musings

I've done a lot of writing lately, though not on my blog.  It helps me relax and unwind, escape when I need to, channel my emotions into something else when they are too many or too big for me to get a grip on in this world.  Writing takes me to new places and helps me gain perspective.  If you don't write, I highly recommend it.  It can be very therapeutic.  And I find that a lot of self-discovery happens when pen is put to paper... or fingers to keyboard, whatever you may choose.

Life is a highway... write about it.

Recently, I've been working on my WIP (the novel that still isn't finished), and on revamping a short story I wrote a few years ago (with the intent to submit it for publication), and on a new short story (which is turning into a much more in depth story... I should know better, I am very wordy) and poetry.

I love poetry.  It's a way (for me) to use imagery to express my emotions.  Sometimes my poetry can be quite dark and creepy, and sometimes it's playful and fun.  I like to be able to go back and re-read my poetry and think about where I was in life at the time.  What was going on that produced those emotions for me.  It's a nice outlet.  I don't know that I am a particularly great poet, but I like it :)

I thought I'd share a few poems I've recently written.  I hope you enjoy them... if not as much as I enjoyed writing them... well then, keep it to yourself :)  jk... mostly.



Us
Heart to heart,
Mind to mind,
To kiss and be kissed
Lover of mine.
Two souls, one dream;
Two hearts, a seam
Knit together, sown as one.
Me and thee and eternity;
You and me, our love has won.


Adam
The outlander, the stranger,
The awakening East of Eden.


Eve
The sinner, the saint,
The follower without complaint.
The origin, the end,
The first companion, mother, friend.
The breath of life,
The listener to the snake that bites.
The leader, the brave,
The worthy sacrifice she freely gave.
The author of a new world order.


True of False
The sky is black,
The water thick,
People usually lie and trick.
The grass is blue,
The snow is green,
To be successful one must be mean.
The mountains is short,
The mouse is tall,
I am insignificant and small.
Trees grow down and carrots climb up,
Always half-empty is my cup.
The truth is never what it seems
and subtle is the lie.
I am worth more than my weight in gold;
A quiet truth, despite fallacious screams.


Anew
blooming flowers, blue and white
new stars that twinkle in the night
ruptured eggs and newfound cries
fresh-from-chrysalis butterflies
taking flight 'round fragrant flowers
floating past the stars for hours
crawling, climbing, stumbling run
exploring the globe has now begun
for each young creature of the spring
joy in each moment may it bring

Snakes and Ladders

As a mother, the questions, "Am I doing enough?  Am I doing it right?" are always at the forefront of my thoughts.  I think it is for most, if not all, mothers.

And we judge ourselves by our children's behavior, both good and bad.  They have a bad day and make bad choices; I am a bad mother.  They have a great day and do something awesome; I'm humbled, knowing I'm doing at least a few things right.  The thing is neither of these statements is true. Not entirely anyway.

Children have their own personalities, weaknesses, strengths, likes/dislikes, willpower, triggers, pleasures, pains.  They are each so unique, how could we ever come up with a formula that measures our mothering skills based upon their behavior?  Because, in reality, we have no control over their behavior.   Can we influence it?  Absolutely.  Can we contribute to it?  Definitely.  But can we control it?  Maybe, if we really want to, by coercion, fear, physical restraint.  I don't see those things as part of the plan though.  Do you?  Ok, maybe when they are toddlers and run out into the road, I would physically restrain them, scoop them up and carry them to safety.  I would swat a pudgy hand away from a hot stovetop.  I would pry open a mouth to sweep it for unwanted objects like legos, pennies, and those little lemon balls that you use to clean the disposal.  I might pin a squirming child down to change a diaper or wash a dirty face.  But I wouldn't tie my child to a chair until his homework was done.  I wouldn't swat an 11 year-old's hand away from the pantry.  I wouldn't pry open my 9 year-old's mouth and shove in the vegetables I wish he would eat.  I wouldn't pin down my 14 year-old to apply his deodorant for him.  There comes a point where I hand over the reins and they become fully responsible for their own actions.

