Wednesday, 4:17 p.m.

I have two loaves of French bread rising on the counter and a pound of shrimp defrosting in the sink.

I have an eleven-year-old boy, feverish and teary, working his way through a heavy load of homework on my couch.

I have two girls who took the keys and the car, and drove themselves up the road to the temple to spend a couple of peaceful hours.

I have another boy rigorously practicing his Bach partita, providing the daily afternoon soundtrack to my life.

I have a dog sniffing the yard apart and protecting us from all manner of treacherous and cunning birds that might happen to land.  You can't be too careful.

In the whirlwind that is my life, this is an afternoon to be savored.

Sweet Nothings

The skies were overcast this morning.  Quiet and muted.  Just like I like them.

There is so little expectation from a cloudy sky, like the whole universe is telling you that all the work you should do today is internal work, that you should take some time to nurture a few dreams, quiet your mind, be a little slower and also a little more generous.

It was pouring by the time I left yoga.  I put my hood up, even though I was already soaked through.  It seemed like the right gesture for winter.

But it is already starting to clear.  The sun is relentless here.  My sweater just feels silly.  It was winter for a good part of one day. 

I finished the first season of the Serial podcast while I ate my lunch of homemade toast and Noosa.  The rain and the butter dripping, the nutty crunch of the toast, Sarah Koenig's voice winding it's way around a difficult conclusion...believe me, it was delightful on every level.  While I loved the podcast, and while I could listen to Koenig talk about absolutely nothing at all for hours at a time, I have to admit it left me feeling a little dissatisfied at the end.  And a little lonely at its ending at all.  I ate another piece of toast as consolation.  And thought about throwing a Serial-themed dinner party to hash it all out.  Wanna come?  I'm planning a delicious menu, on my good dishes, and poster-sized blowups of exhibits A-L.  Be prepared to make your case.

We had a lovely weekend.  Caleb and Olivia each got roles in their school plays, Caleb the lead and Olivia in the ensemble.  They are thrilled and there was the requisite shrieking and squealing and humming through the entire weekend.  David and I went to the temple Friday night and then had a terrific fight.  The shock of leaving the Garden, I suppose.  Spent Saturday under cloudy skies, culling through closets and drawers dejunking and reorganizing and making up.  We took a trip to Mesa on Sunday and went to church with old friends and had brunch with my parents.  It was like a dry run of resurrection morning, hugs and laughing and remembering when, with the warmest wishes you could ever receive.  I've been feeling the sweet afterglow ever since, like that warm, buoyant pause after a good, hard laugh.

It was a good reminder for me that coming home should always feel like that.  Welcome home.  You've been sincerely and deeply missed.  Even if it was only for the school day or the work day.  Plenty long enough to be missed. 

Plenty. 

Two days removed from a glorious weekend together, I know this for sure.

High on a Mountain Top

It might have escaped your notice, but I'm really making an effort here.

Thinking of something to say every few days.  Trying to be entertaining, clever, and thoughtful.  (A near impossible combination.)

Hey, it's a challenge. 

We spent the weekend in Utah, admiring the leaves and the mountains and the crisp, fall temperatures and the Cougars, of course. 

We built a roaring fire in the hearth every night and I made serious work of watching Ethan lay on his belly in front of it.   

On Saturday evening we climbed the steps of the stadium to cheer the boys onto victory and at one point David looked over at me and asked, "Could there be a prettier place for football?"   No, there could not.

To add to our delight, the rain even fell on our sturdy log roof Sunday morning, making us snuggle farther under our covers and dream about staying forever, tucked into the mountain and hidden away.  It was still misting around us when we finally rose to bacon and eggs, the fog and the pouring rain making our steaming mugs of cocoa seem both necessary and enchanting.  The perfect pair of adjectives for anything.  It also made me want to buy a teapot for heating water, you know, two days a year. 

On our way into town, David pointed to one of his old apartments and said surprised, "That place is a dump.  I thought it was so nice."

I pointed out that he had lived there twenty years ago.  That's bound to have an effect. 

He looked over at me and smiled, "Oh yeah." 

Because we forget.  We forget that we're old.  That time has passed.  That our kids are nearly ready to be here themselves.   It feels just like it always did.  Like we're just starting out.  Like we're just getting the hang of it.  And mostly just faking it until we grow up.  Like we just started this life together.

