Saturday, June 23, 2012
I'm Back!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
This post is dedicated to my darling daughter who asked me to call a local radio station in order to win tickets to see her favorite band in concert. I WON!!! We'll be going to the concert in 3 days! Stay tuned.
This same darling daughter has been working very hard, babysitting and dog walking, to earn money, to buy a camera. She has enough now to get one, but not the best one. She even had a nice one that was her Christmas gift last year, and she was showing a lot of potential as a photographer. But someone stole it. Here's hoping we win this super nice one, so she can save her money for her future.
Blessings!
Monday, September 12, 2011
Epiphany
This morning I was folding laundry while I was thinking about the idea that in the USA, we have two major political parties. Either/or questions bug me!
One member of an online group I'm in said that a criterion for choosing your membership in one of these is whether your first concern is compassion or responsibility (autonomy/something else?)
I have been muddling over this . . . raised Republican, surrounded by mostly Republicans, sometimes bothered by the way they/we tend to think that our way is the only RIGHT and PRAGMATIC answer . . . then I thought that what really bothers me most is the idea that you're better off dying on your mission than coming home because of unworthiness. That might seem like a jump, but it has to do with compassion vs loyalty to the RULE. Sometimes when I'm doing the Love & Logic thing just right, I start to congratulate myself, and almost instantly, I loathe me.
I keep thinking of all these wonderful people who have lived very messy lives, because they love and are loved, and they're less concerned with the rules than with connecting to others. I realized that some people I know who have expressed that they feel unlovable because they are not perfect seem very brave to me, because I have the same underlying fear: if I break the rules, I'll get thrown away. But I was not always brave enough to stand up and speak my truth.
I lied to avoid disagreeing with my authority figure, and to keep the peace. But I don't like the settling for a lie, just to avoid being cast out.
Sadness, loneliness, despair.
Then I suddenly became aware, that to someone who insists that your honor is worth more than your life, I AM MY HONOR. HE DOESN'T WANT ME TO LIE OR SELL MYSELF. HE WANTS ME TO BE WHOLE. HE KNOWS MY LIFE HERE IS JUST A CHAPTER. SO IF HE SAYS THAT DEATH IS MORE HONORABLE THAN CHEATING, HE IS NOT DE-VALUING ME; HE'S ELEVATING ME OR ACKNOWLEDGING MY DIVINE CHARACTER AND INESTIMABLE VALUE.
Relief.
One member of an online group I'm in said that a criterion for choosing your membership in one of these is whether your first concern is compassion or responsibility (autonomy/something else?)
I have been muddling over this . . . raised Republican, surrounded by mostly Republicans, sometimes bothered by the way they/we tend to think that our way is the only RIGHT and PRAGMATIC answer . . . then I thought that what really bothers me most is the idea that you're better off dying on your mission than coming home because of unworthiness. That might seem like a jump, but it has to do with compassion vs loyalty to the RULE. Sometimes when I'm doing the Love & Logic thing just right, I start to congratulate myself, and almost instantly, I loathe me.
I keep thinking of all these wonderful people who have lived very messy lives, because they love and are loved, and they're less concerned with the rules than with connecting to others. I realized that some people I know who have expressed that they feel unlovable because they are not perfect seem very brave to me, because I have the same underlying fear: if I break the rules, I'll get thrown away. But I was not always brave enough to stand up and speak my truth.
I lied to avoid disagreeing with my authority figure, and to keep the peace. But I don't like the settling for a lie, just to avoid being cast out.
Sadness, loneliness, despair.
Then I suddenly became aware, that to someone who insists that your honor is worth more than your life, I AM MY HONOR. HE DOESN'T WANT ME TO LIE OR SELL MYSELF. HE WANTS ME TO BE WHOLE. HE KNOWS MY LIFE HERE IS JUST A CHAPTER. SO IF HE SAYS THAT DEATH IS MORE HONORABLE THAN CHEATING, HE IS NOT DE-VALUING ME; HE'S ELEVATING ME OR ACKNOWLEDGING MY DIVINE CHARACTER AND INESTIMABLE VALUE.
Relief.
Monday, May 9, 2011
New Beginnings
I found a great giveaway today at Carol Tuttle's web site.
I'm very interested in her Energy Profiling and Dressing Your Truth insights.
While I'm a classic Type 2, I'm finding I really enjoy Type 4 leaders.
Check it all out at thecarolblog.com
Here's a direct link to today's beautiful scarf giveaway:
http://thecarolblog.com/dressingyourtruth/from-the-dressing-your-truth-closet-enter-to-win-my-weekly-giveaway-10/comment-page-1#comment-12866
I'm very interested in her Energy Profiling and Dressing Your Truth insights.
While I'm a classic Type 2, I'm finding I really enjoy Type 4 leaders.
Check it all out at thecarolblog.com
Here's a direct link to today's beautiful scarf giveaway:
http://thecarolblog.com/dressingyourtruth/from-the-dressing-your-truth-closet-enter-to-win-my-weekly-giveaway-10/comment-page-1#comment-12866
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Little People Crack Me Up!
Playing Rummikub with Louella today, I was sitting on the floor. We were using a little exercise trampoline as our game table. I guess my spread-eagle stance (avoiding the tramp's legs) made my knee visible to her.
Louella: {Gasp} what happened to your knee?
Me: I think it's warts.
Louella: What are warts?
Me: They're like what's on my knee... And that, my dear, is circular reasoning.
Louella: What's circular reasoning?
Me: OK, circular reasoning is like if I asked you, 'What's your name?' and you tell me, 'Louella,' and then I ask you, 'What is Louella?' and you say, 'It's my name,' and then I ask you, 'What's a name?'
Louella, blue eyes sparkling, smiles a very smart smile.
We keep playing. I'm reinforcing counting, colors, order, matching . . . and she says, "Mom, what is Louella?" with a great big smile on her face.
Louella: {Gasp} what happened to your knee?
Me: I think it's warts.
Louella: What are warts?
Me: They're like what's on my knee... And that, my dear, is circular reasoning.
Louella: What's circular reasoning?
