Redefining Marriage

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There is a lot of talk these days about the definition of marriage. Even Supreme Court justices have been confused as to its meaning. Perhaps, like light, it can never be fully defined. Is it a wave or is it a particle? Is it an institution or is it a space to grow. Do we pass through it or is it eternally binding? Who owns it, the church or the state? Is it simply a piece of paper and a way to file taxes? Are there two marriages– Marriage with a capital “M”—signed, sealed, delivered and registered at the courthouse, ritually recognized and contractually binding, and then another marriage—with a little “m”… the one set apart with a possessive pronoun…my marriage, our marriage, their marriage that involves the laughs, the tears, the shared bedrooms and dented fenders. This marriage, with a little m, is the wave, the word that SCOTUS will never define, the one that only poets have been able to capture with a pen. This is the marriage that I have been thinking about quite a bit lately.

They were married young by today’s millennial standards. It was an arranged marriage of sorts. Arranged by a culture that places the utmost importance on couples being bound together for all eternity and having lots of babies along the way. He said, “I noticed her when she came to our door working for a Right to Life campaign—she was articulate and ambitious—and cute.” He asked her to dance at the first church dance of the new semester. She said, “I noticed his car, a baby blue Corvette Stingray—he must be going places.” And so they danced and dated and she quit wearing high heels so they were equal in height and six weeks later they were engaged. And six months later they were married by a slightly senile farmer in Sanpete County, in a temple on a hill while their parents sat outside on a park bench and waited. Married with a capital M in the eyes of God and in the eyes of the State of Utah. They were madly in love, hormonally anyway, and so they began their adventure in marriage with a small “m”, young and naïve, which is probably best in cases like this.

Scan1“And they twain shall be one” …or so all the Sunday School lessons on marriage seemed to espouse. Is that what marriage is really about? Two separate people with different personalities, interests and views becoming one amalgamation. Is oneness and sameness the goal? What if he likes life in the fast lane and she likes to stop and smell the roses or at least to take pictures of them? What if he likes living on the edge and she likes staying securely behind the yellow line? What happens when he is a night owl and she is a morning person or he prefers his food hot and spicy and she…well you are starting to get the picture. There is no way two different people become one. That is biblical baloney, just like the rules about not wearing an outfit made out of two different types of fabric or eating a tuna fish sandwich with a glass of milk. It’s passé. It’s metaphor. That is not what marriage is, marriage with a small “m,” the marriage that poets sing about. Two people don’t become one person, except for those couples on FaceBook who think it is ok to share an account. No, marriage does not mean becoming one. I have been “M”arried long enough to know that.

So what is marriage? I think I have a definition that even SCOTUS can get behind. Marriage is about sharing. Marriage is sharing your life or even part of your life with another person. Sharing everything. Sharing your home, sharing raising your children, sharing your heart, sharing your joys, sharing your pain, sharing your name, sharing your fears, sharing your money, sharing your bed, sharing it all, whatever your orientation. It is having one person in your life that you can share the sickness and the health, the richer or poorer, the triumphs and the failures, “til death do you part or for time and all eternity—I guess we will see.

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They have been married for a long time now, especially by millennial standards. He still thinks she is beautiful and she still is attracted to guys who drive in the fast lane. They know each other now and they aren’t as young or naïve as they once were. She knows how important his work is and he knows how important her art and books are. And they both have learned how to share and they have shared almost everything. They have shared the birth of children and the deaths of parents. They have shared the joy of toddlers and the angst of teenagers. They have shared a small window to a delivery room watching their twin granddaughters being born, grasping onto their mother’s hand and then taking their last breath and they shared the hot tears that followed. They have shared the accolades of successful business ventures and the closing of doors on those not meant to be. They have shared the flu, hotel rooms stuffed full of children, broken down cars and first-class flights. They have shared child rearing and in-laws. They have shared the stares of people counting the kids on flights to Disneyland and in crowded restaurants. They have watched ballet recitals and Broadway plays together. They have listened together to late night phone calls from the police and excited phone announcements of “It’s a boy” and “It’s a Girl.” They have shared sitting up all night in hospital emergency rooms and the anxiety of surgical waiting rooms. They have shared the sweet letters from grateful employees and the bitter gossip of neighbors. They share the title to houses and cars and the stock in companies and the stress of jointly filed tax returns. And they have shared the bills and the paychecks and the dings on credit reports and car doors. And now they share the fruits of their labors. They have shared the care and shaving and driving of an adult son who also shares their bathroom and date nights and heartspace. And late at night, they have shared their bodies, their love, their dreams and fears and somehow they have made a marriage—with a small” m”—the marriage that the poets write about.