I tell David all the time that when you live in the desert it's hard to notice the passage of time.  It's an argument I've perfected.  There are no seasons to mark the turn of the earth, the cycles of the year, the growing and waning, and you lose your place in the story of your life.      

But it's more than that. 

Because we are fundamentally eternal beings, I think it's hard to comprehend the astounding, ephemeral brevity of earth life.  It is impossible to imagine that life won't continue like this forever, David and I in the front seat, driving our children up misty roads carved into hills as old as time.  That my boy won't be stretched out in front the fire, colored in shades of red and orange and shadow, that the girls won't always be visiting on the back porch, heads tucked together while the golden coins from the aspens gather around their feet like gossipy little eavesdroppers, that I won't always be able to hear Caleb's violin singing and pining from the other room, accompanying the falling, dying leaves on their final flight.

But the evidence is mounting.  The kids are growing.  The years are elapsing.  The campus is changing.  The apartments are deteriorating.  The grey on our heads is real and persistent.  The miles on our car are accumulating.

Here among the timeless cliffs of the Rockies, I am a witness:  Time is passing.  Surely.  Swiftly.  The seasons are changing.  And I would weep... 

if the views along the way weren't so spectacular. 

Are They Made From Real Girl Scouts?

You know I hate being right, but let me just take a moment to say "I told you so."

October has already delivered in a big way, and we're just getting started.   Oh, the gifts of October.

Let me give you the highlights.

The donuts.  I'm telling you, I felt like an all-powerful wizard pulling these babies out of the oil, all fluffy and golden and perfect.  David was in charge of the glazing.  The kids were in charge of the eating.  We thought about taking some to the neighbors, but we were on day two-and-a-half of life in our pajamas, and so we ended up just eating them ourselves.  It was easier than getting dressed.

The netflix.  We have a brilliant October queue going and are already six titles in.  I love it when my goals include watching a movie every day.  What can I say?  I like to push myself. 

The bangs.  Yesterday I sat in the chair at the salon and told the girl to cover up the gray and then shave my head.  She gave me bangs instead, and...oh baby.  Who knew the answer to troublesome bangs was more bangs?  All the kids took notice,  "Wo!  Did you get a haircut?" but David just smiled and made out with me to show his approval.  Nicely done.

The quilting.  On Monday morning I got a surprise package in the mail.  Any surprise is nice on a Monday, but this box was especially good.  It had a quilt my cousin, Maika, just finished quilting for me.  The quilt pattern is called "Storm at Sea" but  because we made it at quilt retreat this year, it reminds me of nothing but safe harbors.

The rest.  Savannah and Caleb have been home this week and I could not be happier.  They have slept late, caught up on Curious George and Arthur and finally watched the Top Chef Masters finale.  We went to the gym, to the bookstore, to lunch, and to the thrift store to scout out Halloween costume parts.  There has been time to read and nap and talk.  It has been delightful in every way.  Yesterday after Ethan finished his school day, he and Savannah made a game of "Ultimate Hopscotch" and came in and reported that it was finally cool enough to play outside.  I'm telling you, October, your gifts are endless. 

The word.  I am most grateful after Conference for the reminders of God's love, of his ever-watchful concern over me and mine, and for the evidence that it is always so, even when I am blinded by the veil and the mists and the tears of earth life.  I found the answers I needed, a way to keep going, and solid footing in a sea of doubts. 

Things I Overheard This Weekend

By all accounts, it was a perfect birthday-celebrating weekend.

I packed the car with six sleeping bags and not nearly enough warm clothing and we headed north. 

I had several people ask me, "Where are you going camping?" 

Pause.  "Um, in the mountains?" 

They smiled.  "Ya, but where?" 

We don't make those kinds of plans when it comes to camping.  I figured we'd just drive until the sagebrush and cactus turned into scrub pine and juniper and then keep driving until those pretenders turned into real forest, and then we'd pull over and pitch our tent. 

Which is what we did.  Right on the edge of the Mogollon Rim.   David was so proud.

We got there just as the dark was starting to settle in and the stars were making their showy debut. 

On this trip we discovered several things:

• an ax is a useful tool to have when you're camping (we did not)
• a working camp stove is also a useful tool to have (again, we did not).  Unfortunately, if the camp stove doesn't work, it doesn't even matter that you were smart enough to remember to pack it.  
• air mattresses pop when hot lanterns get tipped over on them.  And the loud woosh of air leaving the mattress is the sound of your good night's sleep blowing away.
• no matter how hot it is in the valley, there are still places on earth where the temperature drops below 90 degrees.  (Way below.)  Somehow I always forget this, and we spent most of the trip huddled around the fire together, wishing I had remembered the coats rather than the camp stove. 
• the milky way is jaw-droppingly stunning against a dark night sky.  It was like someone opened a window to eternity and I thought, "Oh yeah, that's what it's all about."

