Authentically Me

My last two years have been an interesting journey for me. I guess the journey has been longer than that, but the last 21 months certainly have been heightened, if that makes sense.

21 months ago I renounced the culture I was raised in. I don’t know how to express the significance of that except to say that, even as a 34 year old woman who is a solid ENTJ and usually falls on the bold side of things, I was scared to tell my parents. It took me four months to tell my family. I was feeling so much happier and freer and better than I had in years, but I was afraid to share it.

When I finally did tell them THAT was freeing too. And in the months that followed I’ve felt increasingly comfortable with letting my authentic self show.

There are things I’m still a little private about...but for the first time in my life I feel allowed to figure out who I am—not just who I’m supposed to be—and more than that I am learning to feel comfortable letting others see that me.

I had a fascinating conversation with my therapist about a year ago about three photographs.

1

This was taken during a family reunion, where my entire family came to Alaska for a week with us. This was the first time I'd seen them all since 'coming out heathen' as it were, and I'd had a lot of anxiety about it.

We'd hired a photographer for a session to get pictures of the whole group. We'd taken family by family, all the grandkids, all the boys, all the girls...and then we gathered the siblings. We all lined up and took what one might call a 'normal' photo, and then for some reason I got it into my head that we should all get on each other's backs. I'm the oldest and when I suggested it (while grabbing my brother and pulling him onto my back) they all just sort of did it within a matter of moments...and this photo resulted. In those few moments I felt something between us that I hadn't felt since childhood. (That's funny to say, because we weren't even all children at the same time, but it's how I felt.) I don't know how to describe it except to say that it was a feeling of camaraderie and knowing that we all had each other's backs.

This was a moment where I felt unfiltered family, and it shows on my face.

2

That unfiltered feeling shows in this photo from a few days later. We were on a hike, we were hot, sweaty, tired, and trying to keep continually moving because if anyone stood still the bugs would swarm. I've been self conscious about close-ups of my smile for years because my teeth aren't quite straight, so I normally keep my mouth closed.

But my little guy was cuddly as I carried him out (I carried kids the whole hike, but switched out which one many times. Yay babywearing!) So on impulse I snapped a selfie. And in that moment--in  spite of feeling a little bit miserable--I felt genuinely happy. And it shows. That wasn't something I'd seen much of in my photos from the prior few years, and it wasn't until I saw this one that I realized what had been missing.

3

Finally, last fall I went to a fancy fundraiser with my husband. I tried on a dozen gowns at the consignment store, and bought a nice short-sleeved one that was flattering...but this one just stayed in my head. Finally, just a day or two before the fundraiser, I went back to the consignment store and it was still there so I got it.

This was the first time I'd ever worn something strapless, and not only doing it but then sharing the photos publically on facebook was definitely something new. Mormons have an easily recognizeable dress code (based upon the temple undergarments which cover significantly more than 'worldly underwear'), and this gown blatantly doesn't meet it. I hadn't hidden my exit from the church but I hadn't really announced it to anyone except my family, so I knew that  sharing this photo was going to 'out' me to many people.

Part of me really wanted to share this photo and part of me about had a panic attack...but I finally posted it.

And you know what happened?

Comment after comment after comment about how lovely the gown was, how good I looked, and how happy I looked. Not a single negative comment. In that moment, I felt accepted for me. Not because I fit within some mold or matched some expectation, but just because I was a person who picked a pretty, sparkly dress that matched my eyes, and who looked nice in it.

That felt so good. ☺



This authenticity thing is certainly much broader than clothing choices or body acceptance, but that's been an important part of it because it's bringing my outside to match my inside. I'm not opposed to modesty at all, but I think a person should be able to be comfortable in their body--not ashamed of it--and that is a journey I've had to take. Taking ownership of my body has been an important part of my authenticity.

18 months before that strapless gown I'd taken two pictures but only shared one.
Wanna guess which one?

 Look at those scandalous double-pierced ears--which I'd had done just hours earlier. 

And those bare 'porn shoulders' tsk tsk.

This week I did something else new: I've been wearing strappy tank tops to exercise in for a few years, and after a while I started wearing them to/from class without always taking a shirt or jacket to cover myself en-route. I happen to think I have very nice shoulders, and I wasn't willing to feel guilty about it anymore. I started making friends with my cleavage too, instead of hating it and fighting it, and that spared me a lot of grief.

Recently I've been taking a pole fitness class. I wore yoga pants/capri leggings the first couple of times, but discovered that I needed my legs bare to above the knee because the fabric gets in the way of holding on to the pole. So I got a pair of shorts that are shorter than anything I've ever owned. After several times of covering them up to/from class, this week I just went to class. (Yes, folks, I went in public with all this skin hanging out. How scandalous.)

And you know what? This time I didn't have anxiety over it. That feels pretty good.

Hello world. This is me. 

Just me, myself.

No more filters.

The Edges of Life

When Wolf was small we noticed that he had an inclination toward violent play (as many little boys do). So we taught him the law of the jungle: one may only kill for two reasons, either for food, or to avoid being killed yourself. (This may have slightly backfired when, at five years old, he asked if we could please shoot--and eat--a songbird in the front yard, and I had to explain that it was too small to provide enough meat to be worth eating. He was terribly disappointed.) But I digress.

For the last two years we have been raising chickens. We are in it for the eggs, and we have quite a flock of happy ladies.

We knew that eventually they'd get too old to lay anymore, and we agreed from the start that when that time came we would kill them and eat them (or--since an old bird is tough and isn't great eating--put them in the crockpot to make soup or dog meals etc). However this last summer it became evident that one of our spring babies was growing up to be...not a girl. And so we had to face the prospect of slaughtering sooner than we had anticipated. I named him King Louie, because he strutted around, crowed a lot, and was destined to lose his head.

King Louie

(At this point you may be realizing that this post deals with slaughtering animals. If that bothers you feel free to stop reading. One photo shows blood but isn't graphic. I do discribe the process but it's not overly gory, and I share because the experience overall has been significant and poignant, so I hope you'll read on.)


We had no use for a roo. He eats food, he harrasses the ladies, we don't need fertilized eggs since we're eating them all anyway, and he doesn't need to defend the flock since we have that covered. So in October I sent a message to my friend who has butchered birds before, and asked if I could come over and she could teach me how. She was willing so we set a date.

Bear greeting the turkeys.

Hubby didn't happen to be available that weekend, and neither was Wolf, so I piled the younger boys into the truck and took them to my friend's house. She had a turkey that was destined for Thanksgiving dinner and the plan was to take care of Louie and her bird at the same time. Turkeys are big and strong and have to be wrestled a bit, so she'd invited another friend (also with experience) to come and help. All of us had young kids there, and we invited them to watch or help if they wanted to, but also told them that they didn't have to if they didn't want to. I feel like it's healthy to be part of the process though if you're going to be a meat eater, and to be conscientious of where our food comes from. (Bear opted to watch us kill the turkey and Eagle helped with plucking it.)

