Queen of Hearts

A volcano doodle around one of my prized felt heart buttons. I love this quote. I do not want a lava rock heart. Hearts that hard are only good for one thing: pumicing callouses off of hairy-toed feet. That is not where I want to go in life. No sir.

If you are prone to explode a lot, think about what Neal A. Maxwell had to say about it. "Calmness conserves energy as well as relationships."

To love is also good,

for love is difficult.

For one human being to love another

is perhaps the most difficult task of all,

the epitome,

the ultimate test.

It is that striving for which

all other striving is

merely preparation.

-Ranier Maria Rilke (1875-1926), German poet, Illustration by Mary Engelbreit

Must keep making difficult stitches to avoid pumice heart. Thimble, please!

I ripped this out of my mom's Victoria magazine back in the day. A house around the corner from me (in American Fork) had a heart cut out of its wooden fence's arched door. I looked at it every time I drove by, which was roughly 87,346,089 times. I always loved that house; it had the fullest hanging baskets and the city's best curb appeal. Imagine my delight when I finally became friends with the people in that house. Their fence heart broke (which broke my heart), but I still heart them. I miss you, Poppengers!

Give it up to Anthropologie for the cutest postcard mailer. I won't drive to City Creek to get 20% off a museum-worthy, over-the-top kitchen towel no one in my house would be allowed to wipe their hands on, but for now I'll tack the coupon to my bulletin board because it's fetching to look at. SHARE THE LOVE reminds me of my FAVORITE word in the scriptures. (My favorite word? Can I mean that? Can a logophile like me even pin down one favorite word?! Yes.) It is "lovingkindness." Not a typo, just the best compound word on the planet. It's used a bunch, mostly in Psalms. It's the blue ribbon winner as far as words go because love is an action word and the action it needs is kindness. Lovingignore, lovinggossip, lovingjudge, and lovingfake are not real words for good reason: that ain't love. "Lovingkindness" reminds me of the phrase KINDNESS WITHOUT LOVE IS JUST PATRONAGE. I'll still take patronage over someone being flat out nasty to me, but nothing beats the combo of kindness and love (except peanut butter and chocolate).

Garden-Variety

I would say that with the exception of Peter Rabbit and A Tale of Two Bad Mice I can't stand reading Beatrix Potter books to my kids. They are too verbose! However, the illustrations are quaint beyond measure and connect to the innermost cravings of my cottage-loving soul. Calico aprons, fresh vegetables, snipped herbs, Tudor homes with beams and thatched roofs, timeworn pastels formerly bright, stone walls, hedges, wooden cupboards and 3-legged stools, teacups, meandering country lanes fenced with droopy blossoms. I wish I were British! I need a country holiday complete with a cold ham and wild strawberry picnic.

I see so much of my day-to-day in her pictures. My book of life is ordinary, mundane, garden-variety. Its common pages are as simple as butter lettuce but as filling as mincemeat pie.

I spend most of my time and money on efforts relating to the pantry. I'd like to think that mouse is hiding her stash of quality chocolate up high where the rugrats can't sniff it out. Speaking of cooking all the live long day, I saw this online and really did laugh outloud (which is rare). I plan my meals two weeks at a time and this is accurate. By the last Saturday I'm like, "What do you mean a Sunbelt bar and some weird spreadable cheese we got in a gift basket two years ago isn't filling you up? Have some rancid nuts from the back of the pantry or some almond milk that's been open for more than seven days! Dad and I are going out!"

 

 

I iron Greg's wrinkle-free shirts that aren't crisp enough. I iron all my drip-dry items (40% of my wardrobe). I iron Sunday's cloth napkins. I iron Archer's and Everett's shirt collars; the tiniest collars in town. I love me some ironing. Equally therapeutic to vacuuming and mowing. I don't mind laundry, probably because RE does her own and I don't have to work too hard to stay on top of ours. Plus, folding the little boy batch gives me joy. Archer has underwear now and I'm not sure the cute-o-meter can go any higher than it does for superhero boxer briefs. Even baby hedgehogs can't get the score mini briefs get.

 

I remind the boys to share. We need two of everything. The biggest problem is there's only one Dad, and Everett is a tad jealous if Archer is on his lap. Sharing Dad's lap doesn't cut it. Not with the baby of the house.

  

I clean dirty faces and sticky hands. My top three least favorite things to wipe off are oatmeal, syrup, and Easy Mac a.k.a. Yellow Death. Easy Mac somehow manages to stain my white kitchen table. I have to scrub the stains off with wet baking soda and elbow grease. I'm talking about the Easy Mac that says "no artificial colors". It's unsettling.

