No Ordinary Flower

I remember discovering these lovely purple flowers for the first time. I think I was maybe four years old. The little pinkish-purple flowers were growing outside my grandma's kitchen door. I loved the color! I decided to pick a few and take them in to Grandma. She was ingenious at finding just the right vase for every flower-picking treasure. Imagining its perfume to be as lovely as its brilliant color, I got closer, and took a whiff. Peeyoo! What kind of flower is that?!? I was utterly shocked. Why do these flowers stink? Did God make them this way? I ran inside to ask my grandma.

She just laughed. "Those are chives!" she said. "I cut up the stems and sprinkle them on soups or deviled eggs. Take another whiff and imagine them adding extra flavor to something savory." I wasn't entirely convinced, but I took my grandma's word for it. Let's just say it was an acquired taste.

How many metaphorical chives are there in your life? --Things that appear to stink on the surface, until you find out they have a completely different purpose, nothing like your original mindset.

When I saw these lovely chive blossoms growing in the Herb Garden at Hampton Court, they instantly reminded me of my grandma, and I had to take a picture to paint from, to remember them.

Great news! This painting, Fresh Chives, laced with memories of my grandmother, on display in an upcoming show.  (Don't worry -- it's not scratch and sniff!) "Fresh Chives" is part of my latest series, 100 Days in Europe. #16/100 (84 to go!) I'm really excited about this show, called Small Treasures, opening this weekend. I have 24 small paintings in the show. Most are just 4x10 -- I love this new panoramic format! This is one of my most affordable series, ranging in price from $125 to $210, perfect for gift-giving, and a perfect size to tuck anywhere in your home or office and add some color and light.

Now, of course, I love chives. I cook with them all the time. In fact, they appear in my new cookbook (link at left), in the recipe for Hungarian Chicken and Dumplings, and in the recipe for Almond-Crusted Chicken and Nectarine Salad with Buttermilk-Chive dressing.

--My cookbook is on sale at Art Access too. (Because it's also an art book). Not local? Just give them a call. I'm sure they can work something out.

Art Access230 South 500 West, #125Salt Lake City, UT 84101  801-328-0703

Peace At Any Price

Liz Shropshire was one of my first close friends after moving to Los Angeles. She was studying music at USC at the same time my husband, Jeff, was in USC's cinema school. We instantly found lots of common ground...music, service, movies, and adventure. Together we sat side by side frantically copying orchestra parts for an assignment due, we ventured south of Los Angeles to visit the famous Watts towers, we served in the youth center at this beautiful Santa Monica site, a bastion of peace for us both, and one day we even helped rescue an old woman whose apartment was on fire in Liz's building. We've been through a lot together.

Amazingly, each of these stand-out activities that originally bonded us as friends now stands as a symbol of something bigger in both of our lives.

• I wasn't a music major, I knew only piano-lessons level theory, and I'd never copied parts before in my life. But somehow Liz believed in me and helped me believe I could do it too. She had the big vision. I just contributed my part. We did it together, and it worked.

• When we climbed and took pictures of ourselves on the Watts Towers, little did we know that the riots that tore apart the community of Watts in the 1960s would repeat themselves as the Rodney King riots in the 1990s, and our USC apartments were inside the first (most dangerous) curfew zone. We were survivors of a major outbreak of violence.

• Working at the youth center taught us not only to love teaching, and to love working with children, but that beautiful sacred space taught us what peace really is, what it feels like when you're standing on holy ground, and what it feels like inside your heart.

• The woman didn't even realize her apartment was on fire—something had combusted inside her kitchen cabinet—until Liz smelled smoke and pounded on her door.  I wonder how many other people smelled smoke and walked on by, but Liz is never afraid to act. She has a skillset I deeply admire—the ability to sense a need, and ACT—calmly and responsibly.

So it shouldn't surprise you that in 1999 Liz heard an NPR story about children in Kosovo, innocent victims in a war-torn country, and felt moved to act. That story tugged at something deep and compassionate inside her with such power that she decided to sell everything she had and buy a plane ticket to Kosovo. She didn't really have a plan in place at the time. She had a music degree and a ton of teaching experience in some rough, inner-city Los Angeles schools. And some loose ties to a service organization there. A Los Angeles friend encouraged her to "do what you do best" and take along some musical instruments, for the heck of it. By the time of her departure she had raised enough funds to arrive in Kosovo with $5000 worth of musical instruments to take to the children there. The Shropshire Music Foundation was born: Teaching Peace Through Music.


Liz has devoted everything she has over the past 16 years to teaching children peace—first in Kosovo, and later opening programs in Uganda and Northern Ireland—with a hope to expand to benefit the Syrian refugees in 2016. She is, without a doubt, one of my biggest heroes.

Last month Liz was in town for a conference. I dropped everything when I heard she was in town. I hadn't seen her in person since she was packing her bags for Kosovo in 1999. I went to listen to her speak, then we took her out to dinner with some friends the following night so our kids could also hear her amazing stories—how little children who used to wake up screaming every night because of the horrors they've witnessed now sleep through the night because of the soothing power of music;—how Ugandan youths who were turned into soldiers at age 5 are now learning music and leadership, and the true meaning of power and peace;—how 95% of their youth volunteers go on to attend college;—how Liz is guided by a Higher Power that continues to open doors and work miracles. It was one of the most motivating and inspiring evenings we've spent in a long time.

