I Mourn Normalcy

I recently borrowed the first season of Felicity from a friend, since I am a sucker for almost any show on DVD. For those of you who had better things to do in the early 2000s, I'll recap: In the first few episodes, Felicity lays claim to her life, and starts making her own choices. She moves far away from home to go to college in New York, and discovers the joys of cereal machines in the cafeteria, dorm life, and general freedom in refreshing 47 minute increments. Unfortunately, every time I watch an episode, I dissolve into a ridiculous mess of tears and choke on my repressed teen-aged dreams.

A long time ago (longer than I want to admit) I stood in front of a cake I had made myself, and carefully arranged 18 candles in a seemingly random pattern. I called my mother in from the couch in the other room where she spent nearly every hour of her life. She slept there all day, and watched TV all night wedged in sagging cushions that were older than me. When the need struck her (at least once a day) she would settle in her nest of tattered blankets on that same damn couch, and explain in heart breaking detail how I had single-handedly ruined her life. In reality I had done nothing more than grow up, but since that meant I would soon leave her alone in her insane misery, it was an unforgivable offense.
When I yelled that my cake was done, my mom moved slowly into the kitchen, wrapped her robe tightly around her body like a security blanket, and complimented my frosting decorations in her best pretend-happy voice. The two of us sang a pathetically thin rendition of Happy Birthday, and when it came time to blow out my candles, I only managed to snuff out three or four before my breath caught in my throat. I stared at the still flickering mass of candles, trying to breathe, but knowing full well if I let it go, only sobs would follow. I gave the rest of the candles my best shot in a sad attempt to salvage my wish, but a heaving cry which shook my body was all that came out.
As I listened to my mother yell at me for next several hours, and played along with her drama explaining all the reasons she shouldn't kill herself on my birthday, I felt my future slipping away. I knew I would never be able to go away for college like I had planned, because I believed that her endless threats would become real, and I would find her dead on my first visit home.

I watched my friends move out. I stayed home. My mother got worse.
I stayed home. I watched my mother dissolve. My life got worse.

So there I was a week ago snuggled up in my basement and watching a mildly entertaining Coming-of-Age Drama, so far removed from the hell that was my reality for so long. I realized that even if I went back to college in search of that adventure, I would never find it. I will never be 18 again. It was just one more of those experiences in life that we envision happening a certain way-- the normal way-- that was taken from me by my mother's illness.
However, I actually think my lame fixation on Felicity's antics is a sign of progress. Instead of being so damn mad about my past as a whole, I have taken a moment to mourn this small episode, and hopefully to move on.

Next step in the healing process: Enact a Nationwide Labeling System for content which might unexpectedly act as a springboard for deep introspection, so that the damaged and the emotionally fragile among us can watch/read/listen accordingly.

Candy In One Hand

I went back to yoga with my sister on New Year's Day. I dropped out a few years ago for some reason. There was that pregnancy thing... and then the baby. Somehow-- despite my rampant free time, readily available childcare, and abundant energy at the end of a day with my daughter-- my studio practice became just a fond memory from my past. I kept up at home, but it's never the same.

I knew that my sister had become quite the yogi in my absence, and was prepared to feel less than spiritual compared to her... but holy smokes. She was whipping out full back bands and crow poses like they're easy, or something. I spent more than my fair share of time curled up in a sad little ball, I mean resting in child's pose, when I should have been holding my unayanabonda (not even google knows how to spell that-- sorry.)

But the best part about my first effort to improve myself this new year is that I have not lost as much ground as I had feared. I can still rock the balance poses, I can follow the vocab, and the power poses weren't nearly as hard as I thought they would be.

The workshop as a whole was quite emotional for me. It's probably because I'm in the middle of the world's biggest hormone imbalance, but each time we chanted together my voice would break, and I'd fight back tears (for no apparent freaking reason!) Our teacher asked us to chant our strength and share it with everyone in the class. All told, I had a pretty great year, so I tried to keep my voice clear and strong to share my good 2009 energy and greet 2010... After about my 9th try, I finally managed an OM without swallowing sobs. I'm such a nerd, but 70 people chanting together was such a joyful noise, I couldn't help myself.

