In some cultures a man is defined by his relationship to cheese.
Sam, "Benny and Joon"
Mashing potatoes with a tennis racquet.
Ironing board toasted cheese sandwiches.
A cat who wants to be cuddled but can't bear to be touched and won't let my hand go.
I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more to be the man who walks 5000 miles to fall down at your door. "5oo Miles," Paul Loco
Michael Jackson died of a heart attack today. He was 50. I am 50.
Nathan has trained Peter rabbit to hop up onto his lap and get a treat, then hop back down to the floor and back up again for another treat.
I think that Pater is very satisfied with Nathan's progress.
I know that I am.
It is good to be alive and to be me.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The poem is one that I originally wrote while my mom was still alive. It was for a Mother's Day talk on 17 May 1987. I was 28. Only two of my three children born: Meg, 3 1/2 and Lauren, 2, and Brent and I had been married almost 5 years.
I revised and read this version of the poem in Church for Mother's Day. My children are all grown: Meg will be 26 in October, BA in Fine Arts, married with a baby of her own; La is 24, BA in English, married and has her own on-line craft store; Nathan is 20, in college with an unofficial major in Engineering. Brent is a managing attorney for Florida Power and Light, keeping the house in one piece, our cars running smoothly and me happy.
I am 50 this year. I won't list the things that my body has been able to experience--but I am now in one piece, back to my normal weight, and free of pain. I could never have imagined being able to feel this content and excited about living my life.
And I know that my parents had a great deal to do with making that possible. Happy Mother's Day and Happy Father's Day. It is a good time to have a mother and father who love me and to be a mother who loves her children.
When my phone turns on, there is a phrase that appears on the screen: And it came to pass that we lived after the manner of happiness. (2 Nephi 5:27)
I revised and read this version of the poem in Church for Mother's Day. My children are all grown: Meg will be 26 in October, BA in Fine Arts, married with a baby of her own; La is 24, BA in English, married and has her own on-line craft store; Nathan is 20, in college with an unofficial major in Engineering. Brent is a managing attorney for Florida Power and Light, keeping the house in one piece, our cars running smoothly and me happy.
I am 50 this year. I won't list the things that my body has been able to experience--but I am now in one piece, back to my normal weight, and free of pain. I could never have imagined being able to feel this content and excited about living my life.
And I know that my parents had a great deal to do with making that possible. Happy Mother's Day and Happy Father's Day. It is a good time to have a mother and father who love me and to be a mother who loves her children.
When my phone turns on, there is a phrase that appears on the screen: And it came to pass that we lived after the manner of happiness. (2 Nephi 5:27)
It Doesn't Matter
It Doesn't Matter
Canto I 1987
She nurtured me through cradle time, I babbled -- she replied.
She held me in her arms and rocked to soothe me when I cried.
She fed and bathed and dressed me warm; she watched me stand in fall;
And as I learned to say her name, she came when I would call.
It doesn't matter who she was -- queen or president.
What matters is my memory of the mother Heaven sent.
He held me nights when I was sick, and blessed me to be strong.
As audience, he listened to my simple, piano songs.
He led us in a family prayer both morning and at night --
And when I made mistakes, he helped me see with keener sight.
It doesn't matter who he is -- king or president.
What matters is my memory of the father Heaven sent.
She drove me to activities. She taught in Primary.
She helped me to love books and took me to the library.
She sewed my costumes for the plays she came to sit and watch.
She gave me time when she had none -- I'll never know how much.
It doesn't matter who she was -- queen or president.
What matters is my memory of the mother Heaven sent.
From carpet tubes, he made lights for a dance he chaperoned.
I learned to shun the practices that he did not condone.
He wrote me letters when I left to try a college life.
He sent me love and courage and he helped me love the light.
It doesn't matter who he is -- king or president.
What matters is my memory of the father Heaven sent.
She came to see me graduate. She sewed my wedding dress.
When Meg was born, she came to love and clean a baby's mess.
She sang with me. We played our flutes. We talked of future fears.
She brought me gifts and tender care and comforts, still, my tears.
It doesn't matter who she was -- queen or president.
What matters is my memory of the mother Heaven sent.
He offers timely, sound advice and gives a father's blessing.
And he listens calmly, when his patience I am testing.
He brags about my children and about the things I do.
He loves me lots, I hope he knows how much I love him, too.
It doesn't matter who he is -- king or president.
What matters is my memory of the father Heaven sent.
Canto II 2009
Today I think about the children Heaven sent to me --
How we read books and cared for pets and climbed up tall, tall trees.
Do they recall the walks, we took? And scriptures that we read?
And how each night I heard them talk as they were tucked in bed?
It doesn't matter who I am, queen or president.
What matters are the memories of the children Heaven sent.
When they stand before the Lord, and all their lives review --
Will I, as mother, be revealed as one who loved them true?
Will they be glad they knew me? Did they want to be near me --
Because within my eyes they saw their own divinity?
