Divergent Pathways

Nostalgia on Auto Pilot

2012-01-17T00:21:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I passed my old car on the freeway. It wasn’t my EXACT old car. But it looked just like it -- same body style and color as well as make and model. And I felt this inexplicable fondness as I followed it up the highway. It even made me a little wistful, but not sad. It’s just that every time I see another bluish-greenish-grey Honda Pilot on the road, or even in a parking lot somewhere, I still see us. I see our family. Our life, changing lanes right there in front of me.

Taken on my birthday weekend, an impromptu trip to the Grand Canyon, circa 2005.

I see our trip to Newport for Thanksgiving, our trip to Los Angeles to see Earth, Wind and Fire at the Hollywood Bowl, a trip to Colorado to explore the Garden of the Gods, and a handful of trips to Sun Valley, Idaho for family reunions. I see us house-hunting and making a big, interstate move. But not just the big stuff. I also see a hundred trips to grandparents’ homes to rough-house with cousins. I see us piling all Josh’s belongings in--literally filling every inch of space from the floor to the roof--to move him home for the summer. I see the back crammed with art supplies, ready to take me off on a painting adventure...to Wyoming, California, Cayucos, Kayenta....wherever the muse awaits. I’m amazed that there can be so much nostalgia attached to one car.

But then I remember my very first car: a spanking-new Toyota Celica, gunmetal gray and shaped like a bullet. It symbolized freedom, independence, success. I bought it right after I got my first real job as a designer. Jeff and I did most of our dating in that car, and we drove it back and forth from Salt Lake to Los Angeles so many times we had every stretch of I-15 completely memorized. The Celica was also our honeymoon getaway car (after we washed off the shaving cream and streamers and oreos).

And once, I spilled a quart of homemade ice cream in the trunk. I promptly cleaned it up, not realizing some had seeped under the mat and into the wheel well. In the full swelter of summer, it quickly created the foulest stench imaginable; like vomit on steroids. Yet I couldn’t find the source to save my life. Or my gag reflex. Once we discovered the epicenter of the stink and vacuumed it up, we tried to disguise the remaining odor with one of those cardboard tree-thingies from the car wash. The scent was called “Spring Magic,” which we quickly learned was a euphemism for “retch-triggering old-lady perfume gone viral”. It smelled even worse than the original odor it was supposed to mask. We still remember, because it made us so nauseated we finally had to pull off the freeway and throw it out.

And then I remember how quickly the Celica disappeared. Early one morning we were on our way to stake choir practice. Francis Dauzat came out of nowhere, still on his pain medication from last week’s surgery, with a patch over one eye, and turned right in front of us, allowing no time to stop. There we were, a mass of mangled steel and broken glass, but no one was hurt -- not even the baby our friend Karen was carrying inside her. I remember calling the insurance company and the agent responding, “Frank again?” That’s not a good thing when you’re on a first-name basis with the folks who process insurance claims. And just like that I lost some of that freedom and independence, replacing it instead with a 4-door Mazda, and motherhood.

But I don’t miss that sporty little Celica quite as much as the white Subaru Wagon with the red and blue stripes on the sides. My heart still skips a beat if I see one of those babies on the road. Because that was the white stallion my prince rode in on when he came and swept me off my feet. That car meant, “Jeff is here.” That was the car I saw parked in front of our house when I was came home from a date with a different guy. (Total Ginger Grant/Eva Grubb moment.) As soon as my date dropped me off I ran searching for Jeff. And fortunately found him. That was also the car that met up with my Celica at the exact time at the exact same intersection. We both instinctively stopped right then and there and jumped out of our cars, and met in the middle of the intersection, falling into an embrace, followed by The Kiss That Could Stop Traffic. Little did I know, that same car, just seven months later, would be our wedding present from Jeff’s parents. Years later, long after we were married, my heart would still skip a beat whenever I saw the Subaru pull up, because it meant Daddy was home from work. It meant “Jeff is here.”

And now? I love our new car. Love it. (Except for the neck-contorting “head rest,” which is actually tricky sales copy for “torture device.”) I love the way it handles, and the clean interior, and the fancy backing-up camera. But I’m not nostalgic when I see it pull up. It’s a little too new for that. So far, I just love that the way we acquired it felt like a total miracle! And although that’s a terrific start, I know we haven’t made nearly enough memories in it yet. But we will.

Linking up to Just Write with my friend Heather of the EO.

Room in My Inn

2011-12-02T01:07:00.001-07:00

Last Christmas a mother robin built her nest on our front porch, tucked away in the limbs of a little artificial pine tree we keep lit there during the holidays. I loved seeing Mama Bird swoop down and watch over her precious blue eggs. I loved hearing her sing to them in the mornings. But most of all I loved that she saw our home—our porch—as a safe place, a sheltering space.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to making space these days. In just a couple of weeks my younger sister and her family will be landing at our house for a night or two as she prepares to give birth to their sixth child, a baby boy. I love the idea of making space for them, making space for extended family, making space for the delivery of a newborn...especially at this time of year!

That same sister is contemplating making room herself. Not room in the inn, mind you, but room in the van! Their van seats seven...and baby makes eight. This is weighing heavily on me. I know they don’t have the means to purchase another car, no matter how used. Yet they have the faith to bring another child into the world. I’m racking my brain for any way I can think of to help them. I wish I could just give them my Honda Pilot. But life’s not that simple.

I have a particular affinity for this youngest sister. She is a hero in every sense of the word. She has overcome the most daunting of obstacles...smiling. She has born the most unbearable burdens...laughing. She has brought people together...remembering. She has created a beautiful home, a beautiful family, and a beautiful marriage...out of the shambles! She is amazing.

Sisters

So the innkeeping I’m contemplating is this joyful expectation, this anticipation...and I’m grateful that we have enough room. And that we have wonderful people coming, in all shapes and sizes, to join us and fill our space.

I’m thinking about other spaces too. My inn these days is crowded—both with people and activity—most of the time. So is my car—both with people and junk, typically. But the most noticeably crowded space, and perhaps the one that matters most, is my time. One of my heroes declared, “In family relationships love is really spelled t-i-m-e.” I am convinced that today’s metaphorical inn-where-there’s-no-room is not our homes or our hearts but our schedules. Another of my heroes stated: “your sacrifice could be setting aside the time in your busy lives....” Making room involves a sacrifice.

I’m pledging today—on this first day of the last month, as we wait for miracles, and long for fulness, and anticipate gifts—to make room. Make room to worship, make room to ponder, make room to listen, make room to love, make room to pause, make room to forgive, make room to serve. Make room for Him. In the most crowded space in my life. So I can be filled.

“The Holy Ghost ‘satisfies and fills up every longing of the human heart, and fills up every vacuum. When I am filled with that Spirit, … my soul is satisfied.”

—Eliza R. Snow

Please chime in and tell me how you’re making room for Him this month.

—And if you have any ideas on how to make more room in my sister’s car, I’d love to hear that too!

____________

Congratulations to Lara, who won my Book-for-Every-Person-on-your-Gift-List Giveaway! A box of ten books will be on its way to her shortly. (How fitting that I announce her win on this post about making room, since the name of her blog is Overstuffed!) :)

And thank you—wonderful, generous, bloggers—for helping us meet and exceed our goal, raising over $10,000 (5.7 scholarships) for single parents last month. This will change lives. I promise.

Also, don't miss Luisa Perkins' excellent and unsolicited review of What Think Ye of Christmas, here.

And finally, I'm linking up with wonderful Heather of the EO who somehow keeps me writing with her Just Write series.

Because I have been given much...

2011-11-21T00:12:00.001-07:00

It was one of those rare moments when time stands still. I was fifteen. An eighty-something-year-old voice on the other end of the line whispered furtively, "Grant's here."

The whisperer was my amazing piano teacher, Becky Almond. Becky had spent most of her life "concertizing" in New York. One of my favorite things about her apartment was a tablecloth on which she had embroidered all of the famous autographs she had collected over the decades: Arthur Rubenstein, Victor Borge, Leonard Bernstien, Count Basie, Carol Channing...virtually any big name you could think of from that era. This same woman loaned my family a Mason & Hamlin grand piano for me to practice on, because she saw promise (and because she loved my mother!). "Grant" was Grant Johannesen, international concert pianist. He regularly stopped at her apartment whenever he was in town because he loved her pianos. They had become great friends. Becky had called to invite me to her downtown apartment early the next morning to listen to him practice the piano.

Somehow I got myself to her apartment at six o'clock on a Saturday morning. Becky met me at the door, still wearing her pink nightgown, and held her finger to her lips as she ushered me silently into the back bedroom. "He doesn't know you're here," she warned with a conspiratorial wink. She and I stood silently, leaning against the wall, listening to an undisputed genius work out difficult passages, preparing for his next performance. What I heard was awe-inspiring. But an even stronger lesson was how much Becky cared about me as her student.

It wasn't the first time a teacher had done something unexpected to show faith in me and my potential, but it was certainly the most memorable. Later, she hired Grant to give me a private master class, helping me refine a Beethoven concerto I was learning. She quoted my mother a reasonable price...then subsidized the rest of the price herself. An amazing mentor.

Since then has come a long line of help to further my education: A four-year departmental art scholarship to University of Utah, a scholarship to Otis/Parsons, a scholarship to Cambridge, a scholarship to the Monterey Bay Watercolor Workshop. And I was helped along and encouraged by so many wonderful mentors.

Fittingly, I find myself in a mentor position now. I teach watermedia courses at Utah Valley University as well as privately. I love working with students -- seeing the light go on, seeing growth and progress. I love their energy and eagerness to learn.

One thing that surprised me about teaching was the number of non-traditional students—mostly mothers going back to school to finish their education. Another thing that surprised me is that this group of students would be among -- almost without exception -- my finest students. They work doubly hard, are extra enthusiastic, seem to appreciate their education more...and also in many cases have the biggest obstacles to overcome. Amazing.

In honor of my favorite teachers and favorite students, I'm giving back this month.
You'll want to take a peek at the gadget squished into my sidebar on the left. I'm donating to a scholarship fund for single parents at LDS Business College, and I encourage you to do the same.

And, in honor of Thanksgiving (and avoidance of Black Friday) I'm giving away. I'm once again giving away a copy of the lovely Christmas book I illustrated, What Think Ye of Christmas—not just to you, but to everyone on your gift list (up to ten). This is the deal of the year! Worth up to $100. To enter, you'll want to leave me your gift list in the comments below. (e.g. My sister, my BFF, my kid's piano teacher...etc.) For a second entry, click on the gadget and make a donation of any size to the scholarship fund there. Additional entries granted for Facebook statusing, twitter tweeting, blogposting, Amazon and Goodreads reviews of the book, and liking the book on Facebook (link at left). And one more bonus entry for reading and commenting on the story of how the books came to be, starting with the link in my sidebar titled, In the Beginning....

And finally, I'm announcing last week's giveaway winner: Luisa Perkins. Luisa was the first to respond to last week's post, and I find it so fitting that she was selected by random.org. Last week she gave so much, put so much energy into campaigning for Variant to benefit Rob, and now the Universe has conspired to answer that good karma and give back. Luisa is the winner of this giclée art print, currently selling for $95. (Gallery price $190.) Congratulations, Luisa!

"While Shepherds Watched", from What Think Ye of Christmas, by Jana Parkin

Can't Hide My Exhibitionist Tendencies

2011-11-11T02:00:00.000-07:00

If you've read this post or this post, you already know that I'm not too keen on exposing myself — in fact, when it comes to my face and my physique I'm quite the opposite of an exhibitionist. I avoid mirrors, hide from cameras, and prefer to be fully clothed at (nearly) all times.

But when it comes to my artwork, I'm letting it all hang out this week!

First, an exhibit of most of the original art from What Think Ye of Christmas just opened at Provo Art and Frame. It will be up for the rest of the month, with a reception and book/print signing on December 2nd.

Among the framed originals you'll see there are:

And because my friends there aren't taking a standard gallery commission, I'm able to sell them all at a 30% discount. I LOVE being able to pass that savings on to you!

I'll also have gorgeous giclée prints of twelve of the paintings on display and available for purchase at the Salt Lake Family Christmas Gift Show this weekend. These are identical to the originals at a fraction of the cost. I'll be signing books and prints there Friday afternoon and evening and most of the day Saturday. We have a great offer on the books: Buy Four, Get One FREE (cash only) and free autographing. The author will be there too.

And, because I know you can't resist a sneak peek, I just entered these two paintings in a regional show (the Western Federation of Watercolor Societies, hosted in Las Vegas next spring).

Crown of Thorns

David, Downcast.

To celebrate, I'm giving away one giclée print: your choice of the paintings from What Think Ye of Christmas, here. Go there, click on the thumbnails to view the larger images, choose your favorite, then come back and tell me which one you'd like to win. Additional entries granted for facebook posts, liking and sharing, twitter tweets, and any other social media vehicle of your choice. Value up to $125. Contest closes one week from today.

(Mary Ellen, I haven't forgotten that I owe you one too, and I have it for you now. Yay!)

*****

Thank you to everyone who participated in the Book Bomb yesterday. We succeeded in taking Rob's book, Variant, from number 6,000-and-something to number 57! In just 24 hours! Big win! I also have a winner of the book I illustrated, What Think Ye of Christmas. Today's winner — first giveaway of the season — is Janice West. And I know she truly loves the book. She bought one last year -- and then came back and ordered ten more! Hopefully she'll find a good use for this copy as well.

Book Bomb: It's Lit!

2011-11-10T01:03:00.001-07:00

(pun intended)

My friend Luisa just alerted me to a great contest and a great cause.
For the next 23.5 hours, we're trying to take Rob Wells' new YA novel, Variant, to the top of the Amazon bestseller list. All we have to do? Is buy a great book. And then maybe buy a few more copies to give as gifts.

This benefits the author, Rob Wells, who is a talented author and dare I say—friend? Just a few weeks ago I spent a couple of hours with him over lunch, picking his brain about all things writing and publishing, and he was so very generous and encouraging with his advice and expertise.

But Rob has recently been diagnosed with panic disorder, a condition which I know can be debilitating. He had to cancel his national book tour as a result of his illness. And he was recently laid off from his job — which could elicit a whole different kind of panic altogether. Now a group of friends is rallying around Rob to help take his novel to the top of the charts. Today. But we need your help.

The good news? Is you can't go wrong. It is, by all accounts, an amazing book—with suspense and action and even romance—literally something for everyone. My favorite quote — again, from Luisa: "I just read Variant in one euphoric gulp!" —That would be a great endorsemnt for the back of the book!

And what could be more fun than shopping on Amazon, knowing it's for a great cause? Here's your link.

I'll also sweeten the deal by giving away a book of my own: What Think Ye of Christmas, the book I illustrated, will go to one fortunate person who comes back and comments that they bought a copy of Variant today. I'll add an additional entry for every facebook post, twitter tweet, and message in a bottle you send off to sea. Just drop me a tally in the comment box and I'll see to it that you receive an additional entry for each.

Pretty soon I'll have all your Christmas shopping done for you—before December even hits!

I Cannot Imagine a Home Without Story.

2011-10-24T00:14:00.000-06:00

When I was a little girl, my beloved grandmother told us a favorite bedtime story every time we slept over. I loved listening to her silvery voice tell us the old-fashioned tale "Cozette" so much that I asked for a tape recording for my 25th birthday. Grandma also told us silly stories about our dad when he was growing up: how he got a baby chick for Easter and named it Hallelujah. How he put two kittens in the fridge, and a duck in the dryer, and rode a horse bareback. How he misbehaved. We LOVED this youngster image of our dad that only Grandma could share.

My grandpa told us stories that would raise the hair on the back of your neck: How he and his friends spit on a horseshoe for good luck, then he tossed it over his shoulder and sent it crashing through the school window! How he had a part-time job playing the organ at the silent movie theater. How great-grandpa Cort once shot a bear right between the eyes. How his father outsmarted a town official in order to gain restitution for a Japanese immigrant who’d been swindled. And how he himself spoke out against the Japanese internment camps during World War 2.

My grandpa on my mom's side used to SING us his stories. He loved the Christopher Robin songs by A. A. Milne and delighted us over and over with his adorable boyish renditions. It was pure magic to hear him sing these timeless stories.

My mother told us stories of her own family: How she was raised by her grandmother, whom they affectionately called Marmee (Marmee, like the character she was nicknamed for, was a strong young widow with four spirited daughters); How her youngest brother spit out a now-famous string of the naughtiest words he could think of: P.O. Poop Out Stinker Bum!; how her father took them sailing on the Great Salt Lake, sang solos in the Messiah, had his own radio show; how her mother worked at an advertising agency in Los Angeles and how Grandpa called her his Happy Heart; how she wrote magazine articles under a pen name, and authored a children’s book.

Mom also read to us night after night...The Cookie Tree and Miss Suzie and Why Mosquitoes Buzz in People’s Ears, plus timeless classics from her own childhood: Epaminondas and Thunder Cave.

My father told us stories of his own childhood adventures -- ones I’m sure he never told his mother: How he and his friends found a dead body on the capitol grounds; How he found a leather pouch full of money under a tree and inadvertently interrupted an FBI stakeout; how he and his friends let the air out of the tires of a whole fleet of police cars parked at the capitol building one night; how an unstable kid named Ikey threatened to kill him; and how he discovered a hermit cave—and the hermit who lived there! Dad also made up hilarious bedtime stories about spaceships and astronauts.

My husband is the King of Story. He writes screenplays, teaches screenwriting, directs movies, creates webisodes, and exhausts every possible outlet for storytelling (as evidenced here). He reads wonderful books out loud to the family -- The Tale of Despereaux, Walk Two Moons, and Watership Down. He also makes up fabulous stories about our kids and their friends and their secret superpowers. He lives and breathes story.

Which is why he’s been invited to speak at this conference: http://www.cherishbound.com/blog/storyathome/

It’s presented by Cherish Bound. http://www.cherishbound.com/

And hosted by FamilySearch. https://www.familysearch.org/

March 8-10, 2012.

Save the date, and I’ll save you a seat!

--But wait, there’s more! (No Ginzu Knives...)

I’m presenting there too. I’m speaking about balance. Or rather, how to juggle a lot of dangerous ~~objects~~ projects without maiming or injuring yourself. Something along those lines.

I believe there are few things as powerful as STORY to unite us at home. I’m so

excited about this conference and a chance to explore something so important and

entertaining and beloved. I hope to see you there!

My Book Group Went All Stream-of-Consciousness On Me

2011-10-18T00:00:00.085-06:00

—And it was awesome.

Instead of reading a book this month, our hostess (who teaches a writing class at BYU) decided we should all try our hands at writing. She came armed with fun, designer-ish notebooks for everyone, and a stash of ballpoint pens.

She had us try three free-writing exercises. The first was called I Am.
The assignment was to capture ourselves through objects, places, events that are important to us, define us. Here's one paragraph:

I am January

I am newness and silent snowfall

I am the glow of the firelight after the hustle and bustle of celebration fades

I am fire and ice

The second was called Mirror, Mirror. We had to hold a hand mirror up to our face and close our eyes, then write about what first grabbed our attention. I struggled with this one because most of the time I avoid mirrors and prefer to be invisible. I finally allowed myself to focus on an eyebrow, and then an eye. Here's one paragraph (after I wrote about the hiding and avoidance):

I see a round lifted arch with confidence and an air of mystery. There is a fringe of darkness surrounding a circle of blue. There is light and more light — a reflecting pool. There is a veil of cast shadow coming from the left, and expressiveness moving toward the light. There is seriousness and playfulness coming from the same source. There is wisdom and wit and a very strong will. ...A circle that finds beauty in unexpected places, sometimes sees what others miss.

