Moonshadow

"To the Moon" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, 
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

When we announced we were pregnant (now termed "Crying Across America") I got many texts and messages from loved ones who were OVER THE MOON for me. It was uncanny. Dozens and dozens of OVER THE MOON patrons. I am, expectedly, over the moon myself. It is a stark contrast to where I used to be, my former abode being the subdued sub-shade of that floating rock.

The moon, the moon, the constant moon. I have been loved to the moon and back. I was stuck under the moon for a long stretch. And now I am over the moon.

I learned two things as an astronaut:

1. Happiness is its own reward. For those who are over the moon...you got what you wanted. Bask in lunar glare until your face is moonburned and your eyes are seeing spots. Exult in the ether, rejoice with rockets, commune with comets and somersault with satellites.

2. There is more than a man on the moon. Take heart if your personal parabola only orbited you to the dark side of the moon. You will soon realize the shadowed underbelly of obscurity and emptiness is where the angels tread. You will be cared for in the craters.

*Step one of converting the guest room to a nursery: cleaning out the debris from under the bed. I found this decorative moon that my Aunt Lynne painted on glitter paper for a harvest ball at church years ago. I loved it so much she sent it home with me. It's funny how things work in clusters for me. I'll be percolating about my proximities to colloquial moons, recalling a lonely moon in the poem Mr. Bancroft showcased in AP English, and then discover a paper moon under my bed.

Confused Night Owl Seeks Naps Daily

I am officially through the first trimester. Yesterday brought Week 15. My mom and sister both told me that if I could just get through the first trimester I would get my mojo back, meaning I would stop taking naps after breakfast and lunch, start working out again, and stop eating Reeses Puffs cereal (gag, gag, gag).

I'm not sure if my mojo is back but it's 4:45 a.m. and in the last hour I have:

• sewed the two missing buttons back on RE's cardigan
• glued RE's stud earring jewel that is the size of 1/3 of a piece of uncooked rice back onto its post
• ironed an 8" scrap of ric rac and glued it to a homemade card
• ordered RE's phone case from amazon so we can finally close the internet page that has been up for 3 days
• filed my sales tax
• started a lasagna
• refused the craving for red Kool-aid and sipped blueberry pom juice with a few plain Cheerios instead (Cheerios, now there is a cereal worth eating)
• folded my sweaters
• put a bunch of bubble wrap down with the shipping boxes

This is all because I fell asleep a little after 9 last night and my body is currently going through a I CAN'T BE ON A MATTRESS MORE THAN SEVEN HOURS phase. Greg was up coughing (he caught my cold but can take Mucinex DM, that lucky sapsucker) and I realized I was wide awake, hungry, and mildly stressed about all the little undone things sitting on desks and counters and sewing tables. So I got up and took care of them.

The snowplows just scraped State Street, Lucy is confused by my being up and just went outside, and I'm considering running to the grocery store now so I won't have to go later when it's naptime.

Mojo? No no.

*Charlie Brown sticker from my sticker book. Remember sticker books? I kept Lisa Frank in business in the early 80s. 

Speaking of owls, this children's verse has been a favorite of mine for years:

A wise old owl lived in an oak.

The more he saw the less he spoke.

The less he spoke the more he heard.

Why can't we all be like that bird?

Huntington Beach

My 2013 can be summed up with one mysterious sentence:

DON'T WASTE YOUR HUNTINGTON BEACH.

Last December on the way home from finding out our IVF failed I asked Greg to stop at the USPS so I could buy some stamps from the self-serve kiosk. (Practical needs seemed to trump emotional wants.) While poking the touch screen my cell rang and it was Kenon. I was racoon-faced from crying and didn't want to talk to anyone but I'm so glad I answered that call. Kenon simply told me DON'T WASTE YOUR HUNTINGTON BEACH. A year later I can vouch that Kenon's advice was the best advice anyone could have given me at that point.

Long story short: Kenon used to be my neighbor here in Utah. Her husband got a new job in Virginia. They loved the trees and the people but Kenon realized she needed to get back to Utah, mostly for the sake of her kids. Kenon did everything humanly possible to get back to Utah. Her husband got transferred to Huntington Beach.

Kenon was so sad that Huntington Beach wasn't Utah that she didn't really exploit her experience there. She told me she was depressed, she didn't try very hard to make friends, she didn't capitalize on the beach (although she did take her kids to Disneyland a million times), etc. You get the point. She hated it. Unsolicited, out of blue, and nine months later, her husband was offered a job in Utah.

Kenon was my neighbor again and she had everything she originally wished for. It just came with a 9 month bonus trip to California.