I tell parts of Liz's story on our latest Living Room show, "Peace, Be Still." There's a link at the top of the page where you can play it right from this site. Hear about Nelson Mandela's widow, Graça Machel, and how her research backs up Liz's programs—that children heal best through the arts, and teens heal best in a teaching capacity. Liz and her children across the globe are living proof.



In the past month we've seen so much violence and disruption, drawing ever closer to home. It becomes more and more apparent how desperately we all need peace on earth, and peace in our individual homes and hearts.

"Peace at any price" is a saying my mother-in-law uses to encourage us to let go of pride and selfishness in favor of peace within the family. Liz has taken that a step further and has literally given up everything she has—including a place to live—in order to work for peace. To her there is literally no pricetag too high to teach and further the cause of peace.

Our family has chosen the Shropshire Music Foundation as our charity of choice this giving season. I may not be able to do what Liz does, but I can help her teach and spread peace. We are donating a portion of all our online shopping through smile.amazon.com. And we are looking at other ways to contribute financially and in kind. I hope you'll join us.

The Manger Scene as a Metaphor

In pondering the beauty of this season and the birth that inspires it, I have discovered that each figure of the Nativity represents its own aspects of discipleship. If we put them all together we can grasp a deeper understanding and a composite of traits that will help to render us true followers of Jesus. At the end of each section I’ve used the words of Neal A. Maxwell—who was himself a consummate disciple—to underscore these thoughts.

SHEPHERDS
These humble caregivers, among the lowliest station of society, were “watching over their flocks by night,” not unlike a mother who loses sleep caring for a sick child.

Being in the right place at the right time, these lowly servants were the first to hear and receive the news of Christ’s birth. They were visited by angels, bathed in glorious light, and witnessed a heavenly chorus.

Their response, “Let us now go,” indicates their lack of any hesitation in their journey to receive a personal witness of the things they’d been told. They didn’t worry about whether they were appropriately dressed or received an invitation. They just went.

The scriptures tell us they “came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.” They sought Christ, came to Christ, and found Christ. But their discipleship doesn’t end there. Luke continues, “And when they had seen it, they made known abroad” all they had learned about the Savior.  To me, the shepherds signify CARE, HUMILITY and WITNESSING.

Elder Neal A. Maxwell said, “Discipleship means being drawn by seemingly small and routine duties toward the fulfillment of the two great and most challenging commandments.” (“True Believers in Christ,” p. 135)

“The sooner we are on the way to serious discipleship, the sooner the needed spiritual and personal reinforcements and intellectual reassurances will come to us personally.” (On Becoming A Disciple-Scholar, p.19)

MAGI
The wise men were prepared by learning and study. Because of their careful gospel scholarship, they were expectant of the signs surrounding the birth of the Messiah. Their focus was on the heavens, on light and truth. “When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.”
They journeyed a great distance to Bethlehem. “And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him.” (Matthew 2:11) They made their journey to the Christ child, knelt and worshipped him, and laid their gifts at his feet. But their discipleship doesn’t end there.

“Being warned of God in a dream that they should not return to Herod, they departed into their own country another way.” By not returning to King Herod, they made a deliberate and symbolic decision to turn away from the power, riches, honor and violence of the world and journey “another way,” the journey of true discipleship. To me the Magi symbolize GOSPEL SCHOLARSHIP, CONSECRATION AND SPIRITUAL WISDOM.

Elder Neal A. Maxwell said, “For a disciple of Christ, academic scholarship is a form of worship. It is another form of consecration...How else could one worship God with all of one’s heart, might, mind and strength?” —(Luke 10:27) On Becoming a Disciple-Scholar, p.7)

JOSEPH
Gentle Joseph understood his place and was not ego-driven. He was merciful to his bride-to-be, Mary, when he learned she was “with child” but not by him. He did not put her to death, as Mosaic law allowed, and had decided to “put her away privily” rather than shame her publicly. After “the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, “ helping Joseph understand the baby’s true parentage, “...Joseph being raised from sleep did as the angel of the Lord had bidden him, and took unto him his wife:” Joseph walked beside her every step of the journey.

He was a righteous father who received revelation for his family—a second visitation is recorded when an angel instructed him to take his family and flee to Egypt. In both cases his spiritual receptivity likely saved the life of Jesus, who in turn saved us. But his discipleship doesn’t end there. Joseph literally stood in for God as Jesus’s earthly father and early mentor. To me, Joseph symbolizes PERSONAL REVELATION, RIGHTEOUS LEADERSHIP, and above all, MERCY.

Elder Maxwell stated, “Discipleship in our day, as in all eras, has as a goal not our being different from other men, but our need to be more like God.” (A Time to Choose, p.16)


MARY
Though very young, Mary had tremendous “inward strength.” The angel told of her most remarkable mission, and her response resonates through the centuries. “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” When she asked meekly, “How shall this be, seeing I know not a man?” she soon learned that “with God, nothing is impossible.”

Later, after greeting her relative and mentor Elizabeth, Mary exclaimed, “My soul doth magnify the Lord, And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior.” Her use of the word magnify seems to mean “celebrate with praise.”

When “the days were accomplished that she should deliver,” without mention of a midwife or other assistance “she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.” In the humblest of circumstances arrived the greatest of Gifts.

