This Side of Invisible

  A few weeks ago, there was a total solar eclipse. There have only been 15 visible in various parts of the United States in the last 150 years, making it a once in a lifetime experience for many. The anticipatory excitement was palpable, parties were planned, venues were booked out months in advance; the metroplex experienced a shortage of porta-potties due to the influx of visitors, all flocking here to witness the miraculous workings of the universe. At the moment of totality, when the world was cast into darkness, there was a collective gasp. Then crowds erupted in exclamations of wonder. High fives, fist bumps, and hugs were abundant as on-lookers basked in the ordered glory of the laws of physics.  photo credit As the minutes stretched on, a soul-deep quiet settled.The world stilled. We breathed as one. Some put hands to their hearts as our infinite smallness grew under the umbrella of that moment, when time and space stood still. Suddenly, with a burst of light, the spe...

Fun Facts about Hand-Writing Letters:  Results from several studies have shown that both children and adults learn more and remember better when writing by hand. Now another study confirms the same: choosing handwriting over keyboard use yields the best learning and memory. ( Neuroscience News )  A few experiments have shown that the brain only recognizes symbols that it learned if they were printed by hand, not if they were typed. When we are learning new letters, math symbols, or other symbols, it is much better to print them by hand than to type them. ( Frontiers for Young Minds )  The ability to read cursive matters. As Michel Martin points out on NPR, "many of the most important historical documents in the U.S., everything from the Declaration of Independence to the Bill of Rights, are written in cursive." What happens when we require a translator for our most precious founding documents? ( Treehugger.com )  Writing by hand makes us slow down. When you write b...

In the memorable words of Dr. Ian Malcolm played by the incomprable Jeff Goldblum, "Life finds a way." Even when we don't want it to, when we can't keep up, when we're exhausted... it just keeps coming. Life simply happens. But we must remember that we are created to be agents of action, not simply objects to be acted upon. Life comes at us unbidden, but we too can create the life we want. We can be the life unbidden. Life isn't merely something that happens around us, it's not just a force happening to us. Life happens within us. And with each exhale, we can speak life into existence all around us. We just have to be intentional, choosing moment to moment how to expend our energy. You are a child of God, the Great Creator; the DNA of creation makes up your every molecule. Don't wait to be bidden. Don't wait for approval. Listen to the beating of your own lifeforce. What life will you release into the world today? Now available: Life...

He heaved between sobs, opening the car door and vomiting right there in the car line. I prayed that no one had noticed. “Okay, okay,” I soothed him, patting his back. “It’s okay. Put your seat belt back on, we’ll go home.” He was so hysterical that my words didn’t, couldn’t penetrate. He cried into his hands, rocking back and forth. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” he cried. I pulled out of the car line and into the parking lot. “Mommy, I want breakfast,” a little voice peeped from backseat. “You said breakfast after Buddy go to school.” “I know,” I said, getting out of the car and walking around to Buddy’s side. I opened the door to buckle him in and he kicked at me. “NO!” he screamed. “No. No. No.” He thrashed in his seat trying to keep me from forcing him out of the car. His small fist makes contact with my cheek. “Buddy. Buddy. Buddy! Stop!” I yelled. Sniffles and sobs started in the back seat. “Buddy in trouble,” Thing 2 cried. “I hungry,” Thing 1 whined. And the ...

I wrote the following a year and a half ago. " We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul- We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things." Articles of Faith #13 It's ironic almost to the point of laughter that this is the scripture we have have been focusing on this month in Primary, children's Sunday school. Almost. "We have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things." It makes me want to laugh... if only to keep from crying. It's no secret that life in the Marrott household is never dull. In our nearly fifteen years of marriage we've endured: twelve moves (to include those of the international variety), several separations (of the military variety),...

This time last year, I was salivating for a new year full of opportunity. I was aching for new chances to learn, to grow, to prove myself, to improve myself. And I had this great plan to help me accomplish all these dreams I had: I was going to have a word for my new year. I was going to research my word, dive into my word and let it guide me through my year. This word had to be perfect, had to sum up all the things I wanted to be, to do, to gain. I found the perfect word. Fixed. I mean, that word was so many things. I defined how I wanted to feel, what I wanted to become, how I wanted to live. I wanted to be fixed mentally and emotionally, healed from past hurts and freed from those things that had once haunted me. I wanted to be fixed in my course of moving towards financial peace and prosperity. I wanted to be fixed in my ways of believing in myself, allowing myself to dream, allowing myself to achieve. I wanted to be fixed, firmly rooted in my life, present every moment, t...