Baths around here are hit or miss. RE drains a tank for herself, what is left goes to the boys. Boy baths are either double giggles or aquatic apocalpyse. Archer still can't get his hair wet and Everett prefers to stand. We are phasing Everett into morning showers with Dad. That is why this picture strikes a chord with me. All three kittens have eyes that are saying, "Don't mess with mom. She's unleashed the crazy. She hasn't started dinner, she's pms-ing, and Dad is in traffic. Best to let her wipe us off without any resistance."

 

I get super tired at 5 pm and then rue the day I married someone in retail. For the next two hours I watch the clock, counting down the minutes until Greg is home. He winds me up; I scuttle about with fresh energy for four more hours. Or six. Depends on my list. I never love Greg more than when he walks in from work.

 

Last, but certainly not least, I fantasize about summer, when Greg will take all three kids to fish at the cabin while I stay home in a silent stupor of splendor.

All illustrations by Beatrix Potter.

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The day I bought my new sofa the clerk was wearing a gold bar necklace with some curious figures stamped on it. I asked her if it was her name in Greek. She said it stood for GOD IS GREATER THAN THE UPS AND DOWNS. Turns out it's all over the internet on a myriad of products, sometimes saying GOD IS GREATER THAN THE HIGHS AND LOWS. I can't stop thinking about it. Symbolic and clever, yet understated. I tried to stamp my own on a sheet of aluminum even though I didn't have the right font. There shouldn't be serifs. I know, I know. Graphic design crime. Nothing worse than rogue serifs.

If you can't fly, run.

If you can't run, walk.

If you can't walk, crawl.

But by all means, keep moving.

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

There seems to be something about human nature that causes us to reach the highest during our lowest points. -Lloyd Newell

As someone who would classify herself as a high-low type of personality I know what the necklace advertises is true. My mom termed me "roller coaster" before my first birthday. I'm high-contrast and highly sensitive. I feel it all. But more than that, and always above that, I feel God. He is what allows me to keep moving.

Little sign I loved from Hermana Abby McBride:

Notion

The "One-Touch Rule":

Creating the minimum amount of labor by doing things right the first time.

Example: You are undressing.

One-touch: Walk your bundle of clothing directly to the laundry hamper.

Not one-touch: Toss your clothes on the floor or drape them over a chair. Let your dog nap on them. Deal with them when you have time or when someone is going to walk through your room. Touch them a second time when you decide to pick them up and put them where they go.

Example: You need to remember something.

One-touch: Write it or type it directly on your calendar.

Not one-touch: Scribble it on the back of the grocery receipt in your purse so that you can write it where it goes later, when you have more time. Miss the event because it was not on your calendar, paper or digital, and try to make a mental note that your mental notes are horrid.

You get the drift. It's a different way of saying "a stitch in time saves nine".

I was thinking how I need to apply this rule to human relationships. What if I could treat people right the first time? What if I always did the right thing, like not judging or doubting or gossiping? What if I didn't jab or attack when I'm hurting? What if I shut my dang mouth when I'm tired and hungry? What if my words did not reflect the rising mad thermometer inside of me? If I could master the One-Touch Rule with people I could eliminate these off my to-do list:

APOLOGIZE

REPENT

MEDICATE MY HEADACHE, THE ONE I CAUSED

Yes, the One-Touch Rule declutters drama as well as households. There are a few more ways to say it:

There is always an instant in which we decide whether we will put out the fire or ignite the fuse. -Peggy Worthen

The arrow is flown and the moment is gone. -Charles Wesley

Well done is better than well said. -Ben Franklin

Choose the right way, and be happy. -Clara W. McMaster

Let us not overlook the art installation in front of the Salt Palace downtown. I love that thing, but I can never get a great picture because to capture everything you have to be standing in the middle of traffic across the street. Drat! The signs denote dozens of polar opposites surrounding a giant red YOU ARE HERE pin, emphasizing that YOU have the power to decide where you go in life.

 

 

 

I've mentioned multiple times that things happen to me in clusters. After committing to buttoning my lips more often I found this in my jewelry box:

My friend Matt, Blue-eyed Becca's husband, taught me about the One Touch Rule. He learned it on his two-year mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Anaheim and passed it on one day while our dog was scaring his children.

Photo of the paper my sister glued to her sewing room's bulletin board. Isn't is the cutest? It speaks to my love of sewing notions. Who doesn't love pincushions, needle threaders, plastic measuring tape, straight pins, mini sewing kits from hotels, and wooden spools?