So when Kenon said DON'T WASTE YOUR HUNTINGTON BEACH I knew she meant, "Look, I know you did everything you could have done to get pregnant. You hired doctors. You were positive. You had the whole neighborhood rooting for you. But you got transferred to Huntington Beach. Don't give up because time will pass and suddenly you will have everything you want. Don't waste this bonus trip."

Of course, Kenon was right and I was pregnant 11 months from that stamp-purchasing phone call. So what did I do the 11 months I lived at Huntington Beach? I milked its awesomeness dry.

I finally swam in the crater in Midway.

I found the world's best hot chocolate.

I snatched a quick getaway to Vegas with Greg.

The Three Musketeers went to Paris for a week, the preeminent trip we talk about daily.

We also went to the Sacred Grove, watched fireworks over Niagara Falls, went to the top of the world's tallest building, and smashed a lot of pennies.

I bought a brown halter top swimsuit with my birthday money and wore it out by swimming almost every day since.

I drove a golf cart through the Thanksgiving Point Gardens with my 90-year old friend Charlotte and I even drove her though the sprinklers because it made her howl with laughter.

I went to two plays at the Hale West Valley, attended the temple weekly, and made cards with my four female soulmates the 3rd Wednesday of every month.

I cheered at yet another Denver Broncos game, attended Greg's 20th reunion, and enjoyed complete family reunions with both sides of my family at our cabin.

I took RE to the Mindy Gledhill concert (on a school night!) and we ate chocolate mousse and SLAB pizza while we waited in line to enter the venue.

Greg and I went to Manhattan, toured the Met, and walked Central Park in autumn for hours.

I mastered pain au chocolat from scratch. Wolfgang Puck could hire me if he wanted to.

I had a fashion makeover, courtesy of Reachel Bagley, quite possibly the best anniversary gift Greg has ever given me. Then I bought a whole new wardrobe with the money Greg had stashed for me, decluttered the house, tied up my loose ends, did IVF again, and got pregnant.

Last but not least...drumroll, please...I grew out my blunt bangs, a feat easier said than done.

The year that started with a shred of hope and a month of depression ends today with the realization that it was also my best year ever, all because I didn't waste my Huntington Beach.

*Kenon is a rare name and an even rarer friend. You would not believe what she has been though, even if I could tell you. If you have a friend like Kenon make sure you listen to what she says. I honestly can't imagine how I would have pulled out of my slump without her sage advice and life experience.

Dayspring

It's funny the things you retain from adolescence. School force-fed me the hidden meanings of literature, the formula for photosynthesis, how to conjugate a Spanish verb six ways, the dates of every historic battle on earth, protons, neutrons, and hoards of advanced mathematics. Yet other than the memorable crunch of cutting through a fetal pig's sternum I can't recall most of what I learned in high school. I do, however, remember a quote about the dark that I heard at church when I was still in high school.

I think it originally resonated with me because I'm a no-night-light-kind-of-a-gal who would not be upset if forced to sleep in a cave. I'm not afraid of the dark. The quote was by Brigham Young and the gist of it was that someone asked him, "Why isn't God always rushing to our aid and making life easy? Why does he let us suffer? Why is life so hard?" And the answer ended with the phrase

It is the way it is because we must learn to be righteous in the dark.

Righteous in the dark. Righteous in the dark. A mantra I have repeated endlessly since that time.

Isn't life a complex grab bag of light and shadow? Straight-toothed smiles, chocolate-covered strawberries and piñata bursts all frosted on top of undercurrents of despair, frustration and fear? We plow forward hoping our heaven-based efforts will be greater than the unceasing undertows. We try to be righteous in the dark.

"The Savior" by Emily Dickinson 

The Savior must have been
A docile Gentleman --
To come so far so cold a Day
For little Fellowmen --

The Road to Bethlehem
Since He and I were Boys
Was leveled, but for that 'twould be
A rugged billion Miles -- 

Somewhere between high school and the present I became acquainted with the dark and ended up walking my own rugged billion miles in it. A decade of infertility definitely contributed to the darkness and distance but without living through it I could not have learned who I am or who the Savior is.

IN THE DARK I learned by touch, not sight, that there were hands to hold, arms to lean on, nudges of encouragement, and even someone to carry me if a collapse was eminent.

IN THE DARK my ears grew keen at hearing whisperings of love and hints of direction. There was always so much to listen to.

IN THE DARK I thought about, talked about, and obsessed about the sun because I knew it was real, even if I couldn't see it. I had sun memories in my heart and mind and I couldn't doubt them both. 

My egg of life was not cooked sunny side up but I learned to be righteous in the dark, after which I was blessed to be able to see in the dark. And then the sun, poised to rise all along but patiently waiting for me to arrive at the end of the billionth mile, broke the horizon with its promised dazzle and fire. The near-blinding dawn of a new day has arrived.