Anyone that follows my blog... ehem, all two of you... has probably noticed that the tone has changed over the last year. I've written less and what I have written, some of it has been almost cryptic. There's a reason for that. I've been struggling with this question: How do I write my story when it involves so many others? Perhaps this is the answer: Also, Ernest Hemingway said, "Write hard and clear about what hurts." So here it is:  I was sexual abused as a child. The pit of snakes in my stomach are alive and biting after typing that for all the world to see. So much shame. And yet, I feel empowered. Strength is running through my veins at the liberation that owning this statement brings. It's not that I need to wear it as a badge, but not being able to have an open dialogue about it is suffocating. And yet, having an open dialogue about it often leaves me feeling too exposed. Ya know? Vulnerability hang-overs suck. Mostly, I...

--> Au Naturel : in a natural state; without anything added. Bare : devoid of amplification or adornment; lacking tools or weapons. Raw : not treated or prepared for presentation, marked absence of refinements, unprotected. Nude : without conventional covering; having a natural appearance. Naked : devoid of concealment or disguise; lacking embellishment. In the beginning, God’s children came into this world naked and naked they remained while in close communion with Him. It was only after Adam and Eve had gone against their Father’s wishes and partaken of the forbidden fruit that Satan pointed to their nakedness and shamed them for it, pushing them to hide themselves from God. It has been the story ever since. Death is a separation of our spirit and bodies. Eternal death or spiritual death is a separation from our Father in Heaven. This is the Adversary’s sole focus. And since the beginning he’s known just how to push us away from God. He villainizes our divine origin, ...

A while ago, I was prompted to write about a place I had been, I chose to write about my experience inside depression. INSIDE It’s dark in this place.  The kind of dark that paralyzes every muscle and weighs heavy in one’s lungs. It presses in on my ears with its silence, causing them to ring.  I want to scream, but my mouth won’t open.  Every joint and ligament is tense, waiting to spring into action. The very marrow in my bones struggles against unseen restraints.  Sweat collects on my forehead from the effort.  My head spins as my breathing grows evermore shallow.  I’m on the verge of implosion, though, from outward view it probably seems like a quiet collapse.  It is not quiet.  The shrieking pain of it all pushes blood from my ears. I am dying.   No, I realize.  My fate is worse.  I’m a prisoner here.  Fear has me in his clasp and laughs at my timorous attempt to escape.  Hot tears pool in my ears, not blood, ...

The house is quiet… mostly. Except for the whispers of my boys who are determined not to sleep. Not that I can blame them, there’s a pretty awesome thunderstorm happening right now. I’m sitting in my dark office, watching lightning illuminate the world outside the large picture window. The almost dead, but refusing to die tree in the front yard is rocking rather precariously over my husband’s car. If I close my eyes and listen, I can hear the sophisticated symphony of the storm: wind whooshing, thunder rumbling soft and low in the distance, and rain slapping and tapping and patting the world around me. It’s a lovely lullaby. And yet, I can’t sleep. It's ironic that just a week or so after Bruncle was admitted to a residential treatment facility I was approached about publishing this essay about him. It was almost painful to say "Yes, I'd love to have it published" when it seemed to be null and void. It's not. Not completely anyway, but it felt li...

Dear Insecure, Unstable, Unlovable Girl, It’s not you. It’s me. Honest. I’ve outgrown your skin. I’m too big to live wrapped up tight in your shell, being an observer in my own life. I want to be the main character in my story. I’m no longer content to pass through my days listening to the voices in my head that write my life for me. I want to create my own magic. I’ve met this man. He’s a good man. He makes me laugh. He shows me all the ways I’m beautiful. He grounds me with his kisses and loves me inside my mess. But sometimes, I feel so lonely even when I’m wrapped in his arms. