopefully, this time I won’t forget….. and next time I feel peer pressure to judge or be unkind, I will jump up, run to the door and say, “Celia, welcome, we are so happy to see you.” You know it is rather paradoxical how appropriate the Michael Jackson song is to this movie!

Again…. I loved it—thank you Nate Berkus and Kathryn Stockett

The year was 1971, I was in Mr. Harms sixth grade class at Hudson elementary.  One day, I found a note in my desk, not any note, THE note.  It said, “I like you, do you like me?”  Check Yes or No! Signed, Chris.  So I did what girls in Mr. Harm’s sixth grade class at Hudson elementary do, I showed it to the girl who shared my desk, Lee Ann Marquis… and we giggled. After school, I was walking home through the park and saw Christopher DeVito, a small framed boy with horned rim glasses and slicked back black hair, standing by the swings. I have never been cruel and certainly, even in sixth grade, I didn’t want to be unkind, so I awkwardly approached him and we talked for a minute, one eternal minute. He asked me, “Why did you show the note to Lee Ann?” I still remember being surprised that he had seen me do that and I still remember being embarrassed that maybe I hurt his feelings. Now I know that Christopher DeVito and I had no future together, but I also knew in that moment that when someone “likes” you and you don’t “like” back that there is pain involved. Sharing a “like” with someone puts you in a vulnerable position, sharing a “like” opens you up to a “dislike,” whether it is sharing a favorite movie, a book, a recipe or your heart!  I didn’t learn everything I needed to know in kindergarten or even sixth grade for that matter, but that day I learned something that I have carried through my life—unrequited “like” hurts.

 Etched in cheap jewelry boxes and painted on rose covered refrigerator magnets has always been the saying, “A friend is someone who knows everything about you and love you anyway.” A friend is someone who knows your likes and dislikes and holds that trust carefully in her heart. We are all vulnerable human beings and we are all unique in so many ways. One only has turn the radio dial to hear the myriad of different sounds out there to know that there is no “one-size fits all” in any area of our life. From the music we listen to, to the books we read, the cars we drive, the clothes we wear, and the politics we espouse; we all have our own tastes and styles. But, nothing is more endearing than to have someone say, “I like it, because you like it.”  Or, “If it is important to you, it is important to me.”

Many years ago, my sisters and I had gone to lunch with my stepmother. During lunch we talked and in a moment of openness each shared what business they would like to have if we could do anything we wanted. My step-mother wanted to have a dog-grooming business and my sister wanted to decorate cakes—did I blurt out, “I would rather be dead than do either of those things” or did I just think it? I can’t remember now, but that day still haunts me. Whether I said it or thought it, I am sorry. Fortunately, I have grown and matured and hopefully come to understand that our different likes and dreams and talents and goals are all part of the package of who we are….and now that I have been the recipient of my sisters many cakes and have come to understand how dogs worm their way into your heart—death just doesn’t sound so appealing anymore!

Modern technology has all but replaced the folded notebook paper hastily tucked inside a desk, but nothing will ever replace the vulnerability we experience when we ask someone “do you like me yes or no?” FaceBook and Blogger have given us a whole new wonderful way to communicate and share with people, but it has also opened our life to new criticisms and susceptibility. Putting ourselves out daily into the public square is both a way to connect and bond with others and  “scary as hell.”  Mark Zuckerberg, the guru of social networking and boy genius, must have known exactly what he was doing when he didn’t put a thumbs down or “dislike” button on FaceBook—(oh yeah, he had just been jilted). If only I could have been as smart as he was at that age!

If, of thy mortal goods, thou art bereft,

And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,

Sell one and from the dole,

Buy Hyacinths to feed the soul.

No line of poetry has scrolled through my head more than this one, since I first read it early in my college experience. Perhaps, it is the constant hunger pains I have felt for food to feed my soul. Maybe, it is the recognition of the demands of life on my “slender store.” Perchance, it is just my love of hyacinths and roses and honeysuckle, whose sweet perfume momentarily transports me to a more heavenly sphere. Whatever the reason that these lines from a Persian poet constantly dance around in my mind, I know that feeding the soul is as important, if not more so, than feeding the body.

A few weeks ago, I had my boys dig out a Japanese Maple tree I had planted in the courtyard. I purchased this tree with great sacrifice when we were  having a wedding, after falling in love with it at our local nursery. Two burly men delivered it to our house and somehow were able to squeeze it through two doors and place it in the garden. They seemed to know what they were doing, so I left them to plant it. Several years have passed and each year it has struggled more and more.  This year only one branch was still alive and I decided that it needed to go. My boys worked all afternoon trying to remove it, but it was so heavy it would barely budge. Finally, the ground around the trunk was loosened enough that we could step down in the hole and analyze the situation. To my great consternation, I discovered the problem. The cage the root ball was planted in contained a very clay-like soil that had over the past five years, turned into solid cement. The roots were never able to break free of the cage and one by one the main branches of the tree died. We took a hammer and chisel and literally chunk by chunk broke the concrete like soil from the root ball until it could finally be lifted from the hole. Hoping for a miracle, I removed the cage, expanded the roots out and planted it in a shady corner—time will tell if it recovers.

My tree was never able to draw the nutrients it needed from the soil, each year another branch died. When we are not able or simply do not avail ourselves to the soil of life branches die. Even though our body may keep going, the beauty and shade we can offer others are lost. Albert Einstein said, “Art, science and religion are the branches of the same tree.” Along the same thoughts, I believe that art, philosophy, literature, music and science are the soil that we must put our roots deeply into if we are going to flourish. It is interesting that humus another word for soil, shares the same root word as humane, human, humble and humanities meaning of the earth. My tree of life grows as I send roots deep into the soil of those who have left their mark on the humus of humanity throughout the ages. This rich compost of human experience nourishes me and helps me to grow and thrive and experience life more deeply and joyfully.

In today’s busy, complicated world our “slender store” is most often time related. To rephrase, “And if from thy slender store two hours alone to thee are left, Clean they house for one, and with the other, Read a poem to feed the mother.” (So, I need a little more “Cat in the Hat” in my life-you get the point).  Art transcends time and space and the filters of our rational bread-winning world.  Like manna from heaven, it feeds a different hunger in our life. It is at our own peril and the peril of those we shelter when we do not take the time– a moment here or an early morning there, or a Sunday afternoon or a Friday night date to drink deeply. Hyacinths, psalms, sonnets and symphonies—miracle grow for the soul. What “soul food” have you partaken of lately?