Frayed

I'm the kind of person who, no matter how late she gets home from a road trip or the airport, has to unpack her suitcase, sort her dirty laundry, put the suitcase back on the shelf, zip the mini toiletries up in their case, and shred her boarding pass before she hits the hay. Basically there has to be no evidence I ever traveled before I can call it quits. I can't let it wait till morning. I can't live in the limbo. So naturally I unpacked our home pretty darn fast.

I only unpacked stuff worth keeping. I threw out the crusty playdoh and the dried up markers and the peeling-and-stained-from-red-sauce plastic containers. That little drawer thingie in the garage full of screws and anchors and bolts? I chose every screw, anchor, and bolt that got to stay. I tossed overstretched elastics, bobby pins with no clamp left, earrings from the 90s, expired medications, and unmatched gloves and socks. I even chucked the tube of dog toothpaste. I know myself and I know I'm never going to get to my dog's gums. Sorry, Lucy.

After weeks of intense laser focus and letting go I claimed victory over temporal chaos and pinned a gold star on my merits. And then I saw what remained. The one thing I couldn't unpack. Wanna know what it was? It was my infernal piles, the steadfast stacks that plagued my soul in the old house. I don't know why I can't reduce them. I'm a word junkie, a catalog shopper, and a reader. Not a great combo for piles, I guess. So I did what any normal person in my circumstance would do: I stuffed them under my bathroom sink as high as they would go, working around the J-shaped plumbing, and then returned to the kitchen to polish my gold star. I'm feeling pretty good about myself.

January tends to turn me into a crazy person for one reason or another. Last year it was the inversion slash our home not being finished. This year it's the piles. My piles aren't stacks of neglected papers, like bills to file or pictures my kids drew. They are things I've read that I can't throw away because I might need them someday. My piles are basically tons of dots I'll connect at some point. I love every dot. I can't overlook a dot. I confided in Greg a few nights ago that while it is tempting to tie everything in a black bag and clear the decks I simply can't do it.

Oh January, January, the month I should be booking a cruise and refusing dessert and getting back on track...blah blah blaaaaaah. I'm just knee-deep in my piles postponing all other efforts until I've scoured every literary scrap for sustenance. Ever heard of "tunnel vision"? I have "pile vision". It ain't pretty and it ain't prepping me for a cruise.

One such scrap was this photograph of a backlit frayed rope:

Why can't I toss a picture of a frayed rope? Maybe because I smell horses when I see it. But probably because I feel frayed a lot; I'm strong but I have loads of split ends. I remember hearing a lady speak at church when I was pregnant with Archer and she showed some of her rope collection. She had ropes from all over the world and from every type of use. The ones from ships were stiff from salt and storms. I loved those sea ropes. My rope scrap had this Book of Mormon scripture on it:

God has delivered me from prison, and from bonds, and from death; yea, and I do put my trust in him, and he will still deliver me. -Alma 36:27

Later in the day I took a new salad recipe (Costco magazine: quinoa + oranges + cilantro + corn + goat cheese...but I use feta, and man I love it) from my pile and tried to file it in my recipe binder and it was the last straw. My dividers that demarcate COOKIES, ENTREES, BREADS, etc, were all about to tear through the 3-rings. They were weak, the paper was fuzzy and wearing thin. I know I had laundry, menu planning, and toddlers to tend to, but at that moment nothing seemed more fun than retrieving my colorful reinforcement stickers and giving my recipe binder CPR. Can I just say that I've loved reinforcement stickers since 3rd grade? I have. I knew I had a future with office supplies at age 10. Mr. Sketch's turquoise-scented marker foreshadowed the same love affair.

Long story short (too late): my piles reminded me of the two resolutions to being frayed.

1. The Lord will rescue you. He will sever the rope you've been trying to escape from and deliver you from bondage. He will complete the work you began. You frayed your rope but you're too tired to fray any further? He will chop it in half or burn it or make it magically disappear. He will magnify your efforts.

2. The Lord will rescue you. He will reinforce your weakness and let you live another day, a stronger day. You will exist as you were and remain where you were, but stronger. He will help you do what you were designed to do, but it will be YOU 2.0, the succored you, the stronger you.

Rope picture from an inside cover of the Ensign. No idea what month or year. Tomorrow is six months since The Move. Six months! All my friends who have moved told me to give myself a year. Halfway there, livin' on a prayer! Maybe I won't be brushing my teeth due north of my hidden piles at the year mark.