The third one is called Childhood Place. We were to describe a place that was memorable and meaningful to us as a child. Here is my free-writing description of my earliest memories of place (about 10 minutes, long-hand):

There is a landing that feels like a cage at the top of the stairs. Standing there I can peer down at the people below. I should be napping but instead I am poking my face through the balustrade, peeking down into the entryway below. There are magical pieces of rainbow scattered across the rose-patterned carpet. Light pouring through cut glass. Prisms. I am suspended in time and place as this top-of-the-world view gives me perspective, makes me feel tall.

The entry is Nana's, the staircase is Nana's, the carpet is Nana's, chosen for her mother, Rose. But the landing is mine and the prisms are God's come to greet me in this chapel of relics.

The landing is lifted by columns with stairs rising up toward the sky. Some dolls and a rocking horse wait at the base of the stairs, as if to call out "suffer the little one" to sneak down and play awhile.

Uncle is jolly and balding, roundish with glasses. We play a game where he fills his cheek up with air and I poke it, making a popping sound that bursts through the silence and pulls laughter up and out from deep inside me, bouncing against the walls and the wood and dancing with the prisms on the floor below.

Free-write. Zero editing. I'd love to have you join me. Try an I Am or a Mirror, Mirror or a Childhood Place. Even just a paragraph. This week, you can be part of our fabulous book group and free-write your inner world.

Just write.

An Hour in Five Stages

2011-10-11T00:42:00.006-06:00

Stage 1: DENIAL. I think to myself I SHOULD BE FEELING SOMETHING but I am completely numb. The Beatles are in the CD player and I sing along at the top of my lungs, “Paperback writer (writer, writer)” and even throw in the guitar lick...buhbuduheeee buhduh bombomduh...

Comic relief: Around the point of the mountain I pass this car that is going WAY TOO SLOW in the center lane. Attempting to pass, I speak into an imaginary microphone, entertaining no one but myself: “Hello, officer? I’d like to report a CORPSE driving in the center lane on I-15...” Then (I SWEAR I am not making this up!) I pass the alleged corpse-car only to discover that the driver does in fact appear to be dead (or at least asleep): Head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth wide open. AAHHHH! I try to keep a wide berth between me and the corpse-car, and continue to keep one eye on him in the rearview mirror, expecting him at any moment to crash right into the median. “Bang, bang, Johnny’s silver hammer comes down on his head...Bang, bang, Johnny’s silver hammer made sure he was dead....” (Miraculously, the corpse continues on autopilot, making all the curves and remaining in the center lane. Hmmm.)

Stage 2: ANGER. I exit the freeway in plenty of time, giving me a straight shot to Huntsman Cancer Institute, and twelve minutes to park and go inside. Then everything starts going out of control, multiplying so rapidly I let it get the best of me. The directions on the iPhone map are wrong, and I spend twenty frustrating minutes cruising around a spaghetti-ish network of long driveways and one-way circles that makes Los Angeles at rush hour look like child’s play. “Help! I need somebody. He-ehelp me, help me-ee!” I could feel my blood pressure rising with every wrong turn, until I was no longer singing along, but shouting, spitting out the lyrics like nails out of a gun. How did the music that was helping me feel fun-loving and free-wheeling just moments ago suddenly have me tied up in vicious knots? I turned off the stereo by slamming it down with my fist. Yes I did. Take that, Ringo!

Stage 3: BARGAINING. I don’t know why arriving a few minutes late has sent me into such a tailspin, but I can feel myself starting to panic, wondering if they’ll even be able to see me if I’m 20 minutes late, if I made this drive for nothing, and will have to do it all again, and if it will take me another two months to get an appointment. I have crazy conversations in my head, making my plea. Finally, in desperation, I pull up to a construction worker and ask how to get to the hospital entrance. So simple. Why didn’t I do this right at the beginning?

“Help me if you can I’m feeling dow-ow-own. And I do appreciate you comin’ rou-ou-ound. Help me get my feet back on the grou-ou-ound.” (Yeah, I turned it off, but it’s still playing softly in my head.)

Stage 4: DEPRESSION. I feel completely defeated as I enter the parking lot. The attendant is informative and kind, yet I feel a black hole in my heart as I look for a space to park and make my way through the looming glass doors. I am here but I am still lost. And I know it. I push elevator buttons, put one foot in front of the other, but my world is gray.

Stage 5: ACCEPTANCE. No one says a word or even raises an eyebrow about my late arrival. I am ushered into a back room before I even have a chance to take a seat in the waiting area. My genetic counselor and her grad-student assistant are the perfect combination of competent and compassionate. It is surreal to hear myself reciting details about my family history with utter calm, like reading numbers off a report: My mother found a lump at age 47. She was diagnosed at age 49. She died of breast cancer at age 53. Her sister battled breast cancer three times over several decades and finally passed away at age 83. More questions: Yes. No. I don’t know.

I realize I have passed through the five stages of grief in the hour it took me to arrive at this place, just footsteps away from the room where my mother took her final breaths. I think I may also have been grieving my own mortality as I approached that place and draw closer to that age, seeking clues to my what own future holds. I received no concrete answers, but every ounce of knowledge I acquire empowers me. I journey home, fast-forwarding through Fool On A Hill and Yesterday, ultimately landing on Across the Universe. Which takes me home.

Note of clarification: I was just in for genetic counseling and DNA testing. I have no signs of breast cancer, other than my marked family history. I do want to remind everyone that October is breast cancer awareness month.

This post is inspired by Just Write, an exercise in free writing. {Please see the details here.} Not sure if I'm following all the rules, or if there even ARE any rules to a free-write, but at least it keeps me writing!

Carpool Lane?

2011-09-27T08:26:00.006-06:00

I ask myself Why on a Saturday? and Why in the middle of the afternoon? as I pry myself away from The Kid On the Lawnmower and The Overworked Husband and The Babysitting Teenager and The Newborn Puppymania and climb into the car. I am late and I do not want to go and I get in the car anyway, all by myself, because it’s the right thing to do.

I call my dad one more time. Are you sure they’re still going to hold this thing in the rain? I ask, secretly hoping it’s been rescheduled. What? he asks, just slightly annoyed. “It’s pouring rain,” I say. “Well it’s sunny up here,” he replies. “Where are you?” I ask. “In Bountiful.” Oh my gosh, he’s already there. I don’t want him to know I’m just getting in my car. I balance an onion bagel on my knee as I back down the driveway. Because 62 miles sounds like a long way to go on no lunch.

As I enter the freeway and pray for no construction today I try to push the leftover laundry and nagging, unmopped floors out of my head, to no avail. Outside, the storm clouds follow me. It’s like a race. Sometimes I can stay just ahead of the rain. Sometimes it catches up to me.

I push the iPhone connector into its jack and Pandora defaults to Earth Wind and Fire. I’m not sure 70s funk is exactly the mood I’m in, but I’m whizzing down the freeway at breakneck speed, and not quite reckless enough to look for another station. In minutes, without even realizing it, I’m singing my heart out to “September” (one of our favorites) and suddenly I see our whole family standing at the Hollywood Bowl, swaying and cheering and smiling and having the time of our lives as fireworks literally fill the sky overhead. It was a spur-of-the moment roadtrip last summer that ended up being one of our family’s favorite memories. I think of how Josh still texts me out of the blue to say, “Thanks for taking me on that roadtrip to see Earth Wind and Fire!” --Something we did that was NOT a mistake! (yay!)

I remind myself, Family is EVERYTHING!

I can see downtown Salt Lake creeping up on my right, in the distance. On the hill behind Temple Square is the Capitol Building, where my grandpa worked. I think of how he walked home every single day so he could have lunch with his sweetheart, my Mrs. Santa Claus grandma. (Who wouldn’t?) Suddenly I’m reminded that it’s BECAUSE OF HER that I’m doing this, that I’m driving to far-off Bountiful to see the plaque erected in honor of her parents. I think about how she taught us in a million different ways that family is EVERYTHING! How this event would be her absolute top priority if she were still here. How happy she’d be that I’m going. Suddenly I’m flooded with tears. She would LOVE this reunion. The sun pops up from behind the clouds as if to underscore my thoughts, buoying me with a stronger sense of purpose.

I focus on the yellow lines in the center of the highway as the signs whiz by...I-80, Ogden, Beck Street. As I approach the park where the reunion takes place, the rain returns, streaking the windshield as the tears streak my face all the way to Bountiful.

Oh my gosh, THIS is the park? These beautiful acres of lawn and trees in the center of the city, with a rec center and a pavilion and...my great-grandparents' fields and orchards provided this sanctuary.

The clouds are still heavy, the sky wet, and I slosh across the lawn under my polka-dot umbrella toward the picnic area where people are gathering. I see my first piano teacher, still so elegant...Dad's first cousin. Another of Dad's cousins, Jim, is there with his wife Betty, who has unforgettable deep blue eyes. I remember riding their horses in Heber when I was a kid. My aunt is setting up bushels of fresh peaches for centerpieces, old people are shuffling around, trying to get the sound system to work. (It doesn't.) My dad is the youngest, but he is becoming one of the Old People. I am so proud of him. One cousin circulates platters of all the fresh fruits and vegetables our great-grandparents grew. Pieces of our family history. A beautiful gesture. We gather and sing as rain patters on the roof. What is happening here is, to steal some words from my friend Heather, both ordinary and extraordinary.

This whole thing is bigger than I am. Bigger than football practice and yardwork and chores. Bigger than a hundred Saturdays. Bigger than any of us realize. I feel eternity stretched out like the handstitched quilt on her old hand-carved oak bed, wrapping me in its linked-together pieces, simultaneously adding to and wiping away my tears. I feel HER, and all those linked to her. I feel as though I picked up my grandmother way back at that point along the freeway and carried her all the way to this reunion, this honoring-place, to be with the people she loves most. I am grateful she did not want me to go there alone.

This is me with my grandma. This photo appeared on the cover of the Salt Lake Tribune on Thanksgiving Day a long, long time ago. :)

This post is inspired by Just Write, an exercise in free writing. {Please see the details here.}

I didn't chop her head off after all!

2011-09-07T00:24:00.001-06:00

A few months ago my daughter committed a capital offense. She was on my computer one evening and logged onto my facebook account at the exact same moment as a notice appeared announcing my upcoming (gasp!) 30-year high school reunion. Oh, but it gets better than that! She REPLIED, masquerading AS ME, saying something along the lines of “That sounds great! I’m excited to see everyone, and I’d love to help on the committee. Here is all my contact info.” (not exaggerating!)

So out of the blue I get an email from our class president thanking me for my offer to help, (what the...?) and could I please create the invitation and a memory page for people to fill out. I was stuck. I felt like I had to follow through. But I wasn’t very excited about it. My daughter is a social networking machine! I, on the other hand, am a little bit of an introvert. I’m great in front of a class full of college students, and pretty good one-on-one, but I’m miserable at small talk, and an event like this foreboded LOTS of uncomfortable small-talk.

Me in full uniform (my first pair of Nikes!)

As the date approached, my dread increased. To the point that I had a mini-breakdown one night and spilled my guts to my dear, long-suffering husband: Most of my friends graduated early, like I did. I was invisible in high school. No one would miss me. I wasn’t up to reliving any of it...the cliques, the drama, the awkward insecurity. Worse, I felt stifled in high school. I tried too hard to follow the unwritten rules, to blend in, so I ultimately felt like I sold my soul for a stupid pep club uniform. As soon as I got to college I was liberated. Freed from the shackles of superficiality. Reborn with the courage to be myself. Why would I want to go back? And yet I felt obligated...since I’d helped with the invitation and stuff.

I realized I was falling into that old high school mentality. I was having a minor identity crisis over things that are completely shallow! Like worrying about the fact that I don't weigh 97 pounds any more. Instead of celebrating the fact that I've finally gained enough weight to have cleavage! The question, To go, or not to go? was sending me spiraling into a vortex.

Finally the class president sent me another email: “I’m trying to get a final head count. Are you coming to the reunion? A lot of your friends are coming...blah, blah, blah.” It was all I could do not to write back, “What friends?” But I stopped just short of that, and at 11:45 p.m. on the last possible date to RSVP, I sent back a simple Yes. I needed to confront my trepidation. Besides, it was the right thing to do.

Luckily, a great guy from my graduating class married one of my favorite people ever, and we decided to carpool to the reunion. So in addition to my handsome, hilarious husband, at least I’d have two friends there, I consoled myself.

Then right before the reunion, as I was getting in the shower, I got the worst stomach cramps of my life. I was doubled over, feeling a little dizzy, and breaking into a cold sweat. I had visions of fainting right there in the shower and bumping my head on the glass door. I still don’t know if it was psychosomatic or pure coincidence. But it took me long enough to recover that we were nearly an hour late.

That turned out to be perfect timing. Plenty of people were still arriving, and they hadn't started dinner yet. At first, standing in line at the registration table, I felt a little shell-shocked and still wasn’t sure I wanted to be there. Then the guy in front of us in line suddenly turned around and threw his arms around me. It was Geoff Lee, a guy I’d known since junior high, who had also worked with me at a regional magazine during college. I have to admit, I love the guy, he’s hilarious, and I’d missed him.

The rest of the evening went pretty much like that...I kept running into people I hadn’t seen...or even thought about...in decades, and was completely surprised that they remembered me, were excited to see me. And *shocking revelation* I was genuinely thrilled to see them too--all of them. It was like rereading a favorite book, a classic, and rediscovering all your favorite characters, but with the added perspective maturity brings.

Something about three decades separating us from our high school years seemed to make all the difference. Three decades is long enough to humble us, let life knock us around a bit, make us appreciate each other in a new light. By this age, nearly everyone has lost a parent, a child, a spouse, or a sibling. Many had suffered through a divorce. Still others never married, or never had children. Life had leveled the playing-field and made us all kinder, wiser, deeper, stronger.

I realized I cared very deeply about these people. I loved them. I wanted to become a gatherer...find the ones who were lost, or chose not to come, and tell them, “Things are different now. It’s safe to come back. You’ll be amazed.” Sure, some still had designer clothes, foreign sports cars, and looked like supermodels. But none of that seemed to matter. Instead there was an abundance of caring and sharing, hugging and mugging (for the camera), and a rare sense of unity.

When I got home my teenage daughter actually complimented me on my outfit *small miracle* -- and then asked the big question -- “Aren’t you glad I signed you up?” I hate to admit it, but I’m glad I went, even glad I got involved...and I’m already looking forward to the next one.

Me -- straight from my junior year East High yearbook.

The Ultimate Girls' Weekend

2011-08-02T00:01:00.016-06:00

The invitation came wrapped as a gift. And that was just the beginning.
It opened like a little book, bound with stitches.
Inside was page after page of what awaited us at this getaway in the mountains...

I'm not a photographer, but I want you to get the feel of this, so I shot each page...

Can you imagine how over-the-moon excited I was?
To top it off, if you read the text, this amazing friend of mine hired me to teach a watercolor workshop at her mountain retreat. Most of my trip was paid for, and I got to do what I love best.

The whole weekend unfolded just as magically as the invitation promised.

As soon as I pulled up to the cabin, Allison waltzed out to greet me, and a swarm of friends grabbed my bags and showed me where I'd be sleeping (upstairs in the dormer, where she had eight matching wooden beds, all with matching wool blankets. It honestly looked like something right out of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs To my great joy, all of the guests were a collection of favorite people!

We sat on the deck in the evening breeze, relaxing in big adirondack chairs and laughing and talking like we'd never been apart. The time flew by, and we could barely stand to pry ourselves back indoors when Allison announced it was time for dinner. She had fixed the most simple food, beautifully prepared and perfectly seasoned: Salmon fillets, Israeli couscous, and green beans. Heaven! Then everybody started breaking out the snacks...caramel popcorn, mud pie, Trader Joe's mints...and (as promised) we watched THREE Jane Eyre movies back to back, starting with the old black-and-white Orson Welles version and ending with William Hurt, so we could decide once and for all who was the best Mr. Rochester! (The jury's still out, by the way.)

The next morning we awoke to the most fabulous aroma...Allison had baked a giant tomato and basil strata for breakfast, complete with beautiful sweeter-than-candy plums and apricots she'd grown herself. Then it was my turn. My watercolor workshop was the main event. I started by sending everyone off into the woods to collect flowers and leaves to paint, then explored some principles of abstract underpainting (to capture the growth pattern).

Once that dried we followed up with layer upon layer of negative painting (painting around objects)

which is a very calming way to paint.

The women were amazed as they saw their floral subjects gradually appear, and with so much depth. (Some called it magic, and one who has a PhD in microbiology exclaimed, “It’s like fractals!” which was a surprisingly cool observation.) While I was teaching, Nikki the masseuse would pull people out one at a time for their individual foot massages. At the end we had a mini-exhibit and put everyone’s paintings up on the wall to enjoy the diversity of results and applaud the finished products. So great!

THEN...
The unsurpassed weekend in Lake Arrowhead was over...but my summer roadtrip with my daughter continued. Here.

Wind and water. Mountains and ocean. Friends that are family. Healing and peace.

I am so much better for having gone.

Where has this summer taken you?

So I Married a Genius. A Handsome, Hilarious Genius.

2011-06-28T00:33:00.004-06:00

This? Is my husband. Speaking at a TEDx conference. (Sorry, people. He's taken.) But if you click right here, or press play below, you can see his presentation on Trans-Media Storytelling, plus some of the millions of reasons I'm crazy about him. (Starting with the red shoes.) LOVE!

THE LIST. Plus Two More Lists of My Own.

2011-06-13T00:38:00.045-06:00

I read this book quite awhile ago...almost the second it came out. Why? Because my friend wrote it. And because I adore her, it had to be good!

I'll be honest — Initially I had the hardest time getting over the idea that the main character had supposedly been a missionary, and yet she was SO SHALLOW. In fact, I tried as hard as I could not to like the main character, because she was too pretty, and too knew-she-was-pretty, and then, you know, the shallow thing. I spent about 2/3 of the book being mad at this person who doesn't even exist! But then I kept not being able to not like her (yeah, I rock double negatives when I have to) because she is also SO FUNNY. Like laugh-out-loud, clever, Gilmore Girls funny. I was totally sucked in. I couldn't put it down.

So what fuels the plot is sort of a bucket list—a list of all the things she solidly MUST DO before she gets married. (And again, some of these items are respectable, and others are completely shallow, like Get A Sports Car.) And the list has this power over her that is other-worldly. I kept thinking, Wait — you wouldn't PRAY about finding the right guy, and try to listen to the spirit? Something that makes more sense in my world? So I also tried not to like The List itself. (Not the book. Just the list.)

And then I realized that, list or not, I had checked off a majority of the exact same items myself before I got married. So I mentally started checking off The List. And then I pulled out some sticky notes and started writing in my own checkmarks, and here's what I came up with:

Items on The List I Somehow Managed to Check Off Myself Before I Got Married:
(even though I didn't have a List, per se)

1. Climb a mountain: Check - Angel's Landing

2. See a show on Broadway: Check, plus one better: two shows in London

3. Sing Karaoke: Didn't exist back then?

4. Read all the standard works: Check

5. Get a master's Degree: Nope.

6. Study Abroad: Check

7. Serve a mission: Check (although it seems sort of glib and irreverent to check off something as life-changing as a mission.)

8. Learn to make sushi: Almost. I had an offer.

9. Own a pair of Louboutins: Never heard of 'em

10. Complete a triathlon: No.

11. Snowboard on a black diamond trail: No (snowboarding wasn't even born yet)

12. Read a Russian classic: Check

13. Learn to surf: No desire. I saw the gory goose-egg my dad got surfing!

14. Visit Europe: Check

15. Do an (overseas) humanitarian project: Still my lifelong dream...I even have a savings account devoted to it

16. Get a sports car: Check (Toyota Celica—looked like a speeding bullet)

17. Have a summer fling: Check (During #6, above)

18. Take a cruise: Was supposed to be our honeymoon, but we cashed it in and did the I-15 honeymoon instead...St George, Las Vegas, Los Angeles...

