Fantasyland

 

RE left at 6 this morning for a 3-day reenactment of a pioneer trek. She gets to experience what a teenager migrating west in the 1850s experienced right down to pushing a handcart twenty miles through Wyoming sagebrush and rivers. I've said little prayers for her in my heart all day; I hope she is loving the wide open space and tight knit people. I hope three days of 90-degree weather in a skirt and bonnet make her appreciate the people that founded our state and the ease of her current life.

Greg and I got to go on this same trek four years ago as a "Ma" and "Pa" of eight kids and it was one of the highlights of our life. Initially I was worried about going since I had significant back pain but quickly learned the Lord would help me do whatever I was asked to do. Anyone from our trek will remember how summer thunderstorm raindrops felt like cold bullets without shelter to hide under. I was counting on Greg to carry me across the river as it would have been an utterly romantic gesture but when it came down to it he didn't want to risk slipping and even shoved me in first. So much for that memory.

I'll never forget the menthol scent of sagebrush, the comfort of "Taps" trumpeting above the tent tops as night fell, waking up to the bleating of 500 sheep, how heavy mud is, and how thankful I was for the bag of beef jerky I snuck in my bedroll. The last night we set our tent up on no less than 18 dried cow pies. I was too tired to move them and too tired to smell them. We just threw the tarp down and slept on a bunch of cow poop.

One evening the Pony Express came to deliver letters from home to all the kids. When we got back to our tent Greg pulled out a letter he had my parents write for me. It made up for not carrying me across the river. I will never outgrow needing my parents' love and encouragement.

Many of the Mormon pioneers that came west in the 1850s were immigrants from England, Wales, Scotland, and Denmark. They often left security and pretty things because they wanted something better. The very definition of sacrifice is to give up something good for something better. The sea voyages and train tracks could only get people so far. From Iowa City and Winter Quarters the saints whittled their bedding and belongings down to 17 pounds each discarding books, extra clothing, and mementos to begin the thousand-mile (3 month) journey on foot pushing a handcart to what is now Salt Lake City, Utah.

Mid-journey, when the food was nearly gone and a portion of breakfast meant 8 ounces of flour mush, there was very little strength remaining. The pioneers were asked to again reduce their lot to ten pounds a person. Reassess, cling, let go, carry on. This made an impact on me and I scribbled some things in my trek journal.

I pulled my journal out this week to relive my sweet trek memories while RE is on her own trek and found the bit about lightening one's load by letting go. It's just what I needed. I've been at such an impasse since Archer was born; fighting my old self and what my old self got done, feeling anemic in this wild, new country. I'm stuck and tired a lot. The past few weeks I've been doing some sage self-evaluation and came to the conclusion I must be realistic with the free time I have and choose what is most important to me. Reassess, cling, cling some more...let go. I let go of several recreational hobbies I love and only kept three things: getting healthy, writing, and sewing Archer's Christmas stocking. Temporary goodbyes were said to non-scripture reading, scrapbooking, Pinterest desserts, etc. When I get to a place where I'm still, where I'm not pushing all day and using my energies to stay moving, I will add more weight and enjoy treasured skills of yesteryear. Babies require sacrifice.

Greg and I call it FANTASYLAND, meaning "where the babies are". We took RE to Disneyland and Disneyworld when she was big; we dropped down Towers of Terror and Screamed and Soared while mommies wearing Moby wraps waited 90 minutes to ride Dumbo. We literally couldn't cut through Fantasyland because it was wall-to-wall cargo strollers, fussing babies, toddlers on teddy bear backpack leashes, and poopy diaper clouds hovering above. Ick. The poor mommies in Fantasyland were living no kind of fantasy.

Surprise! I found the happiest place on earth a year ago when my son was born and now I'm the schmuck with the stroller and diaper bag waiting for the proverbial Dumbo ride. Yes, it smells like poop here. Yes, I can hear people screaming with delight elsewhere. It's okay. I had plenty of years of churros, dipped bananas, Dole Whip, and Fast Pass rides. I'm hanging out in Fantasyland until they kick me out.

I can let go of most of the things I used to do/have/be because I have a new carry on I want to hold forever.

Photo of the brick hearth of the Joseph Smith Frame Home in Palmyra, New York. I chose bricks for the photo because bricks are heavy and I carry too much heaviness in my brain. And because of this awesome true story about a Mormon missionary who mailed a brick back to Texas 30 years after he stole it. It's never too late to let go of heavy stuff! PDF version here if you are like me and print stories for the family binder.