I was so glad that I slaughtered with these ladies though, because the first thing they both said to Louie as I got him out of the kennel was "thank you" and then I held him while one of them slit his throat, and as she did she was saying "thank you Louie" to him again.

It was a deeply respectful process. 

The place where we took Louie's life.

I somewhat expected to have a moment where I wanted to back out, but I never did. I didn't wield the blades but I helped hold both birds, helped with the plucking, and I cleaned out Louie's insides. We saved some of the feathers from both birds too--I don't know what I want to do with them but they are beautiful and I feel strongly about utilizing as many parts as we can. One of the ladies kept commenting about how clean Louie was so that made me feel pretty good about how we keep our flock. :)

It wasn't until afterward, when I was packing up and getting ready to come home, that I realized that Samhain was that weekend. That's the old observance of final harvest. (There's a grain harvest observance in August, a fruits/vegetables harvest observance in September, and the November observance is for harvesting animals.) I'm sure you know that Halloween has origins in the traditions about Nov 1 being the new year, and the old year dies on the 31st which is why the veil is thin between life and death and ghosts roam etc. Dia De Los Muertos as well as other ancestor-remembering traditions are celebrated at this time, and it all ties into the recognition of death as part of life, which I think is important even if I've never really been into any of those celebrations. This year we ate Louie on that day. It seemed fitting.

 ~~~~~~~~~

But the story isn't over. Because literally the night that I got home from killing Louie, I heard a crow from the coop.

And that's when we realized there was another roo.

I have to explain a bigger story here. We bought chicks in the spring from a local farm store. But in the summer one of our adult hens (from the year before) got broody. So we got her a few fertilized eggs to sit on, and she hatched three babies. So these babies were four months younger than the spring ones, hadn't reached their adult appearance yet, and thus we hadn't realized that one of them was a roo.

Until we took Louie out of the coop, and realized that he hadn't been the only one crowing.

But back to the broody hen: I was checking on her daily, and I was the first to see the tiny fluffy babies when they hatched. I was even there during one of the hatchings--I watched the mama turn this way and that, continually shifting her weight and position and slowly turning a full circle until a third little voice started cheeping with the other two. It was the first time I had ever been present for a non-human birth, and I felt something similar to the births of my siblings or children.

The longer I live, the more I realize that the edges of life are sacred, on both sides.

The transition between life and non-life is an important time, regardless of what you believe is before and/or after it. And regardless of whether the being involved is human.

We gave Chanticleer time to reach maturity of course, but this week his time was up. I had hoped to wait until the snow melted so that we could do it outside, but we've had a lot of snow this winter and finally we decided to just do it in the garage.

Chanticleer

This time it was just myself and Hubby. I opened the door of the little kennel we'd put him in and carefully grabbed his feet with one hand and around his body with the other. He flapped and wiggled a bit, but quickly calmed. I adjusted my grip to make sure it was secure.
Since Hubby hadn't done it before, he asked to hold the bird and have me wield the knife. I had expected this, and had had several months to anticipate doing it, but in the process of getting Chanticleer out some part of me had thought and hoped that maybe it wouldn't be me.

Because here is the thing about taking a life: it is easier to do if you can distance yourself from what you are doing (indeed, the farm kills I had seen in my youth seemed to be of this sort). I certainly understand the inclination to dissociate onself from the act of taking a life. But I think that it is important--even vital--to get ones head INTO the space of what is happening, rather than out of it. The end of a sentient life--as with the beginning of one--should be a mindful thing. 

And it was. 

As my husband held Chanticleer's body and feet, I pulled our sharpest knife from its sheath and circled around to face the bird. I gently took his head in my hand, feeling his neck to make sure I would make my cut at the right place. I looked him in the eye. He looked at me for a moment, and then his eye slid shut, as though he knew what was coming; as though he were resigned to it, and knew that he was filling the measure of his creation. I pulled the knife across his neck quick and deep. His death was almost instant.
We quickly tipped him in a large bucket as he bled out, continuing to hold him as his body spasmed a few times. It's disconcerting to feel a body move when you know it's dead, and I had the fleeting fear that perhaps I hadn't done my job right and he was still alive and suffering... But he was not. I did my job properly.

And that is my biggest takeaway from all of this: how to do the job properly. It's not that I've learned how to hold a bird to kill it, or where to put the knife, or that I've learned how to make sure the blood doesn't make a mess, or that I know how to pluck it quickly and cleanly and how to get the guts out. I think the most important lesson in all of this is that life matters, and that whether I am ushering someone into it or out of it, I will always do it with mindfulness and respect for the life in question.

Holding Space

This may be a difficult post for some to read, but it's one that has been percolating in my mind for a few days and one that I needed to write. Writing helps me sort through my thoughts, and this was something I needed to sort. So I hope you won't mind reading.

In both birthwork and bereavement work we often do something we refer to as "holding space." It means that there is not anything particular we are doing or saying (sometimes not anything we can do or say) in the situation, but we stand as sentinel over the space. We protect the peace, the calm, the energy, the emotions, and the simple right to feel.

Over the years I have held space for grieving mothers: sometimes in person but more often in virtual space, via phone or instant messages with someone geographically distant but emotionally close. Similarly I have held space for friends and family members as they labor through the delivery of a child or through any difficult time.

I have also held space for my children on many occasions; holding a small one on my lap and surrounding him with the calm of my arms and my breathing, and giving him permission to feel what he feels, and also giving my support in getting through it.

In recent days I have come to recognize the need--and value--for holding space in another way.

My paternal grandfather's health declined sharply a few months ago. He moved in with my aunt so that she could help care for him, and we have all been aware that he would not live much longer. Early last week we learned that he had stopped eating, so we knew to count time in days.

Meanwhile, my maternal grandmother has been dealing with multiple health issues for many years, and in the last few years her hospital stays have increased in frequency, duration, and complexity. A couple of weeks ago she entered the hospital, and within a few days it became apparent that this time was more severe than others had been. Last Thursday her doctor said she probably had a week left.

Last Friday my grandfather passed away. His funeral was on Wednesday.

On Tuesday my grandmother came home under hospice care, to spend her last few days with her spouse in the home they had built and lived in together. My mother was there with her, and said that grandma sat at the window and looked out at the trees that they had planted and raised together, and seemed to be at peace. She had some good hours, and got to spend her 58th anniversary in the arms of her sweetheart and with family by her side. Today she passed on.

I had neither the money nor the scheduling flexibility to visit my grandparents in their final days, nor have it now to attend their funerals. I think they will not mind, seeing as how funerals are for the living rather than the deceased. I had time to send letters, call and communicate my love, and I am grateful for the time we had to do that. Now their spirits are free of the worn out bodies that had held them back, and all I can do is hold space.