And now, for my favorite quotes from the weekend.  They tell the whole story... 

"And now, for a few ghost stories..."  [Ethan, after the fire was roaring]

"Have you heard of 'CO'?"  [Caleb, on explaining to David why the propane heater should not be on in the tent]

"Does that mean we're going to die?"  [Savannah, who, apparently, has heard of CO]

"Don't worry about it," I said, "we're not going to die.  And if we do, we'll just all wake up tomorrow in the celestial kingdom."  [Me, perhaps over-optimistically (let's be honest) settling the issue]

 "We ought to do this more often because we're not very good at it."  [Savannah, making a fair point]

"I love this so much."  [Ethan, just before sleep in the dark tent] 

"I'm actually surprised dinner tasted so good last night.  Even though Mom cooked it on the fire."  [Ethan, speaking confidentially to Olivia over the morning fire]

"Wow, I'm about as bad as BYU."  [Savannah, after she had dropped three football passes in a row]

"You read about a lot of love triangles."  [Ethan, regarding Olivia's latest book]

"This isn't a love triangle.  It's a love square.  You wouldn't understand."   [Olivia, who else?]

And finally, we returned home to shower and wash the smoke out of our clothes and prep for Olivia's party.  She had her first boy/girl party with food and games and a rousing round of iPod Idol.  I overheard one of the boys asking,

"Why do you have Halloween decorations up?  It's not even October." 

Olivia said, "Ya, my mom doesn't really like September." 

"Why?" 

"It's complicated." 

And there you have it.  

            Easily my favorite mental image of the weekend.  We should live in the mountains just for the long underwear.

The Case Against Eden

David and I were in the temple last night and so this morning the lone and dreary world seemed worse than usual.

"I hate the lone and dreary world," I said from my side of the bed.  "It's lonely.  And dreary." 

David only sighed.  He knew where this was going. 

And so I ranted on my own for a bit and then went to find our children.   

Breakfast, scriptures, lunches, practicing, hair.  In that order.   

And then out the door.  The lone and dreary world was waiting. 

We went to the bus stop.  The world was about to get lonelier and drearier.   

And then Ethan told us that today was international talk-like-a-pirate day and tried out a few sentences littered with 'Black Pearl' and 'golden doubloon' references.  Savannah and I grinned.  When he got out of the car he said, "Love you," in his best piratey brogue.

We laughed out loud and Savannah whispered privately, "That pirate sounds a lot like cookie monster." 

I was filled with pure, unadulterated delight.  And suddenly, getting the lone and dreary world in exchange for the chance at joy and rejoicing in your posterity seemed like the best trade in the world.  It made me wonder if the Serpent mentioned nine-year-old boys in his list of reasons to taste the forbidden fruit.  

I'm thinking it probably sealed the deal. 

Self-Doubt and a Black-Eye

 [This really should have been four separate posts.  Bear with me.]

It is the season of self doubt.

By the time the heat has gone, and the pumpkins have been carved, and the days have shortened enough to have candles at dinner, things will bet settled.  I will have reached an even keel, a rhythm to this hurry-up, task-filled life.  And I will be okay. 

But between now and then, it is the season of self-doubt.  Where every decision I make, and every decision I have ever made, must be hashed, and rehashed, questioned, and requestioned, cried about, and yes, recried about.   I worry that I'm not doing enough and, simultaneously, that I'm doing too much.  I wonder if my kids are in the right place, if I'm in the right place, if there is a right place.  I fret over our time--the time apart, the limited time together, the time I can't get back.  And on and on.  It's a whole thing. 

Last week, after a particularly hard day, Ethan started sobbing halfway through his piano lesson.  His teacher looked over at me, alarmed, looking for reassurance or answers, only to find that I was crying too.   

Things are truly desperate. 

Last night I came home from a Relief Society meeting to find David just starting on the dishes.  I said, "How did things go?" 

"Fine," he said, completely unconvincingly. 

"What do you mean?" 

And then he told me.  There were kids to pick up.  There was dinner to put on.  There were three people who needed help with their math.  And in the middle of it, four calls from the hospital.   "It was crazy," he concluded.