Surely no one knew and loved Jesus quite like Mary, who birthed him, nursed him, and nurtured him. Yet her discipleship doesn’t end there. Mary understood the sacredness of her mission and refrained from sharing much of her glorious experience. Luke tells us that “Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” To me, Mary represents the qualities of SUBMISSIVENESS, PURITY and RESTRAINT.

Elder Maxwell wrote, “Even articulate discipleship has its side of silent certitude.” (Meek and Lowly, p.57)

COMMON THREADS
At this point we can find some common threads in our quest for discipleship.
We can agree that each of these representative figures from the Nativity deeply and personally KNOWS AND LOVES THE LORD. As a corollary, their deep affection for the Savior also prompts them to keep the second great commandment, to LOVE AND SERVE OTHER PEOPLE and deal with them MERCIFULLY.

I imagine that truly knowing the Lord causes us to see ourselves in relationship to Him, resulting in GENUINE HUMILITY. There is no self-deprecation here. Disciples merely choose to compare themselves to God rather than compare themselves to other people, resulting in a humble perspective that both honors God and unifies the human race.

This expansive brand of humility naturally breeds a deepening degree of SUBMISSIVENESS. When we know and understand His greatness, His goodness, we more naturally bend our own will to meet His. We obey—not just the written commandments, but the promptings of the Spirit that move us outside our comfort zone and away from the clipboard to be “anxiously engaged” in seeking out His will and doing it, daily, hourly moment by moment.

May we each deepen and find joy in this journey of a lifetime.

My Perfect Day: What Would Your House Look Like?

Back in California, fifteen years ago, we purchased what had been our dream house for YEARS. When the kids were little we’d walk past this house with our strollers, at it admiringly, and sigh, “If only…” And then, nearly a decade later, the dream became reality—the house was ours: century two-story Craftsman, big wraparound front porch, French doors and coffered ceiling in the dining room, spacious living room with fireplace and built-in bookcases, quarter-sawn oak floors, big second-story window seat…I could go on and on. It broke my heart when we decided to move. Second only to leaving our wonderful Pasadena friends was leaving this gracious Historic Highlands home.

The house we subsequently purchased was nothing like it. Built in 1978, complete with peach shag carpet and vinyl siding, it seemed the opposite of who we are and what we were seeking. But what the house lacked in old-world charm it had like no other: Spirit. We bought the house for the feeling inside. We spent a small fortune and fixed it up the best we could. Made it comfortable and livable and lovely. Ripped out the carpet and replaced it with Brazilian hardwood. Tore down the wallpaper, patched the resulting holes, and chose lovely shades of paint. Opened up the kitchen so it flowed better into the family room. 

Then all of a sudden one day I realized I was living in my dream house. Not our Pasadena dream house, a completely different dream house—the house I dreamed of when I was a child. 

I used to love watching The Waltons on television. I thought Olivia Walton was the source of all wisdom and loveliness, the crotchety grandparents were hilarious and adorable, and all the siblings saying good night at the end of every episode made theirs the coziest house ever. I also loved that there was a light on upstairs while nighttime journaling was happening. Never mind that they were living during the Great Depression—the food always looked amazing. I loved seeing the kids walk to school barefoot, along the banks of a stream. I fantasized a big, two-story white farmhouse like the Waltons, and wanted to live THERE…wherever there was. 

What I realized that day is that THERE is HERE. It's uncanny, really. I live in the big, two-story white farmhouse I envisioned as a child. We live on a beautiful wooded acre that feels as private and secluded as if we lived on a Virginia farm. Our dogs run through the trees, over the grassy hillsides, and deer and quail come to visit. Coveys of kids gather and walk to school, meandering through our yard. For the first several years we even had a stream running through our yard. I got exactly what I wanted. But I had no idea when we bought it.

I think what I learned is that “perfect” doesn’t always look like our mind’s conception of perfection. But it does answer our deepest desires.

On The Living Room's social media channels this month we're discussing topics centered around discovering our core identity through imagining our perfect, average day. This is Day 2: What Would Your House Look like?

When the Worst Possible Thing...Isn't

What I Gained When I Lost show

Last Tuesday the Living Room reran one of our earlier episodes, called What I Gained When I Lost. As I listened a second time, it reminded me of an experience I had back in high school:


It was the audition for Concerto Night, a competition amongst my musical peers for a chance to perform in the spotlight with a live orchestra (the high school orchestra, but still, a pretty big deal). I had been studying and practicing this particular concerto, the Beethoven I, for over a year and a half. I had all 28 pages thoroughly memorized, backwards and forwards, they were polished, and perfected. I even had two amazing master classes with concert pianist Grant Johannessen. I was ready. Except for a tiny little problem I have called Performance Anxiety.

It turned out that my cousin’s wedding reception, in which I was a bridesmaid, was the same night as the concerto competition. I slipped out of the reception line a few minutes early, and my mother and I raced our car through the slushy city streets, arriving at the A cappella room just in time for one of the last remaining audition slots. I sat there, wringing and shaking my hands to warm them up after being out in the brisk February air.

They called my name. I stood up in my burgundy velvet bridesmaid dress, took a deep breath, and walked to the piano. All eyes were on me. The room was deathly quiet. I sat down, adjusted the bench, uttered a silent prayer for help, and nodded to my mom, who was playing the orchestra score on the second piano, to let her know I was ready. I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.