This is a different kind of space-holding from what I have done before. My grandparents are no longer here, and do not need me to hold the space for them; instead I must hold it for myself. I must allow myself to feel--whatever I feel--without judgment or guilt. I can hold their memories, carrying them onward by sharing them with my family. I must allow myself to be quiet, to rest, to think, to cry, and to be not-my-best-or-brightest at some things for a while. I must also allow myself to laugh and play and carry on, because the cycles of life continue always.

I'm Still Here

Hi, it's been a while, I know. I haven't posted here in nearly two years because my life has moved into a new season and I simply don't have the time. But I will catch you up a little on my life these last 21 months, and at least tell you where I've gone.

I finished graduate school in August of 2014 and shortly thereafter began working full time in behavioral health as a case manager. I enjoy it and (at the risk of sounding not humble--which is fair because I'm not) I will add that I am really darn good at what I do. With that said, work now consumes 40 or 45 hours of my week, and when I am home I try to put my attention and energy toward my family.

Also in the spring/summer of 2014 my depression reared its head again. It has done this periodically over my life, but certain spells are worse than others. This time however there was something that helped. It was unexpected, but it was the right thing at the right time and has made an enormous difference in my life: Glee. 

Yes, I do mean the TV show. I had started watching the episodes on Netflix that spring, and yes it's a cheesy dramedy and sometimes the writing is terrible, but the musical and dance performances are amazing. And more than any of that, Glee reminded me of something: It reminded me of my own love for music and dance. Somewhere along the way I had forgotten how much those things mean to me. Somewhere along the way I had stopped singing and dancing around the house (or anywhere else). I had gotten so busy with the many things I had to do that I had forgotten what it was that drove me to major in theater only a decade ago. 

I started singing again. I downloaded music and I started singing along with it. I had fallen out of touch with the arts so gradually that I hadn't realized how far I had moved. But now I sing again. I dance again. I feel more (dare I say it) glee than I did for years.

The other thing that Glee did for me--or helped me to do for myself--was writing fiction. For years I've said that I'm a good writer, and a good storyteller, but that I didn't feel that I had any original stories to tell. (So much for writing a bestselling novel, right?) But then with Glee--because it was impacting me so significantly, and because I wanted more of it--I learned about the phenomenon that is fanfiction. And lest you be too judgmental (because I was too at first), I will clarify: Fanfiction is original stories--sometimes really impressive ones--that just happen to borrow characters. But do you know how helpful it is to be able to practice writing with borrowed characters? Without having to create everything from the ground up? Did you further know that authors do it all the time? Shakespeare hardly wrote anything original, and how many novels or movies are "based on" or "inspired by" another story? Yeah, so everybody writes fanfic. And, for me, Glee fanfic was a gateway. Reading it was a gateway to writing it, which in turn was a gateway to something else... Because dabbling around with borrowed characters gave me confidence to build my own. And now I'm writing my own fiction (working on two different novels actually). The practice with fanfic helped me build up my writing chops--I can write longer things than I ever used to. It also gave me the chance to get feedback on my writing from readers and other writers, and that's invaluable (and good for the self-esteem too).

So the time that used to go to writing nonfiction (blog posts and then grad school essays) has now turned to fiction. I plan to submit my novels for publishing when I finish them, but I also know that now I'm not going to stop writing either. Writing (along with dancing, music, and knitting) are my antidepressants, and they are working pretty well so I'm sticking with them.

At first I felt silly, saying that a TV show had changed my life. (Sounds crazy, no?!) But it did, and it does, and I'm better off for it. And you know, I'm not going to be shy about saying it either. Because maybe it will help someone else.

So no, I haven't written here on the blog in a long time. The truth is that I don't know how often I will write here in the future either. I am spending more time in the real world and less in the digital one. I do still see comments that are left, here, and I will reply to them and to emails. I'm also on facebook fairly regularly. I don't know how much I will post here, but I am not going to take it down because I believe that the archive here can be useful to others. I know it is useful for me: both as a reference, and as a reminder of where I've come.

Shalom.

Living Like Hydrangeas

This summer we visited my husband's aunt (along with many other friends and family members) during our summer vacation. On the way into her home I saw a beautiful hydrangea and had to snap a picture.

On the way out of the house I noticed that same hydrangea, now with the sun shining on it. It looked so different, yet still so beautiful in a new way, that I took another picture.

 

Three days and two hundred miles later I saw another hydrangea in a yard near my parents house. It was a brilliant, vivid blue, quite different from the pinky-purple of the one at our aunt's house.

 

Here is the thing about hydrangeas: like any flower, they may look different in one lighting or another. But hydrangeas do something more. They bloom in different colors depending on the soil where they are planted. In acidic soil, the flowers are blue, in more alkaline soil, they will be pink. And they come in a dozen shades in between too. It is not a matter of different strains of the flower either, because if you don't like the shade of your hydrangea you can amend the soil and get it to change color. I have been attracted to hydrangeas ever since I learned this about them.

Why am I sharing this here when you could look it up in any plant encyclopedia? Well, aside from the excuse to post some pretty pictures, I do actually have a good reason for discussing hydrangeas.
Like these flowers--like any flower--we do not really have a choice about where we are planted, or about what experiences we will have in our lives. In some lights or circumstances we will appear one way, and in other lights or circumstances we will look different. But hydrangeas are something special because of how they react specifically to the soil where they are planted. Some plants will die if their soil is too acidic or too alkaline, but hydrangeas simply adjust. They take what they are given and become a new kind of beautiful.
I think we all have the potential to be like hydrangeas. Initially we may mourn when we realize that we cannot be the same as someone else's kind of beautiful, or someone else's kind of happy. But our life experiences--where we are planted--don't allow us to be the same as those who grow in other soil. Ours is to work with the soil we have, and to realize that we have our own beauty, our own goodness, our own kind of loveliness. We should not be jealous because we are different, we should be proud because we have bloomed where we were planted.

Postpartum Anxiety. My Story.

I wrote this to be shared with Momma Trauma. I'm not sure how much of it she'll use there, or in what form, and I know I get different readership here anyway so I wanted to share the story here as well. I just discovered MT's site last week as part of The Amethyst Network's networking. Momma Trauma addresses pregnancy and birth-related traumas of all sorts, from loss to traumatic births to postpartum psychoses.


Regular readers here will know that I had been through several miscarriages prior to my first live birth. I experienced a lot of depression during and after those, and credited it to grief, although I knew that there could be chemical components to it too. When I did realize I was going to carry to term with this one, I was shocked to find that I was still depressed. I was depressed for most of my pregnancy, in spite of being extremely excited that I was finally going to have a baby. I anticipated that I might have postpartum depression, and tried to have a support network in place just in case.