19. Skydive: No desire. (Plus, Im rather fond of being alive.)

20. Learn a foreign language: Check

21. Publish a poem: Check

22. Learn to play guitar: Nope (I wish)

23. Be a movie extra: Check. (Does a student film count?)

24. Try internet dating: Didn't exist...

25. Learn to tango. Check (sort of)

So? I surrendered. In a big, big way. And now I proudly present:

Lounging in Laguna, by Jana Winters Parkin

25 Things I love about The List: (The whole book)

1. Star Wars Band-Aid
(plus the first line that cracked me up: "Nice band-aid.")
2. Naturally curly hair that doesn't always cooperate

3. Not a blonde bimbo
4. Gilmore Girls-esque dialogue
5. Megan's colored pencils
6. Frayed shorts
7. Awkward wetsuit dance
8. Witty comebacks I wish I
had said
9. Laguna Beach
10. The fascinating deaf girl (especially knowing where Melanie got the inspiration for her.)
11. "Dude, nice doilies!" (hahaha!)
12. "Insincerity dripped like venom from her invisible fangs."
13. "I surrender the title of Loser Magnet. It's yours."
14. "Chasing after babies in a full body cast seems like an awful lot of trouble."
15. Cap'n Crunch Peanut Butter: "Your cereal's gross."
16. "You can't have any no matter how nicely you ask."

17. "That's why I'm a dictatorship of one."

18. "Come over to the dark side." (brunette)

19. Hiding chocolate behind wheat germ

20. Hallelujah chorus

21. "It was exhausting to miss him so much."

22. Kenny!

23. And his band!

24. Kissing and more kissing

25. Redemption

And see? there were so many, I didn't even have to add: My friend wrote it! (I'm so excited for her.)
So...What should top your vacation packing list?
The List. By Melanie Jacobson. Perfect Summer Read.
(And she doesn't even know I'm posting this!)

p.s. Summer is now in session!

Where Faith Meets Story Meets Art

2011-05-16T00:45:00.000-06:00

I had a strange (and mildly hilarious, if not frustrating) conversation yesterday, with an oldish man at the edge of the Lacrosse field, waiting for the game to start:

Him: What's that you're reading?

Me: (not too keen on striking up conversations with strangers, buried in my book) It's a book by Madeleine L'Engle, Walking on Water.

Him: Oh, is it a fantasy?

Me: (still buried in the book) No, she's written some fantasy, but this is actually non-fiction. (I point to the subtitle: Reflections on Faith and Art.)

Him: Faith and Art? What do those things have to do with each other?

Me: (wanting to laugh) Everything.

Him: Huh? Are you being serious?

Me: Creation. Everything. Think about it: The world was created by faith. All genuine creation is connected to faith.

Him: Oh, I guess when you put it that way, it kinda makes sense. So...is she an artist?

Me: In a way. She's a writer. Her writing is her art.

Him: Then is that a romance novel you're reading?

I kid you not. That was his exact final question. AAARRRGGGHHHH!

I grew up in a home where the gospel, the arts, and creativity were seamlessly woven together. Sometimes I forget that the rest of the world didn't grow up like that, doesn't think and feel like that.

* * * * *

I had been planning to attend a writers' conference this year...until I realized it fell on the exact same dates as a watercolor workshop I signed up for clear back in October! It was the strangest thing...our watercolor society was flying this amazing internationally-recognized painter here from Uruguay. I was over the moon at the prospect of studying with him. And yet, as I contemplated the opportunity cost, I was also grieving the fact that I couldn't attend the writers' conference. I grappled with these mixed emotions right up until the workshop started, a little over a week ago.

BUT. As soon as Alvaro started talking, I realized I was at a writers' conference after all. This guy was talking about Creation with a Capital C. And everything he said about painting also applied directly to writing. I was learning about both painting and writing at the exact same time...my favorite, most exhilarating way to learn!

Consider these opening lines: (This is verbatim, as fast as I could copy them down)

Decide what you want to say.
Tell a story.
Establish a mood.
Exploit the main elements to tell a better story--make it more dramatic.
Cut through the light with a dramatic dark.
It's all about spontaneity--less control.
Be unpredictable.
Embrace absurdity.
Don't be too obvious; capture the essence.
Your work should be enigmatic and mysterious.

And then here is a series of quotes I jotted down over the next few days:

A work of art is gut feelings. The depth of the painting resides in the philosophy of the artist. We have to be sensitive and succumb to the truth around us. If you are more perceptive and can withdraw from the analytic, mechanical to access passion, you have a chance to make it. Don't try to show me your intelligence. I'm looking for a higher intelligence, which is intuitive, spiritual.
Everything has an opposite: ying/yang; light/dark; cool/warm; hard/soft edges; lost/found. We need to be aware of them, use them, love them.

Subject doesn't matter--what matters is how you address the subject. Don't choose a postcard (obvious subject--too pretty, too perfect). If you do it, you have to do it in a way that moves my soul.
You could have the best technique in the world but if you paint without passion, you are worthless, you are nothing. You have to paint with LOVE.

Don't destroy the unity of the painting with disjointed darks. One of the best ways to have unity in your painting is by connecting a pattern of darks.

What is the mission of the artist on earth? Create the most powerful emotional impact. Exceed what happens in nature, exaggerate. Capture the essence, the abstract, the inaccessible.

Imitating reality is just matching up; we are intelligent beings. We can imagine things. The only chance we have of rising above is by capturing the essence, not manipulating by intellect but by incorporating a combination of innocence, purity, and mystery. Become like a child.
The brain has the ability to project. Whenever I make a mark on the paper to paint a figure, I see it so clearly in my mind I can already see it on the paper. I see every stroke before I paint it.

I'm here to deliver a message, but you have to be ready to receive that message. At some point our thoughts will meet in the ether. After much experience painting, years of practice, there will come a time where my words ring true, where you realize that I'm right. Not just now, where you believe me, but once you get to that point, through your experience, you will know.

* * * * *

See what I mean? Faith. Story. Art. Inseparable.
Or, as Keats said, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

--Oh, and you also need to know that we have a winner of the buttermints: Congratulations, Inkmom! If I can get a batch to turn out in this warmer weather, I'll send them your way right away!

Atonemints

2011-04-24T00:00:00.005-06:00

I have always loved buttermints. Any and all. But then one Christmas my friend Heather brought us a tin of the most amazing homemade buttermints. First, who even knew you could make such a thing? I thought it was like licorice—something only “the store” made. Second, this was pure heaven. It melted in your mouth with the most perfectly glorious flavor. There could be no substitute. Heather’s buttermints were infinitely superior to anything else I had ever tasted.

Every Christmas we hoped we might appear once again on Heather’s gift list. And that the gift would again be her fabulous buttermints. And year after year the mints would appear. Then one Christmas we were sadly forsaken. Of course we weren’t offended. We love the Joneses with or without their holiday offerings! But we did long for that little taste of heaven. Then in March, after the snow melted, there sitting on the lawn was an auspicious-looking tin. It didn’t take much imagination to envision our dog dragging it from the porch to the snow back in December. We pried open the lid, and to our joy and amazement the tin contained a perfectly-preserved batch of pristine buttermints, undisturbed by our dog or the elements, and we lovingly savored every single one (and had a good laugh with Heather about our serendipitous snow treasure afterward)!

Finally this past Christmas I couldn’t stand the suspense any more. I had to know how Heather performs her magic. I rallied the guts to ask for her recipe. She said she’d do me one better — she’d come here and teach me how. In March we finally made it happen — a personalized buttermint tutorial. I had no idea what I was in for. I started taking copious notes. The process is extremely nuanced and detailed, with instructions like: “Cook to 250 degrees...not the bottom of the line, nor the top of the line, but right in the center of the line.” Sometimes I think the artist in me is not equipped to deal with that kind of precision. But she assured me that if I followed every step with exactness, I would have wonderful buttermints.

This week we’ve been making these fabulous buttermints (or, what my friend Luisa calls, "the most scrumptious confections of all time") and I hope this becomes an oft-repeated Easter tradition. Here’s why: The process is a beautiful analogy for the lifetime process of sanctification, culminating in a powerful atonement metaphor.

Consider:

Zion metaphor:

We’ve been studying the three Zion communities in the Book of Mormon for Family Home Evening over the past couple of months. Each of these communities, during a time of great adversity, was described as “the happiest people ever.” Nephi “taught [his] people to live after the manner of happiness.” One of the great keys to their happiness was hard WORK. Nephi taught his people productive skills, and to love manual labor. Making buttermints is a new skill, working with our hands.

Next is the people of Moroni: “ But behold there never was a ^ahappier time among the people of Nephi, since the days of Nephi, than in the days of Moroni...” Moroni taught the power of preparation and unity. My preparation was my tutorial with Heather. (Heather’s preparation was making 18 batches in one day, until they got it perfect!) In the buttermint making process, everybody LITERALLY pulls together (unity) for the stretching and cutting, and many hands make light work.

I think one of the best parts of making a big batch of buttermints is sharing them with our friends and loved ones. In Zion communities there is always a Service component (we share what we have with others). This kind of cooperation and outward focus leads toward no contention (peace, charity) and the kind of Zion community we find in 4th Nephi. “And it came to pass that there was no contention in the land, because of the love of God which did dwell in the hearts of the people....and surely there could not be a happier people among all the people who had been created by the hand of God.”

Personal righteousness: Everybody starts with clean hands

Careful Obedience: Follow the instructions exactly

“Cook to 250 degrees...not the bottom of the line, nor the top of the line, but right in the center of the line.”

All of the instructions must be followed with precision (exactness and honor).

This kind of precision requires FOCUS: keeping our eyes on the prize and single to the glory of God.

If you follow these safe candy-making procedures, you can avoid the laborious washing process, saving much time and trouble.

Adversity metaphor: Stretching

Pull edges up and over, toward the center, so they don’t harden.

(Reminds me of how we need to be careful not to harden our hearts.)

As soon as it is cool enough to handle, butter your hands, pick up the candy and start stretching. It will be slimy and out-of-control at first. Resist the urge to knead and squeeze. Lightly pull and stretch, establishing a rhythm...side to side, over the top, repeat. When it becomes more manageable, hold the ball in one hand, pull and fold with the other. When you can, move it to your fingertips and continue spreading and stretching, using the length of your arms. It will become opaque and lose some of its glisten.

Stretching is the longest, most difficult part

It’s completely outside our control

The only way through is to stretch (grow)

Then the very nature of it starts to change

This stretching process takes way longer than we think

(How long, O Lord?)

Repentance: If you really screw up, you can always throw it back in the pot and return to the boiling step. :)

Patience: After all that hard work, you are dying to eat some, but it turns out there's a very long curing process. They are edible now, but nothing like the finished product. You have to learn to wait.

Atonement metaphor: Curing

Line a half-sheet baking pan with plastic wrap. Arrange pieces on plastic in a single layer to cure. Cover with another sheet of plastic wrap, making sure the cover is air tight. Allow to cure for up to three days.

Even after paying careful attention to detail and doing everything precisely,

the mints look like they didn’t work, like they won’t be any good.

Some are chewy, some are grainy, some are crunchy.

The curing process takes care of all that.

They must be entombed in sheets of air-tight plastic for up to three days.

After the three days, even the most stubborn and silly-looking buttermints will wind up perfect, white, creamy and delicious.

An Easter miracle

No matter how hard we try, how carefully we observe the commandments, we are flawed. Without those crucial three days in the tomb where our Lord lay down his life and took it up again, there is no way any of us would ever be “good enough” or reach perfection. But, given those three days of grace, there is hope for us all.

And it came to pass that I did go forth and partake of the [mints] thereof; and I beheld that [they were] most sweet, above all that I ever before tasted. Yea, and I beheld that the [mints were] white, to exceed all the whiteness that I had ever seen.

And as I partook of the [mints] thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy; wherefore, I began to be desirous that my family should partake of [them] also; for I knew that [they were] desirable above all other [mints]. —Adapted from 1 Nephi 8:11-12

* * * * *

I would like to send you a little package of these wonderful Atonemints for you to try for yourself, along with a brief summary of the atonement metaphor. Just leave a comment to be entered in the drawing.

Rites of Spring

2011-04-21T00:29:00.020-06:00

The kids have been on spring break and The Princess just got her driver’s license -- creating a crazy combination of life and activity and all things new and exciting. The jonquils at the base of the oak trees in the front yard have sprung to life, smiling at me every time I approach the driveway. And there is (finally!) no snow to weigh them down. The plum tree at the foot of the hill has burst into blossomy pink. All seems right with the world.

As a second witness that Easter is approaching, we had the enormous privilege of seeing the Carl Bloch exhibit at the BYU Museum of Art just before we left town. There are no words to describe what it feels like to walk into room after room where you see a sensitively rendered, lifesize depiction of the Savior -- the closest thing I can imagine to actually being in His presence. There was palpable reverence and peace. The holiness brought me to tears. A time or two I couldn’t stop myself from whispering out (while inwardly shouting) my love and praise for the Master. Powerful.

Having recently painted the Savior myself, I couldn't help but be moved by this quote: "God helps me, that is what I think and then I am calm." - Carl Bloch.

Then we spent five warm and sunny days in southern Utah on a painting excursion. I felt all kinds of ideas and emotions waking up inside me as I packed the cooler and filled my palette, barely anticipating the possibilities.

I tend to think of the desert as a barren wasteland, and an odd place to usher in Holy Week. But the house where we stayed was in “a desert community” where the pueblo-style houses are built down into the ground so as not to interrupt the landscape, and the residents commit to leave the surroundings untouched. Cotton-tailed bunnies would bounce through the sage brush and run right past our windows, while red-tailed hawks circled the sky. We walked through a sculpture garden and labyrinth, hiked to a plethora of petroglyphs, soaked our feet in the stream, and sat and stared at the stars.

Early-ish one morning I went out for a walk with my camera, looking for something spectacular to paint, and what gradually struck me is that the desert landscape is very like Jerusalem, and the landscape itself an atonement metaphor. Virtually everywhere you look, there is:

a scarlet robe

a crown of thorns

swords and spears

a stone rolled away

an empty tomb

great drops of blood

deepest darkness offset by blinding light

stone tablets; ancient writ

death and decay; new life

Suddenly I can’t wait to get back to my studio and create a whole series of desertscapes, with imagery symbolizing the atonement.

I found that while the desert itself may seem dry and desolate, my search for deeper meaning led me to Living Water there. I was not just awake, but invigorated. Joyful. Filled to overflowing. I hope I can make that newness and excitement last far beyond Easter morning.

When Ugly Isn't

2011-04-01T00:21:00.008-06:00

A few years ago I met with a new client named Brian who was in charge of a large retirement home. After our meeting he took me on a tour of the facility. As we waited for the elevator, an adorable little old lady approached us.

"Hello, Mrs. MacFarland," Brian greeted her. She returned the greeting with genuine sparkle.

As we stepped into the elevator together, I smiled, extended my hand and introduced myself. She looked up at me and said, "Well, you're awfully pretty. Really. Very beautiful." Caught a little off guard, I thanked her rather clumsily, but couldn’t quite get over how sweet she was to make such a fuss over my looks.

We walked a little further through the facility, then Brian casually commented, "You know that lady in the elevator?" I nodded. "Legally blind." (ba-doom-ba!)

I laughed about that one all the way home. Perhaps it was my INNER beauty she saw? But the irony wasn’t lost on me either. In fact, it stung a little. Because for most of my life I’ve been carrying around a pretty heavy ugly complex. I inherited this complex from my mother, who was strikingly beautiful, but also felt she was a bit lacking in the looks department. So it's been in my family for years.

BUT.

In the last six months, two things have made a difference for me. Not changed the way I look. But changed the way I feel about how I look.

First, this book.

Precious Bane, written in 1924 and somehow overlooked as a classic (but clutched tenaciously by those who value great literature, including C. S. Lewis) has some of the most beautiful, poetic passages you can ever hope to read. Set in Shropshire, England in the 1800s, it’s a fairy tale of operatic proportions. There is love and hate, lust and innocence, birth and death, fire and flood. The heroine was born with a cleft palate (hare lip) for which she’s despised and accused of witchcraft. Yet she never gives up hope of being loved and cherished. While her brother allows his obsession with riches to poison and destroy him, Prudence rises to a shining level of wisdom and grace. Ultimately, one wonderful man sees beyond her physical flaw to her radiant inner beauty, and it becomes a love story that is powerful and unsurpassed. How I was engulfed in the pages of this marvelous book, where a woman is loved for what she truly is on the inside, rather than for how the rest of the world sees her! This is the kind of love story I’ve always believed in: True beauty rewarded with truest love.

Next, this talk, by a modern prophet.

When Thomas Monson rose to speak to a large group of women from our church, a palpable hush fell over the crowd. Toward the end he told the story of Mary Bartels, an innkeeper of sorts, who rented a room to a shriveled, misshapen old man whom many had turned away. Over the years she came to know and befriend this man, and discovered he had a generous and humble heart and a beautiful soul. Besides the symbolism of the innkeeper, this is the part that undid me:

After the man passed away, Mary was visiting with a friend who had a greenhouse. As she looked at her friend’s flowers, she noticed a beautiful golden chrysanthemum but was puzzled that it was growing in a dented, old, rusty bucket. Her friend explained, “I ran short of pots, and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn’t mind starting in this old pail. It’s just for a little while, until I can put it out in the garden.”

Mary smiled as she imagined just such a scene in heaven. “Here’s an especially beautiful one,” God might have said when He came to the soul of the little old man. “He won’t mind starting in this small, misshapen body.” But that was long ago, and in God’s garden how tall this lovely soul must stand!

This reached me on such a deep level it unleashed cathartic sobs. I felt a power and a soothing in his words, as if God Himself had spoken them directly to some deep hiding place in my heart. And some healing happened. I left that grand, sweeping room feeling almost beautiful.

After all that, I'm sure you can imagine how fondly I'm looking forward to hearing him speak again this weekend. Tune in if you get a chance. You’ll never know what all those inspired words could do for you if you don't stop to hear them.

________________

And now, we have a winner to announce: Random.org chose LisAway -- who also won a book in my December giveaway -- to win the signed copy of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day by Heidi Ashworth. Lisa, the book gods must hold you in high favour! Next, the set of "Miss Delacourt's Roses" notecards goes to Patty Ann. Hopefully one of my wonderful readers also won the original painting over at Heidi's blog. But if not, don't despair. I have more notecards and giclee prints available through my website. And I'm always just an email away.

Miss Delacourt Has Her Day...and Her Roses

2011-03-25T09:45:00.004-06:00

A little over two years ago, when my life felt like someone had just pulled the rug out from under us and the world was rocking off its foundation, I found an online friend who had undergone similar crises with grace and humor: Miss Heidi Ashworth. Heidi had written some beautiful posts like this one that gave me hope and perspective. Heidi also had something that many of us merely dream of...a little widget in the upper corner of her blog counting down the actual days until her publisher released her first novel, Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind !

Of course I was among the first to order it. I LOVED the title. I LOVED Heidi. And I LOVED the idea of reading a book written by someone I actually KNEW...even if it was just through blogging. As I read Heidi’s book, literally chuckling on every page, and delighting at the witty banter, I kept saying to myself, “I can’t believe Heidi wrote this!” when what I was really thinking was, “I can’t believe I actually know someone this clever and talented and amazing--a nationally published author of a book I am thoroughly enjoying!” Because, while Regency Romance is not a genre I’d put at the top of my list (it probably wouldn’t make the list at all) Heidi’s book read like a romantic comedy. There was no stuffiness, sappiness, or sexual steaminess. Just a very clever plot with lots of witty banter...which just happened to take place in Jane Austen’s era. :) It read like a Regency version of “It Happened One Night”, --that classic Clark Gable movie where two attractive characters are trapped on a road trip together, pretending to hate each other, but their witty banter whips up so much chemistry between them they actually end up...well, that would be a spoiler now, wouldn’t it? You’ll have to rent it on Netflix instead.

Altruistically wanting to help promote Heidi’s new book, and selfishly wanting very much to meet her in person, I arranged to host a live reading in my home. I enlisted my book group—and asked my friend Kazzy and her book group to join us as well—in hopes of giving Heidi a hearty roomful of adoring fans (and lots of new book sales).

Since roses figure prominently in Heidi’s book, I had placed a giant bouquet of multicolored roses as a centerpiece on the table with all the lovely snacks. At the end of the evening, as the last guests said their goodbyes, clutching their books to their hearts, I wished there was a way to package up the whole experience and save it forever. I glanced at the roses on the table, and was so enamored with all those perfect buds, I determined to paint them. And I created this watercolor, entitled “Miss Delacourt’s Roses”:

I’m sure you can imagine how excited I was to hear that Heidi had written a SEQUEL to that first delicious romp! I was quite literally counting the days until it arrived. As soon as I opened the package I quite literally (and this speaks VOLUMES) set aside the latest Leif Enger novel I was reading and dove into Miss Delacourt Has Her Day. (Yes, I also LOVE this title! I have a thing for titles.) The graphic designer in me also LOVES the cover! So beautiful! (And yes, I DO judge books by them!) Surprise number one: Little old me was mentioned in the acknowledgments. Woohoo! I of course expected to read more about the lovely Miss Delacourt and the dashing Sir Anthony and the dowager duchess. But right away came surprise number two: There was an enormous plot twist right in the prologue! We’re talking page one-and-a half. I didn’t have to turn very many more pages to discover that the hilariously annoying buffoons, Lord Avery and Lucinda, reemerge in the sequel, adding a never-ending sprinkling of humor and foolishness. AND there’s a villainess. A rich, beautiful, widowed villainess. GRRR.... Needless to say I romped through the sequel in what seemed like no time at all. It's a fast, fun read. The book is very well researched, but that doesn’t get in the way of the plot or the humor. There was no road trip this time--no quarantine either--but they’re replaced with a boxing match, an Italian butler, a chariot-race (of sorts) and a hot air balloon ride! What could be more fun? Or, dare I say, ROMANTIC? And while I anticipated the ending, I enjoyed it down to the very last drop...er, um, I mean lift.

Congratulations, Heidi!

This time around I’m once again wishing Heidi much success with her new novel. Instead of hosting a live reading in my living room, though, I’m offering three wonderful gifts for stopping by today: I’m purchasing a copy of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day for you to read and enjoy, and a set of notecards of Miss Delacourt’s Roses for you to pretend you’re all regency and send pretty notes to people. :) In addition, I have donated the ORIGINAL 9 x 12 watercolor, valued at $530, to Heidi’s giveaway. I urge you to head right over there and participate. Then come back here and tell me what you did, (facebook, twitter, Goodreads, Amazon, etc.) and I’ll enter you in my drawing too.

So. To be perfectly clear:

1 - Leave a comment here.
2 - Participate in Heidi’s giveaway there.
3 - Come back here and leave a comment telling me what you did there.
4 - Win big. (I’m crossing my fingers for you.)

The Year Santa Forgave Me

2010-12-25T23:46:00.004-07:00

One year, when I was about seven, it dawned on me the afternoon of Christmas Eve...I wasn’t good enough. Not in a self-esteem-in-a-vacuum sort of way, but in a naughty-vs-nice sort of way. I’d been mean to my sister WAY too many times. I’d whined when my mom asked me to help her clean the kitchen. I’d taken cookies without asking. My room was a mess. But mostly I knew it was that mean part that made me not good enough. And I was seriously worried that Santa might not come.

What if I didn’t get any presents? --Or worse, what if I got coal? But what bothered me even more than the presents and the shame was my own meanness. I didn’t like it when my heart felt stingy and angry. I didn’t like thinking about how good I wasn’t.

I decided to change, right then and there. Santa was probably already soaring through the night sky over the Orient and probably wouldn’t be revising his list this late in the game, but it was still worth a try. We listened to the radar report; he’d reached the middle east. Not much time left. I tried to be extra nice to my sister. I let her play with my doll. I let her win at Yahtzee. I tried as hard as I could to do everything single little thing my mom asked me. I had already helped making candies and cookies, sending myself to batter-licking nirvana. I volunteered to wrap presents, even though I knew it was too late. Then I served my dad. I gave him one of those neck rubs he loves, then ran my fingers through his hair...and kept doing it for [what seemed like] hours. And I didn’t complain when it was time to go to bed.

I hoped it would work. I knew it was a last-ditch effort. But it was sincere.

That Christmas morning I was strangely not tempted to badger my parents to go out and see what was under the tree. I was still scared. What if my efforts weren’t enough to make up for a year of badness and meanness? Santa might not have brought me any presents at all. Fear and dread kept me from dashing out there to take a peek. I got dressed. I cleaned my room. I made my bed. I helped my mom stir orange juice for breakfast, and didn’t wince when she called it Juice-y.

Finally, I could stall no longer. Mom and Dad had us line up in the hallway and sing a Christmas carol, with me leading the way. I walked to the familiar chair where Santa always tucked my presents, and found it full-to-overflowing. Santa came after all. I could hardly believe my eyes...or my luck.

What I learned that Christmas has lasted a lifetime. Because that year I learned about mercy and grace. I knew that, despite my change of heart, no amount of effort on a cold Christmas eve could possibly right the wrongs of an entire year. And yet there were gifts. Unearned, undeserved gifts. Rewards for faith and a change of heart. Forgiveness.

It reminded me of this spread from What Think Ye of Christmas:

Some parents choose not to teach their children about the wonder of Santa Claus. (Let alone elves, reindeer, and a sleigh that circles the globe in a single night.) And I can understand why. But I would suggest that Santa is a symbol. A kind, bearded man who invites children to come and sit on his knee and tell him their dreams...”Suffer the children to come unto me”...and then showers them with gifts...is clearly a metaphor. I think believing in the goodness of Santa gives way to our faith in an all-knowing, pure-loving Lord who invites even the weakest among us to Come Unto Him. We tell him our struggles, our sorrows, our hopes...he invites us to change our hearts...and then He showers us with blessings, grace, and forgiveness.

There could be no greater gift.

Just Like Barbara Walters...except NOT

2010-12-15T09:31:00.004-07:00

My friend Gunfighter (don't let the name scare you!) just posted an interview with me on his blog, here. I really did feel all fancy and Barbara-Walters-y answering his questions! Gunfighter is a long-time blog friend, works in law enforcement in Washington, DC (yes, overseeing cool things like the inauguration!) is a family man, and very active in his church. He asked some excellent questions, and I think you'll enjoy reading the interview and visiting his site. Which is why comments are off here. Because I want you to go over there.

And speaking of linkage and loveage, Happy Mom (who won my giveaway) also recently posted a wonderful review, here. I especially love this line: "Read it aloud...Your voice will tell you things about the text that your eyes alone will miss." Happy Mom is out of town at her daughter's wedding, but I'm sure she'd love nothing more than to come home to a sea of comments from friends like you!

I hope you're all having a wonderful Christmas! Mine is crrraaaazy-busy, but thanks to the spread from What Think Ye of Christmas about how "being busy" teaches us that "Joy is Hard Bought"...I'm not all grumpy and stressed this year! :)

Okay, off you go to comment now...

Relax Where it Hurts

2010-12-09T06:01:00.004-07:00

“I brought you some sugar-free candy today,” she said wryly one day, “but it sort of tastes like the floor!” (We cracked up, grimacing over the image of what the floor might actually taste like.) My high school dance teacher was frequently catching us off guard, so full of creative energy there was rarely a dull moment.

The phrase from her that stayed with me the strongest (and mind you, high school was a long, long, time ago) turned out to be a life lesson as well. We’d be on the floor, trying to push our legs into the splits, and she’d say, “Stretch...stretch...now relax where it hurts.” And then, if we focused on relaxing the precise muscle that was pushed to the limit, somehow, impossibly, we were able to stretch just a little bit farther.

I think of that instruction all the time...decades later it still pops into my mind...usually after a workout at the gym, while I’m stretching my back, my calves, my thighs, because these days it seems like everything hurts! I remember what Connie Jo said, and I relax into it...and stretch a little deeper.

A couple of weeks ago I realized my heart muscle needs some serious stretching. —Okay, that was an understatement. I’ve been edgy to the extreme. Wound up so tightly, the slightest irritant would set me off...on a rampage! This was not just your garden-variety PMS. I started to scare myself. In this insane state, everything was going wrong. People were walking all over me. I started pushing back. Complaining. Grousing. Which only made things worse.

Then a few nights ago, just as I was drifting off to sleep, with my last ounce of energy I picked up this book. And the words of the brilliant M. Catherine Thomas taught me exactly what I needed to hear.

The contamination [of negative thought] is what Tibetan philosophy calls drip. He explains that drip is like a dark, heavy goo that thickens our mind; it accumulates through cultivating negativity, and then life seems to get dark and difficult. This contaminated mental state causes us to engage in “nonvirtue” — unkind acts against ourselves and others— and then the drip gets thicker. Thus we engage in an endless cycle of suffering.

On reflection, we see that our gravest problem does not lie in our circumstances, but in our lack of a truer perception of reality, a larger frame of reference, which could liberate our mind from self-will and self-absorption. Much spiritual change can come simply as we become aware of the truth.... Just becoming aware can lessen the power of the negative feelings, as insight and release often go together.

I literally saw myself in that "life gets dark and difficult" line. It was so humbling to encounter myself on this page describing drip! She then quotes Deepak Chopra:

Watch this wave of feeling travel away from you—watch it grow fainter and fainter. Breathe.... Cross the invisible boundary between the ego and the real self.... If you follow any emotion far enough, it will end in silence.

And she says Eckhart Tolle suggests a similar process:

...when somebody says something to you that is rude or designed to hurt, “instead of going into unconscious reaction and negativity, such as attack, defense, or withdrawal, you let it pass through you” as though you were transparent, so that it no longer hits a solid “wall” inside you.

In other words, Relax where it hurts.

As I read, I initially found chastisement, realizing that most of the negativity I encountered around me initiated inside my head. Then I experienced real healing, as I literally felt that anger release.

I’m still learning to apply that “relax where it hurts” principle to my relationships. Because when I find myself angry or hurt (and mind you, I'm not easily offended!), more often than not it’s my own heart that needs stretching. When I remember to literally relax where it hurts — try not to tighten up or take offense when something rubs me the wrong way; Try to loosen that piece of my heart that feels the most pain; Allow my heart to soften and stretch — it seems like the universe stretches with me. And everything improves.

Remember The Grinch, whose heart “grew three sizes that day”?
That was me. I promise you, the “two sizes too small” pinch was what hurt. I could feel it as though the tightening were literal and physical. But what feels great? is the stretching.

* * * * *

There are some reviews of the book out right now that you do not want to miss.
Mommy J posted a lovely one here. There's also a bit of sweetness from Shari, here. Scribbit has a great review here (and her giveaway is still open until midnight on Saturday).
And you simply must read what Deb posted here. Be sure to read all the way to the bottom for her "pay it forward" idea...a Random Act of Kindness she'll perform for every order of five or more. Oh, how I love my readers! Thank you one and all!

Why This Girl Amazes Me

2010-12-08T00:08:00.001-07:00

When I was a teenager I was obsessed with being “the best” --and simultaneously gripped with a fear of failure. I wouldn’t play sports...whether it was a high school team or just a game of tennis with my friends...because I couldn’t stand that I wasn’t good enough. My loss.

This girl? has no problem signing up for the baseball team, the volleyball team, the golf team, the tennis team...and doesn’t mind at all if she spends most of the game on the sidelines, cheering on her teammates. She plays for the fun and the friendship. And wins.

Raising children doesn’t come easy for me. I always want to be some amalgamation of Olivia Walton, Caroline Ingalls and Maria von Trapp. (See “the best” above.) :) But when it comes to crowd control I often turn into the Bossy Big Sister, and sometimes even the Wicked Stepmother. I am not fond of this side of myself.

This girl? is a natural nurturer. She has a rare knack for entertaining children, with just the right balance of firmness and fun. I can already see the amazing mother she'll be someday.

I artfully dodge all cameras...as a public service. I have a penchant for ruining photos. My husband is in awe of the sheer odds that we could take x number of photos...and my eyes would be closed/and or my face distorted in every. single. one.

This girl? loves the camera. In fact, knowing we didn’t have a lot of spare cash for gifts this year, for her birthday she asked my hubby to do a photo shoot with her and her friends. And look how it turned out!

On my sixteenth birthday my mom made me a special dinner at home, let me choose the menu, and let me invite one friend to join us.

This girl? had the party of the century! Her friends wanted to throw her a big dance party / surprise party. We told them 100 was too many people. They responded, "Your daughter is friends with EVERYBODY, and we don't want to leave anyone out." (Can't argue with that.) We told them we basically had no budget. One friend offered her vacant garage (which is bigger than our whole house) and flew up for the big day. Her dad hired a sound designer and a lighting specialist to deck it out for the party. Another friend, whose dad owns Magleby’s Restaurant, made their famous chocolate cake (among the best I’ve ever eaten). The girls chose playlists and handled the guest lists. All I had to do was coordinate, communicate, and go to Costco and buy all the food. About 100 people came to wish my little girl happy birthday!

What more could any mother want than to have her own daughter "best" her in nearly every way?
________________________

p.s. If you stop in on Scribbit right now, there's a review of my book and a giveaway, here.
p.p.s. There's also a wonderful review you may have missed here, by Mommy J.

Take Time to Slow Down (Sorry, Mom!)

2010-11-29T10:20:00.000-07:00

Some of the last advice my mom gave me before she died was this: “When you have a baby, you need to slow down.” I’m embarrassed to say I sort of shrugged it off. Never mind that she was a veteran, having already raised five children. Never mind that she was approaching death, and had this all-wise eternal perspective on life. I thought I was superwoman.

I got a sort of high out of the adrenalin rush of living life in the fast lane: Meet with clients in their fancy westside offices. Work long hours meeting deadlines with creative solutions. Feed, clothe, house and nurture a family. I prided myself in the fact that I missed only one day of work to have a baby, that I was on the phone with clients from my delivery bed in the hospital, assuring them their projects would be delivered on time. I completely blew off my mother’s slowing-down advice. In fact, if anything, I sped up.

And you know what? I was wrong. Of course Mom was right.

Don’t misunderstand — I took good care of my babies. And I took care of my clients. Nearly always in that order. :) I did the ritual late-night feedings and changings, breastfed my babies while I talked on the phone with clients (only somewhat mortified when they burped loudly into the phone!), I rocked them, sang to them, read to them, nursed them on demand. (And I simultaneously churned out stellar gala invitations and corporate brochures.) But I missed lots of wonderful moments with my children, skipped some of the pure enjoyment of these little miracles growing up right under my nose!

The one person I didn’t take care of was me. I was a pretty stressed-out mom. I fell into a deep depression after about eight or nine years of this designer-supermom craziness. It became clear that taking time for myself was not a luxury, but a very deep need.

The refreshingly gritty and original Anne Lamott echoed my mom’s advice in this article from Sunset Magazine last spring:

...The good news is that creative expression, whether that means writing, dancing, bird-watching, or cooking, can give a person almost everything that he or she has been searching for: enlivenment, peace, meaning, and the incalculable wealth of time spent quietly in beauty.
Then I bring up the bad news: You have to make time to do this.
She concludes, “I’ve heard it said that every day you need half an hour of quiet time for yourself, or your Self—unless you’re incredibly busy and stressed, in which case you need an hour.”

I almost laughed when I read that last line. I so need that perspective — that when you’re stresed and things are crazy you need even MORE time for yourself. MORE slowing down. Yes.

At the beginning of October I heard this talk, wherein there are echoes of both Anne Lamotte and my mother:

What do you suppose pilots do when they encounter turbulence? A student pilot may think that increasing speed is a good strategy because it will get them through the turbulence faster. But that may be the wrong thing to do. Professional pilots understand that there is an optimum turbulence penetration speed that will minimize the negative effects of turbulence. And most of the time that would mean to reduce your speed. The same principle applies also to speed bumps on a road....Slow down a little, steady the course, and focus on the essentials when experiencing adverse conditions. (italics added)

This line in particular reminded me of my mom’s advice: “We would be wise to slow down a little.”

"Strength comes not from frantic activity but from being settled on a firm foundation of truth and light.” He adds, "too often we attempt to keep the same frantic pace or even accelerate, thinking that the more rushed our pace, the better off we will be."

(Doesn’t that sound exactly like what I did, back when my kids were small?)

"Let’s be honest; it’s rather easy to be busy. We can all think of a list of tasks that will overwhelm our schedule. Some might even think that their self-worth depends on the length of their to-do list.”

(scary!)

“Because they unnecessarily complicate their lives, they often feel increased frustration, diminished joy and too little sense of meaning in their lives." (italics added)

"Let us simplify our lives a little. Let us make the changes necessary to refocus our lives on the sublime beauty of the simple, humble path of Christian discipleship — the path that leads always toward a life of meaning, gladness, and peace."

He then lists four key relationships on which to focus: God, Family, Our Fellowmen, and Self, each of which require spending devoted time. It was that last one that surprised me. Self? But listen to what he says:

The fourth key relationship is with ourselves. It may seem odd to think of having a relationship with ourselves, but we do. Some people can’t get along with themselves. They criticize and belittle themselves all day long until they begin to hate themselves. May I suggest that you reduce the rush and take a little extra time to get to know yourself better. Walk in nature, watch a sunrise, enjoy God’s creations, ponder the truths of the restored gospel, and find out what they mean for you personally. Learn to see yourself as Heavenly Father sees you—as His precious daughter...with divine potential.

I thought of those early, crazy Designer-Supermom years, and what they did to my stress level, to my family, to me, and I knew deep down he was right. (As were Anne Lamott, and my mother.) We somehow need to make nurturing time for ourselves, in addition to everything else. And we need to slow down to do it.

Sorry, Mom. I’ve always been a little slow when it comes to taking your advice. But this time I’m ready to listen. I’m ready to slow down, simplify, and refocus, particularly on those key relationships. I know I could use a bit more time spent in quiet beauty, and the promises of meaning, gladness and peace? Are irresistible.

* * * * *
p.s. My friend Melanie J (I know her in person, and in addition to her rare gift for witty banter, she has some of the world's most beautiful children and a completely adorable husband) has posted a great review of my book, What Think Ye of Christmas, called "Un-Grinching and Embracing Christmas," here.

My Three Kernels of Corn

2010-11-25T00:34:00.008-07:00

Legend has it that when the pilgrims first arrived in the New World, conditions were harsh, and at times all they had was a ration of a few kernels of corn.

“But then, as if by the grace of God, their trials began to subside. After three long years, what was once famine eventually became a feast of sheer abundance. They feasted for three solid days… and gave thanks to God for their new found bounty.

However, before that feast began, they all received [three] kernels of corn on their plate as a reminder of where they had come from, and in honor of those who had died.”