Archer is an 18-lb carry on. He ain't heavy.

Uplift

I walked out of the elevator of the Woodruff House, our spring break hotel in Nauvoo, and came face to face with the prettiest painting I'd ever seen of bees. I've mentioned a thousand times Melissa is Greek for honey bee, hence why I love bees. Narcissistic? Maybe. I told Greg I loved the painting and he said he loved it, too. It reminded me of us. It was not for sale.

A month later a nice man from UPS delivered it to my porch. I had zero clue it was in the works, Greg completely surprised me. Greg is getting really good at speaking my love language, my language being sentiment sprinkled with effort. He just kept calling and asking the hotel if they'd sell it, ignoring "no" and "it belongs in the hotel owner's private collection". They caved the week before my birthday. Big points for Greg.

Before I can gush about the painting I have to state I have never cared for group projects. I've despised them since elementary school. The agony of being in a group with one kid who does nothing and another kid with messy handwriting. Or that kid who laughs about everything instead of cracking down to work. Time wasters, that's what group projects are. It's so hard to be in a group when you're an alpha.

Part of my problem is I want to do it alone. I like working with Myself. We get along.

RE's sixth-grade teacher told me an interesting story about her fellowship in China a few years back. In meeting with an American CEO running a Chinese company he mentioned the Chinese were academic and performance superstars, however, most of them couldn't work together. They were Supermen, not Super Bowl winners. There was no teamwork. Of course, this is a mass generalization and I'm not saying all Chinese people stink at group projects. I'm only saying I stink at group projects and I'm an American.

It's twenty times easier to do it yourself than to delegate. You don't have to trust anybody or wait for things to fall through. Why step on toes, stretch others to a new level of discomfort, and give up total control when you can pull an all nighter on your own and get all the glory? Yes, I know who I sound like.

So Greg and RE were gone for two whole days, two days I publicly announced as Hermit Heaven. In the midst of solitary confinement my brain had time to play pinball. I started at the top of my reading pile, my thoughts bounced here, there, aimlessly meandered downward and suddenly ricocheted here-there-here-there, quickly landing in the jackpot divot where I earned a million points. I wanted to blog my bee painting and use a quote I'd heard about ascending together for the photo. I searched the line I knew and the top Google result was an article by Elder Robert D. Hales from 1977 entitled "We Can't Do It Alone." Ironic? It gets worse. He quotes, "A hermit is one who suffers from the extreme of selfishness."

Not quite a shot through the heart as these two days were the exception to my rule; I'm usually out and about doing good in the world. But the warning was noted. The article was beautiful; so many good stories, especially the one about how Thomas Moore came to write "Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms" and about the dead baby robins in Long Island. Last night, mere hours before I happened upon the article, I mowed the front yard and found a broken robin egg washed out of the gutter. These things always happen to me. I call them "life clusters". It's like when I read The Winter Sea, got an anthropologie catalog featuring models in tartan skirts doing a shoot on what was clearly the Scottish coast, and borrowed U2: Live at Slane Castle all in the same week. Life cluster. 

Google got me thinking about Gaggle which made me retrieve a well-loved article in our home entitled "The Sense of a Goose". I quote:

By flying in "V" formation the whole flock adds at least 71 percent greater flying range than if each bird flew on its own. As each bird flaps its wings it creates an uplift for the bird immediately following.

People who share a common direction and sense of community can get where they are going more quickly and easily because they are traveling on the thrust of one another. 

The last few pre-Archer years of my life were literally a drag. Thankfully I was part of several "V" formations that proved how powerfully people can combine for good. Flying in a flock is essentially a group project. Marriage, motherhood, being part of a family: assigned group projects. Friendship, church service, neighborliness: volunteer group projects. I'm having a hard time finding any part of my life that is truly my own. So much for being a hermit. So much for hating group projects.

Now I can gush about the painting. It's huge (30"x30"). It's perfect. It's making me want to repaint my walls and add more blue to our hive. I've stared at it for hours. Archer totally knows the word "bumblebee" and every time I carry him past the painting he does his little bee sign with tiny fingers. I love the neon green stripe on the lower bee's body and the rough cloud texture. Mostly I love what it represents: Two bumblebees working side by side (yep, group project) for a cause called COLONY (there is no I in COLONY). Two bees happily laboring under the Son, lifting each other along the way, scattering pollen for the greater good.