I smiled.  "Welcome to my world," I didn't say.

But later, in bed, he told me how Caleb had asked a girl on a date.  For the first time.  And how he had overheard the whole thing.  I asked for every detail, the play-by-play, which David is so good at.  (I would have married him just for his conversation play-by-plays.  They are that good.)   I laughed and curled my toes and sighed in all the right parts.  And then we sat there marveling about how our boy had grown up and was now living his own life.   Just like that.

And that is the thing about the season of self-doubt.  You feel a little like Charles Dickens is writing your life story.  It is the best of times and the worst of times, all at once.  Right in the middle of all the hustling horror, there are these glimmers of glory that remind you that this is the way it has to be in order for your kids to grow up and grow out and live their own lives.   And that, really, there is no other way. 

Because last week amid the hustle and the tears, there was also a birthday party for Savannah.  Somehow she turned thirteen.  All by herself.  And we sang and I even figured out how to bake a cake and she made a wish and blew out all the candles.  And as much as a part of me sat there wishing she was still a chubby little four-year-old standing in front of me as I curl her bob and tie her pigtails, I wouldn't have taken a single candle off that cake.  She is beautiful and strong and smart and good.  She gave the lesson in her young women's class on Sunday and absolutely refused our help.  I asked for the highlights afterwards and was nothing but amazed at her testimony and her ability to create connections between the principles she taught and the experiences of her own life.  I just sat there at the dinner table stunned and a little awed.   

Also last week, I took Caleb to the DMV and after about four hours and four thousand fervent prayers (on my part), he emerged with his license and a new sense of independence.  On Friday, when I was throwing a part for Savannah, he picked up his friend and drove to another friend's house and didn't even say goodbye.  I was, again, a little stunned.

It is a strange place here in the season of self-doubt.  Horrible.  Painful.  Exhausting.  And yet.  Sweet in ways I cannot say.  Thrilling.  Stunning.  And a little awe inspiring.  And I am getting through one day at a time.

And now, for the black eye.  Last week, amid everything else, we also participated in our ward's variety show.  It's not a great recording, heavy on the piano, but proof anyway, that we know how to have a good time even in the worst of times.  Here is Black-Eyed Beethoven:  

Wish You Were Here

To Whom It May Concern (you know who you are):

First of all, you were missed.

Second of all, you missed out.

See how that works?

I told David that spending a week anywhere with us should be temptation enough, but seeing how that is clearly not the case, it occurred to me that maybe I haven't made the argument strongly enough. And so for your consideration, here are my top ten reasons you should pack up your sunscreen and your beach towels and your reservations and your hesitations and be here next year.

1. There is no better place to be a child. Period.

2. There is no better smell than sunscreen and salt water. Period.

3. There is no better feeling than sand below you, sun above you, and kissing in between. Exclamation point!

4. There is no better sound than to hear your children shrieking in delight as you fly across the waves together. Parentheses. Unless it is hearing the waves crash behind you while you snuggle them around a warm fire. End parentheses.

5. There is no better delight than the little curl of anticipation that comes from cracking a new paperback on the beach. Comma. And the magic world that its words will weave around you. Comma. And knowing that nothing is going to interrupt you.

6. There is no better weight than wet eight-year-old boy wrapped in a towel and snuggled under your chin. Sigh. In quotation marks.

7. There are no better dreams than those you have in a beach house because real life has never seemed farther away. What is worry. Question mark.

8. There is no place with greater evidence of God's love. This sand, crushed for millennia just so you could build castles with moats and turn your children into sandy merpeople (semi colon) this coast split and torn by cataclysmic events just so your children could throw themselves into the surf at the edge of the world (semi colon) this sun which fired the sky last night in hot oranges and brilliant fuchsias just so you could stand there with your mouth ajar in wonder.

9. There is no better sight than our long line of bicycles trailing down the boardwalk at dusk, headed towards the park, the pier, chocolate donuts with sprinkles, and hot chocolate if we're cold. Another exclamation point. I'm feeling exuberant.

10. There is no better place to count your blessings. Ellipsis. They are as numerous as the grains of sand at our feet.

You think I'm exaggerating.

That's impossible. You cannot exaggerate the joys of this kind of living.

This morning as I type from the most perfect view in creation, the sun starting its long graceful arc across the sky and warming my back, I cannot imagine anywhere else I'd rather be.

The girls are all laying as they have for six days, heads together, wearing their sunglasses and floppy beach hats. They gossip and laugh as Olivia dishes everything she knows about junior high to her younger, adoring cousins. Don't worry. Savannah, with her perfected eye roll, never lets it go to her head. Soon they will grab their boogie boards and scream as they jump in the ice cold water, and I've heard rumors of a dance routine performance they've been working on. You don't want to miss that for anything.

Caleb and David are beside me reading. Their toes have disappeared in the sand, while their heads have disappeared into the world their authors created out of nothing. Ethan is napping in his beach chair. The hair on his legs has turned golden. It's not too much to say that I see that as one of my greatest personal accomplishments.

Soon I will go boogie boarding and amaze everyone, especially David, who is the only one I'm trying to impress anyway. And then I will lay in the sand, press my ear to the earth until I can hear its slow, steady heartbeat, and take a well-deserved nap. (It's hard work being a world-class anything...boogie boarding is no exception.)

As usual, my thoughts this week have been about magic and miracles and creation--the millions of years and enormous effort that had to be expended for me to be right here with those most precious to me. I am humbled by that knowledge.

And I have no doubt that if I ever make it to that mansion in heaven, it will be beachfront property.

Join me here.

The Slope of the California Sky

We were home for exactly 18 hours.

Just enough time to wash the clothes, repack the duffle bags, replenish the snack box, and strap the bikes on the back.

And pick up David. (The most important part.)

This time we went west. As far as we could go, to the very edge of the continent as it were.

I know what you're thinking. This is too much. How much vacationing can one family do? Is this a blog or a travelogue? David was a little concerned as well. He worked extra long hours all week, getting caught up and getting ahead, but still felt a little guilty about missing another upcoming week of work.

It can't be helped, I said.

They're growing up, I said.

This summer is one more in a very limited number that our children will spend with us.

Gotta make the most of it.

Tonight David and I walked down a lovely stretch of beach. He was holding my hand. Delicious. It was among the nicest moments of my life. We watched the sun sink down the slippery slope of sky. As it neared the disappearance point, it seemed to speed up, falling faster and faster the closer it got to the horizon.

See? I said.

At sunrise, it seems like you've got forever. In the middle of the day, you're too busy to even notice the slow, steady track of the sun. But suddenly, at the gloaming, the sun is all out sprinting for the horizon. The colors on the clouds change faster than you can describe them. Then boom. You're standing there a little stunned that it's over. Wait. Wait!

See? I say. It goes so fast. We have to make the most of it. And even though he doesn't say it, David squeezes my hand because he knows I'm right and he feels that urgency as keenly as I do.

Tonight as we were readying for bed, David gestured for me to come see. I peeked out of our bedroom to see my children kneeling with their cousins among the air mattresses and pillows and quilts, a nearly indistinguishable mass of limbs and bodies and bed coverings. My younger brother was offering the prayer. Petition and thanks, simple and heartfelt. Their heads were bowed. Their eyes were closed. The ocean waved behind them in rhythm. My heart tugged. The earth turned.

And another day passed out of sight.

I am happy to have been here, right here, when it did.

Across the River Now

Dear David,

Look at your children. Aren't they gorgeous?

I know I'm supposed to be in bed sleeping. There is a sixteen-hour drive ahead of us tomorrow, after all.

But I know if I don't write this down tonight, it will probably never happen. And sometimes there are days I never want to forget. Today was one of them.

I don't have time to retell everything. Let me just try to say the most important things.

I woke today, to the temple bells ringing, eight steady chimes.

I ironed Caleb's shirt and braided Olivia's hair. (It was so delicious I took my time and made it last.)

And then I took them to the house of the Lord.

They were shining when I picked them up.

We went to the brickyard and and the blacksmith and the print shop (my personal favorite). We ate ice cream and bought souvenirs.

In the evening, we sat under a cloudy dark sky and watched a cast of hundreds sing praises to our God and King. We all wept to be so blessed, and when they lit up the temple, Ethan looked at me knowingly and smiled. He knew it was coming all night.

Tomorrow we take our own trek west. Across the prairies, towards you, towards home. How I am dreaming of the reunion.

As I sat there tonight looking at that glorious temple on the hill, I thought about how that is the very word of all my beliefs and all my faith. Reunion. Reunion here and hereafter. Reunion with each other and with that God that gave us life. Reunion after all. Reunion at last.

We're coming home.