I have a family background of depression, bipolar, anxiety attacks, and even severe panic-induced breakdowns. But aside from the depression I mentioned here, I had never experienced any of those things myself. I'd never had an anxiety attack let alone chronic anxiety.

When my baby was born, I was jubilant. Our circumstances were actually really bad, my husband was working two jobs because we were broke, and it was the middle of winter. But I was not depressed. I was delighted to have a baby.

But I was terrified of hurting him. I have eight younger siblings and had been helping with babies for two decades before I had my own baby. I knew how to handle diapers and baths and feedings and all those things, and yet I still found myself feeling scared all the time. I was afraid that he would stop breathing in his sleep. I was afraid that as I laid him on the bed that his arm would twist under him and break as I set him down. When I had him in the sling as I made dinner, I was afraid that he would reach out and touch a pan or get cut on a knife or something before I could prevent it. I was terrified that he would get badly hurt and that it would be my fault. Not an accidental kind of fault, but a totally preventable kind of fault. None of these were rational fears, but they all ran around in my head on a daily basis.

I never told anyone. I assumed that I was paranoid about this baby because of the years of miscarriages and the waiting for him. Of course I was hyper-protective of this baby! And I could tell that they were irrational fears, so I didn't tell anyone because I felt stupid for having them. By the time he was about 6 months old they went away.

Three years later I had a second baby. I had not had difficulty conceiving or carrying him. The delivery had been straightforward and good. But I had experienced pregnancy depression again, and I had the postpartum fears again. This time I couldn't justify it to myself, because I didn't have the same set of circumstances coming in. I had HAD a baby before and everything had been fine with him. I couldn't think of why I would feel paranoid this time around, but I did. And it was the same things...stopping breathing, breaking his arm...knives in the kitchen...
 
Sometimes real things did happen. Like when he was 3 months old but had gotten strong enough that he kicked so hard that he tipped his bouncer over. He had been on the floor and was scared but not hurt. I was not much distressed by this, I comforted him, and just accepted that he had gotten too big for the bouncer and didn't use it anymore. But I was still scared that I would hurt him somehow.
 
Again, when he was a few months old it faded.

That baby was two when I listened to a podcast where a woman talked about having had postpartum anxiety. I had never even heard of such a thing. Her case had been so serious that she was institutionalized for several weeks (away from her baby). I was grateful that my anxiety was not that severe, but I also felt so validated in my experiences. I wished I had told someone. I wished I had known what it was. Now that I know (and it's only been a year that I've known) I have started telling people. Nobody should have to deal with this kind alone. It's scary and unnerving and it would have been nice to know that I wasn't crazy.

Finding the Way

We are visiting family in another state right now. Thanks to several weeks away from home at this point, my kids' routines (especially their sleep patterns) are all out of whack. This afternoon we went to church with my sister in law and her family, but Bear (5) and Eagle (2) were really tired, and since mormon church lasts 3 hours, I decided to bring them home in the middle, so that they could get naps.
My sister in law offered to drive us home (we had all come in one car), but it is only a few blocks, so I said no, we would walk home.
On the way  home, Bear got several yards ahead of me (I was walking with Eagle at a slower pace). It's a residential area, with very little traffic, and I wasn't worried about him being quite a ways ahead of me, however he glanced back and saw how far apart we were and came running back.
"I was scared" he said. Scared of being too far ahead of me. Scared of going the wrong direction, because he didn't know how to find his aunt's house.

"It's ok," I assured him, "if you start to go the wrong way I will call out to you to come back to the right way."
"But mom, what if I get too far away and I can't hear or see you?"
"Then I will come looking for you until I find you."
"But mom, what if I am so far away that you can't find me!?"

I thought of the broader life implications as I answered that one. Beyond the few blocks walk back to his aunt's house, I know there will be times in his life (as there all in all our lives) when he feels lost, when he wants or needs direction from someone else. I hope that I can be someone he trusts for that direction, but I also know that there will be times when I cannot be the one he turns to.
So what did I tell him?
I told him that most of the people he will meet in the world are good people. I told him that if he can't find me, and doesn't know what to do, that he can ask someone else and they will help him.
And I believe that that applies more broadly than just our walk home too. There are so many sources of direction (good direction) and help. Sometimes it may be a parent or teacher or neighbor, but sometimes it might also come from a stranger. I have been inspired and directed by things I've read that were written by people I certainly don't know personally, and yet they have affected my life in significant ways. Obviously, we can also find direction and inspiration directly from Deity.
It's nice to have someone to hold hands with. On the other hand, even when there is nobody close enough to hold hands, there is still always someone (or Someone) who can help you find the way.

Bee

Somewhere in my late teens I started signing my name as "jenni b" because there were always multiple Jennies. Due to the pronunciation, that naturally morphed into "jennibee." After I married, my new last name still started with a B, so "Jennibee" remained. When I opened an etsy shop to sell cloth diapers and other baby things, I settled on the name "lilbees," making myself the mama bee. Readers who have been here more than a few months know that for a couple of years my blog title was "Musings of Mommy Bee."

And so the bee became my inadvertent symbol. I wasn't particularly drawn to bees, didn't even particularly like them, but it's what I ended up with. (My sons are the Wolf, Bear, and Eagle, my husband is the Dragon...and I'm a little Bee...yeah...one of these things is not like the others!)

In the Book of Mormon, the honeybee is called "deseret." Before Utah was a state, the mormon settlers named their territory "Deseret" and their motto was (and still is) "industry." In thinking on that, I concluded that, in spite of my 'totem' not fitting in with the rest of my family's, it did seem appropriate for me. A few months ago I was feeling disgruntled about it though, and decided to do a little reading about bee symbolism and meanings.

Oh wow.

The Bee is a symbol of the Goddess/Feminine Divine and of female warrior energy.
In addition to industry and productivity, it represents achieving the impossible, making or bringing order, royalty, wisdom, celebration, fertility and the honey of life, sweetness of truth, community, concentration, organization, planning and saving, working with the spirits of the deceased, industry, prosperity, purity, birth, death, resurrection and reincarnation, communication with spirit(s), helping earth-bound spirits move on to their proper place, luck, misfortune and Otherworld wisdom.
The bee is connected to *Bridgid, Ra, Vishnu, Krishna, Indra, Aphrodite, Demeter, Cybele, Artemis, Diana, Rhea, Zeus, Dionysus, Pan and Priapus.
(see The Bee Goddess, The Bee, Wyldcat's Animal Guide, and OneSpiritX) (and if you don't know what all those gods/goddess represent, well, you should study up, some of them are pretty cool. I helped you out--see the end of the post)

Recently I listened to an interview at Daughters of Mormonism, and the interviewee was talking about Hugh Nibley's book Abraham in Egypt and a section called "The Deseret Connection." She explained how the book told of the things the bee symbolized in ancient Egypt: power, life, fertility... it was a symbol of the royal line. When Joseph married Asenath, she (as the daughter of a priest and part of the royal house) brought the bee into union with the House of Israel. Most mormons believe we are part of the house of Ephraim, which means that the bee is part of our birthright.

So I've made friends with my bee self. I've decided I like her after all. In fact, she's pretty much awesome. Which is why on my new charm bracelet (filled with symbols which are meaningful to me), there is a bright, shiny, bee.