One of our favorite family traditions is to place, as the original pilgrims did, three kernels of corn above each plate. After dinner is over we all sit around the table and give thanks for our three kernels of corn — each representing a blessing, or more often a category of multiple blessings.

This year my three kernels of corn are all for miracles:

First, I’m grateful for this miracle, and the joy of having our whole family together this Thanksgiving.

Second, I’m grateful for this miracle you’ve all been reading about, and still in awe that I had a small part to play in its fruition.

Third, I’m grateful for two very sweet experiences this year, also miracles, where I was able to feel the distinct presence of my mother, who passed away almost twenty years ago. One was in the temple on her birthday, too sacred to share; and the other I wrote about here.

Surrounding and encompassing all of these, I’m grateful for their Source: a loving Father who, with his living Son, is still very much involved in the lives of His children, caring enough to send real miracles to otherwise ordinary people. And once in awhile...even to me.

Happy Thanksgiving.

On Piano, Performance Anxiety, (Im)Perfection, and a Pattern...PLUS the big announcement! (Not Pregnancy) :)

2010-11-22T00:50:00.000-07:00

I experienced my first performance anxiety (not counting the time I slammed my finger in the car door on the way to a piano recital in second grade!) when I was in junior high. I was playing “Theme From Mahogany” (yeah, I’m that old) on a piano recital at our church. I had perfected the piece, I thought. Then suddenly I sat on that stage and got halfway through the song and my mind went blank and the notes on the page turned to an indecipherable blur. In slow-motion agony that felt like reliving my worst nightmare, I fumbled, stopped, and started over. I got to the same point and couldn’t find my way out of the abyss and just jumped to the next section and finished the piece.

But this is why I remember the level of mortification to this day: Unable to face anyone in the audience, I slipped out the side exit, rushed down the hall and out the door and walked all the way home. (Okay, I lived in Utah, where there’s a church on every other corner. But still...) The house was locked, so I climbed through my bedroom window and hid in my room, possibly in a fetal position, for hours. I could not bear the thought of making so many mistakes. In public.

In the meantime my family had no idea where I’d gone and started to worry I’d been kidnapped.
We eventually reunited, and all was well. Ironically, because of that performance, my mother decided I had some real musicianship that needed to be fostered and had me audition with her teacher, a venerable old retired concert pianist from New York named Becky Almond.

Here begins the pattern, which I didn’t recognize until years later: I practice. I perfect. I perform. I panic. I make mistakes. I can’t recover. I am mortified. Some surprising and unbelievable good results from this painful process.

This marked the beginning of a longstanding pattern of piano performance anxiety that has been, at times, crippling for me. One of these fiascos I’m saving for a future post. And another I’ll share with you here, because it completely changed my perspective: In college I was asked to play for my cousin’s missionary farewell. We were close, and I approached the assignment prayerfully, selecting what I thought was the most beautiful music imaginable, a piano transcription of Faure’s Pavane. My mom wrote a flute obbligato for my younger sister, and we played in tandem. The addition of the flute made me slightly less nervous. A new-and-improved pattern emerged. I was well prepared. I prayed. I performed. It wasn’t perfect. But I played my heart out. Then something happened that still drops my jaw whenever I think about it.

There was a little reception after the meeting, and while we were all milling about, a man I’d never seen before approached me. He looked a little ragged, and I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t sure what to think of this stranger at first. But he spoke a sentence that taught me the power of music and changed my life. He said, and I swear these are his exact words, “I was contemplating suicide, and your music gave me the will to live.”

That was one of those moments where the world stops. Freeze-frame. And then everything adjusts to surround this new paradigm.

I realized that my perfectionism was getting in the way of my performance. That genuine expression can eclipse a few false notes. And that acknowledging my imperfections is not the same thing as embracing mediocrity. It’s humbling. And pushes me to try harder each time, hoping.

Today I had to accompany the church choir for our Thanksgiving program. The pieces were difficult...Rutter. (Say no more.) I practiced. Every day. For weeks. Starting slowly. Working out the difficult passages. Counting the ledger lines. Gradually speeding things up. With a metronome. Eventually had both pieces seamless and up to tempo.

But there’s that darn performancy anxiety again. Literally anything could happen. I pray. I’m prepared. I perform. It’s not perfect. It’s never perfect. I make mistakes. Every single time. But I recover. I play my heart out. And hope somebody who needs to hear it is listening. Then wait for some unexpected good.

I’ve decided this new-and-improved process is a lot like life: I’m not perfect. Not even close. I keep making mistakes, no matter how hard I try. I recover. I pray. I live my heart out. And hope I manage to reach someone who needs me. Then watch for some unexpected good.

I'm sure my mom had no idea what I'd ultimately learn when she first enrolled me in piano lessons. (Then again, maybe she did. She was a pianist too.)

* * * * *

And now for the big announcement:
First...the winner of Luisa Perkins’ wonderful cookbook, Comfortably Yum, is The Mom, from Outnumbered. I just know you’ll love this—I could tell from your comment that it’s a perfect fit.

Now...I loved your gift lists, especially the ones who took the time to type out something extra thoughtful. Thank you. I really do wish I could give ten books to every single one of you. But Random.org chose only one. So finally, the winner of a copy of What Think Ye of Christmas for every person on your gift list goes to: Happy Mom, from Hunyville Happenings. When her smile first showed up on my list of followers it made my whole day. She has a wedding going on over there, and I’m guessing this gift will relieve some stress. Congratulations!

Winners: Don't forget to send me your mailing addresses. And acceptance speeches are always welcome.

Note to the rest of you: Be not dismayed. You can order the book on my website, and still get a killer deal! If you order ten or more, the quantity discount lets you steal these books at less than $8 apiece. On top of that, if you enter the discount code CHARRETTE you get an additional 5% off your entire order, reserved only for my blog friends. So go crazy!

Also, there's another giveaway going on right this very minute from Steph over at Diapers and Divinity. I always love her sense of mission, and am excited to see what she has to say today.

Oh, if only there were a better word than WINNER...

2010-11-17T23:59:00.001-07:00

I have exactly six winners to announce here today. But, even as I type this, I'm suddenly not crazy about the word "winner". Alternatively, "prize-taker-homer" doesn't sound very sharp or official, or even literate. I think I prefer the way the Oscars® do it, acknowledging in advance that they are all, each of them winners, but the prize ultimately can only go to one person. --Oh, wait, and since this is about Christmas, we'll call them gifts:
First, a used copy of the original 1978 book PLUS a copy of my new edition, as mentioned in this post, goes to: (I'm opening the envelope, but not wearing a glitter gown) my new friend Shari, of Think, Dream, Inspire.

Second, a set of six notecards from the book PLUS a copy of the book, as mentioned in this post, goes to my friend Kate, of Walking Kateastrophe fame. (Rumor has it she tripped on the red carpet on her way in tonight!)

On Day 3 I offered two books instead of one — one to each of two lucky commenters — to commemorate the two paintings a day I mentioned in this post. The two books go to my friend LisAway, of Away From It All (please just tell me I don't have to ship the book to Poland!) and my friend Heather, from...um, around the corner from my house? :)

Next, we have another set of six notecards AND a copy of the book, as mentioned in this post, all of which go to: (drum roll please) my friend Rachel, of Shoes—and Ships—and Sealing-wax.

And now the moment we've all been waiting for: The art print (giclée) and one copy of the book as announced on this post (no, don't start the music — I haven't announced the winner, er, um recipient yet!) The art print (giclée) and one copy of the book go to my friend Mary Ellen, whose blog is private.

Even though the awards were selected by random.org, I'm quite pleased with its selection of winners, all people I know and love. You celebs have until Sunday night (Nov. 21) at midnight to claim your gifts (by emailing me your mailing address and your card/art selection, if applicable). Any gift not claimed will be tossed into another drawing and a new prize-taker-homer announced on Monday, the 22nd.

More good news? Well, I have one more giveaway left, here. A big one. A book for everyone on your Christmas gift list (up to ten). Just leave your list in the comments. I also have book reviews and giveaways scheduled to appear on some of my favorite blogs from now until Christmas, so check back often. In fact, right this minute there's a giveaway up at One Wild and Precious Life by my friend Jessica, in Ohio. She and I started blogging within days of each other, never having met, but with a similar sense of mission. It only took the universe a few short weeks to make our worlds collide. (Thank you, Heather of the EO.) Total kindred spirits. You can read what she has to say about the book (and maybe win a copy) here.

Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments, your interest in my book and my art, and your friendship, which means the world to me! I'd also like to thank my— *static white noise*

* * * * *

Please leave congratulations and acceptance speeches below. I promise I won't cut you off after 30 seconds!

Christmas All Summer—Opening Miracles

2010-11-14T23:07:00.011-07:00

This is a continuation of a story that starts here.

Okay, I'll spare you the minute-by-minute details, but my two weeks of solitude and serenity painting in my studio were suddenly eclipsed by the mayhem of design production. The week that followed was a watershed of calamities, including a trip to the hospital with Katie (don't worry—she's fine) and the super-expensive digital files coming back all wrong, and my husband (thank you, honey!) taking the morning off work to help me color-correct all the scans. The stress put me over the edge. I stopped going to bed on time, stopped my workout regimen, and had a-headache-bordering-on-a-migraine that lasted all week. I was a wreck.

The files had to be uploaded to my printer in Los Angeles on July 9th. Of course the computers crashed. Of course the FTP site was full. Of course I couldn't access the site from my computer and had to transfer everything downstairs on a jump drive. Of course there was a problem with the cover. Par for the course, right? But then — suddenly, at 11:57 p.m. (just minutes before the clock struck twelve and I turned into a pumpkin!) the whole thing worked, the files were gone, and I turned off my computer and went to bed.

The next morning I got up at 5 to run a 5K. Because I said I would. I'd been training for it all summer. And I was rewarded with one of the most beautiful sunrises I've ever seen. A gift. I finished the 5K, running it in four 8-minute segments with short walks in between. Another gift.

The proofs arrived via Fedex the following Monday. (I told you Peter was amazing!) We made some minor corrections, signed off on everything, and overnighted the proofs back to Los Angeles. And then I had to wait. For the longest 2 1/2 weeks of my life. (No — the second longest. The longest were the 2 1/2 weeks my first baby was past his due date!) The project was completely out of my hands. I could do nothing but pray. I prayed for the printers in Korea. I prayed for the bindery. I prayed that the boat wouldn't sink.

The books were scheduled to arrive on August 1. They didn't make it. *breathe*
I called Peter. He said they were tied up in customs and should deliver on the 2nd. *breathe*The convention starts on the 3rd. *breathe*The 2nd came. The books didn't arrive. Heartsick, but with a shred of hope, I called Ester back and told her sometimes UPS and other carriers often deliver as late as 7pm. *breathe*We go out to dinner. I can't eat. *breathe* (Oh, me of little faith.)
The doorbell rings. Our 11-year-old answers, and brings me a box.
Here I am, opening a miracle. (Yes, I had to capture the moment). My sample copies.

Ester calls the next morning: "You were right. They came on the dot of 7pm last night. We have plenty of books here in time for the convention." *exhale prayer of thanks*
Looking back, I spent my whole summer indoors. I missed my family vacation. I spent my whole summer working. And it was one of my best summers ever, because I spent my whole summer focused on Christmas: On Christ, and the miracle of His birth.I opened gifts called Connection, Harmony, Joy. I opened gifts I thought I didn't want: Darkness, Despair, and a Dare. I responded with gifts of my own: Toil, Solitude, Prayer. And found myself reveling in more gifts: Water, Light, Inspiration. In a way I felt like the Littlest Angel — reaching unworthily toward the altar with my grubby little hands, placing there all I had to offer, hoping it would be acceptable.

And I opened a miracle. I couldn't believe that just 2 1/2 weeks later, I was hefting the finished product, opening a real cover, turning actual pages. And as close to perfect as I could have hoped. I never imagined my summer of non-stop Christmas would hold so many wonderful gifts, such an increase of faith, such powerful peace. And this little miracle I was holding embodied it all—it began as a book about symbols, and ultimately became one.

* * * * *

Christmas All Summer — Water, Light, Inspiration

2010-11-10T10:27:00.004-07:00

This is a continuation of a story that starts here.

* * * * *

Everybody came home. They were so full of cousins and stories and jet ski adventures they didn’t even ask to see the paintings. I took the children aside and explained my routine, then asked them to please honor it this coming week: Ninety minutes uninterrupted in the studio, then a 20-minute break for them, plus longer breaks for lunch and dinner, then ninety minutes in the studio again. And again. And again. They accepted this offer rather reluctantly.

Late one morning my son came down to the studio to announce, “It’s been ninety minutes.” (He’d been watching the clock!) “Can we go look for back-to-school shoes?” “I have twenty minutes,” I said, “Let’s go!” I put down my brush and we darted upstairs for the door. We finished shopping and were on our way home when I looked at the clock. It had been twenty-three minutes. Then I added, “Well, I do allow myself a bit more time for lunch and dinner —— let’s grab a sandwich.” Lunch, shoe-shopping, and I was still on schedule, with one completely happy 11-year-old boy at my side.

That’s how my days went. I painted all day and half the night. And nurtured my children during love-packed twenty-minute breaks. (Thank heaven I only had to do this for a week!)

Meanwhile, back in the studio, the challenge was growing. I had unconsciously managed to save all the paintings of people for the end. Now I was painting a group of carolers, a child looking through a store window, Santa, my grandma...there was a figure in every painting, often more than one. And the most daunting of all I saved for the very last...Jesus.

The pressure was mounting. I chose the medium of watercolor because of its inherent spiritual quality, its reliance on water and light. But that same water and light also brings with it an element of risk, a lack of control, the chance of ruining it with every stroke. My dad says you haven’t mastered it until you’ve thrown away a thousand paintings! But I didn’t have time to chuck any of these. They had to be right.

Yet strangely, I painted in peace. The Christmas music ministered to me. The lyrics seemed to amplify the images I was creating. The words of the book distilled on my soul as I contemplated the subjects I was painting. Symbols (many unplanned) became clear, right down to the very color a subject should be painted, as though it were given to me through a direct conduit.

Listening to Christmas music helped keep me focused on the heart of the book's message. The Sarah Groves CD came on again, and I felt something so deep as I heard her sing, “It’s true-u-ue. Angels and crowns. A God who came down...” With each painting, I had the opportunity to ponder the accompanying words...often for hours at a time. And what I found was that the words slowly began to reshape my heart. Sometimes, when my brush didn’t manage to do what I saw in my head, I had to remind myself, “Don’t swear!” because I didn’t want to break the spell...lose the conduit of inspiration that was helping me paint.

I had the most powerful experience working on this project because I had to literally immerse myself in the text. First, by breaking down the raw manuscript, pulling out key phrases, deciding which images could best convey each thought. Next, by bringing those ideas to life through my paintings.

What I learned from this book? Is something I thought I already knew...that it's TRUE. It's all true. Angels, wise men, shepherds, gifts, wreaths, a star in the heavens, a child come to save us...every symbol, tradition, and component of the Christmas story is true, and still relevant today.

Finally, with trepidation, I arrived at the one I’d saved for last, the one of Christ with an older child, her face resting in his hands. I had wanted all along to prepare for that one, to take some sacred time, purify my heart, worship in a higher place. But there wasn’t time. Unworthily, I picked up my brush and blocked in his face, his hair his robes. It was working. And I realized I was ready. With each painting I had come to know him better. He’d been with me all along. In Bethlehem, in the lilies, even shadowing the shopper. The truth buried in each paragraph of text, in each painting, had distilled on my soul as I painted. And here was grace making up for my weakness. I painted from my heart. I added the final details. I knew when it was finished.

There was no choir of angels, no trumpet fanfare. I just quietly rinsed out my brush, heard the water ripple and the glass chime for the last time, and tiptoed up to bed. There was one thing I knew for certain: that with God, nothing is impossible. And my twenty paintings were tangible proof.

What I still didn't know...was whether we'd actually make that deadline and have our books there at the convention. In that sense, the book was far from finished. The paintings had to be scanned, placed in files, uploaded to an FTP site, and sent to Korea. There were still so many things that could go wrong -- what if the printing didn’t match the proofs? What if the instructions got all mixed up because of the language barrier? What if the boat sank?

To be continued...Part 6 is here.

* * * * *

Also, don't miss this review of the finished book over at Dreams of Quill and Ink today.
L.T. Elliot shares a wonderful, heart-felt response to the pictures and prose.

Christmas All Summer—Toil, Solitude, Prayer

2010-11-08T00:04:00.005-07:00

This is part four of a story that starts here.

* * * * *

The first thing I did (after learning that I had to do 20 paintings in two weeks) was enlist a small handful of close friends to pray for me.

Next? I started making plans for doing two paintings a day on a houseboat:

Work surface? (check)
Outlets for light table? (check)
Schlepping supplies? (brushes, paints, sketches and layouts, etc.--check)
Schedule? Let's see...

One day riding in hot car
Three days holing up in houseboat while kids in swimsuits run past, knocking over brushes and water
Three days of well-meaning people begging me to go swimming and ride jet-skis
Three days of questionable productivity, with constant interruptions and distractions
One more day riding home in hot car

PPPAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNIIIIICCCC! (Oh me of little faith...)

When Jeff discovered what I was doing, he was mildly horrified. "You can't bring all your painting stuff and work on the houseboat." "If I can't work, I can't go. The deadline is set in stone." There were some tense and awkward moments over the next few days, until it was time to pack. (This is the part where you all swoon, and sigh deeply over the fact that the man I married is already taken.) Jeff presented a loving and generous alternative: "Okay, I can see you need to stay here and paint. I'll take the kids to Lake Powell. I hope you get a lot done while we're gone."

Whew! Just like that, the panic lifted, and I went from making plans for painting on a houseboat to making plans for painting in my own studio, in total quiet. Instantly I thought of Tolstoy's creative process: Toil, Solitude, Prayer -- and was so grateful I'd have a few days of needed solitude in which to focus my energy and be, perhaps, the most productive and creative I'd ever been.

Ironically, I planned to exist in a very monklike state and keep a very structured regimen for my week of freedom. I prepared some very healthy but minimalist food so I wouldn't need to cook or clean up the whole time I was working. I was up by 7 every day to pray, down a protein shake and work out. From there I painted in strict 90-minute increments, interspersed with 20-minute breaks, during which I did something different to clear my head: A snack, maybe some light reading. Sometimes my "break" was actually folding laundry. :) It surprised me how much I found not just the painting but the actual rhythm of the routine very satisfying and therapeutic.

I started with a landscape (from a photo I took while staying at Sundance). A cozy cabin in the woods that will appear on the last page of the book. Begin with the end in mind...

Next I painted the Bethlehem sky. But I had to stop and start over because it wasn't perfect. And the Bethlehem sky has to be perfect, right? But the second one I tried wasn't perfect either.
Finally, my wise husband (still loading up the car) told me if I kept fixating on that sky I'd never get the rest of the paintings done. I needed to let go and move on. And of course he was right. :)

I consoled myself with my understanding that the Navajo tribes always intentionally weave an imperfection into their creations because only God himself is perfect. I paused right here and went on to the next two...telling myself if there's any time left at the end I can try another one.

I worked steadily, day after day, in my studio-monastery, somewhat miraculously turning out my requisite two paintings a day in my toil-solitude-prayer routine. And if they weren't quite finished, I still quit painting before midnight and went to bed, so I could get up early again the next morning. I was listening to a Sarah Groves Christmas CD fairly often while painting, and one of the tracks had two little kids telling the nativity story, starting with the annunciation. It cheered my soul to hear that tiny little voice say, "Is anything impossible for God?" Maybe not. I'm hoping not.