I listened for the opening chords, then attacked my entrance with confidence and aplomb. The runs were rapid and crystal-clear. My fingers were flying fast over the arpeggios. I was off! Then  about halfway through the concerto, in a section that I knew so well I could play it in my sleep, I hit a wrong note.

It completely threw me off. I couldn’t find the next note, or the one after that. That passage I could play in my sleep suddenly became my worst nightmare. Flustered, I went back to a section where I could start over. When I got to the exact same spot I panicked again and couldn’t find the note.  I began again a third time, and eventually muddled my way through to the end. The finish was big and dramatic. But I knew I’d completely blown the audition.

I was devastated. Everything I worked on so diligently for over a year and a half suddenly seemed all for nothing. My dreams of playing with the school orchestra were shattered. I didn’t have to wait for the judges’ decision; I knew. I couldn’t even look anyone in the eye as I trudged back to my car in the snow. My mom was powerless to console me. God had let me down. My prayers hadn’t reached him…or they got His answering machine!

I stepped completely away from the piano and didn’t touch it again for 18 months. I couldn’t stand to be part of an art where you could perfect something, and still have it go abysmally wrong on the final performance. I thought about my writing, where you perfect a story or an essay, submit it to a contest, and win a scholarship. I thought about my artwork, and how you perfect a painting, put it in a frame and hang it up on a wall. It stays that way. Everyone who walks by can see it, just as you intended it to be.

I decided right then and there that I was going to major in art. For my creative sanity. I would create pieces and frame them and hang them. Period. No risk of the final product gone awry.

Looking back on that moment—where it seemed like the worst thing that could possibly happen had just found me and dragged me down to the abyss—from my current mid-life vantage point, God didn’t abandon me at all. He used that moment to nudge me with a course-correction. He was being kind. And even a little bit generous. To let me discover my career path early, rather than after several other failed attempts. In retrospect, the demise of my piano-playing future signaled the birth of who I was really meant to be.

What I gained when I lost? Was my better self.

The Living Room is airing a brand new show today: Seeing Your Spouse. Listen when it airs at noon on fromthelivingroom.com, or tune in at your convenience on iTunes: bit.ly/TLRShowiTunes

Trust the Process

“To teach well...is to make a difference. To teach unusually well is to create magic.”  — Kay Redfield Jamison, Exuberance, the Passion for Life

There is something so invigorating about a new school year. It brings whispers of things to come, there is excitement in the air, and the classroom is buzzing with potential.

 I love the line in the movie “You’ve Got Mail” where Tom Hanks tells Meg Ryan this time of year makes him want to buy up “bouquets of sharpened pencils.” YES! That’s it. A sharp pencil, a crisp sheet of paper...a clean slate. They all have something in common: the welcome of creativity, an opportunity to begin again.

I started school again on Monday, my 12th year as an adjunct art professor. I walked into a classroom full of strangers that I know will soon be my friends. I felt that familiar flicker of potential and saw combinations of joy, anticipation and horror on my students’ faces. The reality is, what we do in Watercolor 1 may look easy, but it can be terrifying. The assignments are designed to take everybody wwaaaayyy outside of their comfort zone. To try new things. To surrender control. To let the water do the work.

I have a formula for success that I’ve discovered applies just as much to life as it does to the classroom. Consider: 

1. Show up. 
Come to class, every time, on time. Bring all the necessary materials.
Be fully engaged the entire time. None of the magic that happens in class can be found on youtube or in a textbook. Demonstrations happen live and in real time. Everything we do is personally directed and hands-on. Missing that instruction and interaction comes with a very high opportunity cost.


2. Do the work. 
Complete all the assigned work on time. Stay caught up. There is no busywork in this class. Every assignment builds on the last and prepares you for the next one. I will not require any wasted efforts. Give each exercise your complete focus and your very best efforts.


3. Trust the process.
Sometimes we do things in class that are scary and hard. Many of these assignments are designed to take you WAY outside your comfort zone. It takes courage to try new approaches. Be brave! Especially important: When what you’re painting looks nothing like the image you have in your head, please trust the instructor, and the process being taught. Continue working through the process, despite the fuzz and the fog and maybe even some messiness. It will eventually turn out if you follow the instructions. In fact, it will most likely become something far more interesting and beautiful than you initially imagined.

Woody Allen said that "80% of success is showing up." And most of us readily agree that doing our best work is a chief source of personal fulfillment—whether we are paid or not. But the part that seems to be the most challenging—both in life and in the classroom—is learning to trust the process.

After 12 years of college-level teaching, something that has become abundantly clear to me is the importance of trusting in a mentor, a higher power. Just knowing that God is in charge of the universe helps to make sense of the chaos and upheaval of life—especially the murky parts. Not just believing, but really trusting—that His word is Truth, that He loves us and has our best interests at heart, that He knows something maybe we don't, and that He can turn the worst cataclysm into something better— is ultimately key to our survival and success.

Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. (Proverbs 3:5-6)

This promise is rock solid. It takes trust to leave our comfort zone, to try new things, to surrender control, to let the Spirit do the work. But we prosper so much under his care and tutelage.

One of the great things about teaching and observing the learning continuum year after year is that we continue to learn so much about the universe and ourselves in the process.

Once I Was A Beehive, Too...

After seeing this movie, I can’t resist sharing some of my own Girls Camp stories.

