The Road Less Travelled

It was an odd sensation to wake early Sunday morning with the car packed and the bikes strapped to the back and head north rather than east.  I am used to the view of the sunrise across eastern Arizona's high desert, the old landmarks that signal the start of summer vacation.

Instead we went north, which made me a little jumpy.

But I wasn't the only one.

It took us a while to hit our roadtripping stride and we stopped at almost every little town along the way, to find caffeine, or take a potty break, or find gas and food, or retie the straps on the car top carrier.  It was a difficult beginning, but by the time we crossed the Colorado we finally found our groove.

We stopped to see my grandmother, in the final days of her life on earth.  She looked as fragile as my children at birth.  Standing next to her bed, I was reminded of those first moments of life, when they were all bones and skin and their eyes did all the talking.  I remember holding them and begging for them to tell me everything they knew, to fill me in on the secrets of eternity as we stared at each other, their dark eyes both bemused and stunned by their arrival.  Saying goodbye has a very similar feel to saying hello.

And despite my begging, it is hard at birth or death to communicate anything except love.  I love you.  I love you, too.  Perhaps this is the secret of eternity.

We tucked in last night nestled between the mountains of Park City and woke to a breathtaking view.  When I opened the blinds I started laughing.  I never get over the wonder of road trips.

I woke this morning in a new world. 

I am both bemused and stunned.

Death and Breath and Dehydration

David and I cried ourselves to sleep on Sunday night.

And not for the usual reasons.  (You're asking yourself, are there usual reasons?  Oh, if you only knew.)

Actually, the last few days there's been quite a bit of crying ourselves to sleep all the way around.

I had a really good jag before bed on Sunday night and David even joined me for the end of it.  My eyes were half-swollen shut all Monday morning.

Then late last night after David had already started snoring and I was finally putting the last of my thoughts to bed and starting to drift, Ethan showed up sobbing at the foot of our bed.

Tonight it was the girls.  Long, solemn tracks of tears dripping down their necks and pooling in the hollow of their collarbones.

I tucked Savannah in and let her cry.  Olivia just wanted to sit by me for a while. 

Maybe it's too much sun.  Too much happiness.  And the universe is demanding a little sorrow in return.  Balancing our emotional scales.

The truth is I like the right kind of crying almost as much as I like laughing.  Cathartic and cleansing.  David gave consolation a try tonight, "It's alright.  Don't be sad."  But not me.  I sort of believe in crying.  Let it out, I say.  Howl, even, I say.   And then I join in for good measure.  So they'll know I'm serious about what I believe in. 

Nothing is seriously wrong, of course.  Sunday's tears were over a rough Sunday school lesson and an even rougher personal review of it in my head.  And our oldest boy had his first priesthood interview and we sobbed a bit remembering when he used to crawl around our bed in his white onesie and bare legs.  Ethan's was over a bad dream which he couldn't remember later.  And tonight over pasta e fagioli, I shared the news that our beloved grandmother is on her way back to heaven.  We all dripped salty tears into our soup and mopped it up with crusty bread. 

All things worth crying over, I say.  (But I may not be the one to ask.  Heaven knows, I've cried over less.)

I keep thinking about breathing.  The in and out.  The one breath between this life and the next.  The one breath between giving birth and sending them off.  The one breath between kindergarten and college.  The one breath between madly feeding six ravenous mouths and quietly warming up dinner for one.  The one breath between tending their sick beds and them tending mine.  The one breath between now and then. 

And I want to hold my breath.

Tonight after dinner was over and David and I were staring at each other over the dishes, he told me about his day.  One of his colleagues had teasingly accused him of being a romantic. 

She said,  "Now I heard that you believe that you're married not only for this life, but for ever.  And I told my husband, 'This life is enough!'"

They laughed together at that.

And David and I laughed at it again over our dishes.  Because, really, some days it is.

But tonight when I got in bed, and remembered the one breath between this life and the next, and heard David breathing deeply beside me, I was grateful.  So grateful that I have more than this "one breath" with the ones I love.  Because I cannot hold my breath.  I've tried.  But I keep breathing in and out.  My husband keeps breathing in and out.  My children keep breathing in and out.

And that seems like as good a thing as any to cry about.

But not for long.  Because, as brief as this life is, it is only the beginning. 

And that makes me smile.  In spite of myself.