It doesn't matter who I am, queen or president.
What matters are the memories of the children Heaven sent.
Canto I 1987
She nurtured me through cradle time, I babbled -- she replied.
She held me in her arms and rocked to soothe me when I cried.
She fed and bathed and dressed me warm; she watched me stand in fall;
And as I learned to say her name, she came when I would call.
It doesn't matter who she was -- queen or president.
What matters is my memory of the mother Heaven sent.
He held me nights when I was sick, and blessed me to be strong.
As audience, he listened to my simple, piano songs.
He led us in a family prayer both morning and at night --
And when I made mistakes, he helped me see with keener sight.
It doesn't matter who he is -- king or president.
What matters is my memory of the father Heaven sent.
She drove me to activities. She taught in Primary.
She helped me to love books and took me to the library.
She sewed my costumes for the plays she came to sit and watch.
She gave me time when she had none -- I'll never know how much.
It doesn't matter who she was -- queen or president.
What matters is my memory of the mother Heaven sent.
From carpet tubes, he made lights for a dance he chaperoned.
I learned to shun the practices that he did not condone.
He wrote me letters when I left to try a college life.
He sent me love and courage and he helped me love the light.
It doesn't matter who he is -- king or president.
What matters is my memory of the father Heaven sent.
She came to see me graduate. She sewed my wedding dress.
When Meg was born, she came to love and clean a baby's mess.
She sang with me. We played our flutes. We talked of future fears.
She brought me gifts and tender care and comforts, still, my tears.
It doesn't matter who she was -- queen or president.
What matters is my memory of the mother Heaven sent.
He offers timely, sound advice and gives a father's blessing.
And he listens calmly, when his patience I am testing.
He brags about my children and about the things I do.
He loves me lots, I hope he knows how much I love him, too.
It doesn't matter who he is -- king or president.
What matters is my memory of the father Heaven sent.
Canto II 2009
Today I think about the children Heaven sent to me --
How we read books and cared for pets and climbed up tall, tall trees.
Do they recall the walks, we took? And scriptures that we read?
And how each night I heard them talk as they were tucked in bed?
It doesn't matter who I am, queen or president.
What matters are the memories of the children Heaven sent.
When they stand before the Lord, and all their lives review --
Will I, as mother, be revealed as one who loved them true?
Will they be glad they knew me? Did they want to be near me --
Because within my eyes they saw their own divinity?
It doesn't matter who I am, queen or president.
What matters are the memories of the children Heaven sent.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
This is my favorite picture from our trip to Colorado. Brent's parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary and everyone came out to celebrate with them. I met some of the people that Brent knew as a teenager. One of the best treats was to have a few moments to visit with Brent's best friend in high school and his best man at our wedding--Don. Lauren and Meg, Anton and Jonathan were there. I tend to dread being with big groups of people--even people who I love very much--but it was a wonderful time. I turned 50 years old the day before the anniversary. It is strange to remember that I was born before Brent's parents were even married. Better to remember that he was born, grew up, and was smart enough--kind enough--to pick me to marry.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
A month ago continued
I left off my last entry in the middle of the night. My sweet husband came to get me and so I didn't finish. I was writing about how everything I experience exists on the same plane. The heros in the novels, the prophets in the scriptures, the images in poems--what is good about one is good about all. Truth, for me, is found in all of my world, both "real" and "imaginary." I have a life described by Whitman's "gigantic beauty of a stallion, . . . Head high in the forehead, . . . tail dusting the ground, . . . His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, . . . we race around and return. I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion, Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them? Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you."
The most passionate moments in my life have existed using both my real body and my creative mind. Jumping my horse over a real fence is just as vivid as reading about Whitman's stallion. I live both in motion and in thought--for which I am grateful. When I leave this Earth, I will take only what I can remember, what I am. This means that I will take my whole life with me, leaving nothing behind.
The most passionate moments in my life have existed using both my real body and my creative mind. Jumping my horse over a real fence is just as vivid as reading about Whitman's stallion. I live both in motion and in thought--for which I am grateful. When I leave this Earth, I will take only what I can remember, what I am. This means that I will take my whole life with me, leaving nothing behind.
Monday, May 4, 2009
A month ago today
I noticed that it had been exactly a month since I last posted on this site. My other blog tends to lend itself to everyday inspiration--bunnies that have peed in the wrong corner, dishes, homework, cat-hair-dust-bunnies in the corners, rose mildew, over-due library books, the shedding habits of two Uromastyx lizards . . .
Brent sent me the site for an article about how people tend to open up on-line and expose things that they would never think they would (or I think they never should), but that article itself came from an on-line blog. For me, the world has always been one big blur. Literature, the tops of trees, a cake recipe, the plays that I have been in, trimming our pets' nails, science fiction stories, folding clothes, doctor appointments, laying by the pool and watching my rabbits explore behind my potted plants, movies I have seen--and movies that I have only heard about--
Friday, April 3, 2009
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