On Friday, my last day full day of painting before everybody got home from Lake Powell, I had planned to finish three paintings instead of two. My intern, Katie, was scheduled to come help with a few more sketches and scans, and I was already in the studio finishing up a painting from last night. The doorbell rang, and it took me a minute to get up there from the basement. I opened the door to find Katie somewhat collapsed, red-faced and out of breath, on my front porch. "Are you okay?" I asked. She could only manage to shake her head. Bless her heart...Her roommate had needed the car, so she rode her bike all the way up the hill to my house, in 90-degree weather! I could tell from my Webelos manual (I knew that thing would turn out to be a blessing someday!) she had heat stroke. I brought her inside, got her a glass of water, and had her lie down on the couch. Called a friend of mine who's a nurse. And spent the next three hours taking care of her...putting a fan on her, feeding her ice chips and water, running to the store for gatorade and chicken noodle soup.

* * * * *
By the end of the afternoon, it is also the end of Week One. I have no new paintings done, but I also know I've done the right thing. I go back down to the studio, quietly finish the painting I was working on, and start another. I am now one painting behind. I have eleven to go. Most of them are figures. And tomorrow morning Jeff and the kids come home...

To be continued...right here.

Today there's also a review over at Half Past Kissin' Time. Find out what my friend Mrs. 4444 in Green Bay, Wisconsin has to say about the finished book!

Pausing to Honor a VIP

2010-11-04T16:11:00.005-06:00

We interrupt our current programming to honor my friend, author Luisa Perkins on her birthday. Since I promised I'd give away a book every day this week, I'm making good on that promise, and giving away a copy of her book, Comfortably Yum to one lucky commenter today.

Here's the review I posted a little over a year ago. (It remains one of my most popular posts of all time, so I think you'll enjoy it). --But first, I have to add that after enjoying it for nearly a year and a half now, this cookbook is the best-loved and most used cookbook I own, pushing aside even the Barefoot Contessa herself. You haven't lived until you've tried Luisa's buttermilk pancakes! (I especially love them with Magleby's buttermilk syrup). Also highly recommended are Patrick's Pasta Sauce, the Applesauce Cake with penuche frosting, and Wedding White Cake with Lemon Curd Frosting (all are to die for). Two particular favorites are the Cream of Vegetable Soup and the Mother-of-Invention Muffins, where she encourages the reader to experiment and come up with infinite variations on a standard, and explains exactly how, where and what you may substitute, and with what results. These two appeal to my creative spirit in a most satisfying way, as I continue to reinvent various forms of deliciousness with rapturous results.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Open Letter to Luisa Perkins, Author of Comfortably Yum: Food for Body and Spirit

Dear Luisa,

Once upon a time, when I was first married (and still in the knight-in-shining-armor phase of our relationship) I truly viewed my husband as a future King (okay, I still do) and believed with all my heart he should eat like one. I had been the unofficial cook in my family for years, but still had an arsenal of very few recipes that were fit for a king. So late at night, while he was shooting footage for film school, I was up reading cookbooks. Studying the way ingredients were combined and herbs were used. Drooling over the ones that sounded truly delicious. Experimenting on a daily basis. And expanding my repertoire exponentially.

I haven't done that for years...

Until last night. Your new cookbook, Comfortably Yum: Food for Body and Spirit arrived in the mail, and I sat down and read the entire book, cover to cover. I couldn't put it down, despite the deadlines that are gripping my psyche, and the dustbunnies that are not only multiplying but rapidly becoming ferocious dragons all over the house.

I read. I laughed. I nodded in agreement. I found a soulmate. I was inspired.

This made me laugh:

Elga called it a dessert when she gave me the little handwritten index card, but I know she must have been kidding, because, um, see, Elga, it doesn't have any chocolate in it. But it makes a fantastic breakfast item...

This spoke to me in words I hadn't yet found to describe:

Cooking well is an art and a joy and a way to nurture yourself and your household all at the same time.

In this aspect, and many others, you are my twin separated at birth (although I am quite possibly not "as far down the food obsession continuum" as you are.):

We don't just savor delicious things; we are transported, practically Meg-Ryan-in-When Harry-Met-Sally-style.

(I would add here that Brillig just sent me a hilarious laughing-out-loud email busting me for using the word orgasmic in reference to the restaurant where we ate last night. My sister-in-law literally let out a rhapsodic squeal over the layer-upon-layer-of-chocolate dessert, as if she had just won not only the Showcase, but also the new Corvette...and I countered to the waiter, "I'll have what she's having.")

Our food addiction was enabled for many years by the fact that we lived in New York City, which is pretty much Mecca for restaurant goers. We never could bear to repeat-visit places because there was always something new to try.

Substitute Pasadena for New York City, and I could have written the west coast version of this paragraph, verbatim.

I read the excerpts from your travel journal and think about the way Jeff and I ate our way through Italy, and sixteen years later we still remember where we ate the best risotto, the best gelato, and the truly transcendent ribollita (which set Jeff on a quest to find the perfect recipes so I could duplicate it all at home. When we returned we invited our friends over...not for a slideshow or a travelogue, but an authentic Italian dinner.). I can't wait to try Patrick's pasta sauce.

I read about the way you're training your children to love good food, and thought of one of our family mottos: "Parkins aren't picky". (We're just very, very choosy.) I read about your son wondering aloud why he's the only one of his friends who doesn't like school cafeteria food, and it reminded me of this classic:

We took our youngest to preview several preschools when he was three, one of which actually had its own lunchroom. Mr. Cool saw a poster on the wall showing the food pyramid, pointed to it and said, "Mmm. Yummy fish!" The woman guiding our tour said proudly, "Yes. We have our own lunch room. Do you like fish sticks?" Mr Cool gave her a blank stare. "Actually," I explained, "he's never had fish sticks." "Oh," she said, recovering nicely,"but I bet you like tater tots!" Again, a blank stare. "I don't think he's ever had tater tots either" I explained. "Well, what do YOU like to eat?" she asked him directly, and without missing a beat he responded, "Salmon and couscous." Just like that. I pray we haven't ruined our children.

Even now, as I read...

I am thinking of all my wonderful food snob friends with whom I've shared many excellent meals and cherished recipes, and would now like to share this book.
I am wondering how you manage to stay so impossibly thin while eating so much bacon and cheese and potatoes and heavy cream.
I am reveling in the commentary, delighted by the way you were able to put so much of yourself on every page, in every recipe.
I am loving that you quote Laura Ingalls Wilder, J.R. R. Tolkien, Broadway musicals, and name a dip after Lynard Skynard.
Most important, I am reminded why I love to cook. How the alchemy of the kitchen, the flavors and aromas, has such power over me. I am reminded that I LOVE to nurture my family through good food.

I longed to tell you that when I made a local restaurant recommendation to our wonderful Kimberly during her writers' conference weekend, I noted: "I'm positive Luisa would LOVE Pizzeria 712 (sustainable, organic, gourmet wood-fired pizzas)"...so I guess I wanted to let you know, I get it. I might not always do it, but I get it.

I find myself wanting to have long conversations with you regarding...food. Debating, for example, the merits of sea salt over kosher salt. Sharing recipes and philosophies. Breaking bread. I especially want to tell you that my grandmother made those very same beloved salmon patties, but no one's quite been able to reverse-engineer the recipe, so I'm grateful for yours.

And, while I'm certain that house next door to you is WAY out of my price range, and would make for a long and tiresome commute for my hubby, I'm finding it very, very tempting.

Thank you for this wonderful book. The title is perfect. (And, after reading, I have to concede that the subtitle is even more fitting than my own clever half*).

Well done, my friend!

Affectionately,

Charrette

*Backstory: I won a copy of Comfortably Yum: Food for Body and Spirit in a contest a few months ago, in which Luisa challenged her readers to come up with a title for her new cookbook. There ended up being two winners, one for the Comfortably Yum (me) and another for the subtitle (Deb Barshafsky).

Leave a comment to be entered in the giveaway. And wish Luisa a happy birthday! It's on me.

Christmas All Summer — Darkness, Despair, and a Dare

2010-11-02T23:51:00.015-06:00

Continued from a previous post--but the story really starts here.

Now, on with the saga...

Our distributor suddenly tells us he needs a box of books in time for an important booksellers convention...on August 3! I'm finding this out on June 17th. Yikes! Ordinarily I would respond to a request like that with, "there's no way this is humanly possible" or maybe even a curt "that's SO not gonna happen!". The books are being printed overseas, with a six-and-a-half-week turnaround. I look at my calendar and sigh. That means the project needs to go to press...um, yesterday. And I have little more than a big pile of sketches on tissue paper and some empty files on the computer. It looks like the little-project-that-could has finally run out of steam.

Of course I realize this convention is our one chance to place the book in the hands of booksellers across the country. If we miss this convention, we'll have to wait not just a few weeks but a whole year for the next booksellers convention. We'll have no hope of getting it out this Christmas. All the money the author invested in the project will be sitting stagnant for a year and a half, with no return.

All the momentum I had built up for the project is rapidly dying. If we drag it out for another year, my intern Katie will have long since graduated. I'll have no more help. I feel like I'm stalled at a dead-end. It's impossible to send the book to press right this minute, and a marketing death sentence to wait any longer.

In one desperate move, like a 3-point shot hurled from the back of the basketball court before the buzzer rings, I place a call to my printer in Los Angeles: Peter, what can I do? Is there any way to shorten this window of time and get the books here by the beginning of August?

Amazing problem-solver that he is, he looks into paying a little extra to air-ship one box ahead of time, just for the booksellers convention, and sending the rest slow boat. If we do that he can deliver that first box in just 2 1/2 weeks after we sign off on the final proofs. He just bought us a month!

Reviving somewhat, I count backwards on my calendar: August 1, July 31, July 30...It looks like I can send the book to press on July 8 or 9...which means — oh, dear — I have to finish all the paintings by July 1! That's in fourteen days!

Two weeks. Twenty paintings. That’s more than I would typically finish in two YEARS! It’s beyond insane—and yet, rather fittingly...so am I! :)

I work out a schedule. I give myself two days to scan all my sketches into the computer and set the type so I can be sure it all fits. Taking Sundays off, that leaves me a total of ten days to do all the paintings — exactly two paintings a day! If I start at 7 in the morning and paint until midnight every night, maybe I can actually do this!

EXCEPT...oh, no! We have an extended family vacation (a trip to Lake Powell) that’s been planned for almost a year...scheduled right in the middle of my two-week crunch! My hubby lets me know in no uncertain terms he is expecting me to be there.

To be continued...part 4 is here.

Christmas All Summer — Connection, Harmony, Joy

2010-11-02T00:31:00.009-06:00

Continued from this post .

Fast-forward to 2010. Suddenly everything was coming together more rapid than eagles: First, last fall I jumped on a once-in-a lifetime opportunity to study figure painting with world-renowned watercolorist Charles Reid. Miraculously my schedule was open and (for once) the money was there. So I took a road trip to Jackson Hole to paint with the master himself. We painted from live models all day every day, and I learned so much...including not to doubt my own abilities. I was able to overcome my skittishness about painting people, and Charles actually told me I should become a figure painter! Huge progress.

Next, there was Peter, the printer I had worked with for 17 years in Los Angeles, but with whom I had since lost contact. He was this amazing printer who helped me start my design business back in the early 90s with three great referrals...including the Los Angeles Philharmonic. But we hadn't spoken since I moved, six or seven years ago. I thought he’d sold his business. A previous project (also a book design) prompted me to try and reconnect, so I emailed his wife. :) [Vee haff oudr vays...mwah-ha-haha!]

Like a Christmas card from a long-lost friend, suddenly we were back in touch. It turns out that Peter is still in the printing business, but his focus has shifted slightly--and he now specializes in (of all things) printing fine art books! Astounded at the synchronicity, I asked him about the process. He told me he had personally calibrated a press in Korea. He did all the proofing in Los Angeles, and could virtually guarantee that the book would match the proofs and be delivered right to our doorstep from clear around the world in about six weeks. Amazing. (And affordable.) Almost as good as Santa Claus!

Close to the same time, a great friend from Pasadena (who I hadn't seen for 4-5 years) emailed me out of the blue saying her daughter, Katie, who was majoring in design and illustration at BYU, would like to intern in my studio. I hadn’t had an intern for years. What was I supposed to have her do? Straighten the studio? Catalog paintings in the computer? But I said yes, mostly as a favor to my friend. And then I remembered Ester's book. (I'm a little slow sometimes.) Katie could help with that! She could be the support staff I needed to actually get it done! When Katie brought me her portfolio, I knew it was a good fit. She showed some maturity in her concepts, some sensitivity in her drawings and paintings, and an eagerness to learn.

I approached Ester and told her I had an intern and a printer lined up, and I thought we could have a book ready by this Christmas. She was elated. We drafted an agreement, and suddenly, almost overnight, I was immersed in Christmas!

I put Katie straight to work. We played Christmas music the entire time, to keep us in harmony with the theme of the book, even though it was 90 degrees outside! We sat side by side at my kitchen table (and later the countertop in the downstairs studio) three days a week, munching on peanut m&ms as we pored over the manuscript, envisioning how best to bring each of the thoughts to life. My goal was to help the reader actually FEEL what the author was saying.

We broke it down, page by page, sketched out thumbnails, and discovered a powerful dark-to-light motif that we wanted to capture in the design of the pages. I also noticed a visual theme of repeating circles which felt significant, and certain segments that begged for a punch of vibrant color. Together we researched images, shot photographs, made preliminary drawings. Working in tandem was more comfortable than I thought it would be, and yielded good results. Katie was a godsend.

Ester was also a joy to work with -- she loved every idea, every little sketch we presented to her, saw the depth and detail of symbolism we were incorporating, and delighted in the whole process.

We were really on a roll! I was feeling great about what we'd accomplished — 32 pages plus the cover — all designed, laid out, sketches prepared and ready to create final artwork, in just six weeks. Now I had two full months left to finish the twenty paintings. It would be tight, but doable...

--And then the deadline changed. (da-da-da-DUM!)

To be continued...Part 3 is here.

In the Beginning...

2010-11-01T11:01:00.008-06:00

Exactly six months ago today, while the rest of you were donning your swimsuits and sunglasses, my summer turned into non-stop Christmas. I mean that both literally and figuratively. While you were planning your vacations, I was planning a Christmas. And if Christmas really is, like most children hope, an endless opening of new and surprising gifts, then my summer was that and more. It contained a series of gifts with unusual names: Toil, Solitude, Prayer. Water, Light, Inspiration. Even Miracles. Because what's Christmas without a miracle or two?

Without my even realizing it, this summer-that-was-my-best-Christmas-ever actually began almost four years ago. Divinely orchestrated, much like wise men watching for a star to appear, key events were put in place. An author I adore, Ester Rasband, had seen an exhibit of my work in Park City . She had purchased a giclée of one of my paintings, and said my work captured an elusive spirit...a combination of warmth, depth and light...that would be exactly right for "a little Christmas book" she had written decades ago.

An out-of-print book? Didn't sound like a very promising project. But she had printouts from ebay and Amazon showing there was still a big demand for her book on the used market. It had a pretty impressive following. She handed me the manuscript. She had recently updated the text. Just four pages, printed out in a gigantic font. That didn't look like much. But then I started reading. I was immediately pulled in. She writes with a profound simplicity that feels more like poetry.

The book is about the gentle reminders of Jesus' birth and divine role we find in every Christmas tradition...if we only choose to recognize them. I was so struck with the symbolism I wanted to make her thoughts come alive in images; to help the reader feel every word on every page. I was thrilled she had approached me, and my mind started spinning with ideas. I could instantly see how the sparkle and spirit of my watercolors would be a good fit for the glorious message of Christmas presented in her book.

She asked me to redesign the book and re-envision all of the illustrations. Start from the bare manuscript. Create everything from the ground up. My very first book! It sounded daunting, but doable, and I agreed to give it a shot. I told her I had a pretty full plate, and it might take me a long time to complete. She said she knew we couldn't have it by that Christmas, but maybe in time for the next. Then she bustled out the door, saying how excited she was that I was on board. And I pinched myself. I couldn't believe someone had just handed me this amazing gift!

But later, as the idea danced in my head, it became more like a vision of sugar plums than a real project. It turns out I have a life. A whole other life, already filled to the brim with teaching, painting, parenting, carpools and one wayward teenager. (Notice I didn’t even bother to mention the laundry?) As much as I loved the concept, and despite my best intentions, Ester’s project gradually slid...not just to the back burner, but right off the stove! One Christmas went by. And then another. And another. And still I had nothing down on paper. (Sorry, Ester.)

It was becoming impossible. I knew there was no way I could pull off a huge project like that without the support staff and print broker I had in California. On top of that, there were dozens of figures to paint. And I was a landscape artist. And most daunting of all...there was Jesus. How could I possibly paint the Savior in a way that would do him justice? I felt so unworthy.

But for some reason I just couldn’t tell Ester no. I really wanted to do this project. I knew I needed to do it. The little Christmas book kept hanging around in the crevices of my mind, hovering there, waiting. As real life kept getting in the way, my initial excitement began to be replaced with a low-grade guilt. The perennially patient Ester started asking if I still planned to do the project, or if she should take it to someone else.

To be continued...Part 2 is here.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night....

2010-10-30T22:42:00.003-06:00

It is a dark and stormy night.

The kids are out trick-or-treating with rain streaming off the sides of their umbrellas.

Mr. Cool is dressed like M.C. Hammer (of course) and refuses to don a coat. It might cramp his style. I ask myself, Would marching around like that in the rain even be WORTH it, for a fun-size Snickers? I doubt it. There’s only one letter’s difference between T-R-E-A-T and T-H-R-E-A-T, I muse.

I recline on the sofa with an Agatha Christie novel. Perfect! Although my front door waits, brightly lit, for any spooks brave enough to climb up our driveway in the rain, the bell hasn’t yet rung. The house is deathly still.

* * * * *

It was a dark and stormy night.

But then the rain dried up, the kids were warm, the house was full of laughter and shrieks. Jeff put up the decorations I forgot. We gave out all our candy to a record number of trick-or-treaters. Our kids came home happily laden with copious amounts of sugar. They also brought home dozens of friends to play games and watch movies afterward. Who would have guessed?

See how quickly even the darkest night and dreariest storm can turn itself around?
—A life lesson, to be sure.

Happy Halloween!

Give Us This Day...

2010-10-27T10:13:00.011-06:00

Snow?! ?

It's the first snowfall of the season, and this morning we woke up to a yard that seemed magically transformed into a winter wonderland. As soon as the weather outside turns colder, I turn to warmth on the inside — homemade soup, fresh-baked bread, and similar creature comforts.

Creamy Chicken and Wild Rice soup, Tomato-Corn Chowder, Potato Leek.
Southwestern Winter Chili with ground turkey, black beans, red peppers and butternut squash. The colors, the flavors, the warmth...fill me in a way summer never can.

To accompany all that soupy goodness, my friend Eowyn's delicious bread recipe has become a staple in our home. Branching out over the past few weeks, I've experimented several times with a version of this amazing no-knead bread. And already this week (yes, it's Wednesday) I've baked this delectable classic white bread not once, but three times.

Scrounging for another favorite recipe yesterday, I stumbled across a favorite quote -- about both bread AND snow:

"When we eat the good bread, we are eating months of sunlight, weeks of rain and snow from the sky, richness out of the earth....It all becomes a part of us. We should be great—each of us radiant, full of music and full of stories. Able to run the way clouds do, able to dance like the snow and the rain. But nobody takes time to think that he eats all these things and that sun, rain, snow are all a part of himself."
—from Dobry by Monica Shannon

And once again I'm reminded why I love baking and eating such goodness every day. Happy winter, everybody! Here's hoping the goodness of true warmth...food, family, friends and faith...brightens your days and lifts your spirits, warming you from the inside until the very last frost melts away.