(Actual excerpts (and drawings) from my junior high journal.—Pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out so I can’t be arrested for any of these shenanigans!)



7/25
We took off early this morning for Brighton Camp. I love being in the mountains! The hike up Hernia Hill was a lot easier than I remembered last year. Someone's little sister came along this year...complete with a plastic purse.

Cherubic Little Sister

When you first get here, everybody sits up on the rock and sings songs, and hopes they get one of the coolest counselors. My cousin is a K.D. this year and said she warned the entire camp about me in advance.

Our counselor is Krispie (as in Krispie Kritters cereal). She’s fantastic. She has a steel-string guitar and can play almost anything on it. The latrines are called Skunk and Daisy.

Two of the really popular girls are in our unit. Believe it or not, the four of us have a pretty good time together. We had a little dispute over the bunks though. We settled it by taking turns and rotating who sleeps on the top bunks every night.

In the afternoon we hiked down to Silver Lake, and after a couple of other games, we played “Grunt, Piggy, Grunt.” (Everyone sits in a circle, and someone is blindfolded in the middle. The blindfolded person sits on someone’s lap and says, “Grunt, Piggy, Grunt.” The person whose lap it is says, “Oink! Oink!” and the blindfolded person has to guess who it is by the sound of her voice. )

Now that in itself is hilarious. But Patches (the other counselor in our cabin) decided to play a joke on one of the girls who was “it” (blindfolded). Every time that girl sat on someone’s lap, Patches would run and stand behind that person and say “Oink! Oink!” so no matter where she sat, she always heard the same voice oinking back at her.

At dinner we had some rangers come, and Pippin came out in a sequin gown singing, “Here comes Smokey Bear, here comes Smokey Bear. He’s got a hot date. Here comes Smokey Bear, here comes Smokey Bear. He made the rangers late.” (Sung to the tune of “Here Comes Santa Claus.”)


7/26
We went on a breakfast cookout this morning with Dusty’s unit. It was awful. The only thing worth eating was the sausage. I wouldn’t have been able to guess what the pancakes were if no one told us beforehand.

I ditched the craft house this year and brought along my sketchpad instead, to draw the mountains and the trees. Then I went out on the cabin porch and wrote in my journal for a little while.

7/27
This morning we had certification. Second Years had to light four types of fire. Marie and I stuck a couple of matches under our pine needles, so ours just flared right up while everyone else was struggling to get a flame. Mine was a regular bonfire!

After certification was First Aid. Then we had our lunch cookout. It was fantastic. Marie and I are now the designated firebuilders, so we don’t have to do any of the other chores. We had triple-layer pizza in a dutch oven, salad, garlic bread, and chocolate pudding cones. Krispie and Patches got in a chocolate pudding fight and starting smearing each other with pudding. They looked so gross afterward, everybody took pictures of them.

We were supposed to be painting rocks for our “Brighton Buddies” when we noticed some girls were burning garbage in the incinerator, so we snuck away and tossed some firecrackers in the incinerator. That was a blast! (Literally.) No one was harmed in the performing of this prank.

Then our unit challenged the other unit to a game of “Paper Charades,” where you run into the counselors' room to get a word, then run out and draw your clues instead of acting them out. (I guess this was pre-Pictionary!). Then we had our dinner cookout—Cheeseburgers. It was good, too.

Tonight we had an Indian Ceremony on Century Rock.


7/28
This morning we left on an all-day hike. To start us out, Trix read something Helen Keller had written: “If I could see…” Then we split up into partners. One was blind-folded and the other had to lead her, and describe things for her, and let her feel things, etc. I had to lead Marie first. Then we traded places and she guided me. It was great.

The hike wasn’t very hard at all. We went up past Twin Lakes to the saddle and Twin Peaks. It was really beautiful all the way up, but whoever said “the best view is from the top” knew what they were talking about. I wish everybody in the world could have the chance to see that. Notice everything and appreciate everything. That’s what the things in nature were put there for.

Since this week was “Easter Week” at camp, we all made “Easter Bonnets” and had a parade. Pippin was the commentator, and the camp directors were judges. Marie made a tin foil soldier helmet and won first place in our unit.

Most of the skits were really funny, but the only one I can remember is ours. You can tell I wrote it, just by the title—“Senior Citizens Romper Room.”  I was Great-Grandma Julie, Carolyn was Bigga Momma Stroganoff, Marie was “Mrs. Butterworth,” etc. We started out with “Sharing Time” (Show-and-Tell). Marie used Ember’s “Angry Doll” and said she used it when she was mad instead of yelling at her grandkids. Carolyn had a stuffed frog and said it was an old family pet they preserved after it died. Somebody else had a traffic sign and said they picked it up as a souvenir when they were crossing the plains.  After “Sharing Time” I said, “We’re ready, Grandma Music,” and we sang:

When upon life’s mountain you are over the hill
And you think the time has come to start your will
Count your many grandkids, name them one by one
Trying to remember them is lots of fun!

Then I announced that we were going into the kitchen for warm milk and prune juice.