Me: OK, circular reasoning is like if I asked you, 'What's your name?' and you tell me, 'Louella,' and then I ask you, 'What is Louella?' and you say, 'It's my name,' and then I ask you, 'What's a name?'
Louella, blue eyes sparkling, smiles a very smart smile.
We keep playing. I'm reinforcing counting, colors, order, matching . . . and she says, "Mom, what is Louella?" with a great big smile on her face.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
God Loves His Children So Much!
A couple of days ago, I had the first opportunity in a long time to play the piano.
I had been sad, but now I was ecstatic!
I played children's songs from a church music book I'd received a strong impression to use this time, instead of the hymnal I was about to play from.
I was amazed at how good this one song sounded.
("We Are Different", Children's Songbook)
I had not played it for a very long time, but I was able to do it pretty well, and so I played it through several times, with feeling.
A little while later, I was driving my daughters to church during a blinding rainstorm.
I was very nervous, doubtful that I should even be trying to get to church during a downpour that could easily flood the old-town streets surrounding our little chapel.
But somehow, we had gotten in the car early enough, so I was able to take the long way, in order to avoid the more-likely-to-flood streets, and still make it to church on time. I decided to do that, and then as I continued to drive a little bit more slowly than I usually would, with the windshield wipers going as fast as they could, we sang the song I'd just played at home:
I know you, and you know me.
We are as different as the sun and the sea.
I know you, and you know me.
And that's the way it is supposed to be.
I help you, and you help me.
We learn from problems, and we're starting to see
I help you, and you help me.
And that's the way it is supposed to be.
I love you, and you love me.
We reach together for the best we can be.
I love you, and you love me.
And that's the way it is supposed to be!
The song has a Caribbean rhythm, and really is fun to sing.
I felt so much more calm and confident afterward.
After our worship service, I took my 4-y-o to the children's chapel, so that I could help her recite a scripture for the children's service.
The chapel was quickly filling up with darling energetic souls, and their devoted teachers, but the pianist was nowhere in sight.
I offered to play a few songs until she showed up, and soon began to play prelude music.
The pianist never showed up, probably because she's having terrible morning sickness.
I was blessed to participate in this most joyous children's worship.
My heart rejoiced with those innocent boys and girls as they sang their testimonies of truth in beautiful songs like "I am a Child of God" and "A Child's Prayer".
As I played newer songs, like "Scripture Power" and "I Know My Savior Loves Me", I was startled at how my childhood practice of sight-reading helped me to help the children.
God loves His children so much, that He prompted me to prepare to play for them.
And I felt so good, just being part of that blessing.
I had been sad, but now I was ecstatic!
I played children's songs from a church music book I'd received a strong impression to use this time, instead of the hymnal I was about to play from.
I was amazed at how good this one song sounded.
("We Are Different", Children's Songbook)
I had not played it for a very long time, but I was able to do it pretty well, and so I played it through several times, with feeling.
A little while later, I was driving my daughters to church during a blinding rainstorm.
I was very nervous, doubtful that I should even be trying to get to church during a downpour that could easily flood the old-town streets surrounding our little chapel.
But somehow, we had gotten in the car early enough, so I was able to take the long way, in order to avoid the more-likely-to-flood streets, and still make it to church on time. I decided to do that, and then as I continued to drive a little bit more slowly than I usually would, with the windshield wipers going as fast as they could, we sang the song I'd just played at home:
I know you, and you know me.
We are as different as the sun and the sea.
I know you, and you know me.
And that's the way it is supposed to be.
I help you, and you help me.
We learn from problems, and we're starting to see
I help you, and you help me.
And that's the way it is supposed to be.
I love you, and you love me.
We reach together for the best we can be.
I love you, and you love me.
And that's the way it is supposed to be!
The song has a Caribbean rhythm, and really is fun to sing.
I felt so much more calm and confident afterward.
After our worship service, I took my 4-y-o to the children's chapel, so that I could help her recite a scripture for the children's service.
The chapel was quickly filling up with darling energetic souls, and their devoted teachers, but the pianist was nowhere in sight.
I offered to play a few songs until she showed up, and soon began to play prelude music.
The pianist never showed up, probably because she's having terrible morning sickness.
I was blessed to participate in this most joyous children's worship.
My heart rejoiced with those innocent boys and girls as they sang their testimonies of truth in beautiful songs like "I am a Child of God" and "A Child's Prayer".
As I played newer songs, like "Scripture Power" and "I Know My Savior Loves Me", I was startled at how my childhood practice of sight-reading helped me to help the children.
God loves His children so much, that He prompted me to prepare to play for them.
And I felt so good, just being part of that blessing.
Truth for Tuesday: These are a Few of My Favorite Things
Getting a letter from someone I love
Being given the ability to do something for someone else that I didn't know I could do
Finding a greater love for others as I'm serving them
Hearing my daughters laugh
Seeing my sons smile
Feeling my husband relax
Seeing them excel
Hearing them sing together
Watching them learn
Feeling together
Being given the ability to do something for someone else that I didn't know I could do
Finding a greater love for others as I'm serving them
Hearing my daughters laugh
Seeing my sons smile
Feeling my husband relax
Seeing them excel
Hearing them sing together
Watching them learn
Feeling together
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Anxiously Engaged
Maxine Campbell was my hero. I never saw her sitting still. I never saw her standing still. If she was sitting, she was waiting for sacrament meeting to begin, but she was eagerly waiting, thinking, looking for someone, getting her scriptures out, reading, smiling at someone. If she was standing, she was on her way to teach a lesson. And her lessons were memorable!
She taught a powerful Relief Society lesson once about having meaningful family home evenings and having them consistently, and how the tradition became a legacy. I remember that she related to us how she had had a strong desire to have family home evening when her children were young, even though she had not grown up with it; and that she had had to prepare the lessons on her own, since Bishop Campbell traveled a lot; and that she used whatever she had on hand in order to make visual aids for the children. She even mentioned that sometimes when David was little, that Bishop had to call for an intermission, and have David run up and down the stairs, before resuming the lesson. No excuses.