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That’s “A”-bsurd!

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I don’t remember the first time I heard the words, “Play nice,” but I am sure it was when I was toddling around the house. I vaguely remember being told to “Be kind” while playing with cousins in the sandbox. I am sure by the time I reached Kindergarten it had been engrained in me by my mother, my aunts, my Nana, by Sunday School teachers, treat others like you want them to treat you. By elementary school, I had learned to not exclude people, if someone wanted to play Jacks or Tether Ball you simply made the circle a little bigger or waited a little longer for your turn. It wasn’t until Junior High that I learned that everyone didn’t “Play Nice” and everybody wasn’t always “Kind.” Sometimes, there are “Mean Girls” and “Mean Guys” who don’t open their circle big enough for everyone to join.

Fortunately, junior high school is just a glitch in normal human development and most of us look back and cringe at the whole experience. We are embarrassed about how we may have been treated or even worse how we might have treated others. Life marches forward and we grow up and become mature adults who reach out, are inclusive and seek to understand. We become the mothers and fathers, aunts and teachers, reminding the next generation to “Be Kind.” Which is what I feel I like I need to do in response to the events of the past week in my community. I want to remind everyone to “Play Nice.” Lately, I feel like I am stuck watching a bad reality T.V. show, waiting to see who will be voted off the mountain; voted off by the very people who claim to “care for the soul.”

Two current events go hand in hand, and they both need to be called out for their ludicrousness. I am speaking of the Press Conference where the LDS church claimed to support non-discrimination laws while in the same breath proposing legislation to protect the rights of the “the religious” to continue to discriminate in the public square. The second is the excommunication proceedings of John Dehlin for acts of apostasy concerning his stance on LGBT rights and supporting Ordain Women. Both of these events have been sufficiently and thoroughly covered by the press, bloggers and a lot of random Facebook posts. So why can’t I, in the oft quoted cliché, “leave it alone?” Because both of these events have a ripple effect that impacts real people, real people whom I care about. Real people who should not be forced to live in the borderlands.

John Dehlin has chosen to put himself in the public spotlight for his own personal reasons; you may or may not agree with these reasons, but in so doing he has put the entire church disciplinary process under public scrutiny. Most outside the culture have been surprised to hear that such an archaic process till exists in the twenty first century. This is because in the majority of cases, these disciplinary courts are kept private and confidential. Mercifully, excommunications (what a vile word) are no longer announced over the pulpit like they were during my teenage years—where victims become the subject of gossip for years to come. However, for every John Dehlin or Kate Kelly there are thousands of others who suffer the shame and alienation of these sexist, abusive courts, Shame is still a powerful psychological motivator for those who are in power Public shaming is held over the head of the community as a method of control.

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Fortunately, John Dehlin has had the support of hundreds of people this past weekend as he faced disciplinary action. Many waited outside the church holding candles and signs and offering support. However, the vast majority of LDS members face their accusers alone. As has often been touted in the Dehlin case, church courts are “a local matter.” This is what makes the process so insidious. This means that a person struggling with any number of human frailties is judged by a group of “friends” and neighbors with equal human frailties as to their worthiness to be part of the “in” group. Just like Junior High—on steroids—and even crazier and crueler! Should you be “excommunicated” you are then forced out of your social network and church participation in a public manner. Ask any deacon passing the sacrament…who is part of the “in” group and who has been forced to wear the Scarlet Letter of shame? All in the name of a loving God, behind closed doors in a “court of love.” I call it bullshit!! I call it bullying!

So, many may say of the John Dehlin matter or the Anti-anti-discrimination legislation being debated by on the hill—“not my circus, not my monkeys”—except that is where we are all wrong. It is our circus! It is our community and it is our people, people we love. It has become a sideshow for the rest of the nation to point fingers and laugh at, because it is not kind, it is not good and it is time for this to end. All this casting aside of humans in the name of God, all this marginalization, while shaking hands and patting each other on the back and calling each other brother and sister is hypocritical. Starting feel good campaigns saying, “I will sit by you” while supporting legislation with the words “except when it interferes with my deeply held religious beliefs” is Orwellian Doublespeak. Both the recent news conference and the Dehlin court are black eyes for Utah, both are absurd and both should be left in the past.