On Being Dog-ged and Other Canine References

On Friday, I asked David if he wanted to make out.

He said, suspiciously, "O. kay."

I told him I needed a reason to keep going.

That was three days ago, and now I need more reasons than ever.

Last night in the dark, we inventoried the past week.  We only sat down to dinner together one night.  I feel sick just thinking about it.  Persistent heartburn.  We spent the weekend near the border at medical staff retreat, which meant that David was in meetings all weekend, while the kids played, and I tried to attack my threatening to-do list.  The hounds are at my heels, so I hauled my quilt and my starch and my computer and worked through the retreat.  We returned home yesterday afternoon, in time for me to teach Sunday School.  And then an hour later, David and I were both back at the church for other meetings, in separate rooms, while the kids rooted through the cupboards and fended for themselves.

I feel like the washer when all the wet towels end up on one side during the spin cycle and it bangs like the end of the world is coming.

But then, this morning I looked up wearily from the pancakes I was cooking and noticed this:

You have to look closely.

Just in case you missed it:

It is unbelievably, mercifully, blessedly blank.  One day in an entire month.  And it is today.

Hot dog. 

And just in time too.

I was this close to giving up entirely.

Instead, I'm feeling positively dogged this morning.

When I told David about my change of heart, he asked, "What does dogged mean?"

I said, "It's dog-ged.  Two syllables."

"So?"

I said, getting excited now, "The second syllable makes all the difference.  It changes the word from 'being hunted or chased'  to 'being persistent and determined and stubbornly not giving in'."

He's used to this.  More information than he'd ever want to know about "dogged."  Still confused about the line of logic I was following and clearly hoping for another make-out session, he said, "Well, you're definitely stubborn.  I can see that."

Which only made me smile.  I kissed him hard and sent him on his way.  But not before reminding him to be sure to come home tonight.  We have a free night.  The "can't miss" event of the season.   

Threads

 

Quilt retreat is over and I am lonely.

Melancholy is setting in.

I think this makes David crazy.  (Add it to the list.)  But I can't help myself.  It will be another year before I am surrounded by women who are so kind they will leave their own projects to gather around me, pick up a needle and thread, and help me sew a hundred leaves onto a tree, just because I bit off more than I can chew.  Three hundred and sixty-one days before I will be in a room with women who understand my delusions of grandeur (because they have their own) and empathize with my over-full plate.  Their love humbles and quiets me.

My cousin, Sarah, is burying her baby today.

The tiny casket will be draped with a beautiful and simple quilt that we made together.  Nine patches and snowball blocks in soft blue and white.  Stitching out our thoughts and prayers, to comfort her in her grief, to add our tears to hers, to let her know that she is not alone.

My cousin, Amy, will play her harp, and my aunts and their daughters will wrap their arms around Sarah, and as far around her grief as they can get. 

They are angels.  Doing what they can to ease the staggering pains of earth life.

There are no words for the love I have for these women.  These who share my burdens and listen to my sorrows and regrets, and help me create a better, sweeter life for my family.  My burdens do not compare with Sarah's, and yet I felt just as comforted and cared for in my own simpler struggles, as she will surely feel today. 

On Thursday, we stood in a room full of quiet sewing machines and still scissors and wet cheeks, and listened as my Aunt Jill described the short and perfect life of her grandbaby, and Sarah's amazing courage and testimony. 

In a roomful of this many women there is not a life experience that someone else cannot understand. 

We have lost houses, and children, and husbands.  We have been sick and afflicted and close to death.  We have had babies who won't sleep, or nurse, or keep anything down.  We have had children with disabilities, and cancer, and addictions.  We have miscarried, and birthed, and adopted.  We have shared experiences, and prayers, and kidneys.  We have husbands who have lost their hair, and their jobs, and their faith.  We have built houses, and remodeled, and made do.  We have sent children to kindergarten, to college, and on missions.  We have been robbed, and raped, and defrauded.  We've held each other's babies, each other's secrets, and each other's hair as we've thrown up through the first weeks of pregnancy and well into the thirty-seventh week for some.  We have waited for the telephone, for test results, and for miracles.  We have buried our grievances, our dreams, and our loved ones.  We have built, and feathered, and emptied our nests.  Our children have broken their bones, and their curfews, and our hearts.  We have cried at weddings, and graduations, and reunions.  We have ironed, and scrubbed, and washed, and woken up to do it all over again.  Our wombs have felt kicks and contractions and more than one heartbeat.  We have been acquainted with death, and infertility, and the first moments of life.  In this one room there is a world of grief, and joy, and understanding. 