Sister Campbell rescued me at least twice while I was a teenager. There was not a day that went by, it seemed, that my mom wasn't talking to, or about, Maxine. We had her number memorized, and that was long before the advent of caller ID. If Mom wasn't reachable, I knew I could call her best friend. She was always there. My teenage years were no worse than anyone else's, but they were awkward. Many times I was almost paralyzed with fear that I would say or do the wrong thing, and be forever judged for a single word. But when Sister Campbell was there rescuing me in my most embarrassing moments, she was so quick to put me at ease by telling me about her own. She talked to me as if I were her equal. She talked to me about every-day things like a dream she had had the night before, and her plan to send a word processor with Rod when he went off to college.
I remember Sister Campbell came to a baby shower my mom threw for me at Sister Christiansen's home. She made sure I knew that the gifts she brought were not just from her. She explained that although attending a baby shower was too painful for her daughter-in-law, who had already had two beautiful children, but who could have no more, that Sharee had definitely contributed. It was the cutest little pink Piglet outfit!
While I was teaching Primary, I once took a child to the bathroom, and Sister Campbell was there. She observed my interactions with the child, and then told me that I was a good teacher. I did not feel that I deserved the praise, but I felt so appreciated, and I really valued her opinion, because she was just so good.
When I was in the hospital for a short time, she came to visit. I knew she knew what I was going through. During her illness, I was impressed that I so often saw her at church. I heard the prognosis was not great, but she just looked so good! When I asked her how she was doing one Sunday, she just said, "Keep praying for me." And then she was off to take care of some church business. No excuses, no complaints.
Shortly after Sister Campbell had been diagnosed with cancer a second time, she attended our ward's fast and testimony meeting. She stood and started walking toward the pulpit. She tripped and fell. She got right back up and headed forward. She fell again. Up again, and forward she walked. And then she fell a third time. Undeterred, she walked to the pulpit and bore her remarkable testimony. I know my Savior lives.
At Sister Campbell's funeral, I learned, or was reminded, of things about her that surprised me a little bit. Not that they were hard to believe, but I just don't remember her telling me all that stuff, like about how she loved to dance and to go to the beach. I love those things, too. Come to think of it, I really relate to Sister Campbell. She loved my family, especially my mom. I want to be more like Maxine. I want to be a best friend to my mom. I want to give priceless gifts to my children and grandchildren. I want to be in the temple every week.
She taught a powerful Relief Society lesson once about having meaningful family home evenings and having them consistently, and how the tradition became a legacy. I remember that she related to us how she had had a strong desire to have family home evening when her children were young, even though she had not grown up with it; and that she had had to prepare the lessons on her own, since Bishop Campbell traveled a lot; and that she used whatever she had on hand in order to make visual aids for the children. She even mentioned that sometimes when David was little, that Bishop had to call for an intermission, and have David run up and down the stairs, before resuming the lesson. No excuses.
Sister Campbell rescued me at least twice while I was a teenager. There was not a day that went by, it seemed, that my mom wasn't talking to, or about, Maxine. We had her number memorized, and that was long before the advent of caller ID. If Mom wasn't reachable, I knew I could call her best friend. She was always there. My teenage years were no worse than anyone else's, but they were awkward. Many times I was almost paralyzed with fear that I would say or do the wrong thing, and be forever judged for a single word. But when Sister Campbell was there rescuing me in my most embarrassing moments, she was so quick to put me at ease by telling me about her own. She talked to me as if I were her equal. She talked to me about every-day things like a dream she had had the night before, and her plan to send a word processor with Rod when he went off to college.
I remember Sister Campbell came to a baby shower my mom threw for me at Sister Christiansen's home. She made sure I knew that the gifts she brought were not just from her. She explained that although attending a baby shower was too painful for her daughter-in-law, who had already had two beautiful children, but who could have no more, that Sharee had definitely contributed. It was the cutest little pink Piglet outfit!
While I was teaching Primary, I once took a child to the bathroom, and Sister Campbell was there. She observed my interactions with the child, and then told me that I was a good teacher. I did not feel that I deserved the praise, but I felt so appreciated, and I really valued her opinion, because she was just so good.
When I was in the hospital for a short time, she came to visit. I knew she knew what I was going through. During her illness, I was impressed that I so often saw her at church. I heard the prognosis was not great, but she just looked so good! When I asked her how she was doing one Sunday, she just said, "Keep praying for me." And then she was off to take care of some church business. No excuses, no complaints.
Shortly after Sister Campbell had been diagnosed with cancer a second time, she attended our ward's fast and testimony meeting. She stood and started walking toward the pulpit. She tripped and fell. She got right back up and headed forward. She fell again. Up again, and forward she walked. And then she fell a third time. Undeterred, she walked to the pulpit and bore her remarkable testimony. I know my Savior lives.
At Sister Campbell's funeral, I learned, or was reminded, of things about her that surprised me a little bit. Not that they were hard to believe, but I just don't remember her telling me all that stuff, like about how she loved to dance and to go to the beach. I love those things, too. Come to think of it, I really relate to Sister Campbell. She loved my family, especially my mom. I want to be more like Maxine. I want to be a best friend to my mom. I want to give priceless gifts to my children and grandchildren. I want to be in the temple every week.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
A Mama's Prayer
Fast Sunday. First one of the new year, and a new decade.
Kneeling to pray. But what to ask?
When there's so much to want, but nothing seems urgent. I pray for my son.
Sitting in Relief Society (women's church auxilary, largest & oldest in the world)
Sitting in the front row, nodding in response to the announcements and instructions. Changes are under way. Pray for understanding and confirmation.
Suddenly my mind's eye opens just enough so that instead of my dear sister at the podium facing me, I see the back of someone's legs in a public place. Struck hard from behind, someone slams the ground. It's Jack!
I close my eyes. I'm in the front row of the Relief Society room, with at least fifty women who are participating in a high-energy discussion--reverent, but close quarters, with women of all ages paying close attention--and the ladies at the front I'm trying to pay attention to with earnestness, I have to shut out by closing my eyes.