I Know Where's Susan's Going to Be...

2010-10-17T20:48:00.005-06:00

Nearly sixteen years ago, I gave birth to a baby girl. This was both precious and poignant, because this time I was giving birth without my mother. When I delivered our first child, my mom (then courageously battling breast cancer) was right there in the delivery room, feeding me ice chips, placing cool rags on my forehead, and literally breathing with me through the contractions. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through another baby now that she was gone.

But this birth had been almost easy -- our little princess seemed to pop out after just two pushes! It was almost as if someone had swooped down from heaven and placed her in my arms. We called our families to spread the news. Then they whisked her off to the nursery and wheeled me into the recovery room for a long winter’s nap.

As I was just waking up, still groggy, I remember hearing the hospital room door squeak open. I slowly turned to see who it was, and there stood my Dad! I have no idea how he managed to get there so fast, how many people he had to pay off at the airport to get him on the first flight out, but at a time when I was missing Mom and feeling very much alone, to have my Dad just magically appear at the hospital was about my favorite surprise ever. And I’ll never forget his first sentence: He said, “I knew where Susan (my mom) was going to be this morning, and I wanted to be here too.” As soon as he said that, I had no doubt that she was. I knew she had been there easing my labor and delivery, but this time from the other side of the veil.

* * * * *

I came to understand my dad's sentence a little more deeply last week. My adorable Aunt Elen, full of unstoppable energy and always warm and wonderful, finally passed away. I was stunned. I honestly didn’t think the cancer would beat her. I saw her just a few weeks earlier, and she looked amazing! Gorgeous white hair, periwinkle jacket, sparkling eyes. She had battled breast cancer three separate times over the past 25 years.

She is the one who, having recently survived breast cancer herself, knew just what to do when my mom was diagnosed. She took her wig-shopping, prosthesis shopping, and offered tons of experienced advice. She came over and cleaned her house, made up a month’s worth of meals and stocked her freezer, was a bonafide angel.

So when I got word that her funeral was Thursday, I immediately started making arrangements to be there. It was at the worst possible time (what death is ever convenient?) —right in the middle of one of my watercolor classes. It took me hours to find, bribe, train and prep a substitute. But I felt this incredible pull — I just knew I had to be there!

I loved every minute of the funeral from the moment I walked in the door. It was wonderful seeing cousins, uncles, aunts and old friends I hadn’t seen for years and years. Familiar faces, long lost and beloved. The room where the family gathered was filled to overflowing with affection and deep respect.

Each one of her children spoke -- each painted a different aspect of her character, like brushstrokes on a painting, until the portrait felt complete. Each spoke with faith, courage, and powerful testimony. Having lost my own mother nearly 19 years ago, I could identify with the feeling of stepping up to that microphone and wanting -- needing -- to share three salient points: That Mother was an amazing and courageous saint. That sensing her cross the veil to the other side was a sacred experience. And that we will see her again.

As I drank in their words, I nodded. I knew. The feeling in the room was akin to exultant as we listened and celebrated a life well lived. And then it came back to me, that line my dad said to me when our baby girl was born: “I knew where Susan was going to be this morning, and I wanted to be here too.”

I remembered how much it meant to me to see my cousins at my mother’s funeral...especially the one who drove through the night from California. I wanted to be there for my cousins at their time of loss. I wanted to honor my wonderful aunt, pay my respects, and add my Amen. But I realized at that moment that yet another thought had driven me with an unconscious and unprecedented urgency: “I know where Susan (my mom) is going to be that morning, and I want to be there too.”

Silently, I let a question, a cry, leave my heart: “Are you here, Mom?” An unmistakable, warm and tingly flood came over me at that instant, and I knew that she was. Of COURSE she was at her wonderful sister’s funeral! And what if I had missed a chance to be with her?

* * * * *

Today we went to church. I sat quietly in the back trying to keep the kids quiet. But I couldn’t help thinking of a wonderful Loved One who died over two thousand years ago, and lives! Someone we adore. And my heart formed a similar sentence: I know where the Savior is going to be this morning, and I want to be there too. Attending church with that frame of mind made a difference for me. I felt jubilant. I knew He was there for me. I felt His presence. And His love. And I was filled. What if I had missed that chance to be with Him?

My Three Favorite Love Stories

2010-10-08T00:02:00.001-06:00

I have three favorite love stories. They’re all true, of course. They’re always better if they’re true. But these three are so great they almost seem like fiction. I honestly couldn’t have made them up this magical. The first, of course, is mine. You can read one tiny (but exciting) part of it here.

The second is my friend Rosie’s. I swoon whenever I think of it! Rosie and Ford met online and found an immediate connection, with so much in common...but before they could exchange any contact information, or even their real names, the clock struck midnight and her account expired! It appeared that this Cinderella and Prince Charming would never meet. But Rosie is the host of Afternoon Classics on KBYU-FM. Ford enjoys classical music and tuned into the station...and literally fell in love with the sound of her voice! (See, I told you — swoon!) He heard her name, wondered if she were the woman he’d met online (she was!), and contacted her through the radio station. They were destined to be together!

The third belongs to a sweet, elderly couple in the house next door. He was a cowboy...and then a soldier in World War II. He fought on Utah Beach, and at the Battle of the Bulge. He helped liberate a small village in France. And met a lovely young lady there named Micheline. Something about this beautiful French girl must have struck him to the core, because not long after the war ended, he returned to France, and asked her to marry him! She said yes, and they traveled all over Europe together before settling down...in the house next door! Their story is so knight-in-shining-armor for me: The conquering hero frees the village and rescues the fair maiden and they ride off in the sunset together. So romantic!

Sadly, my knight-in-shining-armor next-door neighbor (everyone should have one!) passed away over the weekend. He is deeply missed. But the good news is, this dear little man is finally reunited with his beautiful Micheline, who died a few years earlier. This time he’s crossed more than an ocean to be with her, and they’re headed for an honest-to-goodness happily ever after!

I'd love to hear one of your favorite love stories.

p.s. I know I've been away forever. I haven't posted for over four months. But coming up soon...the big reason why! Stay tuned.

448 days, and counting...

2010-06-14T00:07:00.012-06:00

Four hundred and forty-eight days ago, we sent our oldest son to a wilderness program called Aspen. (You can read about that experience here and here.) From there he went straight to a college prep boarding school an hour away from our home, where he has been living for over a year. And Friday was his graduation. Yes, I said graduation. This is our son, the one who stopped caring about everything, and, in his own words, "was headed for an epic crash-and-burn."

Let me tell you how he did: He graduated with the highest GPA in the senior class. (It’s pretty hard to beat a 4.15 last term!) He was decorated with an honor cord for nearly every department in the school -- English, Math, Science, and Social Studies. He received three college acceptances, including one partial scholarship.

This creative, artistic, musical kid also surprised everyone when he won the Outstanding Science Student of the Year award. (Who knew?) I loved what they said when they presented the award: He not only mastered the material, but livened up the classroom, making it somehow “cool” to understand chemistry, and tutored other students with an energy and enthusiasm that were contagious.

At the graduation ceremony he also accompanied a singer on his acoustic guitar, playing a very cool Natalie Merchant song (remember her?). After that he stood tall, held his head up high, walked with confidence, and smiled as he picked up a very hard-earned diploma...to thunderous applause. It was an especially large sum in a long string of parent paychecks I’ve been cashing in lately.

I used to take graduating from high school for granted. It seemed like all you had to do was show up and you could make it through. But I have such respect for each of the kids in this school. Every single one of them has a pretty dark story; they all had to fight against tremendous odds; each learned and conquered so much more than academics; each has a family back home who’s made a tremendous sacrifice to send him there.

In a way, it reminded me of my friend Heather, telling us what a spiritual experience it is to attend an AA meeting--all the pretense is gone, and in its place is honesty, humility, and a harrowing battle, won day by day, hour by hour. There was a similar spirit on the lawn at Oakley. As I sat there and watched these teenage heroes collect their diplomas, I thought of this Dar Williams song:

All the things you treasure most
will be the hardest won.
I will watch you struggle long
before the answers come.
But I won't make it harder,
I'll be there to cheer you on.
I'll shine the light that guides you down
The road you're walking on.

You'll fly away, but take my hand until that day.
So when they ask how far love goes
When my job's done you'll be the one who knows.

Before the mountains call to you,
before you leave this home,
Wanna teach your heart to trust
As I will teach my own.
But sometimes I will ask the moon
Where it shined upon you last
And shake my head and laugh and say
It all went by so fast.

You'll fly away, but take my hand until that day.
So when they ask how far love goes
When my job's done you'll be the one who knows.

It is stunning to think that -- other than occasional visits -- our son, who I carried inside my own body for ten full months, and who lived with us since the day he was born, has now lived away from home for four hundred and forty-eight days. (But who’s counting?) Four hundred forty-eight days is a long, long time. I look at Josh and wonder if I've accomplished such great strides in the same number of days in my own life.

Most of all, if I've accomplished anything, I hope he now knows how very far love goes.

Beyond Baby Tenderlove

2010-05-10T12:04:00.002-06:00

One Christmas my younger sister and I both begged and pleaded for the only toy on the market we wanted that year: Baby Tenderlove. Somehow the name alone evoked every maternal sentiment in our chubby little preschool bodies and we longed to snuggle that sweet babydoll more than anything else we could think of. We were thrilled on Christmas morning when we each opened our very own Baby Tenderlove, ready to rock, feed and put to sleep!

I did not feel that way again until I was pregnant with my first. As the months of expectancy went by, I found myself longing once again for Baby Tenderlove--not the plastic doll, of course, but my own fleshy baby that I could dote on and love the way I did when I was four or five. Dreams of quiet snuggling, humming and rocking to sleep, and deep tranquil tenderness were in the forefront of my consciousness.

The baby came and suddenly I woke up. I got many serene moments with Baby Tenderlove. But I also got Baby CriesAllNight. Baby HurtsToNurse. Baby MakesAMess. Baby SlipperyWhenWet. Baby ProjectileVomit. Baby ExplodingDiaper. If I were writing a marketing campaign for a newborn for new mothers, it might go something like: “Eight toys in one...some of them frightening and dangerous.” I would also add “providing even the wildest thrillseeker with a heart-pounding emotional rollercoaster.”

And it gets better. Because Baby Tenderlove also grows up. It morphs into such creatures as Toddler DestrucoUnit and Kid NeverEverMind...and even TeenTransformer/AngryMonster and TeenageMutantNinjaHormones.

I’m not the only one who was disillusioned in this scenario. I’m sure Baby Tenderlove expected to be born to Mama Tenderlove. Yes, I expected to BE Mama Tenderlove. (I also thought I’d be a cross between Mary Poppins and Maria von Trapp and Olivia Walton.) Instead, sometimes I was Wicked Stepmother (push buttons to hear her wretched voice!) and Distracted-Working-Mother (bang head on counter to get her attention).

But then there’s a whole other toybox called Serendipity...sweet, unexpected surprises. For example, I was not prepared for the wonderfulness that is Baby HeavenScent. Ah, what would I give to bury my nose in the neck of a newborn! Also, I was completely caught off guard, over and over again, by Baby MagicLaugh. There aren’t sufficient words to describe the joy of a baby’s belly laugh.

And now, when I look at our son graduating from high school, tall, confident and handsome, knocking not just addiction, but also the academic world with his astronomic GPA; our daughter in the throes of her freshman year, forming new friendships, wrangling signs of first romance, and wantonly signing up for various sports teams, unafraid to make a fool of herself; and our youngest running off the field, all sweat and smiles, rinsing off his dishes without being asked, sitting close enough to touch when we read together at night; when I step back and look past the messy details there is one salient emotion that is always strongest when everything settles: It’s overwhelming. It’s transcendent and sublime. But it’s best described as tender love.

I Am Not My Body.

2010-05-05T09:20:00.004-06:00

I love this quote: "I am not my body." It reminds me that my true self is so much more than what you see on the outside. I refuse to be defined by the appearance of wrinkles and cellulite. I'm not even blue-green eyes or curly hair or a skinny waist -- because my good parts don't define me either. I am spirit. In a mortal shell. I am a mother...giving life and nurturing spirits in younger bodies, spirits sent (amazingly) to our home. "Beauty and motherhood are one." That is what I choose to remember, deep inside, today and (hopefully) every day.

Click here to hear the quotes above in their original context-- such a beautiful outlook on life.

All Fall Down!

2010-04-08T09:08:00.003-06:00

I spent Easter morning on my knees. This is not nearly as saintly as it sounds. My husband got up extra early to take our youngest son (who, at the last minute, asked to go to the Conference Center, for which my MIL miraculously had two extra tickets) to attend the Easter morning session.

I, on the other hand, got to enjoy the most restful Sabbath on record by staying a few extra minutes in bed, then reading and visiting with my mother-in-law, and enjoying a light breakfast. My father-in-law handed me a plastic tray and invited me to join them downstairs.

As I made my way down, my tray loaded with fresh fruit and other breakfast items, somehow my sandal caught on the carpet on the stairs. While I was able to catch myself as I tripped, avoiding a human-easter-egg roll down the stairs, I did stumble just enough to send an open carton of yogurt somersaulting all the way to the bottom, enthusiastically expelling its contents as it went. Great.

I set down my tray and went back upstairs to grab a couple of rags, noticing my ankle was a wee bit sore from the jolt. As I returned to clean up my mess, it occurred to me that it was kind of a metaphor for my life. I was convinced it was a sign that I don’t really belong there. I am not just physically clumsy, I am sometimes socially and emotionally clumsy as well. I misstep more often than I care to admit. I stumble. Step on people’s toes. I even make messes. And sometimes I hurt myself in the process.

I felt my eyes sting with tears as I surveyed the mess I’d made of my in-laws’ brand new carpet, fearing I had also inadvertently soiled a few other parts of their seemingly perfect life. I couldn’t hold back the sobs. I looked at the mess that is my life and wept for a sea of mistakes, large and small.

Then suddenly I became hyper-aware that I was kneeling. I took great comfort in the fact that the need to scrub their carpet had brought me once again to my knees. And that, too, seemed like a metaphor...and a perfect one for Easter. Because only there, on my knees, can I access the mercy to rise from my stumbles and become whole.

Heavenly Father always knew we would stumble, make mistakes, fall. Before he even made the earth, let alone these stumbling mortals, He came up with a rescue plan and enlisted His Son -- giving us a chance to fix our stumbles and clean up our messes -- the very process serving to transform us into something magnificent. He has the power to take the very worst in us, and use it to teach, to tutor, and ultimately to reshape us into the divine creatures He always knew we were capable of becoming.

As I wiped away the last traces of yogurt from their carpet, I felt a sense of renewal. I was grateful for the time spent on my knees, and the resulting paradigm shift that allowed me to remember how compassionate He is over even the most trivial of our stumbles and messes.

My mother-in-law never mentioned my fall or the mess I made. Instead, she kissed me on the cheek and told me she loved me. Sweet forgiveness...Happy Easter.

Warning: Hazardous Nerd Disclosure

2010-03-25T08:13:00.004-06:00

Once I recovered from my Elton John fetish in the late '70s, I was trained as a classical pianist. I still loved an eclectic range of musical styles, but I became highly sensitized to the effects that certain sounds had on my psyche. Not very skilled at coping with stress, I found myself consistently seeking out music that was calming, soothing and uplifting. In any genre.

One sound that I found particularly grating was the electric guitar. The distortion, the shrieking, the wailing...made me positively homicidal. At one point I would go to such lengths as to read the list of instruments on the back of a jazz album, and if it listed electric guitar, I wouldn't buy it. (I know — extreme. But you need to know this background in order to understand what happened next. )

Our oldest son, Josh, learned to play piano, then trumpet, then percussion, and finally asked for a guitar. We gave him Jeff's old acoustic one. And I really enjoyed hearing him pick out familiar chord structures like "Horse With No Name" and other mellow stuff. He had quite an ear for it and would download chord progressions for songs he liked, and teach himself how to play them.

Eventually he asked for the inevitable electric guitar. I winced at what that could do to the decibel level in our home — let alone the spirit. But we also feel it's important for kids to pursue their own passions. So one Christmas we sucked it up and made a screaming deal at a pawn shop on an electric guitar.

We signed him up for lessons. And I only had to resort to the circuit-breaker a time or two for noise control. (!) A birthday or two later we traded up and bought him a really nice Ibanez. He'd get together and jam with friends, and every once in awhile he'd invite me into his room to hear him play along with a song he was listening to. I'd nod, smile. It sounded pretty good. But what did I know?

Yesterday we went up to hear him play with a band at his high school. I knew they'd been working hard. I knew he had some talent. I was eager to be supportive. But, I realized, I had never actually heard him perform.

And I was completely blown away. Our kid was amazing! There he was, literally the leader of the band—giving cues, keeping everybody together, jamming with the other musicians, wailing on improv solos...even wowing us with a couple of numbers behind the trap set. Who knew?

So now, an even less likely fan than the football mom here, I find myself clapping and cheering from the stands, watching him like a total groupie. His entire school is seated on the bleachers, watching this concert, and we hear throngs of kids shouting “Josh! Josh! Josh!” They’re loving him. And I’m loving every minute of this.

For the past two years we had front-row seats as we watched this same kid in a state of total apathy, ignoring potential we knew he had, literally throwing his life away. I cannot begin to describe the kind of pain that caused. But now, we see Josh discovering his own potential, working hard, reaching goals, thriving. And I find it hard to describe the joy.

Note: I wrote this while I was officially Not Blogging in order to write my novel for NaNoWriMo, but I couldn't resist posting this after the fact. Josh is home with us for spring break this week, and of course he brought his guitar. The good news? is we're figuring out how to jam together, and working on a little classical fusion piece. Could be a metaphor for good things to come.

In-N-Out Healthcare Reform

2010-03-15T23:27:00.004-06:00

I had the powerfully annoying and mind-dulling experience of dealing with three separate government institutions over the past couple of weeks (feel free to send sympathy cards): The Driver License division of the DMV, the County Court system (umm, yes, because I had the extraordinary good luck of getting pulled over ON MY WAY to the DMV to get my license renewed!), and the U.S. Postal Service (The word Service being a euphemism for massive inconvenience.) —Mind you, I’m not talking about the post office window at our little grocery, where friendly faces know us by name and skillfully take our packages. I’m talking about the big, scary government headquarters where you have to go to deal with bigger issues (Like how the mailman refuses to deliver any mail on your street because the neighbor's dog was out. Or how I went in to pick up a package of prescription meds, but they had already sent it back to the pharmacy...on the same day I tried to pick it up.) THAT post office.

In dealing with all three departments I encountered a similar experience: Big, depressing, dusty, gray buildings. Unnecessarily long and plodding lines, understaffed counters manned by incompetent people with sour dispositions (except for one pleasant man at the post office--at the end of the other line) and endless forms to be filled out. Each entity seemed to have a secret agenda to impede progress at all costs. Each was its own brand of purgatory.

Despite my somewhat liberal leanings, I couldn’t help but ask myself what healthcare might literally be like if the government were allowed to run it. And the thought horrified me...

Big, depressing, dusty, gray buildings. Long, slow-moving lines to see overbooked primary care physicians. Not enough medical personnel employed in order to meet the needs of all the people in line. Grumpy nurses, cantankerous doctors, control-freak secretaries, all performing their tasks perfunctorily while carefully watching the clock. an obsession with Policy. And of course endless forms, endless paperwork, endless red tape, resulting in surgeries and other necessary-but-costly treatments being endlessly stalled. (If they're lucky we'll die first, in order to cut costs!)