We are guaranteed a portion of blackout in this life and similarly promised the eclipse is temporary; that light will always follow night. I think the most important thing I discovered in my DECADE OF DARK was whether he was the Prince of Peace soothing me in blindness or the Dayspring gleaming gold to signal many bright hours ahead the Savior was beside me in all of it.

I remain unafraid of the dark.

"Dayspring" is used twice in the Bible; once in the New Testament (Luke 1:78) and once in the Old Testament (Malachi 4:2). The Greek translation means "dawn" and the verse in Malachi refers to the Savior as the "Sun of righteousness with healing in his wings." I also heard it sung last Sunday in the 3rd verse of "O Come O Come Emmanuel." I'm a logophile, but this is an especially beautiful word to me due to its symbolism and rarity of use. The photo was taken at 7:02 from my kitchen window just as the sun was coming over the mountain. At 7:00 there was nothing, and at 7:03 it was all up. You have to move fast to catch the dayspring.

Full Quote from Brigham Young’s Office Journal, Jan. 28, 1857, Church History library, Salt Lake City:  

"In a quiet moment with his secretary and two others, someone asked Brigham Young, 'Why is it that the Lord is not always at our side promoting universal happiness and seeing to it that the needs of people are met, caring especially for His Saints? Why is it so difficult at times?'

President Young answered, 'Because man is destined to be a God, and he must be able to demonstrate that he is for God and to develop his own resources so that he can act independently and yet humbly.' Then he added,

'It is the way it is because we must learn to be righteous in the dark.'"

O come, O come, Emmanuel

 And ransom captive Israel

 That mourns in lonely exile here

 Until the Son of God appear

 Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

 Shall come to thee, O Israel

O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free

 Thine own from Satan's tyranny

 From depths of Hell Thy people save

 And give them victory o'er the grave

 Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

 Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer

 Our spirits by Thine advent here

 Disperse the gloomy clouds of night

 And death's dark shadows put to flight.

 Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

 Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Key of David, come,

 And open wide our heavenly home;

 Make safe the way that leads on high,

 And close the path to misery.

 Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

 Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, O come, Thou Lord of might,

 Who to Thy tribes, on Sinai's height,

 In ancient times did'st give the Law,

 In cloud, and majesty and awe.

 Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

 Shall come to thee, O Israel.

--Anon. 12th century, trans. John Mason Neale 1851

Update 12-6-2018: I continue to love this term for the Savior. It occurred to me that because morning always comes it is a consistent, reliable, you-can-count-on-it kind of hope, especially for weary world travelers who are soooo tired of feeling lost. The Savior as the dayspring is truly the most reliable and loyal form of hope that exists. 

Felt

This is the stocking my dad sewed me with his own two hands.

He sewed six of them, one for everyone in our family (except himself...he's no glutton for punishment). He sewed my mom's as a surprise. He told lots of lies as to why he was home so late from the dental office every night but she understood when she saw the sparkly felt sock on the hearth Christmas morning. I watched my dad sew Rat's stocking since she was the caboose and I was 10. I saw how laborious it was to bead every sequin and how much of a devil that gold cord was to work with. Dad told me just last week that when he found out Mom was pregnant with Rat his first thought was, "I have to make another stocking."

As kids we liked to flick the bells on the toes of our stockings. We liked to hear their individual rings. I always liked my stocking best as it was the biggest and had the best bell sound. The other thing I loved about my stocking is that my name was written in Mom's handwriting (unequalled, beautiful cursive). Dad had Mom write our names on tracing paper and then he stitched the evil gold cord over her perfection. So my stocking is technically a lasting treasure from both of my parents.

Dad gave all of us our stockings when we got married. I feel kind of badly for him since only one hangs on his mantle at home these days...the "Joanne" stocking. All that work for an empty stocking nest!

I made Greg, and subsequently RE, a stocking of the same brand the year they belonged to me. When I found out I was finally pregnant I could hardly reign myself in from rushing out and buying a stocking kit. I told myself not to jinx it and to wait until the 10-week ultrasound.

On the way home from seeing my gummi-bean in black and white I bought its stocking kit. A Christmas tree with a toy soldier underneath. The toy soldier means something to me after this long. I will cut, stitch, sequin and bead on colorful felt because I love this baby. I love this baby beyond measure and I haven't even felt it yet.

*When my dad retired he had to clean out the basement of his office building. It was quite the storage room and so some of us kids helped him along. I happened to be the lucky one next to him as he unearthed his green plastic dental lab box that was the "sequin overflow stash" from all the stockings he made. He bequeathed it to me and it sits in my secretary desk, a memento of his hardworking hands that stitched sequins when they weren't cementing crowns. It's hard to say with words how much I love my dad!