Dear Heavenly Father, Please just bless Jack. Really, really bless him. More even than ever, please.
meetings end. family gathers. we travel home. we break our fast. we cook and eat.
E-mailing my son a nice long newsletter-ish weekly message that evening, I suddenly remember my vision. I write to Jack about it, and then press "send".
Bedtime prayers and teeth brushing. The tucking in and tickles.
Next morning, checking emails. A message from Jack! I read, smiling, about everything from what he can buy at the Russian grocery store (called Magnet), to how he has adapted so well to the cold weather, that anything above 10 degrees is hot, and he starts sweating.
It's pretty rough, I'm not going to lie. I almost had someone punch me in the back when I wasn't watching the other day, but he decided to throw a snowball instead. Thanks for praying for me Mom. I'm pretty sure that helped. I would've fallen to the ground for sure. Some other elders in the mission got hit by a gazell on the sidewalk. It's a small bus. Well the success we have is really great and I love the work. Please keep praying. I'm in solnechniy right now in saratov. Love you all goodbye!
Kneeling to pray. But what to ask?
When there's so much to want, but nothing seems urgent. I pray for my son.
Sitting in Relief Society (women's church auxilary, largest & oldest in the world)
Sitting in the front row, nodding in response to the announcements and instructions. Changes are under way. Pray for understanding and confirmation.
Suddenly my mind's eye opens just enough so that instead of my dear sister at the podium facing me, I see the back of someone's legs in a public place. Struck hard from behind, someone slams the ground. It's Jack!
I close my eyes. I'm in the front row of the Relief Society room, with at least fifty women who are participating in a high-energy discussion--reverent, but close quarters, with women of all ages paying close attention--and the ladies at the front I'm trying to pay attention to with earnestness, I have to shut out by closing my eyes.
Dear Heavenly Father, Please just bless Jack. Really, really bless him. More even than ever, please.
meetings end. family gathers. we travel home. we break our fast. we cook and eat.
E-mailing my son a nice long newsletter-ish weekly message that evening, I suddenly remember my vision. I write to Jack about it, and then press "send".
Bedtime prayers and teeth brushing. The tucking in and tickles.
Next morning, checking emails. A message from Jack! I read, smiling, about everything from what he can buy at the Russian grocery store (called Magnet), to how he has adapted so well to the cold weather, that anything above 10 degrees is hot, and he starts sweating.
It's pretty rough, I'm not going to lie. I almost had someone punch me in the back when I wasn't watching the other day, but he decided to throw a snowball instead. Thanks for praying for me Mom. I'm pretty sure that helped. I would've fallen to the ground for sure. Some other elders in the mission got hit by a gazell on the sidewalk. It's a small bus. Well the success we have is really great and I love the work. Please keep praying. I'm in solnechniy right now in saratov. Love you all goodbye!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Day 2 Post 2
Christmas is coming.
I'm thinking of baking tiny pumpkin pies.
I drank more water, took my supplements, and ate a bowl of spaghetti with pesto.
Later, I ate an apple, and some heavily buttered popcorn. The apple meant that I ate less popcorn than I otherwise would have.
For dinner, I had a homemade minestrone I guess you'd call it, with 2 small pieces of cheesy bread. Very satisfied.
Later, I ate a few of those gummy vitamins that are supposed to be for my kids. I love 'em. They have to be better for me than candy, right?
Did you ever notice how much exercise speeds up your digestion?
I'm thinking of baking tiny pumpkin pies.
I drank more water, took my supplements, and ate a bowl of spaghetti with pesto.
Later, I ate an apple, and some heavily buttered popcorn. The apple meant that I ate less popcorn than I otherwise would have.
For dinner, I had a homemade minestrone I guess you'd call it, with 2 small pieces of cheesy bread. Very satisfied.
Later, I ate a few of those gummy vitamins that are supposed to be for my kids. I love 'em. They have to be better for me than candy, right?
Did you ever notice how much exercise speeds up your digestion?
Day 2 Starts off with a BANG!
I ate one yummy fat-burning exercise nutrition bar, and drank a lot of water, and went for a walk around my neighborhood. That was a whopping eight-tenths of a mile. Then I came home, shed the coat, gloves, and shoes, and stepped on the trampoline. My age showed quickly. While my momentum was up, I wanted to jump high, but my neck and my knee revolted! So I bounced a while. My teenagers revolted. *sigh* So the walking was about 20 minutes, and the bouncing, 5 minutes. My yoga DVD won't work. Gonna have to get creative. Anyone got some salsa music?
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Day 1, Part 2
So, after the first half of the day, I didn't do quite as well on eating. But I am going to report it anyway.
1 serving brown rice with pesto
multivitamin
2 servings spaghetti w/ meaty red sauce
4 small pieces cheesy bread
part of the crusts from my daughter's pecan raisin bread
supplements
water
It's obvious I need to eat more vegetables.
1 serving brown rice with pesto
multivitamin
2 servings spaghetti w/ meaty red sauce
4 small pieces cheesy bread
part of the crusts from my daughter's pecan raisin bread
supplements
water
It's obvious I need to eat more vegetables.
Accountability Versus FUN!
A friend of mine bravely started a wellness blog to help his friends help him.
My sister has been doing something similar. Sponsorship!
Brave and smart.
I'm realizing that I need to do the same. But I don't need to re-invent the wheel. I'm giving them credit and following their lead!
So here goes:
I weigh at least 50 lb more than I want to weigh.
I wear at least 8 sizes bigger than I want to wear.
Wait, are all the numbers counted? Seems like the odd numbers are always skipped. Hmm.
Anyway. I'm going to ask you to check up on me from time to time.
You get to decide how often you check in.
I commit to posting daily.
I'll post both what I eat, and how (& how long) I exercise.
You get to choose whether you sponsor me, and if you do, what level, and what incentive.
I'm not asking for money, though. People in my sister's circle pledged incentives like getting a haircut or going shopping or going dancing with her when she's met a certain milestone.
If you feel so moved, feel free to pledge an incentive in the comments section.