The trick is knowing when.  When are they really ready for the next step on the independence ladder?  I have yet to figure out a formula.  In fact, I often err.  Either placing too much expectation too soon, or holding them back afraid of letting them fall from the ladder and fail.  It's kinda like Snakes and Ladders, sometimes you take a chance, roll the dice and let them move forward, holding your breath for them to get on a ladder, only to see them slide down the snakes back.  And because of those times, you don't let them roll the dice later.

Of Things Unseen

I've recently started participating in a women's group devoted to overcoming shame.  The idea of shame is new to me.  Not that I didn't know what shame was, I simply didn't think I had any.  I don't have conscious thoughts of self-loathing, self-questioning, feeling incompetent (not overly anyway), feeling worthless, etc.  I don't look in the mirror and hate myself.  I don't often get embarrassed or worry about what others think.  Very little in my conscious thought process suggests shamefulness.  However, I have come to discover that a lot of my behavior suggests that I don't value myself as I should and that, in fact, I do suffer from a shame-based identity.

I am working, really hard I might add, to do a 180 and obtain a worthiness-identity.  I want an identity that says, "I am good.  I am enough.  I am worthy of love and belonging.  I matter."  I want everything I think, say, do to emphasize that.  I want the way I connect and interact with other to emphasize that because I matter, you matter too.  And we, together, as a unit matter.  Our relationship, our connections matter.  I want to be have the courage to be vulnerable and present and really connected... especially with the ones I love the most.

I've realized that the first step I have to take is to acknowledge shame.  That dark, festering secret that I love to ignore.  That I like to pretend doesn't exist.  How can I ever clean it out of my soul if I refuse to admit it's there?  This is my acknowledgement.

The Box

I’m trapped inside, 

that shameful thing, me

I feel it pushing, pulling on my soul,

this box that hides me here.

Here I’m safe from prying eyes,

but here I sit and slowly die.

I sit and cry, I sit and fade

to nothing more than empty space.

I close it off, this oozing shame,

Sealed within this toxic place.

It festers on my skin,

It worms into my heart and mind.

I thought I’d sealed it off,

but it clings to me, this slime,

this tar, this pitch of stench.

Better inside than outside.

Better here than there.

Better unseen than seen.

Better. For here I am safe.

Lock it all in.

The only thing that can hurt me here is me.

I wrote this two days ago after I begrudgingly went to the first meeting of the aforementioned women's group... I really, really didn't want to go.  So much so that I woke up that day with a migraine, went back to bed, overslept and walked into a shame group fifteen minutes late.  Who was I kidding?  No one.  So my commitment for the week was to acknowledge the box, that dark, dirty place where I hide my shame.  I came home and decided to look shame right in the face and really feel it, get tangled in it, put it on and walk around in it for a few hours.  I climbed in the box and closed the lid, I let it take me over for a while.  And I cried... and went back to bed.

And after a few hours, I couldn't take it anymore.  I flew out of that box and beat it with a hammer.... almost.  I was so emotionally overwhelmed I stayed up until 3 a.m. writing and praying and just lost in thought.  Slowly, I began to feel a bit better.  Feel a little less out of control and a little more distant from the shame, in a positive way, in an objective way, not in an "I'm going to ignore you" way.  And here I am now, putting it out there for the world see because it's time I say, "I see you hiding down there in all those shadowy places and I'm calling you out. You don't belong here and it's time you left the building.  I don't have time for your negative voice anymore.  Move along.  I'm taking my life back."  And I will.  Take it back.  One day at a time.  One connection.  One courageous moment of vulnerability.  One admission of poor behavior.  One acceptance of weakness.  One embrace of imperfection at a time; I will eradicate shame from my identity.

To the Thief Who Stole My Things From My Car

By now, I'm sure, you've realized that what you stole from me has little to no worldly value.  Of course, you might get a few hundred dollars for the DVDs, iPod, jacket and bag you took, but my scriptures, my journal, my family history research that were in that bag can have little value to anyone but me and my posterity.  Well, maybe that's not exactly true.