After dinner and skits we had Testimony Meeting (where we share our spiritual feelings). We all went around the circle saying whatever we wanted to, and everyone started crying, and blowing their noses (except for me). I wasn’t going to say anything, because I really didn’t have anything to say that would benefit anyone, but everybody else did, so I decided I’d better. I talked about my experiences in Washington, D.C. and people I’d met there, and their view of Mormons. One of them asked if I was in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir! When I was almost finished, something came over me and I couldn’t say anything else. Not even “Amen.” That night I think I prayed more sincerely than I ever have in my whole life, and I just started to cry, and I couldn’t stop. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.


7/29

This morning Krispie asked us to do some creative writing on our feelings here at Brighton. It took me a long time to even get started, and a lot longer to finish. I’ve had some great experiences this week.

Our cabin was the only one that didn’t get TNT (Tops and Tidy). We all had to go up and finish cleaning it after lunch. I was in charge, but I couldn’t see anything wrong with it, so we just moved all the sleeping bags off the front porch, and it passed.

At the farewell assembly, all of the counselors sang. Then Petunia bore her testimony, and Pippin told the legend of the Pine Cone. Then the counselors said goodbye and passed out the name sheets (with all of the counselors' real names—Krispie is Holly Richards. Her younger brother goes to our high school next year.) Everybody started to cry—then they sang some more and we got on the bus.

The bus driver got mad at us because we were singing two different songs at the same time at the top of our lungs. This is one of my favorite songs (the one that really made the driver mad, too):

Old Mr Jones, he had troubles of his own
He had a yellow cat that just wouldn’t leave his home
He tried and he tried to give the cat away
He gave it to a man who was going far away

Chorus
But…the cat came back, the very next day
Oh, the cat came back
you know they thought he was a goner but
The cat came back
He just couldn’t stay away…
no, no, no, oh-oh-oh-oh, no, no, no, no…

The old man next door said he’d shoot the cat on sight
He loaded up his gun with nails and dyn-O-mite
He waited and he waited for the cat to come around
Ninety-nine pieces of the man was all the found

Chorus

The H-Bomb dropped just the other day
Somebody was trying to blow the cat away
China went, Russia went, and finally the good old USA
Everything was dee-molished…

Chorus

When we got to Marie’s church, her brother Mark rode over on his bike and picked up our duffel bags. (Thanks, Mark!) Then Dad picked me up at their house.

I keep thinking about last night’s Unit Prayer at camp. Krispie talked about a lot of things, but the thing I remember best is a story she read. It’s like a journal of a baby before it is born. You should have heard that story when Krispie read it. It really changed me.

I Collect Bodies in my Basement

I wasn't present when The Living Room recorded our most recent show, "Body Image and Sideburn Moments." Lest you think I have no body image issues—or solutions for overcoming them—I invite you to read this essay: 

Bodies In My Basement

I collect bodies in my basement.  
Over the years I’ve amassed hundreds of them. 
And I feel good about it.  

Every summer I take the kids to the pool. They adore what I avoid: Exposure. To the water, the sunshine. To other people. While they frolic and splash, I seek cover in the shade, fully clothed, attempting to lose myself in a novel. I note the irony of isolating myself at a pool labeled community. When I face the thought of exposing my physical flaws, my body feels more like a prison than a temple. 

Nearly lulled to sleep by the afternoon heat, I squint toward the pool. Hiding behind my sunglasses, I see my children and all the other people enjoying the water. Wonderful people, in every shape, size and color—some rotund and Rubenesque, others elongated like a Modigliani. Observing with my Artist’s Eye, I appreciate the distinctive beauty of each one.  

Leaning into the sunshine, I dig through the beach bag for the sketchbook I brought from my basement studio. Quickly, rhythmically, I begin to draw—sometimes without even looking at the paper. I try to capture all of those life-filled bodies in fleeting strokes: Families strolling by. Mothers standing, hips cocked to one side, talking to complete strangers. Grandmothers stooping over large, unwieldy beach bags. Children sliding and laughing. Little ones, wrapped in bright-colored towels, shivering in the sun. I suspend time, movement and space as I collect these gestures one at a time in my sketchbook. I want to save them.  The imperfect bodies are the most interesting to an artist. The rolls and folds create elegant forms. I notice that a pregnant woman's belly mirrors her toddler's, and contemplate the connection. I study the variety of proportions, and find that none is wrong. 

I am in awe of the souls who courageously parade their corpulence without inhibition. They don’t mind being exposed and vulnerable in swimsuits; they’re simply enjoying the water and the sunshine and the community. As they should.

Having cast myself to this poolside corner in relative darkness, I suddenly feel ashamed. Not so much of my body, but of the way I hide it, enshroud it, and sometimes even loathe it; the way this damaging mindset distances me from my kids. What kind of mother am I? I recognize that, in my reluctance to join my children in the pool, I’ve fallen prey to my own insecurities. In one fell swoop I’ve managed to devalue my mortal frame, a gift from God. I’ve cheated myself out of an opportunity to share a spirited activity with my children. And I run the risk of passing down a ridiculous complex to my own daughter, not to mention the children I hope she’ll bear in a future generation.  

Driving home the other day, I heard a song by Regina Spektor that seemed like a fleeting revelation. The lyrics: “I have a perfect body, but sometimes I forget. I have a perfect body because my eyelashes catch my sweat.” It’s just a silly pop song, yet it struck me with such tremendous force: My body, my children’s bodies, all of our bodies are perfectly engineered, from eyelashes to perspiration. They do what they were designed to do. Cells divide. Scars heal. Babies—entire human beings—grow inside their mothers. Before they’re even born they sprout fingernails and toenails, and develop impossibly complex parts like eardrums and eyeballs. Miracles, all.  

