The Mid-Winter Blahs

It is the middle of February and I feel like crawling into a corner with a good book, Gueradilli Double hot chocolate, and a plate of plain, fresh cake donuts. I am impatient with the cat. She was out of food and so she "Meeee-ow!" at me over and over again. I finally caught on and filled up her bowl. Other times, though, she seems to be bugging me about nothing--she doesn't want to be petted, she doesn't want out, she doesn't want in, she does want to be petted BUT NOT touched. Since she is the most vocal of the pets, she kind of gets the most attention. The rabbits will thump and growl at unpleasant moments in their lives and the lizards are on a happy, but endless trip around and around and around their tank. Sara runs with her belly on the glass and her back against one of the rocks in her enclosure--then she instantly stops--belly flat to the glass and her eyes closed. A few moments later, I can hear her scrabbling around the tank again. I started to clean yesterday. A wild, unbridled furor of sweeping, dusting, vacuuming, throwing away, recycling, repositioning, redistributing and de-cluttering that lasted the whole of one day.

During that time, I got Brent's side of the bedroom clean--spotless actually. Then I had to use the bathroom and went into Nathan's bathroom and immediately closed down. A place that needed immediate and extensive scrubbing and rinsing--overpowered my fragile will to impose order upon my living quarters. My next energy burst will be spent in: algebra homework, organizing the table full of photography stuff that I can't bring myself to actually look at as I walk past, writing and doing the visuals for a "Using Music in the Classroom" demonstration that I will be giving to the Primary Presidents and staff that will be at the Stake Leadership Training meeting this coming Thursday. 20 minutes. I've got 20 hours worth of stuff here--some of it from my own two stints as Primary President (long, long ago)--it's just the winnowing and polishing and Xeroxing that need to be done.

I would also like to get my half of the bedroom cleaned. And maybe the corners of my bathroom and dressing room. Also I would like to be thinner and more athletic and not fall down as often and quit bruising every time the wind rubs against me. augh.

I have loved the cold weather. It is actually a huge relief to have the yard's growth stunted by the extreme freezes we've had in the last month. Apparently the sustained cold killed off all of the iguanas round about these parts. I am sorry for that--one less wildlife form to photograph in black and white.

I have been re-reading (along with two other books and an anthology of American literature) the Twilight series. So much of the prose is stilted and sentimental--but as Bella describes her feelings for Edward, I remember those same words that I have spoken and written to Brent. Both Bella and I bruise at the drop of a hat and fall off and over things on a regular basis. She is a weird combination of self-doubt and bravado and, most compelling of all, has come from the mind of a woman who has somehow experienced prolonged bouts of both mania and depression. It is like reading "An Unquiet Mind" all over again. And like re-reading my own 50 year narrative of letters, journal entries, talks and presentations. She has also, though, been loved by a man who is both Edward and Jacob--and who loved her with the ardor of those two characters combined--even amplified. While Brent is gone most of the time at work or Church callings, I return again and again to Twilight's descriptions of relationships defined by loyalty, friendship, passion and surprise.

Valentine's Day is coming. I have heard the radio ads and seen the stores draped in pink and red hearts. Again, I know that I will never have language sufficient to express to Brent all that he is--that my most prized possession on this earth is the eternal tie that surrounds and supports us. His promises are perfect. His loyalty complete. His vision, thankfully, somewhat rose-coloured when he looks at me. It is nice to know that forever he will love me and think that I am beautiful.

It has taken me 50 years, but I am finally beautiful. I am beginning to become the woman that he saw in me when he asked me to marry him.

Progress. wow.

Last week I was in Utah and got to visit with my oldest brother, Robbie, (43 this year) whom I hadn't seen in years and years. It was wonderful to catch up with him--new job, new home, new stuff his kids are doing. The conversation somehow began to center on blogs and blogging. When I told him that I had not only one, but two blog sites, he was so surprised that he blurted out "What do you have to blog about?" I couldn't believe how defensive I felt when he asked me--mainly because I didn't really have an answer to give him.
Since then, that question has had me thinking over and over about what I have written. My only scholarly publication was 20 years ago—about the need to have students practice writing skills: an example of a classroom lesson that I had used to allow the students to apply the principles of subjective assertions supported by objective statements. Another article was about my change in priorities from wife and student to mother. Even the book that I’m writing with Megan is just a simple story about family. I have written thousands and thousands of pages of personal essays—journal-type observations organized around distinct ideas or themes. They aren't based on scholarly research, but are peppered heavily with ideas and observations from other authors whose books I read. Usually I don’t even start an essay with an original thought of my own: I write out the reaction that I have had in response to something I’ve heard or something that I’ve read or something that Brent and I have talked about. I am not a Chaucer or DaVinci or Copernicus or Aristotle or Goethe or Einstein. I sing the songs that others write. I read the words that others have written. I write about things that I have heard or experienced in other places. I remember that Mom used to complain to me that I could do lots of things well, but I had mastered none of them.
I look at Brent’s resume and there is nothing I’ve done that can compete with that. I quit before I finished my PhD. I missed 6 weeks of my mission recuperating from operations. I have not even worked enough hours in my 50 years to qualify for social security when I turn 65. I suppose that I demonstrate a fair amount of chutzpa in leaking my thoughts onto paper or into my computer and offering them for others to read. I am self-centered enough to believe that what I think and how I present it is significant and interesting enough that others will find it worth reading.
I have not accomplished much in my 50 years that would be worth putting on a resume. I have created teaching methodologies specific to the ways that Megan and Nathan learn so that they have been able to comprehend math, composition, and science. I have learned through my own experience how to propagate (the few plants that flourish in my yard) from cuttings. I was once called a Master Teacher. I was voted Teacher of the Year at a junior college where I taught. When I was 19, a fellow ballet student told me that she loved to watch me dance. My children tell me that I have done the right things at the right times to allow them to grow up and do the things that they want to do and become the people that they wanted to be. I can play the piano and speak Spanish and sing and swim and ride horses and sew and cross-stitch and take pictures and raise rabbits and cook what needs to be cooked. Mom was right. I do lots of things—but I have not mastered any of them.
So what do I have to write about?
I guess I just write about the fact that I am still learning and doing and discovering things. I’m not an accomplished writer, but sharing what I think, try, hope, read, and believe is satisfying somehow. I suppose that I put stuff on my blogs for the purely selfish reason that I like doing it.