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.

I had big plans for today.

Sunday morning I got a great flash of inspiration about the post I should write for today—for Pioneer Day. I started drafting it in my head, then realized I needed more details.  I shot my friend an email. A couple of days later she shot me back a text—she's in town! We had the most blissful lunch yesterday talking about this amazing pioneer story she lived. I took copious notes. Made a recording. And realized it was way too big a story to whip out in one afternoon. Too much, in fact, for one blog post.

So I'm doing a serial. Starting as soon as she sends me her photos, I will post multiple episodes telling the saga of my favorite modern-day pioneer.

When I first heard the story myself, about 17 years ago, my jaw dropped. The world opened a little wider. The story has impacted me and lived with me ever since. It's a story of hope. Of sacrifice. Of optimism. Of hard work. Of letting the past inform the future. Of a pioneer. And it's still unfolding.

So hold tight, and stay tuned—it's coming. Just not today.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

UPDATE: My friend's story is now up. I felt impressed to start posting it in segments right after the little Syrian refugee boy was found washed ashore in Turkey on September 2. Suddenly the word refugee was on the forefront of the nation's consciousness, and the time was ripe. You can read PART ONE here, then click on the link at the end of each episode to read the next. I'm still amazed at the courage. The endurance. The work. The faith. The miracles. Don't miss it!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In the meantime, here are two favorite Pioneer Day posts from years past:

Plains, Trains and What Remains

O Pioneer...I'm Such A Wimp

Here's a link to a video, and a hashtag to broaden your celebration of all things Pioneer: #IAmAPioneer

Our Story Rituals

In our most recent Living Room radio episode, called "Meaningful Rituals," I talk about a favorite ritual from my growing-up years: Storytelling.


When I was a little girl, my beloved grandmother told us a favorite bedtime story every time we slept over in their little duplex on Capitol Hill. I loved listening to her gentle voice tell us the old-fashioned tale "Cozette" so much that I asked for a tape recording for my 25th birthday. You can read more about that special story here.

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 always 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, and playing saxophone in a dance band. How great-grandpa Cort once shot a bear right between the eyes...and outsmarted a town official in order to get justice for a Japanese immigrant the man had swindled. Grandpa himself later 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 (like the character she was nicknamed for—a strong young widow with four spirited daughters); How her youngest brother would 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 baritone solos in the Messiah, and had his own radio show; how her mother worked at an advertising agency in Los Angeles and how Grandpa called her his Happy Heart. And how her daddy would come home at night and entertain them at the dinner table by telling stories.

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 and what could go wrong in outer space. My dad's stories, more than any other, made me want to seek out and live adventures of my own, and write about them.

My husband is the King of Story. He writes screenplays, teaches screenwriting, produces and directs movies, creates webisodes, and exhausts every possible outlet for storytelling (as evidenced in his TedX talk, here). He reads wonderful books out loud to the family -- The Tale of Despereaux, Walk Two Moons, and Watership Down. Most recently we listened to The Boys in the Boat on tape, and he read to us aloud, "The Road" by Cormack McCarthy. He also makes up fabulous stories about our kids and their friends and their secret superpowers. He lives and breathes story.

And I've told a few stories of my own. One of my favorites became sort of an allegory on giving. Here is Jeremiah's Bedtime Story, called An Hundredfold. 

So you can see how the ritual of storytelling, begun by my grandparents, lives on in my life and the lives of our children. 

This post also appears on the FromTheLivingRoom website: http://toginet.com/shows/thelivingroom/articles/7700 Click here.

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

Hi, Canyon! Did You Miss Me?

Did you miss feeling my perky steps grate into the gravel as they pushed up the trail?

Did you miss hearing my speechless gasps over your dramatic vistas?

Did you miss the way the rhythm of light cascading through trees makes me want to dance?

Did you miss the quiet, intense way I stop to investigate glorious details, up-close and personal?

What about sensing the way the perfect combination of colors sometimes moves me to tears?

Did you miss me, Canyon?
Well, I missed you!
You're one of the biggest parts of coming Home.

We interrupt this broadcast for a very important message...

The Listen To Your Mother videos are up! YouTube is a place I thought I'd never appear, but suddenly there I am.

The title is "I Collect Bodies In My Basement". Find out why, where and how I do it. I added a few more bodies just last week!

The truth is I can't bring myself to watch it yet. I'm too nervous about it. So will you watch it for me first?  Tell me if it's safe to peek? Here's a link: https://m.youtube.com/watch?list=PL5oPQWgVdsDnjODMewzoj4uiw2foEVPU9&v=7sQotS0J_F8

Thanks!


P.S. an earlier version of this essay I presented was recently published in an anthology on women and body image called, Why I Don't Hide My Freckles Any More. You can find it on Amazon and at Deseret Book.

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.