There is not a safer, sweeter, more sacred place to be.

And whether you are overwhelmed by your to-do list or your aching grief, these women come to your aid.  It is no wonder to me that it was the women in the Savior's life that were the last ones at the cross and the first ones at the tomb.  They understand.  And they reach out to help.

David always wonders why I cut up all my fabric into a million little pieces only to sew it back together again.  To make something beautiful, I say.  When it really comes down to it, my life is just scraps.  Nothing of worth to anyone outside of it looking in.  And yet, through my careful work, it may turn into something beautiful.  And all of these women--my sisters, my mother, my cousins, my aunts, my grandmother--will have contributed to that creation, just like my quilts.  They encourage me, they stitch with me, and perhaps most importantly, they even unpick and sew-it-back-together-again with me.  My life, and my quilts.

Quilt retreat is over, but I feel its magic around me.  I feel dressed and bandaged.  Healed and lifted.  I am hoping that Sarah feels the same today.   

Ginger, Cardamom, and a Miracle

My house smelled like graduate school last night.

Ginger and cumin.  Cardamom and garlic and coriander.  They used to seep through the walls of married student housing.  We were the only white couple in the building sitting down to spaghetti or stroganoff or chicken noodle soup.

When I was pregnant with Caleb, I couldn't keep anything down.  I worked next to a grad student from China who brought me ginger to calm my stomach.  When she handed it to me, I took one smell and promptly vomited.  She patted my back and shook her head.  She didn't have any other suggestions.  It was the year of the ox after all, and my "morning sickness" was strong, steady and stubborn. 

We gave up on cream of wheat and plain rice and toast without butter, and ate with our fingers last night.  Dipping our naan into the chicken tikka masala and licking our fingers when it was gone.  (If I had known my former neighbors were eating this good, I would have found more excuses to visit around dinner time.)

Between the licking and the smacking, the conversation went like this:

David always starts.  (I'm too busy getting my blood sugar up to a reasonable level. I'm quite near desperate by the time we pray.)

"So how was everyone's day?"

Mouths full, everyone grunts.

Then Ethan pipes up, "Mom almost burned down the house."

David looks at me.  I look at my plate and work purposefully on my blood sugar.

And Olivia adds, "Yeah, but Heavenly Father saved us."

David looks questioningly at all of us and swallows his food. Just as he is about to ask for the whole story, Savannah gives it in a nutshell.

"We had to take dinner to the missionaries, but first mom had to take me to Kenzi's house and so we were in a big hurry because the missionaries have to eat at five o'clock and that's it, so Mom forgot to turn off the oven,"

Caleb interrupts, "Stove."

Savannah shoots him a look.

"Stove."

"What?"

"It was the stove.  Not the oven."

Olivia finally prompts, "Anyway..."

"Okay, mom forgot to turn off the stove (another meaningful look at Caleb) and there was a hotpad on it and when we came home a while later..."

Olivia interrupts, "It was like an hour."

Caleb corrects, "It was longer than that."  He is dismayed at my carelessness.

"Anyway, when we got home the hotpad was all black and burned but the house was not!"

And then Ethan says solemnly, "And so we said a prayer."

David is all amazement by now and his hands have stopped moving to his mouth.

Olivia adds sagely, "We all knelt down and said a prayer.  Right then.  It's important to say thank you when Heavenly Father saves your house."

By this time my eyes are welling over and I'm still staring at my plate.  Eventually I look up at David and say equally apologetically and wonderingly,

"At the very least the house should have been full of smoke." 

But it wasn't.  It was full of ginger and cinnamon and cardamom, and the most fragrant basmati rice you've ever smelled.  I can spot a miracle a mile away.  (I was trained in my youth.)

The only other time I almost burned something down was during graduate school, when I came really close to burning down our church building.  I was making dinner for a crowd and got distracted socializing.  (Who, me?)  The missionaries showed up just in time for dinner and just in time to tell me the kitchen was full of smoke.

I have been saved twice now, by feeding the missionaries.  I am inclined to think that's more than luck.