I yearn to develop an Artist's Eye—the Creator’s view—toward my own body. I remember that form follows function. I’m slowly learning to rejoice in my ripples and curves rather than lamenting the loss of the hardbody of my twenties. It’s easier to love the pillow of padding on my belly when I remember how I earned it: creating life, giving birth—four miraculous times. Through conceiving, bearing, feeding and nurturing children—through motherhood—I have finally used every part of my body exactly as it was designed, every function for its intended purpose. I may not look perfect, but I am complete.

I wonder: Were I to pull out of my basement the bodies I’ve collected in my sketchbooks—my creations celebrating His creations—might I somehow pull myself into that light as well? I have never drawn a body that wasn’t beautiful. I have never brought a baby into the world whose body seemed anything less than perfect. I would love to envision a self portrait with the same appreciative eye. Perhaps then I could escape this notion of a prison and celebrate my body for the temple it is...both for how it's shaped, and for the divinity it houses. 

I make a conscious decision to own my complete form and join my children in the pool. Donning a raspberry-red tankini I enter the water slowly, tentatively at first. I take a step, and then another. I try to silence the words of a former boyfriend still ringing in the back of my head: “Jana, get in the water quick before anyone sees those legs!” Wincing a little inside, I throw on an imaginary cloak of invisibility, shutting out judgement and shame. Who cares if it takes me the whole summer to turn from blue to white?! 

The water catches ripples of light, sparkling in the sun. The initial shock of cold gives way to a refreshing escape from the heat of the day. I am immersed. Lifting my head, catching my breath, feeling clean and alive, I see my children’s faces, beaming. They don’t notice the varicose veins or the dimples of cellulite. They see their mother, present and joyful, willing to splash, dive and call Marco. Or Polo. They may not be aware of the pride I sacrificed to join them in the pool, but I can tell they sense the love behind the gesture. Their smiles and enthusiasm tell me their happiness multiplied when I finally summoned the courage to dive in, all in. With them.


I'm proud of the fact that I collect bodies in my basement. Those stacks of sketchbooks are my personal witness to the beauty of the human form, in all its varieties. Including mine.

Big shout-out  to Lime Ricki Swimwear, who helped me overcome my pathological fear of swimsuits. Every suit I've worn since the writing of this essay is made by Lime Ricki (I now happily own five, and no longer shrink away from getting in the pool or playing on the beach. Thank you, Lime Ricki!)

This was originally posted here. It is the piece I presented at the Listen To Your Mother show in 2014. You can hear me read it for that audience here. An earlier, shorter version of this essay was recently published by Deseret Book in an anthology on body image called Why I Don't Hide My Freckles Any More. All were based on a post I originally wrote for this blog several years ago, here.

The Missing Confession

Earlier this week, my friends at The Living Room aired a show called, “Confessions of Motherhood.” I was absent for this recording--and felt somewhat relieved I didn’t have to share my most embarrassing moment or deepest flaw on internet radio. I was perfectly happy to be traveling and painting instead.

Then a beloved friend texted me the following: “I’m listening to the most recent TLR podcast, and I am noticing that you didn’t confess anything. I haven’t finished it yet. But now I’m thinking that maybe you really are a perfect mother because I can’t think of anything you should confess either.”

Hahahaha!

Please allow me to put any such delusions to rest once and for all.

Here’s my official confession (although I’m somewhat horrified to put this in writing):

A couple of months ago I hosted my book group at our house. We read a wonderful YA novel, Signed, Skye Harper by Carol Lynch Williams and—miracle of miracles—the author was joining us in person! We could hardly believe our good fortune.

I spent a good chunk of the day cleaning the house, preparing raw food (one of our members has cancer and is on a special diet), and getting ready for the event.

Our family breeds Shelties (shetland sheepdogs) and the last puppy had just been sold, so there was some extra cleaning and mopping to do, as I put away the puppy crate, washed mountains of extra towels, and turned the laundry room back into a place where we actually wash and iron our clothes. 

When it came down to the final vacuum, I did every inch of the main floor—even the stairs and behind the couch—but when I suddenly glanced at the clock, time was running short. I looked at the dining room and thought, no one has eaten in here this week, and quickly ran the vacuum alongside—but not under—the big harvest table, then rewound the cord and put the vacuum away.


Guests arrived, people admired the display of food and the lovely antique dishes (my grandmother’s) we used for the occasion. The author was seated at the head of the dining room table, and was regaling us with stories of not cleaning her house, joking about how the neighbor kids thought they might catch a disease. I could hardly relate—I’d been cleaning for what seemed like the entire day.

Then about midway through the evening one young mother put her toddler down on the floor. He was exploring, crawling under the dining room table, then stopped, and sat still with some sort of treasure in his hand. His mother cooed, “Oh, what did you find?” just as he was about to put it in his mouth.

To my complete mortification, in his chubby little fist was a piece of puppy poo.
That’s right. The one spot I left unchecked and unvacuumed was the spot where, unbeknownst to me, the little puppy we sold that morning had chosen to relieve himself.

I slid back my chair, made a mad dash for the kitchen for tissue and towels, and apologized over and over again to this sweet mom.