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Under Construction

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It begins with an eye roll and a loud sigh, followed by an excuse for why it can’t be done then an incentive is given to make sure it will be done. Eventually an agreement for a time frame is established, a form is filled out (to keep the lawyers happy) and finally, the alteration is made. I have been in the building business long enough now, to witness many times, the step-by-step process of what is called in the construction business—“The Change Order.” In the beginning, blueprints are drawn up and contracts put into place and then, according to Wikipedia, the average construction project makes 56 changes. In the beginning, God probably said, “Let there be Dark,” but then discovered it was just too hard to get anything done -so a change order was created and He said. “Let there be lighting first—so we can get something accomplished around here!” Change orders are a part of the process, unfortunately blueprints still get all the credit! Self-help gurus love the blueprint metaphor. They love preaching about LifePlanning. “Plan your work, and work your plan.” –until as Mike Tyson says, “you get punched in the face!” Blueprints for Life are no less subject to change orders than blueprints for buildings.

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While some construction changes are minor-changing the color of a wall or moving an outlet, others require tearing down the wall or jack hammering through a newly laid foundation. Even concrete is not always set in stone. In a design-build, changes can happen almost on a daily basis. And once the building is finished, there are certainly changes before the next blueprint comes off the architect’s drafting table. So why do we get all crazy, emotional when our life plan doesn’t take us from beginning to end, when a simple eye roll and loud sigh will suffice.

Everything is subject to change. It is part and parcel of the creative process. Life is a creative process. Therefore, life is subject to change. And that is as far as my philosophy 101 logic can get me. Mistakes happen. Plans go awry. Doors swing out where doors should swing in. Water pools up where water should flow out. Committed relationships simply don’t work out. Child rearing principles crumble under the weight of new technologies. Financial setbacks are followed by financial gains. Shit happens and new pipes must be laid. Walls built of stone can be replaced with glass windows, opening up new vistas. And, entire foundations can be lifted and moved to new locations.

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As a young girl, I watched the London Bridge come falling down, and be rebuilt half way around the world in the desert of Arizona. As an adult, I watched the Berlin Wall tumble down. I have seen the World Trade Center destroyed and I have watched The World Trade Center be rebuilt. Construction followed by destruction followed by construction. And, still, we think a blueprint for life—is for life? How naïve. I have seen dreams dreamed and then dashed and new ones take their place. I have watched mistakes painted over and relationships restored. And within a short lifetime, I have seen entire social constructions leveled and replaced by kinder more equitable structures.

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Change order forms are available at any office supply. They are official. They are legal. They should be kept by every nightstand, along with your life plan. When the tears fall and the stomach churns and the blueprint is no longer adequate for your expanding heart, fill out a change order and submit it to the universe. Decisions cast in iron can still be changed with a cutting torch. Plans set in concrete need only a jackhammer and burly arms. Of course in construction and in life, there is the cost—everything has a price—but knowing that changes are possible is what allows us to risk it all and be design builders of our own lives. And, as with any construction project, eye rolling, deep sighs and four letter words are still allowed on site!

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Change of Seasons

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I hear it before I see it or feel it.
It is the sound that wakes me in the morning now,
Before the sun comes over the mountains,
it’s ahead of schedule, in the same way Christmas music on the radio
the day after Halloween, is still out of place.
It has a haunting feeling to it, as it stirs me from my slumber.
It is a melancholy sound in the evening sky,
sinking into my soul as I close
the windows against the slow chirp of crickets and a cool breeze.
It is the sound of the geese returning and flying in formation overhead,
looking for recently harvested cornfields to glean.
Like the bell on a metro train, cautioning scrambling passengers
that the doors will soon close, the honking of the birds is a warning
of the closing of a season, a reminder that time and tide
wait for no man…or woman.

Then I begin to notice it around me,
the slight chill on early morning walks,
I no longer need “wick away” clothing,
but I don’t need a jacket either.
When I take the dog on an evening walk,
we have to leave earlier,
so we aren’t caught by the dark,
walking home with the bats flying overhead.
Starbucks begins to sell Pumpkin Lattes and the
Snow Shack has not even closed its windows.
Pine needles fall and
clog the pump in the pond outside,
long before I am ready to give up the sound of falling water
next to my favorite reading chair. Besides,
I am only half way through my summer beach book.
The shadows from the house are longer and cover my sun loving zinnias
with a blanket of shade in the afternoon. The hummingbirds have
quit coming to the feeders too.
But there is still sticky red syrup on the deck for the ants.

