Power Dress

Multiple friends gave me the same piece of advice when I moved. They all said GIVE IT A YEAR. Well ring-a-ding-ding because today is my one-year mark and I just unpacked from Girls' Camp where one of my 16 year-olds voluntarily hugged and said she loved me. Victory!

Three days after we moved I had to decide what to wear my first week at the new church. I chose my power dress: a black and white striped beauty that was structurally sound, forgiving in the midsection, and a consistent performer. We missed the turn, were a few minutes late, and earned five metal chairs in the overflow. I looked around and scoped out my new family. It was odd to not know one soul.

Everett was acting his age; I took my parental turn bouncing him back by the stage. From my vantage point I could see the entire congregation. A quick scan yielded seven other females wearing a black and white horizontally striped dress. My heart sank a little. So I was one out of eight here? That's it?

Everett would not be consoled. I went out to the hallway, buckled him in the umbrella stroller, and began a series of back and forth U-shaped laps. This allowed me to see all the framed art hanging in the building.

I was feeling very powerless in my power dress. I was missing PD1 like crazy and wondering if I'd matter here like I mattered where I used to live. I was irritated my baby was preventing me from mingling with people. I needed people! I started to well up but quickly pulled the reigns, preventing a tear duct catastrophe on Week 1.

Everett was softly snoring when I wheeled past the Relief Society room for the umpteenth time. The beguiling painting of the woman taken in adultery* was one I'd never seen. There she was, washing the Savior's feet "with her sins and her reputation" as I once heard it described. Around the corner by the High Council room Christ was washing the feet of his apostles.

I thought it was odd that both paintings depicted feet being washed. Then it clicked, and the Holy Ghost taught me something. Melissa, forget about yourself and your power dress. Selfishness never made anyone happy for long. There is a better way and you just looked at it in two paintings. Serve God by serving your fellow men...even though you currently don't know any of them. Get busy starting over and start getting to know people!

I shared my thoughts about the power dress with my new ward and embarrassingly enough "power dress" (or "power tie" or "power shoes") has become a ubiquitous phrase in these parts.

The missionaries recently spoke to the youth of our ward and advised them to GET COMFORTABLE BEING UNCOMFORTABLE. (That phrase hung in the Texan Elder's high school locker room and drove him to Division I scholarship offers.) I know he meant it in the context of sharing the gospel but to me it perfectly described moving. Moving was the worst! And then it got comfy. And then it hurt again but I recovered. Over and over.

If I'm being honest, I have reached out to almost 60 new people in the last year (list makers gotta list). Something along the reasoning of Ovid's famous quote, "Let your hook always be cast. In the pool where you least expect it will be fish."

Fishing with 60 poles isn't exactly comfortable but how else does one succeed? I've dropped a lot of lines hoping to find a fish, a foot to proverbially wash, a friend, a tribe. House calls, drop-offs, postcards, play dates, making real comments. Some of them were abysmally awkward total fails...but most weren't. In both cases my heart was in the right place; I've tried to be fearless in reaching out. A heads up: the right place is often as uncomfortable as it is comfortable.

I was wired with a perma-smile until almost two in the morning the night of my birthday. My stringer of new fish friends made it so awesome. I thought to myself, "If I'd known it was going to be this great I would have cried a lot less leaving American Fork." However, I felt super sad and lonely for some reason after the Relief Society Social last month. I've also apologized to multiple neighbors and felt like a hopeless idiot more than once. I believe the term is "balance"?

Today Greg and I celebrated our one-year mark by eating impromptu-but-poetic-justice pie with the first neighbor that ever stopped by our new house (and also gave us eggs, banana bread, cookies, a handwritten card, and a big hug at church). The ache of an empty dream home was a new sensation to me; she was a literal angel. She taught me the importance of catching people while the dust is still settling.

Then just before dusk the nine gongs of our doorbell preceded a plate of cookies and one of the nicest letters I'll ever possess.

As hard as I've tried, I still feel like I'm in debt. Too many have been faster on their feet to kneel at my feet. I've been included, invited, picked up, pampered, and understood. It's like SuperKarma.

Tonight, as I put two more envelopes in the shoe box containing notes I've received since moving, I felt like Sabrina in the Julia Ormond remake. Remember how she got to Paris and only had the picture of David's GAP ad on her bulletin board? A year later, though, she had ticket stubs and programs and photos of real things covering everywhere but his face. She had walked on all the bridges, filled journals, and her French was magnifique.

I will forever love my PD1 680 West GAP ad. They were the first and only picture pinned on my board for awhile. But serving works. Fishing works. Icky weird trying works. And time works.

I feel comfortable after a year.

Photo of a portion of the Komagane Kogen Art Museum Campaign, designed by the Hiromura Design Office in Tokyo, Japan with Massaki Hiromura as Art Director. 

*"For She Loved Much" by Jeffrey Hein, referring to Luke 7. The other painting was by Harry Anderson.

Other interesting stat covering the last year: 

Number of times I've cleaned my master shower: 2

I am really lousy at cleaning showers!