But the damage was done. I doubt she’ll ever even set foot in my house again. At least not with her baby in tow. For all I know the entire book group has already made a secret pact to exclude me from future gatherings.

My friend who was texting me about being perfect doesn’t know this story...until now. Still listening to the podcast, she texted, “Ah. just heard that you weren’t there. I still think you’re perfect.”

So, CB—this one’s for you.
—Oh, and you’re welcome.

To underscore the fact that I don't judge you for any little imperfections at your house, check out this post. And in the comments, please share some of your most embarrassing moments so I don’t feel quite so terrible about myself.   :)

What I Gained When I Lost

Our latest Living Room episode is called “What I Gained When I Lost.” I was absent for this recording session. (I gained a painting trip to Southern Utah with my Dad when I lost this chance to record with my Living Room friends!)

This idea of gaining from losing is powerful. Host Christie Gardiner says we become who we’re meant to be when we sacrifice something great...for something more important. The less-dramatic business term for this kind of gaining and losing is called “opportunity cost.”

Sometimes what I’ve lost (my opportunity cost) isn’t a conscious sacrifice, but my need to acknowledge the hand of a higher power at work in my life.

In all honesty, when I glibly said I gained a painting trip when I lost that chance to record our show, it’s true. Three glorious days in Snow Canyon. But there’s more. That painting trip was a consolation prize. What I lost first was my favorite tradition. A class I was teaching at UVU for the third year in a row, taking a dozen students to paint on location in Capitol Reef National Park, was unexpectedly cancelled at the last minute. I didn’t just lose a fabulous week encouraging students to learn and grow and create. I lost my entire summer’s income. And a trip I count on yearly to rejuvenate my art and my soul. (And yes, my dad was coming along this year—something I was really looking forward to!)

I have to admit I grumbled. I was frustrated that it was cancelled so late in the game, after I had already put in so much work, with no compensation. It felt like the university cared more about the numbers than the students’ educational experience, which was also frustrating.

But something happened during those three weeks (during which we would have been holding class all day every day) that I never could have predicted. A very close friend of mine who’s been battling cancer for years suddenly became gravely ill. She’d been living in Texas for a few months, and was flown to Utah for brain surgery.

Because I wasn’t teaching, I was able to visit her in the hospital, hug her and kiss her forehead and whisper encouraging words before she headed into surgery. I was able to see her as she recovered after surgery, and again when they resumed chemotherapy. Most important of all, I was led back to the hospital on a random Tuesday afternoon when she needed a visit. And when the cheyne-stokes breathing began, just minutes later, I was there. I was able to stay with her and hold her hand and literally breathe along with her until she took her final breath.

I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything. It is one of life’s most poignant and beautiful privileges to surround a loved one and help usher them on to the next sphere of life.

Losing a chance to teach a class and paint on location in a gorgeous national park was a heavy hit. But it doesn’t seem like much in comparison to what I gained.


Another version of this post appears here: The Living Room | Live Internet Talk Radio | Best Shows Podcasts

Finding Balance in Nature

In our first episode of The Living Room podcast, titled "Self-Care and Preservation," I talked briefly about how hiking outdoors helped me rediscover my center and find joy during a serious bout of post-partum depression. I want to share how and why this helps me find balance in a chaotic world.

A couple of years ago I was invited to speak at the Story At Home Conference, in Salt Lake City, Utah. I was asked to address the topic of Balance, chiefly the way we balance our real-life and online activities. The assignment surprised me—in fact my husband laughed out loud when I told him my topic. I'm one of the most UN-balanced people I know, perpetually wobbling in pursuit of that ever-elusive ideal.

As I explored thoughts and research for my presentation, I hit a huge roadblock and was unable to finish writing my speech...until I forced myself outdoors for a breather.

Suddenly a whole world of ideas came to me rapidly, and the speech came together in my head, packaged like a gift from God. What I re-realized in that moment was my complete focus on the task at hand (writing the speech) was putting me out of balance with my body and soul. Once I got outdoors I was rebalanced, and I could think so much more clearly. All that banging my head against a proverbial wall became almost effortless in its completion. I determined that balance needs to cover not just online and off-line activites, or plugged-in versus un-plugged, if you will, but four areas of the self: Mental, Physical, Spiritual, and Social. For our purposes I’m calling them Mind, Body, Spirit, and Connection.

What I learned, and continue to learn, is that when I'm on the trail I'm in perfect balance because I'm attending to all four areas of my self at once: Whether strolling along a riverbank or climbing a steep cliff, I'm physically active. My heart is beating, my arms and legs are working, I lift the weight of a pack on my back, I’m inhaling lungfuls of cedar. I'm also stimulating my mind. Perhaps I'm identifying wildflowers, spotting animal tracks, observing rock formations, or plotting a trail on a map. If I take a friend or two, — or even my dog — I’m socializing; if I choose to go alone, I'm contemplating. Even then I exchange smiles and hellos with a handful of strangers on the trail. And ALWAYS I'm communing: As light sparkles through running water that gurgles over rocks in a stream, leaves dance in a gentle breeze, crickets chant in rhythm and hummingbirds drink the nectar of wildflowers, I feel at one with the circle of life, more in touch with the Creator of the universe. My heart responds, launching praise and gratitude to the heavens. I am whole again.
































This post also appears here: The Living Room | Live Internet Talk Radio | Best Shows Podcasts