Jacob got his driver’s license last week,
a little later than the rest of
the kids, seems like it is not quite so important
to have it on your sixteenth birthday anymore.
Still it is a rite of passage. He hasn’t stopped smiling,
and doesn’t seem to mind that I yell
“Drive careful” as he walks out the door—
and then I say a prayer to the Road Gods and hope they are mothers, too.
I calculate once more in my head how much money
I spend each month on insurance, but he is the last child,
the last one I will have to sit at the DMV with,
the last boy I will have to slam on imaginary brakes, while eyes roll and he says, “Mom, chill out.” (I hope the Road Gods eyes are watching as closely as I did!)
They are all independent now, almost anyway.
No more late nights, reading to stay awake so I can
pick someone up from work. I just turn off the lights,
lock the doors and crawl under the covers. I tried watching
Jimmy Fallon for a while, but I get sleepy earlier now, since Jay Leno left.
I still make Jake wake me up, though, when he comes home, so I know
he is safe and sound!

I bought two more hanging baskets, and some flowerpots that were
marked down to next to nothing, yesterday,
a frivolous splurge,
to extend the growing season.
I went to the store to buy school supplies.
No one is left at home that needs school supplies—except me.
Because, when I see yellow busses moving up and down the street,
I crave notebooks and pencils and erasers and a new box of crayons,
but mostly the notebooks, stacks of them,
full of white lined paper, blank pages,
waiting, for something, to be written down.
I am buying possibilities.
I am buying lines to organize chaotic thoughts.
And crayons for the grandkids,
but the smell of the new box is for me.

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I also bought a box of Preference by L’oreal to color my roots.
I think about getting old more lately,
I want to age gracefully, not like the starlets on Entertainment Tonight,
And their “botox gone bad” faces with permanent smiles.
I want to age like Carole King,
who looked so hip sitting cross-legged on the cover of my
Tapestry album, when I got my first stereo, when I was thirteen.
And she still looked so natural on the Grammys singing a song from the Broadway musical Beautiful, forty years later.
Summer is not quite over yet, even though school has started.
Almost fall is beautiful, too.

It is also during these waning days of summer that I shop the
Farmer’s Market. It is at its prime.
I wish I could bottle it and save it for winter.
All the vendors are there with their bounty,
tomatoes, pumpkins, carrots, squash, berries, corn,
I fill my eco-friendly bags to overflowing. Cheese, and loaves
of bread, pour out and over the top. There is a pain between my
shoulder blades as I slowly walk to my car, under the cerulean blue
sky, sunflowers growing between buildings and in parking lots. I stop
For lunch and see my granddaughter,
as I scoop her up, I feel a tug between my should blades,
a reminder of my bounties from earlier growing seasons.

If spring brings new hope, and summer is about growth,
Autumn is for grace, the flowing, simply elegant, refined kind
of grace, not the amazing kind. The grace that allows a leaf to gradually
change from dark green, to light chartreuse to yellow and then
Quietly let go and float gently, effortlessly to the ground. Carpeting the
grass, nourishing the soil. The grace that allows
for the letting go of many things, children and grudges and silly expectations and shoes with too high of a heel, and skinny waistlines….and blooming roses, especially the blooming roses. The grace that sees beauty in everyone and
recognizes the impermanence of all things. The grace that hears the sounds of a flock of geese and senses movement, change, migration and is at peace.

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The Makers

 

 They are most often conceived in that hour between morning and night, between light and dark, between rational and ecstasy. With a soft moan they spring forth from other dimensions where time, money, talent and energy are of no concern. They come from the land of flying boats, winged fairies, feasts, muses, mermaids and poetry, from a faraway place where everything is possible and nothing can stand in your path. They begin to stir and expand, grow and divide as you step in the shower. The water washes away the last traces of fear and trepidation leaving courage, resolution and clarity. You step out, dry off, double check the positive sign, dress for expansion put a secret smile on your face and a bounce in your step. There is an idea growing beneath your heart in your root chakra. Such is the quest of the entrepreneur, such is the joy of an artist, such are the stories of a writer ..and then morning sickness sets in.

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Weeks become months and the incubating idea begins to stir, to quicken, to expand, to show. It keeps you awake at night. You toss and turn and switch on the light. It is harder to conceal. Hastily written post-it notes and embryonic drawings on napkins become paragraphs and blueprints, sketches evolve to renderings, renderings to realities. And the ideas must be fed. A lot. Midnight cravings for capital. Searching the kitchen for words. Heartburn. Friends begin asking about due dates. Worries mount of bringing it to fruition. Showers of advice from relatives. Nesting. Advertising. Hiring. Firing. Deadlines. Rewrites. Redraws. Re-dos. Kicking. Hormonal imbalance. Breakdowns. Building. New life.

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 And then the contractions begin, subtlety at first, just a tightening. Headaches. Backaches. There is no backing out. They become more regular, contractors, contracts, connections, canvases. Call the midwife. Breathe in, breathe out, focus. We are getting nowhere. Permits. Inspections. Revisions. Proofs. We need more money; always more money….it will make the pain go away. What the hell were you thinking? Damn Muses. Nails dig into the flesh. Doulas speaking firmly, you can do this. Critical voices in the background….no you can’t! The pain is much more intense now. Push, push, finally progress, a soft opening, a first printing, an art show. Blood, sweat, tears, one final push. Birth. A company. A restaurant, A book. A painting. Completion. Creation. Smiles. Joy.

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Comfort Food

“What on earth is going on in here?” I felt the words rising in my throat, as I walked through the front door. But at that moment, I didn’t even have the breath to carry them out of my mouth, so quietly they slid back down to where they had come. Besides, I knew exactly what on earth was going on. I had been at this motherhood gig long enough; I didn’t even need to ask the question. I had left three teenage boys in charge of my two grandsons for several days in a row. What was going on was my sons were trying their best to be good uncles. The couch was balancing precariously at an angle, cushions were scattered across the floor, several large inflatable pool toys including a large slide added more obstacles to the course. A rope was thrown over an exposed beam in the ceiling so that young nephews could swing across alligator infested carpet. It was too cold to play outdoors in March, so the outdoors had no choice but to come indoors. My living room was a topsy-turvy playground. All that was missing was the Cat in the Hat!

Surveying the situation, I could see that my living room had become a reflection of my life. Nothing was in the right place. Everything was turned on end. I felt trapped in an obstacle course. Once more I could feel the questions rising from deep within my soul, almost coming to the surface, but with no energy to express them they just floated around inside. “What WAS going on here?”  “Why was everything turned upside down and inside out? Nothing was where it was supposed to be.  Arms that should have been cradling newborn babies were empty. Twins girls that should have been in two separate bodies were born in an embrace, their hearts beating as one, dying while holding tight to each other.  Mother’s milk, full of life sustaining nutrients, now dripped like salty tears from my daughter’s heart, running in rivulets over her stretched out skin.  Two grandmothers gently wrapped pink blankets around cold bodies; their combined love still not enough to absorb the pain for their grown children. Life, in that moment, seemed as out of my control as my living room.

Slowly, I stepped over a mattress and an inner tube, winding my way towards my kitchen where I took off my coat and mindlessly sifted through several days’ worth of mail that had accumulated on the table. It was only then I noticed the steaming dishes on the counter. Even in all the commotion, my first thought was who had seen my house in such chaos. “Where did this food come from?” I ask my son as he ran backwards through the kitchen, sword fighting a five year old with a pool noodle.  “I don’t know, some lady with short hair and glasses left it,” he said as he raced down the hall. “Angels have short hair and glasses these day,” I thought to myself.   Saying a silent prayer that if it was an earthly being that had delivered it, it was someone who had at least seen my home in more stable times. I lifted the lids from the dishes and the smell of a home cooked dinner wafted towards my nostrils. I began to feel some strength return to my limbs. How many nights had it been since my family had eaten a real meal…I wasn’t even sure.

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For several more days, the ritual continued. Women, some in short hair and glasses, some young and some old would ring my doorbell and hand me a casserole dish, a pot of soup, an angel food cake. Women would bring a ham, potatoes, a hug. Sustenance. Salads. Soul food.  As my questions reached out to the universe, my answers were coming from the earth and Kroger. As I ask why, neighbors showed me how. In times of crisis, comfort is often embodied in a casserole. Love is mixed into a batch of cookies and hope rises in a loaf of bread. Friends who do not know what to say, simply stand at the threshold and extend a chocolate cake. My sisters, who know me best, did the dishes. Day by day and bite by bite, strength returns to our bodies and our souls.

In the years that have passed there have been more births, more funerals, more sick days and more celebrations. I have stood on my friend’s doorsteps with potholders and Pyrex and I have smiled graciously as bread and fishes have been left at mine. I have welcomed new granddaughters and wrapped them in pink blankets. Today the couch and chairs are in an orderly U-shaped formation around a fireplace and when life becomes chaotic, I have a little deeper understanding of “what on earth is going on here.”