Refreshing

"Finish every day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense. This day is all that is good and fair. It is too dear, with its hopes and invitations, to waste a moment on the yesterdays." -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Photo of a Carlton card I received from Liesa, my optimistic and ladylike Aussie friend. Also, I would never eat ice cream in any of the colors on the card. Greg would, though. We are not dessert compatible. We are at a gelato stand- I order double chocolate, he orders cantaloupe or pistachio. 

All Washed Up

My old kitchen at 680 West had a window over the sink. Out the window was a Bradford pear that fattened birds all winter with its pear berries. I spent approximately 70% of my waking hours in that kitchen and a large chunk of that percentage standing in front of the sink doing an abnormal amount of hand wash dishes. In fact, I stared at my pear tree with prune hands for sixteen years before someone in my family thought a birdfeeder might be a nice gift.

Disclaimer: I hand wash anything with a wooden handle, all my knives, my pots and pans, their lids, my blender, and anything small and plastic that would flip over in the dishwasher and fill up with water anyway. And stuff that doesn't fit in the dishwasher, like giant cutting boards. And dishes that are barely dirty, like measuring cups with flour dust on them. Okay, and my Williams-Sonoma Goldtouch muffin tins (which say "dishwasher-safe" but I just don't buy it). Maybe it's a sickness because my hand wash rules drive my mom crazy and she's the type of lady who isn't bothered by much. However, she's one of those trusting souls that throws everything in the dishwasher regardless of factory recommendations.

In my defense, my old dishwasher sounded like a cat giving birth (to multiple litters) and it scared me. To watch television in the adjacent room one would have to jam the door ajar with a wooden spoon just to cease the birthing.

I had come to grips that my endless hand washing, while irrational and unnecessary, was really my space for mulling, stewing, and deep reverie. I processed what I was currently reading: usually the scriptures but also fiction, biographies, recipes, and self-help articles for my crises du jour. I floated the current of my stream of consciousness and visited all the places a normal woman would go: fretting about thinning hair and droopy skin, wondering how long my parents would live for, picturing RE in every wedding dress silhouette, imagining I owned a bunch of French antiques and where I'd put them, what I needed to write on which of my lists, etc.

Pear tree was a true constant in my life over many seasons and sinks of bubbles. I thought I would really miss it when we moved last year. I thought I might lose my thoughts and find them later piled high all cattywampus. Not so. Hand washing never skipped a beat and my brain remains intact. Instead of staring at leaves and robotic robins I now stare at the textured growth below Lone Peak's timberline. However, I don't meander to odd places anymore and I only stew about one thing: RE is leaving in a year.

Night after night I put the boys to bed, creak my knees up the stairs, and find myself like a moth to a flame at the Chateau's bulls-eye: my kitchen sink.

Stopping up the sink, drawing hot water. The boys called for RE a hundred times today.

Adding blue Dawn, foaming action begins. Dawn! Aurora means dawn! Sob. They looked in her car and poked around her room while calling her name, Everett with his soft r's. They touched her off-limits magnetic hourglass and played with her bouncy ball collection.

Drop in a new washcloth. They heard her Sigur Rós song on their lunch playlist and shouted in unison, "Ari's song!"

Underwater polishing. I am not okay with her being gone. I've heard seniors are never around. What if it only gets worse? I hate her summer job. I'd rather pay her $8/hr to stay at home and be with us.

Running hot water. Actually, she can go. I can't deal with the attitude one more day.

Rinsing, squeaky finger test. I take that back. I just remembered how Archer put his arms around her thigh and squeezed his smiling face against her leg when she picked him up from dinosaur summer camp.

Holding item over sink while the last drips drop. I know it’s not about the money. It's about learning life lessons she can only learn out of the home. She needs a boss, a schedule, the reality of co-workers and the frustration of cleaning the nacho cheese pump. I think she legitimately wants an Albion jumpsuit more than she wants me. Did I even teach her the basics?

Strategic stacking on microfiber drying mat. One year. One! Year! The time bomb in my chest has started counting down and the ticking hurts. One more Paper Source calendar and then my cluster under this roof will never be the same. She will unpack in some cement-walled dorm and then leave for a mission. How far does a roof stretch?

Drying with a clean towel from my bomb-diggity large linen drawer. Eventually she will bring someone back with her and I'll have to let him in and call him "Son". I'll try to love him but what if I can't love him like I love her? What if it's strained and fake for years because he's a cluster-wrecker?

Shaking Bon Ami powder in the four corners of the porcelain sink, rubbing grey lines away with a circular motion. Is he going to come to France when we take the boys when they're older? Am I going to have to wear modest pajamas and be in "polite mode" instead of being relaxed?

Spray cold water on sink walls, shiny white basin sans scratches. The boys looked for her everywhere but quickly moved on when they couldn't find her. How am I going to prevent them from moving on when she actually does? How will we stay attached when her apron strings are cut?