So far today, I have eaten:
1 serving dry Life cereal
1 small apple
1 bowl spaghetti w/ meaty red sauce
1 jumbo banana nut muffin
2 bites of a banana
water and supplements
Since today is the Sabbath, I doubt I'll get a lot of exercise. I may go for a walk. I know with God's help, nothing is impossible. I know lots of things I should do, and I know what NOT to do. My plan is to focus on gratitude as I actively dance down to a size 8. I'm picturing that awesome youTube video of the piano staircase, with my goal being to be more and more active, having more and more fun. Have you seen it? Click on the title to this post.
My sister has been doing something similar. Sponsorship!
Brave and smart.
I'm realizing that I need to do the same. But I don't need to re-invent the wheel. I'm giving them credit and following their lead!
So here goes:
I weigh at least 50 lb more than I want to weigh.
I wear at least 8 sizes bigger than I want to wear.
Wait, are all the numbers counted? Seems like the odd numbers are always skipped. Hmm.
Anyway. I'm going to ask you to check up on me from time to time.
You get to decide how often you check in.
I commit to posting daily.
I'll post both what I eat, and how (& how long) I exercise.
You get to choose whether you sponsor me, and if you do, what level, and what incentive.
I'm not asking for money, though. People in my sister's circle pledged incentives like getting a haircut or going shopping or going dancing with her when she's met a certain milestone.
If you feel so moved, feel free to pledge an incentive in the comments section.
So far today, I have eaten:
1 serving dry Life cereal
1 small apple
1 bowl spaghetti w/ meaty red sauce
1 jumbo banana nut muffin
2 bites of a banana
water and supplements
Since today is the Sabbath, I doubt I'll get a lot of exercise. I may go for a walk. I know with God's help, nothing is impossible. I know lots of things I should do, and I know what NOT to do. My plan is to focus on gratitude as I actively dance down to a size 8. I'm picturing that awesome youTube video of the piano staircase, with my goal being to be more and more active, having more and more fun. Have you seen it? Click on the title to this post.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Gratitude
Today I knew that playing Christmas and other hymns on my piano would make me feel good.
It really, really did.
I played Sweet Hour of Prayer, Hark, the Herald Angels Sing, and lots of other favorites.
Then my four-year-old ran up and hugged me. Just when I think life can't get any better, she asks me to cuddle up with her!
I LOVE that girl :)
It really, really did.
I played Sweet Hour of Prayer, Hark, the Herald Angels Sing, and lots of other favorites.
Then my four-year-old ran up and hugged me. Just when I think life can't get any better, she asks me to cuddle up with her!
I LOVE that girl :)
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Talking to Strangers
Imagine you're in a public place. Say a school. Maybe you're at a junior high school choir concert, for example. Purely hypothetical. And say you have a special-needs 8-y-o daughter who loves to talk to strangers. Only they don't stay strangers long.
You try to keep up with her, to set some limits, and sometimes, you have to resort to damage control.
Just imagine you are panicked for just a moment, when you realize she's gotten away while you helped another daughter get a drink of water, or while you were being introduced to your older daughter's school friends.
But then you locate her, and quickly catch up to her, because she's actually not running, at least, not for now. She's got a stranger by the hand, swinging that arm back and forth, and saying, "What's your name? What school do you go to? Do you ride in a carseat? Are you gonna have a baby? Why?"
Sometimes you feel compelled to answer her questions for this kindly stranger, who has miraculously not objected to being touched, handled, and interrogated. You do feel compelled, right? I mean, come on. What do you say?
And aren't you glad when this sweet stranger says kind things back to your darling, like when they ask questions in return? Oh, yes you are. Most definitely! Glad, and relieved. Some precious souls are just so understanding, and I LOVE them.
You try to keep up with her, to set some limits, and sometimes, you have to resort to damage control.
Just imagine you are panicked for just a moment, when you realize she's gotten away while you helped another daughter get a drink of water, or while you were being introduced to your older daughter's school friends.
But then you locate her, and quickly catch up to her, because she's actually not running, at least, not for now. She's got a stranger by the hand, swinging that arm back and forth, and saying, "What's your name? What school do you go to? Do you ride in a carseat? Are you gonna have a baby? Why?"
Sometimes you feel compelled to answer her questions for this kindly stranger, who has miraculously not objected to being touched, handled, and interrogated. You do feel compelled, right? I mean, come on. What do you say?
And aren't you glad when this sweet stranger says kind things back to your darling, like when they ask questions in return? Oh, yes you are. Most definitely! Glad, and relieved. Some precious souls are just so understanding, and I LOVE them.
Friday, October 9, 2009
H.E.A.R.T.
Healing & Education for African Refugees in Texas
Sometimes when I'm working on one thing, I get inspiration for another.
I love it when that happens!
Sometimes when I'm working on one thing, I get inspiration for another.
I love it when that happens!
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Learning and Yearning
Today I went to a class. I took more than 2 pages of notes, front and back. I'm not used to going to classes and taking notes, either.
Not that I don't love learning. I really really do. I want to go back to school so bad, I can SMELL it. Seriously. Today I smelled my alma mater on my daughter when she came home. Bandaids!
Anyway. This was a class wherein I learn to be an advocate for my special-needs daughter, who completely baffles me. I was brought to tears twice while I was there. There's just so much to learn, so much to do, and wow, am I overwhelmed on so many fronts.
I had left for class this morning, full of hope and determination and ideas and wanting to jot all sorts of things down that were popping into my head on the way there. I was pumped! But while I was there, I seemed to have so much less confidence and enthusiasm, so much less drive to ask the questions that I can't articulate.
Do I just not know the lingo? No. Am I a brand-new mom of this darling special girl? No, she's 8 years old. Am I new to the school, the district, or the state? No, it's been 5 years she's attended school here, in the district I grew up in.
I just want a silver bullet still. I want the book or class that tells me what kind of food I can cook that will nourish her mind enough to make her able to learn the same as everyone else. I want the medical diagnosis still that will tell me which organ failed her and how to revive or restore it. I want the cure, for me and for her. I want to know, not how to navigate the system of education for those who seem less able to learn, but how to navigate around all the existing systems, to the one that lifts us out of this mist of darkness.