Fortunately, I also went to In-N-Out Burger. Twice. In as many weeks. And it was the complete opposite experience: Bright, clean, well-lit and well-designed spaces. Short, fast-moving lines. Plenty of cheerful, helpful, efficient people who are well-trained and eager to serve. Everything sparkling clean, well organized. An emphasis on Quality. Not a single form to fill out, and they take your order information in record time. The whole place fairly beams with freshness, vitality, and progress-in-the-making. The palm trees in their branding even smack of paradise.

So? It’s obvious. I hereby make a move (and a plea to President Obama) to put In-N-Out Burgers in charge of healthcare reform.

Double-double, anyone?

The Colorman (a gift from Luisa Perkins)

2010-03-11T00:03:00.002-07:00

Dear Luisa,

I’ll agree with you at the outset that this book, The Colorman, is not perfect.
Yet, much like when I opened your cookbook, Comfortably Yum, for the first time and found a soul-food-mate, I read this and thought, How did she know?

...about my passion for color? That the mere mention of a hue like alizarin, ultramarine, raw umber, burnt sienna...sends me a clear, precise image. That I can see these colors so clearly in my head I can almost taste them and touch them. That those passages about the mixing, using, and forming of color would suck me in, envelop me, squeeze out my own passion like dabs on a palette, and make me want to swim in puddles of pure color?

...that I, too, recently received a new box of paints and immediately squeezed them out onto a clean palette, creating daring new mixes, watching the colors flow together? That once I closed the book I would go immediately to the Natural Pigments website to see what they have to offer my palette? That reading this made me want to PAINT.

...that I dream of living in just such a place as the Hudson River Valley, and that I’d love walking the trails, touring the paint company, driving along the river, exploring the shops, picturing the entire place as if I were there? (How did you know that I would take secret delight at the mention of Dar Williams in the acknowledgments, wanting to think of her as my neighbor and friend too.)

...that this story (while admittedly taking a back-seat to the poetic color descriptions) about a painter finding her voice, looking at taking her work to the next level, plunging head-first into the art world of galleries, critics, and shows...is also my next step? I’m a little too familiar with the fears, the insecurities, the politics, the passion...and it was good for me to see this artist both fail and succeed.

And how could anyone possibly have known that this story about a woman in search of her mother would be so deeply resonant for me, that I (often subconsciously) both mourn and seek my own mother in my music, in my writing, and in my artwork? It stirred something so deep in me to read about another woman’s loss, search, discovery, and healing.

It’s a rare friend that can find and give not the perfect book, but a book that will provide a deeply satisfying experience and suit the reader, dare I say? Perfectly.

Thank you.

If only Oscar® had a category for Under-the-Radar...

2010-03-05T14:18:00.008-07:00

These would get my vote.

Given my husband’s profession, friends often ask us for movie recommendations. Some of our very favorite films are small, independent pictures that few people see, but contain nevertheless great filmmaking, resonant stories, and important themes. (The emergence of Netflix makes them all the more accessible these days.--I only WISH they were paying me to say that!) So just in time for the Oscars, here are a handful of our lesser-known but long-time favorite movie picks (minus the obvious classics):

Double Indemnity (This was probably a blockbuster at the time, but hardly anyone our age has seen it.) Squeaky-clean Disney star Fred MacMurray (and yes, I actually did some design projects for his lovely wife, June!) plays against type as he plans the perfect murder in this excellent 1944 thriller.

Men Don’t Leave (Netflix, I’m told, doesn’t even have this one. I don’t even think it’s available on DVD. What a loss! But feel free to borrow our decades-old VHS copy!)
We saw this back when we were first married, and we’re still quoting lines from it. One of our favorites: “Your night thing’s on wrong.” (Watch it, and you’ll see why we love it). What this film says about family relationships, love, loss, and the role of men in our lives is poignant and timeless. Jessica Lange gives a great performance, and Joan Cusack’s quirkiness never fails to crack me up!

Truly, Madly, Deeply
A little like Ghost, only ten times better. A romantic comedy set in England, written and directed by Anthony Minghella, that defies conventions, and is understated, unpredictable, honest and (yes) haunting.

Lars and the Real Girl
Such a sweet, honest portrayal of a bizarre yet innocent relationship, and what it takes to move on. I was especially moved by the family and church community’s compassionate response to this unusual circumstance.

Lorenzo’s Oil
Susan Sarandon completely redeems herself after that horrible Bull Durham movie with this indie gem, where she plays a mother obsessed with finding a miracle cure for her son’s rare illness. I can still hear her cooing, “Fly away to the Baby Jesus!

Safe Passage
More Susan Sarandon. A great story about a family with a son who’s a soldier in the middle east. They find out the village where he’s stationed was bombed, and spend a long weekend together waiting to hear word of his survival. What this has to say about family, healing and hope is powerful. I found the garage-cleaning scene particularly moving and mememorable, as it becomes a metaphor for making progress in our lives.

Dead Again
It doesn’t get much better than Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh. Especially back when they were still married. This is a suspenseful thriller involving a past life, and it is unforgettable.

Strangers On A Train
Oh my, the ultimate innocent-conversation-turned-creepy! As per the title, two strangers on a train muse about the plausibility of committing a crime with no attachment. But then it turns out one of them was serious. Yikes!

Children of Heaven
Shoes! A pair of siblings in Iraq try to SHARE a pair of shoes, taking turns racing to school, handing off the shoes as if in a relay, in an effort to prevent one from being punished for losing his. A deeply moving story of siblings and sacrifice, which takes place in abject poverty...and yet the colors are rich!

Waking Ned Divine
That one scene of the old man riding naked on his bike is totally worth the price of admission. But I am also intrigued with the premise.... A man in a small Irish town holds the winning lottery ticket...and dies before he can claim his prize. The rest of the townspeople attempt to secure (and share) the winnings. What a story! What a wild ride!

Millions
Two little British boys stumble across an accident...where a freight train showers them with money...millions! Of course they are hiding it from the adults in their lives, and of course they are being stalked by criminals.

Second-hand Lions
Essentially cast off for the summer, Haley Joel Osment is sent to live with a pair of eccentric uncles. The boy is guileless and unassuming, and the uncles are hilarious! Watching them shoot at traveling salesmen, firing off their shotguns from the front porch, is awesome. --And that’s just the beginning!

Marvin’s Room
We saw this first as a stage play, in a small-but-crowded theater in L.A. Mary Steenburgen was amazing as a woman who holds her family together while caring for her ailing father. Diane Keaton plays that role in the film version, opposite a selfish and estranged Meryl Streep, who is mother to a disturbed young Leonardo DiCaprio. I especially love the lines about the way the light refracts through the panes of glass Bessie hangs in Marvin’s room. Such simple pleasures. This film is surprisingly not depressing, as the tagline states perfectly: “A story about the years that keep us apart...And the moments that bring us together.”

Six Degrees of Separation
An amazing story about deception, and being deceived. Donald Sutherland plays an art critic. Will Smith plays...well, you’ll see. And maybe see a bit too much. (Brief, shocking nudity). What stays with me is the response to the deception, the way they tell and retell the experience until they reduce the entire thing to a cocktail-party anecdote. And I use this line in my art classes all the time: Donald S. tells his son’s second grade teacher, “They all paint like Matisse. How do you do it? Let me study with you.” And the teacher replies simply, “I know when to take their paintings away.” Brilliant!

Captain Abu Raed
An airport janitor finds a pilot’s cap in the trash can and wears it home. The neighborhood kids are convinced he’s a real pilot, and he enchants them with stories of his imagined world travels, ultimately having a life-changing role in some of their lives. We saw this at Sundance a couple of years ago and could not believe our good fortune. We don’t always love what we see there. (Sometimes we don’t even remotely LIKE what we see there.) But this one captivated everyone in attendance, and ultimately won the audience choice award. I have been waiting and watching for it to come out on DVD and it finally was released last month. So now you can find it on Amazon. (yay!)

Storms and a Tree of Life

2010-01-22T11:56:00.010-07:00

Last night the winds were howling. This was no gentle evening breeze. It was frightening, ferocious...willing to tear up anything in its path. It roared 'round the house, literally ripping off soffits and siding as it went. I am not a fan of these ruthless, raging storms. Whether they're blowing specks of dust in my eyes or messing up my hair is beside the point. I don't like the fierceness and chaos and destruction that seems to ride on these tempests. Strong wind makes me feel like the universe is angry, reckless, and out-of-control.

This morning as I drove away from a friend's house, I noticed that a tree in the neighbor's yard was blown right over by last night's storm. A strong tree, with roots and branches. Yesterday it was standing tall, and now it's lying on the ground, with all of its branch tips stumbling over the gutter and into the street. Gone. Just like that.

As I looked at that broken tree, ravaged by last night's winds, I felt something start to snap inside me. That tree doesn't even belong to me, yet I was somehow hurt by its fall. And I was amazed by the unseen force that caused it to fall. Sometimes I forget how powerful winds can be.

Winds are everywhere around us figuratively, too. Unseen forces of destruction, leaving chaos and upheaval and sadness in their wake. Honestly, the winds rattling the windows last night are NOTHING compared to the storm that rattled our family last year. And we're one of the lucky ones -- we're still standing -- together, supported, loved.

With increasing frequency and intensity, the winds are breaking down will-power and leveling self-respect. They're bulldozing marriages, fracturing families. They're even rumbling through the stock market and turning mortgages upside-down...because everywhere the storm rises, integrity falls.

I felt myself want to cry out, like the disciples of old, "Master, carest thou not that we perish?"

And then I remembered the rest of the story:

"And there arose a great storm of wind, and the waves beat into the ship, so that it was now full.

And he was in the hinder part of the ship, asleep on a pillow: and they awake him, and say unto him, Master, carest thou not that we perish?

And he arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.
And he said unto them, Why are ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith?"
(Mark 4:37-40)

There IS an antidote to all the destruction, a way to stand fast in the face of the fiercest storm. The only real safety and peace hinges on our faith in Him:

Alma 26:6
Yea, they shall not be beaten down by the storm at the last day; yea, neither shall they be harrowed up by the whirlwinds; but when the storm cometh they shall be gathered together in their place, that the storm cannot penetrate to them; yea, neither shall they be driven with fierce winds whithersoever the enemy listeth to carry them.
1 Ne. 18: 21

And it came to pass that I prayed unto the Lord; and after I had prayed the winds did cease, and the storm did cease, and there was a great calm.

The winds are everywhere, and they are far more powerful than we think. But He is there for us, with a peace that surpasses all understanding. This I know.

The Queen Shares A Day With King

2010-01-15T00:26:00.008-07:00

My friend Jennifer made me this fabulous crown, which I am planning to don for much of the day today...because once in awhile a girl deserves to be Queen! And today's my day.

But after forty-plus years of celebrating this day, I prefer to celebrate someone else. Someone who actually DESERVES a crown. Martin Luther King.

Aside from the fact that sharing my birthday with King gives me an automatic 3-day weekend every year, I am in awe of the vision, courage and power of this great man. I spent some time poring over his famous I Have A Dream speech this week, and realize we have come such a long way...yet we still have a long way to go.

My students created this portrait of Dr. King in December. And tonight they won first place in an exhibit honoring the civil rights movement. I love the way it turned out, and I love the meaning hidden within the constraints of the assignment. It's called Judge My Value, Not My Color.

Each student was given a 2” square grayscale image and assigned to create a stand-alone abstract painting. They were given total freedom of expression in terms of style, technique and color. The only constraints were size (the final image had to be an 8” square) and value (the final piece had to match the values of the supplied image).

The students were not told that these pieces were part of a single image, let alone a portrait of a historical figure. To them, the squares appeared to be small, abstract value studies.

Many students struggled with the abstraction. They didn’t know how to handle so much freedom. They wanted something tangible, concrete. But with some introspection they began to realize that the concepts they’d been taught throughout the semester (color relationships, value, contrast, rhythm, luminosity) applied without having to represent anything recognizable.

This is our result. Upon assembling the finished squares, we discovered that -- despite all the differing styles, colors, and approaches -- there was a strong sense of unity. The result is a visual “symphony of brotherhood” and visual proof that when our focus is on VALUE rather than COLOR, the image comes through with even greater vibrancy.

We learned that the greater the diversity, the freer the individual expression...the stronger and more dynamic the whole. Most important, we learned, as Dr. King so eloquently stated, that we were “able to work together...to struggle together...that we will [succeed] one day.”

I also included one of my portraits, begun as a class demonstration and finished later in the studio:

This is a portrait of Ruth Gooden. We were roommates at an art workshop several years ago. Although she was learning to paint for the first time, she seemed perfectly comfortable painting in a roomful of professionals! She is one of the most authentic, inspiring and radiant people I have ever met. She has hiked the 2000-mile Appalachian Trail not once, but TWICE, and says the best part of the trail was all the people she met. She dresses impeccably, tells wonderful stories, is joyful and engaging, and makes a friend of everyone who surrounds her.

In this portrait the hat casts a shadow on her face, symbolizing the darkness of segregation and injustice that was likely a part of her growing-up years. But this portrait is not about that shadow. It is about the light that reaches her smile, about the way a human soul has triumphed and flourished and outshone the injustice in its path.

I have chosen to include this portrait because Ruth embodies the realization of Martin Luther King’s dream. She is respected, loved, admired. She is judged by the content of her character rather than the color of her skin. Her sense of self is unshakable. In every sense of the word, I believe Ruth is free. And I hope to be that free myself someday.

Twelve Gifts: #3 A QUESTION

2009-12-28T00:03:00.007-07:00

22 years ago last August, this adorable man asked me a life-changing question that is one of life's most amazing gifts: He asked me to marry him—implying that he loved me enough to want to spend the rest of his life with me...and all of eternity as well. Sometimes I am still in awe of that willingness to commit. Without a moment's hesitation, I answered YES! (I'd actually been waiting for this particular question for MONTHS...much longer than it ever felt to wait for Santa to come!) Somehow I just KNEW he was The One.

I was lucky enough to be working as the editorial art director for a regional magazine at the time, and scored our fashion photographer, Dirk Douglass, to do these engagement photos.

And then 22 years ago today, wearing my mother's heirloom custom-tailored dress, I knelt across the altar from him and whispered a reverent but rich-with-anticipation "Yes!". Our lives have been a series of non-stop adventures ever since.

—Oh, and just for the record, I would STILL say yes!

Twelve (more) Gifts: #2 MERCY (in the form of a Candy Cane)

2009-12-21T01:09:00.004-07:00

I looked at the clock as I backed out of the garage, and true panic set in. It was already ten minutes later than I’d planned to leave. But if I timed all my stops right, and lucked out with a good parking place, I could still make it to my final in time. I whipped around the corner and was racing down the hill when I saw the lights. Not red and green. Red and blue. I slammed on my brakes (while pretending to be inadvertently fiddling with the radio) and went nonchalantly by. Until the lights spun around and followed me.

I couldn’t believe it. Just a couple of blocks from my house I was being pulled over. Officer Henderson stepped up to the window and introduced himself, requesting my insurance and I.D. While he was back in the squad car doing whatever they do back in the squad car, I texted my husband: “I just got pulled over. If I wasn’t already late for my final, I definitely am now!” And then I sat there and squirmed while I waited impatiently for the officer to come back with my ticket. Hubby texted back: “You got pulled over?! (sad face) Did you get a ticket?”

I imagined all my stressed-out students sitting there wondering where their teacher was, and then imagined the cops getting some kind of perverse pleasure out of taking their sweet time, making sure I was extra EXTRA late in order to teach me a lesson. After what felt like several centuries, Officer Henderson stepped back up to the window. Visions of having to return our kids’ Christmas presents to pay for a speeding ticket danced in my head. Clumsily.

“Here’s your Driver’s License.” I thanked him. Possibly not very sincerely. “Now...going 16 miles over in a residential zone is not safe traveling. I’m giving you this...”

(If you’re not sitting down, I suggest you do so now.)

“I’m giving you this candy cane from the city police department as a reminder to slow down.” My jaw dropped. And then I laughed. “Really?”

“Yep. That’s it. Have a Merry Christmas.” Yeah. You too. Go figure.

I texted Jeff back: “They gave me a candy cane.” His response was "What?"

So it turned out I was about 15 minutes late for my final. But I had an AWESOME story to tell when I got there! --And no ticket.

I loved that gesture of mercy, during the season we most celebrate the true Giver of Mercy. A candy cane that let me off the hook. And the funny thing is, it made me want to extend that same kind of mercy to those around me. To give them the benefit of the doubt and a second chance. (I might even throw in a candy cane.)

Twelve (more) Gifts: #1 VISION

2009-12-03T00:00:00.001-07:00

Last night we had the rare and humbling opportunity to hear from Stephanie Nielsen, of the beloved Nie-Nie Dialogues (and the infamous plane crash).

And today I cannot stop thinking about this extraordinary person.

She gave every woman in the room the most remarkable gift, my first of the season: Vision.

She talked about how beautiful and amazing we are because we have skin. Skin.
I've actually never been very comfortable in my own skin. I've even found lots of reasons to complain about it (I'll spare you my litany of defects.) The bottom line is, the word grateful never comes to mind when I think of my skin. I've always felt instead like I got the short end of the stick in the Heredity lottery. Yet suddenly Nie-Nie had me marveling at the miracle that is...my own soft, self-healing, waterproof, pliable, wearable skin.

Now ditto that whole paragraph and replace the word "skin" with Bodies.

She talked about Choices. She said she chose to come to earth...and chose to come back after nearly dying. She said the choice and the offer that was given to her felt almost like a bishop's interview, and that it wasn't an easy choice. She was told there would be plenty for her to do on either side, but she thought of all the joyful things she'd miss -- her daughters' weddings, her sons going on missions, and she chose life. She chose to come back. It gave me a huge, larger-than-life appreciation for the chance to spend a series of days and years here on earth.

She talked about Angels. She talked about guardian angels she believes are assigned to her (and to each of us) -- she calls them her "team." She spoke especially of her departed grandmother helping her out of the plane, and remaining with her to this day. That resonated for me, and reminded me of similar experiences I've had...times when loved ones from the other side of the veil have come to comfort, heal, and support me through difficult times. Heaven is so much closer than we think.

She spoke of the Savior so knowingly and lovingly, with such certainty. I found it the perfect way to usher in the season celebrating his birth...to hear her testify so humbly about His role in her life, reminding us how important it is to involve Him in all of our decisions, in all of our trials, in celebrating our joys, every day of our lives. It felt truly sacred to be in the presence of one who knows Him so well.

When it was over, I looked right into her eyes and tears welled up in mine as I reached up to give her a hug, and told her candidly how beautiful she is. Her eyes are like crystal pools of light and love, carrying a depth of vision few of us will ever know, as do her words. I hope to hang onto that vision she gave us all Christmas long...and over a lifetime.

Twelve More Gifts (by way of introduction)

2009-12-02T22:54:00.003-07:00

I've been working on your Christmas present for weeks. Seriously.

It has nothing to do with super-cute wrapping ideas or crafting (because I suck at that). But Christmas is about gifts -- culminating, of course, in wise people bestowing precious offerings to the Lord, and God giving the whole world the Greatest Gift of All. So I've been reflecting on all the gifts I've given and received over the years and selected my absolute favorites. And I'm sharing them with you (you can also find last year's selections here).

Some salient patterns emerged as I pondered these favorite gifts. Amazingly, all of them can be shared, in one form or another. And none of them came from The Mall. The other amazing thing that surfaced in my present-ponderings was that I have far more than twelve favorites...complete with the stories to go with them. I was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude. So, as my blog runneth over but my time runneth short, I'm limiting these to twelve. And maybe I'll save the rest for next year!

Here are my twelve favorite gifts, each one my gift to you.
I hope you open and treasure every one.

xo