My new goal is to remember Ganesh, the Remover of Obstacles. Like him I will keep sweets in one hand, and leave the other one open, because if my hands are full I won't have room for something new a fabulous to come into my life.

I am so going back to yoga on Monday.

Deep Thouhts Dripping in Polypropylene

For the last few weeks I have felt like my brain has been coated in plastic. With immense effort I can bend my thoughts through it, but if my efforts wane for even a moment, my thoughts are lost to me, and I end up on a freeway exit somewhere in Taylorsville, instead of my intended destination.

This is how I found myself last week suddenly approaching the entrance of a cemetery in Sandy which was several miles out of my way, and wondering if my car had actually driven there all by itself. I walked the rows with my daughter until we found the marker of my oldest and dearest friend for whom Rosie Alice is named. The stone bearing my friend's name was so much smaller than the one from my memory shaded with so much grief and guilt over time lost for petty reasons. Rosie and I picked the dandelions, made wishes, and cleared the grass clippings away. It was a nice visit, and I left feeling better than before I got there.

By the same turn of events, I was surprised to find myself driving up Big Cottonwood Canyon this evening at almost the same time my mother took the drive three years ago today. On October 2, 2006 my mother purposefully and violently ended her life somewhere in that canyon. For the first two years afterward I was barely able to drive past the mouth of the canyon. But today I felt happy to be there enjoying the colors, even though they were unfairly stunted by an early frost. When I turned around and started to drive Rosie and I back home, I was struck by the contrast of how my mother's body left the canyon that day, compared to my joie de vivre as I drove through the twists.

I feel like my plastic brain has an important message to convey through these unintentional visits: no matter how painful life can feel, with luck it is possible to turn around and return to a place of peace.

"Have you been gardening in those pants?"

A while back Kris's socially-inappropriate grandmother looked down her nose at my jeans with designer tears and factory-installed frayed seams, and asked me if I had been gardening. I had no idea why she would ask me that, until she gave a nod to my pants. In her mind, I suppose, one would only wear such ragged things to do chores. One would certainly not wear them to Sunday Dinner. I explained that the kids these days pay extra for pants that come with holes.

As I was actually gardening in the very same pants just now (which is why we are now discussing my pants and Kris's aging grandma) I got to thinking about how spoiled I am. Grandma waited out Hitler in the Netherlands, which was occupied during WWII. She understands poverty and hard work on a level that I never will.

I rarely keep my pants long enough, nor do I regularly perform the type of tasks that might wear holes through the denim. How ridiculous is it that I would pay more money than Grandma would spend on groceries in a month, for a pair of pants that look like they are about to fall apart?

Look kids, ribbons!

I've been wondering all this time where you all find those cute blog backgrounds. This morning I noticed a little link in the corner of Somer's blog, which I swear was not there previously...

In other slightly more interesting news, I have scheduled my tattoo appointment! The most amazing artist, Megan Hoogland, will be visiting our fair city this weekend for the tattoo convention, and she has made some time to accommodate my I'm-turning-30-and-acting-out behavior. http://www.meganhoogland.com/

The Time I Was Suspected of Being a Battered Woman

If you've ever met my husband, I'm sure you have just burst into peels of laughter, but for those who haven't had the pleasure of meeting him, Lander is the sweetest man, ever.

This all starts with a gmail chat with said sweetest man ever. I was busy doing this new work-at-home mom thing, attending to jewelry orders, dreaming up marketing schemes, and taking care of Rosie when Lander says, "I'm coming home. I don't feel well."