And to be really honest, I have to admit that I was crying about losing my sons, who are making their own ways without much help from me. And I was crying about not being the other moms there, who I feel guilty for wishing to be.
One of them had a much needier child, the same age as mine, but they have plenty of money. That stay-at-home mom was as sharp as a person could be, and was a very willing and assertive advocate for her daughter.
The other one had a much younger child, with a concrete medical diagnosis, and she had a plan, and lots of services already in place. That stay-at-home mom was also very sharp, with a clear vision of what she wants to do, and apparently, the money to do it.
It wasn't just the money that I coveted, although that's a part of it. I was grieving. I still am.
Not that I don't love learning. I really really do. I want to go back to school so bad, I can SMELL it. Seriously. Today I smelled my alma mater on my daughter when she came home. Bandaids!
Anyway. This was a class wherein I learn to be an advocate for my special-needs daughter, who completely baffles me. I was brought to tears twice while I was there. There's just so much to learn, so much to do, and wow, am I overwhelmed on so many fronts.
I had left for class this morning, full of hope and determination and ideas and wanting to jot all sorts of things down that were popping into my head on the way there. I was pumped! But while I was there, I seemed to have so much less confidence and enthusiasm, so much less drive to ask the questions that I can't articulate.
Do I just not know the lingo? No. Am I a brand-new mom of this darling special girl? No, she's 8 years old. Am I new to the school, the district, or the state? No, it's been 5 years she's attended school here, in the district I grew up in.
I just want a silver bullet still. I want the book or class that tells me what kind of food I can cook that will nourish her mind enough to make her able to learn the same as everyone else. I want the medical diagnosis still that will tell me which organ failed her and how to revive or restore it. I want the cure, for me and for her. I want to know, not how to navigate the system of education for those who seem less able to learn, but how to navigate around all the existing systems, to the one that lifts us out of this mist of darkness.
And to be really honest, I have to admit that I was crying about losing my sons, who are making their own ways without much help from me. And I was crying about not being the other moms there, who I feel guilty for wishing to be.
One of them had a much needier child, the same age as mine, but they have plenty of money. That stay-at-home mom was as sharp as a person could be, and was a very willing and assertive advocate for her daughter.
The other one had a much younger child, with a concrete medical diagnosis, and she had a plan, and lots of services already in place. That stay-at-home mom was also very sharp, with a clear vision of what she wants to do, and apparently, the money to do it.
It wasn't just the money that I coveted, although that's a part of it. I was grieving. I still am.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
One Day at a Time
I have this darling page-a-day calendar by Mary Engelbreit. (Sorry I was unable to get the link to work in the title, but if you want to see Mary's art, just go to http://www.maryengelbreit.com) It was a gift from a great old friend of mine named Barbara.
Each page has a colorful Mary Engelbreit (ME) drawing on it, sometimes with a quote. I've been staring at these pictures and quotes this week.
On Monday, July 6th, the picture is of a young girl standing on the beach, pouring a collection of seashells from her pail onto the sand. Within 4 days, my runaway teen will be pouring out the contents of his backpack onto our living room floor, the color of sand, and showing me the shells he collected at Galveston. But for now, I look at this whimsical drawing of a swimsuit-wearing cutie-pie whose swim cap looks like something from a magazine. It's a lovely sunset-inspired color, with a big purple flower that only Mary Engelbreit would have thought to decorate it with, and oh, there are these pretty little curls sticking out all around her neck and face. The carefree feeling of this picture, an escape in which beauty is frozen yet glowing in every detail . . . I need to have this kind of escape. I need to be a child, adoring the beauties of nature, and imagine my collection of favorites, tumbling slow-motion from my own colorful pail, that I can play with and treasure . . . but for now, I am frozen in this place where I must call the sheriff, report my son as a runaway, and give the deputy his picture. Slow-motion, for sure, but not an escape.
On Tuesday July 7th, I see on my calendar, the drawing of a young skinny blond boy flexing his nearly invisible bicep, with a proud closed-eyes grin, accompanied by the quote: "Believe that you have it, and you have it." (Anonymous) My runaway blond-haired boy believes he does not have an addiction, or a problem; therefore (at least in his mind), he has none. Missing for a little over 24 hours, he returns home. When he arrives, we are away. At the temple, with his older brother, who is about his Father's business. The firstborn, he is not perfect. He is looking forward to being able to serve his brothers and sisters in Russia for two whole years, and he already misses his little bro. After the temple ceremony, we take family pictures in front of this palace, and then my husband and oldest son and oldest daughter travel with the extended family away from town, and I come home to what should be a dark and empty house, but instead is brightly lighted, smells funny, and feels very cold. After being greeted by my newly-returned prodigal son without a key, who broke and entered, I call the precinct again to let them know my runaway is home.
On Wednesday July 8th, my calendar shows me a glimpse of a father carrying his blond-haired toddler on a wooded path toward distant mountains, as the little boy points toward this horizon that reminds me of our former home. My blond-haired blue-eyed baby boy is craving escape and adventure, like he used to have, back near the mountains. Missing out on the especially-for-our-family's-teens-trip out-of-town with his cousins, brother, and sister, and dad, this thrill-seeker leaves again, refusing treatment. I call the precinct 5 number again (again, again!), and put all my friends and relatives on alert. Seven long hours after leaving, he shows up back at home again, this time willing to get checked into rehab. We drive the girls to my folks' place, and then to a psychiatric hospital, which turns out not to be the right kind of place for him. We are turned away, and we go home with a list of other possibilities. After 1:30 a.m., I fall asleep in my bed, alone.
On Thursday July 9th, the drawing on my calendar is of a man's arm holding a bouquet of flowers, and a woman's arms holding a vase. The caption is "A soul without a mate is like a vase without flowers." My husband is out of town. I feel I have to take care of getting our boy the treatment he needs, all by myself. I'm grateful to have a husband who has a job and insurance to cover the cost of this great care, and for parents and friends who are just a phone call away, ready and willing and able to fill in for me, take care of the children. My son has not a friend in the world that he really accepts love from. His only friend that he feels close to gave him enough pot to get him high, and then enough more to make him extremely sick. Said "friend" then dragged my son to the back yard before leaving him in the dirt to vomit alone and be chewed up by spiders and bugs. But that was Monday. Today, we take a tour of the wonderful place where my son will be tucked away for hopefully 30 days or more.