*Bridgid--threefold goddess of hearth and fire (Celtic)
Ra--the sun god (Egypt)
Vishnu--preserver of the universe (Hindu)
Krishna--an avatar of Vishnu, the embodiment of love and supreme joy (Hindu)
Indra--lord of heaven, god of war, storms, and rainfall (Hindu)
Aphrodite--goddess of love, beauty, and sexual rapture (Greek)
Demeter--goddess of harvest and growing things (Greek)
Cybele/Sybil / Rhea--earth mother goddess/mother of the gods (Phrygian/Roman)
Artemis / Diana--goddess of nature, wild animals, fertility, and childbirth (Greek)

Zeus--king of the gods, god of sky and thunder (Greek)
Dionysus--god of wine, agriculture, fertility, theater, spiritual intoxication, secret rites (Greek)
Pan--god of nature, shepherds and flocks (Greek)
Priapus--god of gardens and fruitfulness (Greek, imported from Asia Minor)

Read to your Kids

Reason #339 that you should read to your kids every day?

In the middle of the night, when Eagle woke up and was sad because I would not nurse him (we're nightweaning), he went and brought me a book (and then another and another).
And I "read" them to him in the dark, from memory, because I knew the books without having to turn on a light.
And the boy was happy (even though he couldn't see the pictures any more than I could see the words) simply because mommy was reading to him.
And he went to sleep.

Finding the Sacred in S-E-X (or, how I conquered Good Girl Syndrome and learned to be a Lover)

Today's post is very personal, and I debated with myself for a while before deciding to write about it. I finally concluded that I wished that someone had shared these things with me years ago, rather than having to slowly find them on my own. So I write today with the hope that, perhaps, someone out there will benefit from what I share.
 ~j

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was raised as a religious youth to be good and chaste, and subsequently I ended up suffering from the all too common "Good Girl Syndrome." In other words, once I'd saved myself for my wedding night, I made the transition physically, but not mentally or emotionally. I adapted to all the other aspects of marriage quite well, but I did (and still do) turn red if my sexuality comes up in a conversation (for example, telling someone that I'm pregnant). It wasn't that I never enjoyed myself, but I had been fed so many cultural messages about sex being dirty, just physical, animalistic, and anything but spiritual, so it was hard to look at it as good, let alone holy. I still wanted to be a righteous person, and I wasn't finding much (especially from religious sources) that ever talked about sex in a positive light. So even though I knew that it was ok to have sex when you're married, there was still a part of myself that was always uncomfortable with the fact that I was sexually active. I even recall shortly after my wedding having the thought "well, there's no going back [to virginity] now, it's too late."

Now physical pleasure is a valid aspect of sex (and needn't be considered 'dirty,' I think, unless it is the only reason for the sexual relationship...which of course would not be the case in a marriage). Procreation is an important part of sex too (but, again, not the only reason for the relationship!) With that said, (at least for me) finding the spiritual side of sexual intimacy was what finally helped me move out of the 'virginal youth' mindset and into being able to be a 'lover' wife. I deeply wish that I had figured out both my problem and the solution years ago when we were first married, but it's better late than never I suppose. I finally tuned in to myself as a sexually active person, and it's remarkable how much better my life (all aspects of it) have become.

So how did I recover from my Good Girl Syndrome and find the spiritual side of sex? There were several parts, but first I should note that my husband has been supportive of me throughout this process, and that it was not his fault in the first place. He always wanted me to be able to love the physical side of marriage as he did, and tried to help me in whatever ways he could think of. But there were things going on inside me that couldn't just be loved away, and it took a while to find and fix them.

1. I had to realize what was wrong with me in the first place. It wasn't just that I was tired, or hormonal, or had low libido because of the nursing baby...it was that in some deep-seated part of my unconscious I wasn't comfortable with my own sexuality. I faced that and called it by name, and naming your demon is the first step to killing him.
2. I read The Soul of Sex and it was very helpful for me in appreciating sexuality as much larger than just the physical act. The author explored classical archetypes and discussed sexuality from a philosophical perspective that was very helpful to me. (If you didn't read my book review, click the link there and go read it. Please! That book was literally life-changing for me.)
3. I got in touch with my pagan side. A number of pagan religions (notably wicca) teach that the sexual act is the ultimate thing in the universe, the Great Rite between Goddess and God. It joins opposites into a whole that is greater than the parts, and finds resolution in the dichotomies of existence. Considering the common pagan belief that we all have aspects of gods/goddesses within us, or all have the potential to become gods/goddesses, then when we enact the Great Rite we are creating a microcosm of that holy (and vital) resolution. 

Since beginning to see both sexuality and sexual intercourse in this new (better) light, I have sought ways to keep sacredness in my sexuality. Here are a few:

• Think about things like what I mentioned above (both in and out of the bedroom): the unified whole being greater than the parts, the physical unification being a symbol for spiritual and other unity in your marriage, etc. Discuss these ideas with your spouse.
• Lighting candles. We have a few fancy ones from this etsy shop, but mostly we have cheap tealights and they work just as well. The ambiance of candlelight is not only romantic, but many

  

  photo by Alice Harold

  religious ceremonies utilize candles, and the light/fire of a candle has many spiritual connotations.
• Try a bath (you can add candles there too!) Ritual washings are part of many religions, so try washing each other before proceeding to other activities.
• Massage one another with oil (or lotion). Anointing with oils and formalized touching are found in many spiritual practices. Take the opportunity to use repetitive motions and physical touch to arouse and relax your spirits as well as your bodies.
• Anything which shuts out the world can be a way to tune into the spiritual. So, in intimate times, shut out the world, and tune into your own spirit, your spouse's spirit, and the Spirit that is over your marriage.
• If consummation is the 'magic moment' (afterwhich you are 'married' and would have to seek a 'divorce' rather than an 'annulment'), then every time you re-consummate your marriage it could be considered a way of renewing your vows. Think about that!

My 24

After my most recent update post, I got a comment that sounded like many I have gotten before. "You do so much, I don't know how you do it," or "You have kids! How do you find the time to do all this stuff?"
I think this is a very interesting question, and I'll try to answer it.

There are 24 hours in a day. No matter who you are, no matter where you live, we all have the same amount of day at our discretion.

Personally, I am often thinking that I don't do nearly as much as I could. I spend too much time on the computer and I can dink around as well as anyone I know. On the days when I really put my mind to productivity I can do twice as much as on an average day. It is also only fair to inform you that, along with my Productive Days, I also have Lazy Days, wherein my accomplishments for the day are usually limited to making dinner, maybe a load of laundry, reading most of a book, and/or writing three blog posts.

I do NOT "multi-task." For one thing, there is no such thing--it's simply a matter of rapidly going from one task to another and then back again. The human mind CANNOT do multiple things at once [link] [link][link](see, science agrees with me). No, I do not do multiple things at once. I don't really "switchtask" either (going back and forth between two or three things--read the first link). But I do change activities throughout the day. I sort the laundry then put in a load to wash. Then I mix up the bread and set it to rise. Then I change a diaper. Then I move the laundry into the dryer and put in another load. Then I dink around on the computer for a while or read my book. Then I punch down the bread for another rising, and switch out the laundry again. Another diaper, put baby down for a nap, play with my toddler, do a little knitting... Really, there is nothing extraordinary about my days.