Wondering how I could check on the status of Hell and their current level of rock solid ice, I tried to be nonchalant with, "really? This is new," I continued. Lander comes from a long line of proud Fresians in the Netherlands, including a Grandmother who waggled her tongue at occupying German Soldiers and sneaked food to hiding Jews. His is not a race of people commonly known to let a little sickness hold them down- you know, finger in the dykes, holding back the ocean and all that.

When Lander arrived home he was actually a shade of green I didn't think possible for the human face, and quickly set about puking for about 12 hours straight. Deep heaving puke sessions colored our night, and made getting out of bed the next morning challenging. But he did- and then he went back to work. I was dumb-founded. I would have stayed in bed for the next three days if I could get away with it. I come from a shifty stock of people, apparently.

In truth we were wondering if his illness was just the pork chop we got on special the night before, or a virus that was rumored to be going around his workplace. Either way, we thought for sure that I would start turning green soon enough, and that he would need to come home and care for the baby in my place.

A few days went by and I wasn't sick yet, but Lander lost his voice due to the stomach acid bath he gave his vocal cords. He sent me a text from work, when all he had left was a whisper, and asked me to finally make him a doctor appointment.

I was busy trying to get myself and Rosie ready to go to the doctor. I was going to meet Lander there and talk for him until I remembered that I still hadn't found my car keys. Rosie really likes to play with them, and no matter where I put them she always seems to find them and turn on the panic alarm. I have looked in all of her places she likes to put things, but my keys are no where to be found. I think she threw them away. Kris was rushing home to pick us up before his appointment. I went to carry the vacuum down the stairs to appear like I was a gifted housewife and could keep that damn house clean for once, when as if in slow motion I found myself suspended in time and space over the stairs. I thought back a few moments and remembered my silky sock slipping off the edge of our narrow Sugar House stairs. Perhaps people's feet were smaller in the 50s so they didn't need deeper stairs, but at any rate, I concluded that I was once again falling down the stairs and there was nothing I could do about it, so I just waited to land. And I did, with my left arm somehow underneath my body. It really hurt. I poked around and tried to move my fingers and all that, wondering if it was broken since the pain was crushing my soul a little. My body does not respond appropriately to pain stimulus, since my central nervous system tends to be a little overly-dramatic. When I started to involuntarily cry a little, Rosie climbed up the stairs to see what I was doing. Then she sat in my lap and hugged me. It was really cute, even if I had to cry to get my daughter to hug me.

Since we were going to the doctor anyway, I decided I would just ask him to poke my arm a little and tell me if I needed an x-ray. My bleeping insurance co-pay recently doubled, so I really didn't want to pay it twice that evening.

After hearing the story of Lander's illness the doctor swiftly decided it was e coli. "And who was responsible for the undercooked meat?" the doctor asked, looking at me and the ice pack on my arm.

"No- it was totally him. I don't cook," I explained.

With a few more jokes at Lander's expense, the doctor was about to let us go. "Can I just bother you for one more minute?" I asked. "Right before we came I fell down the stairs and hurt my arm. I'm sort of wondering if it's broken." I showed him the cuts and bruises already forming across my ulnar bone.

"You can just sign in and we'll look at it," he offered.

"My co-pay is really high. Please?" He started to poke my arm, and I could barley stand to let him touch it.

"They call this a night stick fracture..." and then he held his arms in front of his face in a mock defensive stance. "If you want to come back tomorrow, we'll take an x-ray, but I don't think it's broken."

It occurred to me that he might have been trying to get me alone so I could tell him what really happened to my arm. He continued in a slightly accusing voice, "really you can come back tomorrow." He meant, I could come back tomorrow, alone. I guess I did seem suspicious. I wouldn't let him make a record, and the injury on my arm was not a logical result of falling down the stairs. I was just being cheap, but I think some doctors tend to think the worst of people. He made me feel guilty even though I was not lying about the source of my injury.

***

The next day I found myself with my head out the car door, puking on the side of I-80. An ill-advised hot dog hastily eaten at a down town movie theater on the opening night of the Sundance Film Festival is probably to blame. But it seems too coincidental that Lander and I would have both gotten food poisoning within days of each other. Here's hoping that it's true, and we don't have a puking baby to look forward to in a few days.