What if you opened my scriptures and saw the notes in the margins?  Could you feel how much I wanted to be a better mother by all the notes I made regarding parenting? For instance, near Alma 56:48 "And they rehearsed unto me the words of their mothers, saving: We do not doubt our mothers knew it."  I had written in the margins something like "There is no substitute for a righteous mother."  What if you read all the verses I had highlighted and underlined and cross-referenced?  Hopefully, you'd learn how much I valued things like prayer, fasting, family, covenants, and the Savior, Jesus Christ.  I imagine you would be able to feel my love of God and man by studying what I have studied.  If you did read them, have you begun to see their real value?

Perhaps you've flipped through the pages of my journal and read about my trials and the pains of the last year or so of my life.  If you did, I'm sure you would have also read about my faith in Christ and His infinite atonement.  Did you read how Heavenly Father comforted me when my husband was away for year or about the time my son spray painted my house and I learned a powerful spiritual lesson about forgiveness?  Have you read about the manifestation of God's hands in my life?  Like when my husband was blessed with a job that perfectly met our needs.  Did you read the entry where I poured my heart out in gratitude for God's love and for the siblings I have been blessed with in this life, how they are a source of strength and inspiration for me?  Did you read my notes from General Conference and Stake Conference in which I detailed the words of prophets and apostles?  Did you learn about my patriarchal blessing and how it gives me guidance?  Did you read of my mundane life and see the miracles that I have seen?  Have you begun to see just how valuable the pages you hold truly are?

Were you curious when you opened my green folder and found family history paperwork?    Did you get out a magnifying class so you could decipher the tiny print on my nine-generation fan chart?  Did you feel the Spirit of Elijah as you sorted and sifted through index-sized cards with names and dates and ordinances recorded on them?  Did you wonder what it was and what it meant?  If I had the chance, I would explain it to you.  If I could, I'd tell you how important families are to Heavenly Father's plan.  How He intends for all his children (of which we are) to have access to the saving ordinances of the Gospel, baptism and the laying on of hands for the Gift of the Holy Ghost.  I would tell you about the sealing power given to the prophet Elijah and how it has been restored to the Earth and how families can be sealed to one another and to God for time and all eternity.  I would tell you how that very night you stole those precious documents from me, I had been in the Dallas Temple, the House of the Lord, engaged in God's work and helping to free my ancestors.  I would tell you how strong the Spirit was, how thin the veil.  I would bear testimony of the Plan of Salvation, of temple ordinances and forever families.  I wouldn't let you leave my company without bearing witness to you that Christ is God's Son and our Savior.  That The Church of Jesus-Christ of Latter-day Saints is His church, His Gospel, His doctrine, His priesthood restored to the Earth.  And I would invite you to come unto Christ and feel of His perfect love.

Whatever desperation or evil plot drove you to steal from me, I hope that you do open those scriptures and that God softens and opens your heart, that your life may be blessed by my misfortune.  For although I am heart-sick at the loss of my irreplaceable precious personal belongings, "Nevertheless, I know in whom I have trusted.  My God hath been my support; he hath led my through mine afflictions in the wilderness; and he hath preserved me upon the waters of the great deep.  He has filled me with his love, even unto the consuming of my flesh." (2 Nephi 4:19-21)  He is with me in this circumstance too and has spoken great peace and comfort to my heart.

May God bless and keep you too.  May you feel of His love and may your path be made bright by His Holy light.

Sincerely,
The Woman Who Will Go On Having Faith in Christ

p.s. If you'd like to learn more about family history work, please visit LDS.org

No Place Like Home

After I got married and before I had my first child, I worked in a life skills center for disabled adults.  This is Edgar, his was 62 at the time this photo was taken and yes, he has Down's Syndrome.  As an infant in the late 1930's, he was placed in an institution because his disability made him unsafe and put his siblings at risk.  

*note: please try and ignore my overly large pregnant-ness in the pic :)

I'm not sure I can comprehend, as a mother, sending my child off to an institution.  At least, that's my initial thought.  But if I am honest, and if I were Edgar's mother and the whole world was fear mongering about how dangerously unpredictable he would be and about how taxing it would be, how difficult, how alone I would be, I might have listened too.  During that era, with so little help and compassion in regards to disabilities or mental health challenges, was there really another option for Edgar's mother?