This is the piece that I presented at the Listen To Your Mother show on Tuesday, April 29, 2014. If you missed it, look for it on YouTube in mid-June. I'm in a tiny little photo, on the far left. One of our cast members wrote the poem under the photos on the LTYM website, which describes the experience perfectly.

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.

Dispirited

I’ve been feeling more than a little bit dispirited lately. And most of it boils down to a yearning for words. I’m lacking words with sufficient power and strength to combat inane corporate decisions that cause my husband sleepless nights. And how do I find the words to console my friend whose daughter just delivered a stillborn baby? What words express the feelings of isolation, disregard, and invisibility that creep up in new situations...or worse, familiar ones? And, on a happier note, where are the words to describe the radiance and purity of our teenage daughter, dressed in layers of silky cream for her Junior Prom? This applies to my fiction as well as my life. When it comes down to the crucial moments, what I most often lack is the essential words. 

I have a very close friend who has a rare gift for words, wields their power with both discretion and ferocity, and is pitch-perfect in her ability to select just the right descriptors, evoking stunning imagery. Her name is Luisa Perkins.

A few years ago I received her cookbook, Comfortably Yum, as a thank-you prize for coming up with the winning title. When the book arrived (as I described in this post, and again in this post) I sat down and read it from cover to cover. This was a cookbook, mind you. Not fiction. Yet I could. not. put. it. down. I devoured it. And that was before I’d even tried a single recipe. :) Now it's so well-loved and food-worn I'll soon have to replace it.

Not long afterward—almost exactly two years ago—Luisa sent me the first three chapters of a manuscript she was working on. I gobbled her words down insatiably, then printed them out and carried them around for weeks, hoping my hardcopy would spontaneously generate the rest of the story. (It didn’t.) 

This book has perhaps the most unique and original premise I have ever encountered. Here is the breathtaking idea which first captured my interest: 

A young boy figures out how to take “out-of-body experience” to a whole new level, and drifts away from his home and his body to go in search of his departed mother. 

Once I finally got my hands on a copy of the entire novel, I was completely blown away. It was so riveting, I couldn’t inhale it fast enough. And yet there are so many rich layers, I wanted to savor it s l o w l y, pondering the mysteries of the universe as they unfolded before my eyes.

The book asks a universal, yet never-addressed-like-this question: What could happen if I chose to leave my body unattended? Even for a brief moment? And it offers in exchange for your time the most harrowing of answers...and a spellbinding journey of thought-provoking insights and first-rate entertainment.

It’s all at once a cautionary tale, a mysterious romp through time and place, a ghost story, a romance, a spiritual thriller, a paean to family history, a dark look into the way evil operates, and bar none the most terrifying book I have ever read. I didn’t think I was a fan of the horror genre, but this is mind-bending, electrifying, and life-altering. Dare I say uplifting? Definitely a must-read.

I've since heard her read the first chapter aloud, and the effect was spellbinding. She literally left the audience craving more. (Just like I imagine the effects of her cooking!)

Luisa writes “dark, speculative fiction,” (which is Luisaspeak for scary, mind-bending and life-changing otherworldly novels). This book is technically slated as a YA novel. But it’s every bit as much for grown-ups as teens.

On my Goodreads review I urged young children and the "faint of heart" to proceed with caution. Here’s why: One chapter takes you inside the mind of a truly evil character. This is, to say the least, disturbing. But Luisa’s words take you there with great restraint. She spares you what could be gory, graphic, or sensationalized, but shows you the intent. The result is creepy with a capital C. But it doesn’t leave you feeling like you need to take a shower. 

Oh, and the title? Dispirited. I’m very proud of that word. It’s one of many title ideas I gave her. One of my attempts to capture the essence of her 88,000 words. In a single word. Dispirited.

Now, I have great news! News that is already lifting my spirits. Although Luisa resides in New York, she will be in Utah the first week of May and will be signing copies of Dispirited at The King’s English bookstore at 7pm on May 4. I will be there. I will be purchasing her book and begging her to autograph it for me. I’ll also be buying some as gifts and asking her to sign those as well. And I’ll be looking for YOU! I hope to see you there. If you leave me a comment here saying you’ll be at the booksigning, I’ll personally purchase a copy of Dispirited there for one lucky reader. Just leave me your name to be entered in the drawing. Must be present to win.

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And now, the results of our last drawing: 

Pretty Darn Funny pins go to Becca, Dedee and Luisa. 

And the winner of the original painting from Tell Me Who I Am is...a brand-new reader, Donna! I'll be sending you a signed original watercolor, Painting #3, as soon as you claim your prize and send me your mailing address. Congratulations! (And thank you, everyone, for you kind raves about the artwork! I assure you the words are just as good! DeNae has an unbeatable Mother's Day promotion package going on right now for Tell Me Who I Am. She's another friend with an inimitable way with words...witty and hilarious. Do stop by!)


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And finally, many thanks to Heather of the EO for hosting another Just Write and for the writing prompt: Words. Love!

I Cannot Imagine a Home Without Story.

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!