A Strategic Plant

I have been going to the post office every two or three days over the last few weeks to mail necklaces across the country, so I have gotten pretty cozy with the people who work at the desk. There is a new guy who is young and seems to be passionate about his job at the post office. When I got to the post office last night there were only a few people in front of me in line, but as I waited more and more people filed in with stacks of packages overflowing their arms. I thought about how that new guy must feel, still a little slow and unsure of the procedures, and facing a huge line of anxious Christmas-infused (for better or worse in some cases)people. Then I noticed that I couldn't really see his face because it was obscured by a rather large potted plant. My personal theory is that he has positioned this plant to strategically block his view of the daunting line. We all need such a plant. Just think- peaceful green leaves partially obscuring the tedious tasks that lay in wait, and lending focus to the present moment.

Or maybe that's just the only place the plant would fit on his desk. Perhaps I'll ask when I go back tonight.

Why Memoirs Are Important

I am in the middle of reading Angela's Ashes, and I am enjoying it immensely. When it came out I was not in a good place in my life, and I felt like that last thing I needed was to read about more pain and suffering. But after three different people compared the way I have told my life story without self pity to Frank McCourt's book, I thought it was finally time to give it a read. I can only say that I wish I had read it sooner. It has sparked a lot of deep thoughts, and I thought I should write them down.

There is a force in nature that maintains balance in all things. Some might call this power God. I am just one girl, and I wouldn't pretend to know the shape and reach of this force; whether it is some omnipotent being who gives and takes and judges. I only know the balance I see in the world. It is our job to maintain this balance by caring for ourselves, those around us, and everything we touch.
To each of us our sorrows are deep and real, and many of us pray for relief. The Universe hears all of us crying and grasping tight at her skirts like infants, begging to be picked up, carried along, comforted. Our troubles exist in the same time and space as all others, and compared to the pain of some, our lives would feel blessed, but we are not always open to that knowledge. If only we could hold up our sorrows to the light cast off by every other creature, maybe then we could see that right now may not be our time of greatest need. We might even notice the problems of others near us and realize that we can help.
Putting your own suffering in perspective by knowing the lives and challenges of others is a gift of clarity and peace. I believe that this is why memoirs are important. Reading other people's life stories has helped me to appreciate the many things in my life that have been blessings, and to understand the things that have caused me pain a bit better.

I've got something to say

I cozied up with the latest installment of Boston Legal on the DVR this morning, only to find my home state of Utah being ridiculed. Since I lived in California for several years, I am adept at defending our strange, but beautiful state. In fact moving away from Utah only taught me to love it more. I am so happy to be back, and I wouldn't want to live any other place.

So I thought- yes! I have something to say on that blog thingy. I can tell people about what a wonderful place this is to live. But then I remembered the day that NPR told me that my fellow community members have sent millions of dollars to California in order to suppress basic human rights. In fact $19 million dollars have been donated by members of the LDS faith to take away some people's civil right to be considered EQUAL under the laws of our country. That is about 40% of the total funding for Proposition 8, a ballot measure in California that would once again make gay marriage illegal.

It was not very long ago that America had laws which took away the civil rights of its citizens based on their skin color, or their gender. I remember learning about slavery, Jim Crowe, and women's fight for sufferage, and wondering how moral people stood by and did nothing. I believe that in the not too distant future we will look back on our country's effort to punish yet another group of people for being different with the same shame we feel for Jim Crowe laws, but here I stand doing nothing.

So it turns out, I don't have anything nice to say about Utah today. I don't mean to disparriage every member of the LDS faith. In my experience they are kind people, who are genuinely concerned for well-being of others. In every group there are those who take their beleifs to the extreme. However, for a group of people who were once persecuted unfairly by the government, one would think they would pause to think a little more deeply in this instance.