Drop dirty rag in laundry room, flick lights out, walk down the dark hall into my bedroom. Stare at valley twinkles in a perfectly still house. How is this the plan? How am I supposed to mother one on the back burner when I still have two on the front burner?

I feel badly for pre-hating RE’s future husband simply because she took a job at the neighborhood pool two miles away. I’m sure he’s going to be awesome. I just don’t want to meet him yet. I acknowledge I have a six-burnered, built-in griddled German feat of engineering in the kitchen I just cleaned. That means there are three empty burners. I will reluctantly reserve those burners for spouses and squeeze the grandkids on the griddle. I think I’m a good enough cook to handle it. Someday. Just not today.

Today, and so many previous todays and all the 365 todays to come I will continue to feel a little wounded every time I hear big sister roars and little giggles in the basement, or big sister stories being read with a boy on each leg, or three floppy bodies all snoozing in the corner of the sectional with tipped bowls of fishy crackers beside them.

Motherhood is a (harsh) cycle of giving your all and then giving them away, of tracking and then trusting, and of warm, cradled arms unfolding so they can wave goodbye. It turns me inside out.

How is it fair that the children leave yet the dishes remain?

Jordan River Fridays

Before it closed for earthquake-proof renovation and remodeling, Greg went to the Jordan River Utah Temple every Friday on his way home from work. Afterwards he would stop at Schmidt’s Bakery. For so long Friday nights meant Greg coming in the back door with a white shirt, a white smile, and a white box full of 89-cent lemon bars and s’mores squares.

One-hundred and eight long Schmidt's-free weeks have passed but no more. The temple was rededicated five days ago. Greg and I attended the noon dedicatory session; I couldn't write notes fast enough.

Sister Joy D. Jones said the temple is where we find "milk and honey without money and price".

A man told a story about the day his youngest daughter was sealed in the temple while he was in Palermo chained to his assignment of Mission President. He went to a beautiful overlook of the town and bay expecting to feel great sadness at missing such an occasion. Instead, he was filled with joy and peace because he knew what blessings she was receiving.

Bishop Dean Davies said each temple is a symbol of God's love for us. He added, "Temples are not inexpensive but they are essential to God's plan." I thought how obedience isn't cheap either but it's just as necessary. The original Jordan River Temple was built with member donations. Members actually donated 110% of the cost, so the temple was able to be maintained for a bit with the surplus. He told the story of an old woman who had such bad cataracts she couldn't see eight inches in front of her face. She took her life savings, which had been slowly growing in order to pay for cataract surgery, and donated it to the cause. The Bishop who received her offering said, "What was I supposed to do? Reject her sacrifice? No, no. I accepted it and silently wept inside."

I love the temple. I have three favorite temple quotes:

The Church is prose. The temple is poetry. -Bruce C. Hafen

We need the temple more than anything else. -Joseph Smith

The earth temple is in the middle of everything around which all heavenly motions revolve, the knot that ties the earth together. -Hugh Nibley

We all need reminders to avoid deception. Attend the temple more often to avoid deception. -President Jeff Rich

Today is Friday and Greg left for work wearing a white shirt. He's headed to his haven. He considers it "his temple" and likes to tease me by saying "the truly humble go to Jordan River". I tease him back about the GENERAL AUTHORITY ONLY sign drilled above a close parking spot. The truly humble can walk a few extra feet. Ha! A diehard Colorado native, Greg loves himself some blue spruces–especially if it's just rained and they are extra scented–so he always exits via the walkway hedged by old and tall spruce patriarchs.

It is Friday and I am craving square bars that leave buttery shadows on their box.

He [Christ] doeth not anything save it be for the benefit of the world; for he loveth the world, even that he layeth down his own life that he may draw all men unto him. Wherefore, he commandeth none that they shall not partake of his salvation.

Behold, doth he cry unto any, saying: Depart from me? Behold, I say unto you, Nay; but he saith: Come unto me all ye ends of the earth, buy milk and honey, without money and without price.

2 Nephi 26:24–25

Here are the references for my favorite quotes. Could my shorter quotes have longer references? Bibliographies are ugly. Fine print in general is ugly. Still, I don't want to be one of those people with fake quotes, so:

"To Enliven the Soul" by Bruce C. Hafen, Provost, Brigham Young University, Church Music Workshop Keynote, July 31, 1990.

Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Joseph Smith, 416.

No reference for President Rich. I was sitting on the pew when he said it.

Water-resistant

I was amazed that what I needed to survive

could be carried on my back.

And, most surprising of all,

that I could carry it.

-Cheryl Strayed

It always bothered me that my Swatch was not really waterproof. It said it was waterproof but the fine print only promised water-resistant to so many meters blah blah fine print. I wanted security; I got legal jargon.

Life is not waterproof. It rains a lot in life. Rain is messy and I forgot socks and have blisters. But I continually remind myself that life is a test. It is supposed to be hard and I am supposed to succeed. It is a wet test but I am water-resistant. And isn't the gospel a beautiful umbrella?

Painting by Brian Kershisnik. Gratefully used with permission.