Mama always told us that "a change is as good as a rest" and I have certainly always found that to be true in my life. I don't need to take a break from getting things done, I just need to change activities regularly. Having small children facilitates this beautifully, as I am constantly being interrupted to feed someone or wash a bottom or attend to the latest little heartbreak or outbreak of contention.

We all have the same number of hours in a day, and we can only do one thing at a time. As Gandalf said, how much time we have "is not for us to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us." [link] So how do I "do so much?" I simply try not to spend too many of those hours in waste. It is that simple.

• I do best when I sleep around 8-9 hours a night, and I usually get at least 8. I got by just fine on 7 hours when I was in college, but I don't anymore. I consider getting enough sleep to be a very worthwhile use of my time.
• I don't spent much time preening myself--a quick shower is about it (my morning 'put-myself-together' routine takes about 5 minutes if I don't shower, and 10-15 min if I do, and consists of putting on clothes and combing my hair, no makeup, no fancy stuff). For the sake of the math let's add in bathroom trips and so on, and call it about a half hour a day spent on personal hygiene time.
  
• I spend a couple of hours a day online--I admit it's often more. I justify it as my "mental health/adult interaction" time, but I could cut it down and still be fine in those regards. I try to have a screen-free day every week or so.
  
• I do not work outside the home, I suppose that allows me to do more within my home. But I do work from home sometimes (and besides, the people who have asked me how I "do so much" are often also stay-at-home moms).
• I usually put a couple of hours a day into preparing meals. Sometimes more, but usually not less. Good food matters, not just for physical health, but the time and effort and slowness of home cooking is healthy on emotional and intellectual levels as well. It requires a level of consciousness about living which I feel is very important.
• Another hour or so goes into chores--laundry, cleaning rooms, doing dishes, vacuuming, etc etc. Once a week or so I do some deeper cleaning and spend a couple of hours. About once a week I take a couple of hours to go grocery shopping.
  
• I spend a couple of hours--even three--doing stuff specifically for my kids. Changing diapers, nursing, settling disputes, shuttling them around, helping with homework, or just playing with them... With a newborn of course it's more, but with a nurse-every-hour newborn I do a lot of nursing at the computer, or with a book in my hand; and often one of the kids helps me with cooking or cleaning, or I guide homework while making dinner, so things overlap. I think 3 hours is a fair estimate.
  

So of 24 hours in a day
8--sleep
.5--personal care
2--computer
2--food
1--chores
3--miscellaneous kid stuff
16.5 hours of the day consumed by my normal routine. That leaves me over 7 hours for doing all kinds of other things. Some days that gets sucked up by park trips or grocery shopping. Other days it gets sucked up by the computer. Some days it gets sucked into big projects (such as spring cleaning, or winterizing the house, or a sewing project, or a culinary endeavor, or building a website, or canning...), and other days I spend my time with a good book, or long shower, or with friends.

But we all have the same 24 hours in a day. I don't think my productivity is anything remarkable. And now I'm really curious--if you don't have the time to "do so much," then what are you doing with your 24? (If you blog about this, leave me your link please! I really do want to know!)

Things I've Learned from My Husband

After mentioning both my mother and father, I thought I'd dedicate a post to the other person who has been most influential to me: my husband (he gets today because it's the 7th anniversary of the day he proposed)


Take your turn to listen. Nobody likes being interrupted (and if you interrupt, they won't really listen to you anyway, plus they'll think you're rude).

Take a compliment. If you can't say "thanks" then be quiet, but don't say "oh no really..."

Accept gifts.

Accept service.

Be spontaneous sometimes, or, at the very least, be ok with not planning every second of the entire vacation.

Don't feel guilty about doing things for yourself sometimes.

Lived-in skin and post-baby bodies are beautiful.

There is no such thing as a 'wasted vote' so long as you voted for who/what you really believed in.

The "two party system" will never be broken (and therefore not much will happen) unless we start voting for third parties. Parties have exactly as much power as we give to them.

Dream big. There's no point in dreaming if you're going to limit yourself to 'realistic' things.
Reality is only limited by how little you are willing to dream; if you dream about it long enough and want it badly enough, you will find a way to make it happen.

Things My Father Taught Me

After devoting Mother's Day to things my mother taught me, I wanted to devote Father's Day to my daddy.

(playing the piano with Wolf, 2004)

It's ok to be "weird." Conformity is for those who don't have enough imagination or self-esteem to be themselves.

Hair is overrated.

Take the long way home--don't go the same route twice if you go on a different route and see something new.

Stop to smell the flowers and look at the waterfalls.

If you can't find any flowers, then plant some.

Wear whatever makes you comfortable.

Do what makes you happy. Work can be enjoyable and fulfilling if you do the job right and choose a field you love.

Learn language. Use the words that express exactly what you mean. Learn to put them together well. Nobody will take you seriously if you can't write decently.

If there is not an English word that means what you want, try another language. Who says you can only use one language in the house? (Because there is no simple translation for failluto, and it is such a useful word.)

Read.

Make music.

Notice what needs to be done, then do it. Don't wait to be asked.

Work before play. Work hard.

If you say you'll do it, you'd better follow through.

Help other people, even when you feel like you don't really have the time. If you can make time for yourself, you can make time for others.

It's ok to like things that are different from anybody else.

It's ok to live far away from your parents or other family, but you have to call or visit. (It's great if you live somewhere interesting and worth visiting.)

Never pass up an opportunity to learn something new.

Never pass up an opportunity to travel someplace you've never been.

Experience is the ultimate teacher.

Travel is the ultimate experience.

WFMW: Sweet Treats

I suspect that most of us get sweets cravings from time to time. Maybe all the time. My regular readers know that I believe in healthy eating, but that I also believe in moderation, and that I have no objection to whipping up a batch of brownies for no particular reason...but I do object to doing it every day. Unfortunately, I get those sweets cravings almost every day, and when I try to just ignore them they get more intense (isn't that how it always goes when you're trying to quit something?!) So I've found a solution: satisfy the sweet tooth with something that's just a little sweet, but that's more or less good for me.
So, when I have a hankering for brownies, or ice cream, I am usually able to satisfy it with one of these things:

• A bowl of box cereal (we don't have the super sweet ones, but something like "Honey Bunches of Oats" is sweet enough)
• Applesauce
• Yogurt (mine is usually homemade)
  
• Yogurt with berries/fruit in it
• Fruit--fresh or canned (hey, I live in Alaska, fresh fruit is in season for about 2 weeks up here!)
  
• A smoothie
• A homemade muffin (especially if it has berries in it)
• A piece of toast with butter and/or jam
• A cup of hot cocoa--especially with coconut oil or cream in it
• Fruit juice (this usually doesn't work as well, because there's no chewing so it just isn't very satisfying...but in a pinch it's more satisfying than nothing)
  
• any other suggestions? (comment please!)
  