On Friday July 10th, the calendar features a darling young auburn-haired bookworm whose dreamscape includes a moonlit night at the beach, where a tuxedoed gentleman puts his white-gloved hand on the shoulder of a beautiful red-headed young lady in a ball gown adorned with flowers, ribbons, and jewels. The caption is "Use your imagination." I've done way too much of that! Just last night, my blondie told me that he always used to dream of wearing a brand-new tux every day. That goes along with his James Bond fantasy, I suppose. Today, I check my son into a prevention and recovery center for adolescents who have abused drugs and alcohol. This place's nickname is the same as the name we all use for a neighborhood playground. This place is beautiful, this place where my little boy will sleep, eat, study, and play. When he sits in the meeting room, he can look out these misty windows and see a gazebo, and ivy, so romantic. My dreamscape involves a 30-day miracle, a son with softened heart and a willingness to change.
Each page has a colorful Mary Engelbreit (ME) drawing on it, sometimes with a quote. I've been staring at these pictures and quotes this week.
On Monday, July 6th, the picture is of a young girl standing on the beach, pouring a collection of seashells from her pail onto the sand. Within 4 days, my runaway teen will be pouring out the contents of his backpack onto our living room floor, the color of sand, and showing me the shells he collected at Galveston. But for now, I look at this whimsical drawing of a swimsuit-wearing cutie-pie whose swim cap looks like something from a magazine. It's a lovely sunset-inspired color, with a big purple flower that only Mary Engelbreit would have thought to decorate it with, and oh, there are these pretty little curls sticking out all around her neck and face. The carefree feeling of this picture, an escape in which beauty is frozen yet glowing in every detail . . . I need to have this kind of escape. I need to be a child, adoring the beauties of nature, and imagine my collection of favorites, tumbling slow-motion from my own colorful pail, that I can play with and treasure . . . but for now, I am frozen in this place where I must call the sheriff, report my son as a runaway, and give the deputy his picture. Slow-motion, for sure, but not an escape.
On Tuesday July 7th, I see on my calendar, the drawing of a young skinny blond boy flexing his nearly invisible bicep, with a proud closed-eyes grin, accompanied by the quote: "Believe that you have it, and you have it." (Anonymous) My runaway blond-haired boy believes he does not have an addiction, or a problem; therefore (at least in his mind), he has none. Missing for a little over 24 hours, he returns home. When he arrives, we are away. At the temple, with his older brother, who is about his Father's business. The firstborn, he is not perfect. He is looking forward to being able to serve his brothers and sisters in Russia for two whole years, and he already misses his little bro. After the temple ceremony, we take family pictures in front of this palace, and then my husband and oldest son and oldest daughter travel with the extended family away from town, and I come home to what should be a dark and empty house, but instead is brightly lighted, smells funny, and feels very cold. After being greeted by my newly-returned prodigal son without a key, who broke and entered, I call the precinct again to let them know my runaway is home.
On Wednesday July 8th, my calendar shows me a glimpse of a father carrying his blond-haired toddler on a wooded path toward distant mountains, as the little boy points toward this horizon that reminds me of our former home. My blond-haired blue-eyed baby boy is craving escape and adventure, like he used to have, back near the mountains. Missing out on the especially-for-our-family's-teens-trip out-of-town with his cousins, brother, and sister, and dad, this thrill-seeker leaves again, refusing treatment. I call the precinct 5 number again (again, again!), and put all my friends and relatives on alert. Seven long hours after leaving, he shows up back at home again, this time willing to get checked into rehab. We drive the girls to my folks' place, and then to a psychiatric hospital, which turns out not to be the right kind of place for him. We are turned away, and we go home with a list of other possibilities. After 1:30 a.m., I fall asleep in my bed, alone.
On Thursday July 9th, the drawing on my calendar is of a man's arm holding a bouquet of flowers, and a woman's arms holding a vase. The caption is "A soul without a mate is like a vase without flowers." My husband is out of town. I feel I have to take care of getting our boy the treatment he needs, all by myself. I'm grateful to have a husband who has a job and insurance to cover the cost of this great care, and for parents and friends who are just a phone call away, ready and willing and able to fill in for me, take care of the children. My son has not a friend in the world that he really accepts love from. His only friend that he feels close to gave him enough pot to get him high, and then enough more to make him extremely sick. Said "friend" then dragged my son to the back yard before leaving him in the dirt to vomit alone and be chewed up by spiders and bugs. But that was Monday. Today, we take a tour of the wonderful place where my son will be tucked away for hopefully 30 days or more.
On Friday July 10th, the calendar features a darling young auburn-haired bookworm whose dreamscape includes a moonlit night at the beach, where a tuxedoed gentleman puts his white-gloved hand on the shoulder of a beautiful red-headed young lady in a ball gown adorned with flowers, ribbons, and jewels. The caption is "Use your imagination." I've done way too much of that! Just last night, my blondie told me that he always used to dream of wearing a brand-new tux every day. That goes along with his James Bond fantasy, I suppose. Today, I check my son into a prevention and recovery center for adolescents who have abused drugs and alcohol. This place's nickname is the same as the name we all use for a neighborhood playground. This place is beautiful, this place where my little boy will sleep, eat, study, and play. When he sits in the meeting room, he can look out these misty windows and see a gazebo, and ivy, so romantic. My dreamscape involves a 30-day miracle, a son with softened heart and a willingness to change.
Friday, July 3, 2009
To everything, turn, turn, turn, there is a season
We've had a lot of funerals lately. A lot of people from church, and an aunt, and an uncle, and a slew of celebrities. While these losses affect others more than they do us, since everyone in our immediate family is still with us, it's hard not to notice, and wonder. I know those folks are in a better place, and I'm so grateful for that understanding. But as these ranks up and march away, I can't help but notice they're not all that old. And I didn't know enough about them before they died.