The painting is not named or signed and no one, including the gallery, knows who painted the bees. I could have in my possession the Venus de Milo of canvases. If it were up to Greg he would probably name the painting Maverick and Goose, me being "Goose" because Greg always wanted to be called "Mav". Slider, you stink.

Random bee trivia from tag of a bee plaque Greg bought me: Bees have been known since ancient time for making delicious honey from the nectar of flowers. There are over 20,000 species of bees and they are found all over the world except for Antarctica. Most bees fly in excess of 12 mph. Bees have superb vision, having three single eyes and two compound eyes. Bees were the symbol Napoleon chose to adorn his coronation robes as well as his Empire style furniture, fabric, and carpet.

Especial

Today was the funeral of Elder L. Tom Perry, one of the twelve apostles of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When I heard Elder M. Russell Ballard describe his holy brother I thought of my own brother. "He's always been larger than life in my eyes with his powerful and convincing voice, his physical stature of over six feet four inches, and his positive, enthusiastic attitude." Sounds like Matt to a tee!

I have kept a weathered, not-sticky-anymore, yellow Post-it note tucked in the ID slot of my iPad case for two years. It bears a scribbled L. Tom Perry quote which bridged all my gaps on those pesky "question mark days." I will always love him a little extra because he said something I needed to hear; something I ended up planting my own feet in. He said it the day after I flew home from Paris, four months after the big blow, six months before my promise was yet fulfilled. Elder Perry helped me trust the long wait.

I love the unique glimpse of brotherhood seen at apostles' funerals. A story President Thomas S. Monson (then the first counselor in the First Presidency) told at Elder Neal A. Maxwell's funeral chokes me up every time I reread it:

"As long as I live I shall cherish the sweet spirit of my last visit to the home of Neal and Colleen. Just the three of us were present. We all knew that Neal's mortal journey was coming to its close.

"Neal and Colleen mentioned they were going to visit grandchildren that afternoon. I understand that Neal gave a special blessing to each of his grandchildren before his passing. That day in his home, I gave a priesthood blessing to Neal."

President Monson said he reminded Elder Maxwell of a regional conference they both attended long ago, when Elder Maxwell handed a note to him reading, "Tom, I love you. Neal." President Monson said he has kept the cherished note in his leather-bound scriptures.

"That special day of my farewell to Neal, he, with tears in his eyes, said: 'Tom, I still do.' "

I know some people think real men drive trucks, use power tools, maintain three days of scruff, and walk around shirtless to show off their crossfit abs. I'm not one of those people. The apostles are real men and I hope my son grows up to be just like them. Mighty in sacrifice, masculine in fraternity, certain in service.

Elder Maxwell funeral excerpt written by R. Scott Lloyd, Church News staff writer, published Saturday, July 31, 2004.

Hermit

I love being alone. It does not make me lonely.

This is the week I have been waiting for. RE is at camp, Greg just left for a 3-day fly fishing business retreat in Deer Valley, so it's just me and Archie-Warchie. Which means it's mostly just me. Our house has become the Hermit's Cabin and I am about to Henry David Thoreau some Walden Pond up in here. I needed this. I feel like I've been coasting on fumes for months. I just need a couple of days to simply and quietly fill up.

Greg grilled four corns for me last night and cut the kernels off the cobs so I'm all ready to go for my chick food no one else wants. Today's lunch will be a red quinoa, avocado, black bean and corn salad and dinner will be miso soup with fresh bread dipped in lemon olive oil and blackberry balsamic vinegar. I will listen to opera or Coldplay while I eat my meals and squeeze a bath in between where I'll do a good job shaving and use up the last of my Tiffany Poole chocolate sugar scrub. I have s'mores goldfish for my snack, a stack of reading on the front burner, and BBC on the back burner. Tomorrow I may drive up to Fashion Place Mall just to get a by-the-minute massage while Archer is buckled in his stroller. Or maybe I'll buy swim diapers and see how he likes the pool while I indulge in an ice cream bar (but not an ice cream sandwich...those stick in my teeth and make my mouth feel fuzzy). We'll see where the wind blows. Hermit heaven.

I have some correspondence to attend to at my secretary desk. I love saying correspondence instead of paying bills or writing letters. It's so Jane Austeny. Maybe I'll even close my envelopes with melted wax and my honeybee seal. Then I'll hand them to my courier on a silver platter and tell him to make haste in the night on his dark horse through the rain to the Rose & Crown where my recipient waits in the tavern by the crackling fire.