Just as an observation--my mother and I have both observed that a lot of times when we think we're craving sweets, sugar alone does not actually satisfy the craving. Interestingly, what does satisfy the craving is fat--saturated fat (cream, butter, etc). We think it's because of two things 1--those fats usually come together with sugar (brownies, ice cream, cookies...) but sugar is the more recognizable 'taste' for our brains. 2--In our culture's fear of saturated fat, we end up consuming too much unsaturated fat and our bodies are imbalanced (you need a little of each kind of fat because your body uses different types for different things). Due to that imbalance, our bodies give us cravings to get us to consume things that we need.
SO, you'll notice that most of my sweet alternatives also have a little fat in them--and I think that's important. ☺


See more Works for Me Wednesdays here.

Things My Mother Taught Me

My mother taught me a multitude of skills: sewing, needlepoint, cooking, childcare, housekeeping, gardening, food preservation, the list goes on and on. But this post is not about skills, it's about the things my mother taught me about life and how to live it. So, in no particular order, things my mother taught me:

(me, age 2, with my mommy)

Ask questions. Never assume that the status quo is the only way to do something.

Learn things for yourself. Make your own decisions.

Choose your own life. Be your own person. Don't feel obligated to go to a certain college or study a certain subject or give birth in a certain way just because somebody else did.

Whatever you choose to do (from a chore to a career), do it right and do it well.

Never stop learning. There is always something new to learn.

Trust your feelings. If someone tells you something that feels wrong, you don't have to believe them.

"A change is as good as a rest." If you can't stop, at least do something different for a while, and the change is as rejuvenating as a break.

It is worth whatever it takes to marry in the temple.

Each season in our lives has a different purpose and focus. In our youth we have a season to focus on ourselves, and we should live it up because as we grow older we will need to be focused on others.

With that said, take care of yourself. If you don't take care of yourself, you won't have anything left to be able to give.

What you think of yourself matters more than what anyone else thinks of you.

You can't kiss a baby just once.

Fast games are good--you can play several of them in an afternoon and still be able to change the baby and do dishes and make brownies in between.

If you can't find what you want, make it.

Breastfeeding is a good time to read books.

If it doesn't matter in the eternal picture, then it doesn't matter much at all. Don't bother getting into a huff over something that doesn't really matter.

People are more important than things, and family are the most important people of all.

There is no such thing as too many cuddles, too many children, too much laughter, or too many books.

WFMW: Pre-pulling 'leftovers'

I do what I call "multi-meal planning," which means that I plan sequential meals that will utilize the same ingredients. For example, on one day I will cook a pot roast, and a couple of days later I'll use the leftover beef for stroganoff or stew (or both). A roast chicken leads to pot pie, soup, or chicken casserole. The problem with planning this way was that sometimes there was not as much leftover meat as I needed to make the other meal(s). Especially if we ate a leisurely dinner, people would have just a little bit more, and just another nibble, until the meat I was counting on was gone.
Here's the thing, people will fill up on whatever is in front of them...they don't necessarily want certain amounts of any particular food, they just want to be filled.
A friend of mine told me that she serves portion sizes up onto all the plates and then puts the leftovers into the fridge before they even begin the meal. It ensures that everyone eats proper portion sizes. I took her idea and adapted it to my multi-meal planning.
Now, when I cook a roast, I cut the thing in half and put half in the fridge before I even bring it to the table. We don't need very much meat in our diets, and I always serve a meat dish with plenty of vegetables on the sides so nobody is left hungry. (Did you know that tests show that potato is actually the food that leaves you feeling the most full?! So just serve mashed or roasted potatoes and people will nibble on them instead of the meat, and they'll get full faster anyway!) Meanwhile, I have enough left over meat for my other meals!
Before I started doing this I could usually make one more meal from the leftovers of a "big meat" meal, now I can usually make two. It's friendly to my budget and our health!

For more "works for me wednesdays" click here.

WFMW: baby cradle cap solution

A lot of babies get cradle cap, which is more or less the same thing as dandruff--flaky skin in their hair (my babies seem to get it in their eyebrows as much as the crown of their heads, go figure!) When Bear was little, I remember having a conversation with another mom who said that her pediatrician recommended a dandruff shampoo for her baby's cradle cap. Well, my husband has a dandruff shampoo, and do you know what the active ingredient is?

Yup, coal tar. I don't know if all of them use the same thing, but this is a pretty high end shampoo, so I'm guessing that most dandruff shampoos have something at least that nasty. I don't want to put that on my baby's head, let alone in his eyebrows!! Especially considering that I don't even use soap on my babies' sensitive skin, but just bathe them with warm water and a washcloth.
Then I remembered that my mom had had a soft plastic brush that she always used to loosen the crud off the baby's head (again just using the gentlness of warm water). So I went hunting for one...I looked in every store in town (and I lived in a big town at the time!) and I was not able to find anything appropriate, so finally I figured out something else:

A soft bristle toothbrush.
I even labeled it so that nobody accidentally scrubs a toilet with it ☺

So that's what works for me! See more "works for me wednesdays" by clicking the icon below.

Pause to Think...

Last night Hubby and I were sitting up watching a movie. I'd had some pretty good contractions earlier in the evening (the kind I had to pay attention to) so we were hopeful that baby might finally be on his way. (He apparently wasn't.)
It was just a little past 11 (I'd been timing contractions so I'd been looking at the clock a lot) when I saw a fire truck come down the next street over. As you may recall, we have large picture windows in our living room, and we are on the second story. It happens that the two houses across the street from us are both single-story homes, as are the houses behind them facing the other street. So I had a pretty good view of this big truck with lights aglow. As always happens when I see an emergency vehicle, I got a little lump in my stomach, and sent up a quick thought for whomever had called for help... I said something to Hubby about wow, we're on a little dead-end street without all that many people on it and that was a big fire truck. He surmised that it had been an EMT call since we couldn't see it anymore...and just then we saw the truck return and stop almost directly even with us (on that next street over). We only know some of our neighbors at this point, but we do know someone who lives right there, so we started watching out the window to see if we could tell which house they were going to.
Perhaps a minute later I was focusing on a contraction when Hubby said "oh my gosh" and I looked out the window just in time to see massive flames burst out of the upstairs window of a house on the far side of that next street (we didn't know those residents). There was very little smoke (at least that we could see) but within seconds we could tell that the house was a total loss--the flames were massive. (No, this is not the actual house we saw, this photo is from an insurance website...but this is similar to what it looked like.)
A second fire truck arrived as the roof went up and we heard the house collapse. Hubby said he kept feeling like he should try to go over there and help, except what would he really do but be in the way...the firefighters were doing all they could to contain the fire and we knew that anything still in that house was lost.