Then there's my baby boy, all grown up and ready to go on a mission, or almost ready. He's taking a big step in just 4 days. I'm thrilled for him, so glad he's making a big commitment to the Lord. This is a season of joy.
Then there's my other baby boy, so tall, artistic, clever and handsome, but so troubled. This is a season of sadness.
Then there are the darling daughters we adore. Drama queens, all four! This is a season of turning and turning and twirling for joy!
Then there's my baby boy, all grown up and ready to go on a mission, or almost ready. He's taking a big step in just 4 days. I'm thrilled for him, so glad he's making a big commitment to the Lord. This is a season of joy.
Then there's my other baby boy, so tall, artistic, clever and handsome, but so troubled. This is a season of sadness.
Then there are the darling daughters we adore. Drama queens, all four! This is a season of turning and turning and twirling for joy!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
If Your Child Gets Stuck in a Baby Swing . . .
...here's what you do. Ignore the yelling of strangers, codependent teens climbing the wrought iron fence between the park and the pool. Even when they gasp, cover their mouths, point, and yell, "Call the fire department!", remember your calm old friend Diane. She told her daughter that since she climbed up the tree, she could also climb down. You're not too far away to see what's going on. You saw this coming. Your 7-y-o dear daughter is not going to die. She may be really really stuck, as the smoking stranger insists, but that doesn't really change anything, now does it? Let him try to dump your darling, 80-lb daughter out of the baby swing on her head by trying to turn the whole thing upside down!
You got up on top of that graffitied multi-slide playground hunk of plastic and metal in order to see something, and see something you SHOULD. Your 12-y-o daughter is competing in the very first swim meet of her life, and you are not about to miss it just because your darling 7-y-o wanted to swing like a baby. You won't actually see her swim because you can only glimpse, over the sea of swimmers and their families and their canopies, a tiny patch of pool, just the last two lanes, in the middle of their race. But you don't know that yet, and you don't want to feel guilty later, so you just keep those numb feet planted right next to the curly slide, and lean on that heavy-duty plastic.
And besides, who wants to get any closer to the drama, and risk getting kicked?
Be sure to tell that darling 7-y-o to calm down, and that you're not coming down to help while she's kicking and screaming. And when her 9-y-o sister whispers that this is embarrassing and that people are taking pictures, just keep your focus on that oldest sister, the one blissfully unaware that this drama is unfolding just yards away from her, but who is probably sadly aware that no one she loves is watching her swim. Even in that crowd of crocodiles and piranhas and all their families, how can she not notice that she does not feel the gaze of her family, or hear their voices cheering her on?
But when you are good and sure that you have done all you could do to see her swim, and to let the 7-y-o feel the weight of her consequences, go straight over to her and squat right under that baby swing, and pull with all your might on that swing, while the kindly stranger and your older child also pull with all of theirs (him on the 7-y-o, and sister on the swing), and that darling 7-y-o pushes her feet on your thighs, until you feel your heart skip a beat, and the stranger says, "Wiggle!", and you ALL do, and she finally slips free.
Then go home and do nothing, because nothing is what you will get done around the house, because your darling 7-y-o daughter will be asking you and telling you all about that dramatic event all evening long. She will say, "I'm never going to the park again!" and you will try to reassure her that you understand she's afraid of getting stuck again, but then you'll give in to the temptation to tell her that you just don't believe that she'll never go there again.
You got up on top of that graffitied multi-slide playground hunk of plastic and metal in order to see something, and see something you SHOULD. Your 12-y-o daughter is competing in the very first swim meet of her life, and you are not about to miss it just because your darling 7-y-o wanted to swing like a baby. You won't actually see her swim because you can only glimpse, over the sea of swimmers and their families and their canopies, a tiny patch of pool, just the last two lanes, in the middle of their race. But you don't know that yet, and you don't want to feel guilty later, so you just keep those numb feet planted right next to the curly slide, and lean on that heavy-duty plastic.
And besides, who wants to get any closer to the drama, and risk getting kicked?
Be sure to tell that darling 7-y-o to calm down, and that you're not coming down to help while she's kicking and screaming. And when her 9-y-o sister whispers that this is embarrassing and that people are taking pictures, just keep your focus on that oldest sister, the one blissfully unaware that this drama is unfolding just yards away from her, but who is probably sadly aware that no one she loves is watching her swim. Even in that crowd of crocodiles and piranhas and all their families, how can she not notice that she does not feel the gaze of her family, or hear their voices cheering her on?
But when you are good and sure that you have done all you could do to see her swim, and to let the 7-y-o feel the weight of her consequences, go straight over to her and squat right under that baby swing, and pull with all your might on that swing, while the kindly stranger and your older child also pull with all of theirs (him on the 7-y-o, and sister on the swing), and that darling 7-y-o pushes her feet on your thighs, until you feel your heart skip a beat, and the stranger says, "Wiggle!", and you ALL do, and she finally slips free.
Then go home and do nothing, because nothing is what you will get done around the house, because your darling 7-y-o daughter will be asking you and telling you all about that dramatic event all evening long. She will say, "I'm never going to the park again!" and you will try to reassure her that you understand she's afraid of getting stuck again, but then you'll give in to the temptation to tell her that you just don't believe that she'll never go there again.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Adamic (Eveish) Language
At the grocery store recently, I was pushing a bright blue car cart with my two youngest darlings at the steering wheels. We were headed down the health food aisle for some sunflower seeds when Louella burst out with "Donut catchers! Can we get donut catchers?" I looked where she was pointing, and saw only pumpkin seeds. Sure enough, these little libido-raising snacks were the very catchers she was asking for. I agreed to buy some, and had a good time telling everyone who would listen about the new name these seeds had been given. When dh Sonny heard the story, he was a little less surprised than I thought he would be. He had been out of town on a campout with our son on the day of the donut catcher christening. And on that day, over two hours away, for the first time in just about forever, he was eating donuts.
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