Speaking of Regency-era England, I bought Wives & Daughters at Costco months ago and got as far as putting disc one in the bedroom DVD player. The menu repeated itself for days but PLAY was never pressed. It subsequently rained the entire month of May which made me crave the end of the movie when Roger and Molly are in the town square professing their love for one another five feet apart in the pouring rain. The nail in the coffin was hit as I got ready in my bathroom last week and heard the loudest boom followed by the sound of broken glass. I could only guess a robber threw a Chihuly through my laundry room window. Turns out the sawtooth hanger on the back of my wall shelf that housed a hundred jars of sewing notions broke, resulting in baby food and mason jar shards and slivers galore. (Don't cry for me, Argentina. I already cried for myself over the antique blue Ball jars. Suz flew one out on her lap from Missouri for Archer's baby blessing just so it wouldn't get broken and RE bought me one for Christmas at Nook & Cranny with her own money.) While squatting in flip flops for three hours over a horrendously large pile of bits I separated and classified every button and bauble back to where it belonged. Which obviously made me think about Roger and his beetles and how he would have totally dug my ability to organize and pin his insects on the right charts for his research. Roger would have LOVED me.

BBC is getting moved to the front burner. Clearly I need to get this out of my system.

Photo is the front endpaper of a book titled The Yellow House Mystery from which Frenchie made a journal and sold at her boutique.

Flex

No matter where I've been in my adult life I've loved three things about myself: being tall, my teeth, and my triceps. Seriously, I've sported a sweet horseshoe below my shoulders. It's the only muscle in my body that responds to the gym. Sadly, I lost my triceps a few years ago...probably at the fertility clinic. I've now entered the twilight zone of "My Next Birthday is the Big 4-0" and heretofore am cracking the whip on myself.

This means I'm setting my alarm for earlier than 7, painstakingly punching food in MyFitnessPal, and giving myself the eye of the tiger in the mirror. Heck, today I put on mismatched swim briefs with Charakie's maternity swim top (it's all I have) and showed up 48 minutes after water aerobics got out, which only gave me 12 minutes to sit in the hot tub with Instructor Tiff and Water Mom Candy before swim lessons prompted adult evacuation. At least I got 12 minutes of unadulterated vitamin D and stretched my adductors.

My neighbor BonBon has biceps like rocks because she has held a baby without interruption for the last 16 years. I feel like I can mention her physical prowess because she brought it up herself years ago on the back row of Primary when we were talking during Sharing Time. That was a happy time in my life. Anyway, BonBon's physique got me thinking about strong arms and how I could get them without holding a baby for a decade and a half. All I needed was resistance and will power.

What can I hold forever that isn't a baby?   

I realized I can hold a shield of faith and a sword of righteousness forever. Non-stop. All the time. I will carry them until they feel like a second skin. This led to a search of the scriptures to seek out all literal upper limb activity for metaphorical analysis.

WHAT CAN I DO WITH STRONG ARMS?

I can hold the iron rod so tightly nothing can pull me off. (continual obedience...press forward saints)

I can slay giants with a slingshot and wild beasts with my bow and perfect aim. (overcome adversity)

I can pull down prison walls. (repent...beat sin and addiction by escaping whatever is trapping me)

I can build a ship from scratch. (do the impossible or never-been-done)

I can bury my weapons. (change my destructive behavior and use my agency to do things that are good)

I can zap evil. (I need not feel threatened when others mock my spiritual skills)

I can carry heavy burdens. (when my back is already loaded up like a sherpa and life is still hurling sandbags at me)

I can hoist a title of liberty. (I can boldly declare what I believe without fear or shame)

I can fight like a dragon for my life, liberty, children, home, and freedom.

I can reach out and rescue those I love from the storms that rage.*

Photo of a tricep workout recommended by Real Simple magazine. It's in a sheet protector in my workout binder that I literally blew dust off of when retrieved. #gottastartsomewhere

*Snippet of one of my favorite quotes from Thomas S. Monson. Here is the full quote drawn in my 1994 BYU sketchbook:

p.s. I want to add that David (Goliath-killing David) used a sling because he was comfortable with a sling over armor. I think one of the points of that story is you have to be comfortable in your faith. If your faith is chainmail, great. If it's a humble leather slingshot, great. Wherever you are, you can succeed.