I was grateful that there was snow on the ground--if only a little--and that the air was cold and damp. Regardless, two neighboring evergreen trees burst into flame one after the other, sending sparks high into the dark sky. We stood there frozen, watching out the window with a strange mix of horror and awe at the magnitude and power of the thing. Both of us had fleeting thoughts of hurriedly grabbing some clothes and blankets and putting them in the van in case the wind changed and we had to run ourselves, but everything went so quickly that there was not much time to think it let alone respond to the thought. When the flames disappeared, and nothing was left but the enormous cloud of steam rising where the firefighters' streams hit the pile of embers, I thought to glance at the clock again. It was 11:24. I don't know exactly what time we saw those first tongues of flame, but the whole thing was at most 15 minutes, and probably closer to 10.

As we got ready for bed Hubby posed the question: If we had to get out of our house, and had gotten the kids, but had just one minute to grab one other thing, what would you want?
One thought came instantly to my mind, and as I voiced it he agreed that it was the first thing he had thought of too: we would grab the laptop computer, because it has years worth of photos on it, and photos are irreplaceable. Yes, we have scrapbooks and I have a couple of boxes of print photos that I am slowly getting into albums...but those would be hard to grab, and the computer has the most so with limited time that is what I'd grab.
Hubby asked what I'd grab if I had enough time for two things...I thought for a while...I have some beautiful things, some things I love, some heirlooms or things I've spent hours and hours creating...but they are all just things. The honest truth is that I'd probably grab the file folder with everyone's birth certificates and passports and our house deed, and if I still had time I'd try to grab some blankets and/or extra clothing for everybody, because yeah, I'm practical like that. Hubby said he'd grab his journals.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This morning I found out from my neighbor some more details about the family whose house burned. They were in bed but woke up and were all able to get out unhurt. They are a young couple with a toddler and she is 7 months pregnant. They have nothing but the clothes on their backs--he was not even able to grab his glasses, without which he cannot see. I am so thankful that they are ok, and am talking with my neighbor (since she knows them) to see if there is anything I can do to help.
I do not know how the fire started.
ETA--on my morning walk with Bear we walked past what remains...I was slightly mistaken in that it was two streets over, not one, and a one-story house, not two--the hill made it look closer/bigger than it was I guess. Also it's not quite gone--there is a bit of a burned-out shell left...but nothing salvageable.


It is all a very timely reminder though--obviously to think about what is really important to us, but also to remember about fire safety: The fires that usually kill are hot and fast, not slow and smokey. Don't expect to have time to grab stuff if your house catches on fire, you will probably have to just run as you are (so don't sleep in your underwear!!). Hold your family fire drills! Never leave a fireplace or candle unattended.

Musings on Contentment

Why is it that so few people are content? Why does it seem that the grass is always greener elsewhere? Some other job, some other house, some other city, some other partner... Why are we always saying "I would be happy if only I had _____"? How is it that we become so fixated on what we don't have that we forget what we do have?
It's something of an epidemic I think, and it's not a healthy one. Yes, it is good to make progress in life, to make changes and improvements, and to "move up in the world." BUT, most often the changes and improvements that need to be made are not in our environment but in ourselves.
The truth is that no thing, no person, no job, no house, no place will ever be perfectly perfect. I know people who spent vast quantities of money building their dream home, and almost as soon as it was finished they found aspects of it to dislike. Couples who are "totally in love" have divorced within a year of the wedding. The ideal job inevitably loses some of its excitement , and the perfect city reveals itself to have rainy days, cranky people, and bad traffic just like anywhere else.

I am convinced that contentment is not something that happens to us, but rather it is something that we choose. Contentment is an attitude. Life will always have imperfections, but scripture teaches us that "man is that he might have joy" and I take God at His word on that. If we are meant to be happy, but circumstances will never be perfect, then clearly we can--and should--make the choice to be happy regardless of our circumstances.
I know that is usually easier said than done. I have to frequently remind myself to notice the little things that are good and right in my life and world. Sometimes they seem elusive, but the more I practice finding them the easier they become to find. Last year this month I issued a Thanksgiving Challenge to myself and to any readers who cared to join me--on Thanksgiving Day I posted 365 things I was thankful for (one for each day of the year). When I started writing the list it felt slow, laborious even, to come up with so many things...but as I progressed through the list it became easier and easier. When I reached #365 I realized that I could think of a half dozen more things to boot.

There is always something to be discontent about...but there is always something to be content about too. The real difference between contentment and discontentment is not what kind of life you have, but which things you choose to focus on.

So no, this year I'm not issuing a formal Thanksgiving Challenge like I did last year, however I am issuing an informal one: Take a good look at yourself and your level of personal contentment. If you are happy, then good for you! If you are not happy, then step up to the plate and make the choice to get happy--to make contentment yours. Because it's there available to all of us, if we'll just make the choice to have it.

Dear Mrs Hatfield...

...this is Mrs McCoy calling. I have said this already in private, but since I know that we have many mutual friends, and also that those friends are aware of the recent situation between us, I wanted to say it in public (in front of all them) too. I don't know if you will read this, but I wanted to say it anyway. I'm sorry for the misunderstandings. I'm sorry for the frustrations. I never wanted our business contract to damage our friendship and I'm sorry that it did.


It's an awkward thing, doing business with friends. Everybody has misunderstandings sometimes, but when money gets involved somehow it becomes more personal...harder to brush off or to forgive. I've carried out dozens of business transactions with friends and rarely had a problem, but perhaps it is inevitable that problems should arise now and then.
I've always tried to be honest and forthcoming, and while that usually serves me well I guess sometimes we make the mistake of assuming that something was understood when it wasn't...or we think we've discussed something but the other person didn't realize what we meant by it.
In my business dealings I've always tried to be fair--more than fair even (I'm notoriously self-deprecating), and I confess I take it a little personally when someone feels that I've been unfair to them. In these cases there is usually fault with both parties, and while I try to take responsibility (and apologize) for my part of it, I have to be fair to myself too and realize that sometimes it's not all me, and I can't fix everything, nor can I please all of the people all of the time.
It's unfortunate (in my opinion) that a business deal gone sour can turn the people sour too, but sometimes it does. It is hard to do business with friends, no question, because of the multi-faceted (and therefore complicated) nature that develops in the relationship. It can be hard to be roommates with a friend; it can be hard to go into business with a friend; it can be problematic to co-sign on a loan with a friend or family member... and while there are any number of reasons as to why, I think that it comes back to one main thing: friendships are built on feelings, intentions, and effort; business is built on facts, results, and cold hard cash. In some cases they work together harmoniously, and in some cases they do not. I'm sorry to have had to be part of one of the latter, but am thankful for my many experiences with the former.


(As a note to those parties who are the aforementioned mutual friends...I know you know more about the specific situation, but it's really between the Hs and us, so I don't want to talk about it. Therefore I won't be publishing any comments with any specifics about the people or situations involved. I just wanted to make a public apology and spend a few minutes musing over the topic in general.)