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect”

–Anais Nin

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Another New Years Day…

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Today is a new moon and a new year, time to let go of the old and bring in the new. My tradition in recent years has been to look back and see what I have learned. This has been more productive than spending the day making too many resolutions, which I am finding more and more, I have very little control over.  I think often of Herman Hesse’s classic novel Siddhartha. Siddhartha finally found peace at a river, where he realized we are carried through this life as the current carries water to the ocean. This past year, I feel like I have been moving a little further downstream, intermingling my voice and story with so many around me.

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Ironically, it is about looking to the future not the past, that has been  my greatest lesson this year. In “bearing another’s burden,” I have watched my son-in-law deal with a life changing event. We have joked that he has no other choice now, but to look forward. In that light-hearted kidding is a powerful truth. Life changes in an instant and when it does you do not have the luxury of asking, “what if” or saying “if only.” You simply deal with the new reality, look forward, not backwards (or up or down) and adjust. Dave has been an example to everyone he has come in contact with and has changed all of us—I learned that no matter how excruciating the pain or how dark the night—we can still dig deep enough to be gracious and gentle to those around us. And Heather, like a gently winding river, has taught us to “go with the flow.”Image

Through this and other challenges, I have felt the love and concern of friends and family and have realized that when someone sends their prayers, thoughts and love, it has been as if they are adding twigs to my nest, to hold and sustain me and my family while we are in a fragile place.

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And speaking of nests… many of my friends are dealing with the “empty nest.” I am also finding that mine has more space these days, but it certainly is not empty and my motherhood days are still demanding. At times, like when I am going to my umpteenth Parent -Teacher conference or helping Andy with his laundry, I feel like Mazie, the lazy bird in Dr. Seuss’ Horton Hatches and Egg!

I’m tired and I’m bored,

And I’ve kinks in my leg,

From sitting just sitting here day after day.

It’s work how I hate it, I’d much rather play,

I’d take a vacation, fly off for a rest,

If I could find someone to stay on my nest!

But, then I remember–I am not done yet and neither are my child-rearing days and like Horton, I remind myself, I meant what I said, and I said what I meant and I will keep at it 100%!

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On a lighter note, I discovered Lemy Shine and Quantum Finish this year. Keeping the nest eggs clean and spot free has been so much easier lately!!

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I also tried on several of those cute SouthWestern motifed sweaters that are so popular this year and learned that I look like a wall hanging in my Mom’s living room!

I rediscovered my love of Art! A love that was dormant for so long has been reawakened and has fed my soul many times this year. One day while making a mosaic table for my patio, Steve asked me, “Why are you doing this?” My mind quickly thought of all the academic reasons given by Ellen Dissananyake in a textbook I read in grad school, “What Is Art For?” and our ensuing discussions. But then, I quickly answered, “Because, there is not going to be another one like it in the entire world.” I love expressing myself. I find joy creating instead of duplicating. And, art helps me to look at people, at nature, at the beauty that surrounds me with a whole new set of eyes.

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While I am on the topic of “one of a kinds”—Katy Perry, cured my fear of spiders, among other things, in her music video Roar! Katy joined Helen Reddy in reminding me that I am a Leo—and you are going to hear me roar.

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I experienced “Poetry in a bottle” during a wine tasting tour in Sonoma and tasted the Food of the Gods at Kendall/Jackson. It is quality not quantity that enlivens the soul…and it must be done with dear friends.

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I went back to my high school reunion—and learned that in 35 years—life imparts wisdom to everyone—all those voices in the same river—(Everyone really needs to read Siddhartha again!!)

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I attended the TED-x conference in Salt Lake City—and partook of a huge dose of Hope for the future.

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I have learned about floor coverings, window covering, paint colors, fabrics, wallpaper, mirrors, lighting design and how they all work together to create “sacred space” for living, working, socializing and eating!!

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I have marveled at the passion of designers, gardeners, architects, teachers, chefs….and one amazing neurosurgeon who share their talents and gifts and devote so many, many years of their lives to studying and learning so they can bless lives!

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I learned that sometimes we must stop seeking God and let God find us. In the words of Meister Eckhart “the ultimate leave taking is the leaving of God for God.” And God has found me, in a sunset, in a frosty morning, in a grand child’s hand, in a flower and in an empty nest—who knew when I bought my Nikkon it would be my window to heaven!

ImageHappy New Year everyone! May 2014 be as much of a growing season as have all the previous years..somehow, I imagine it will!

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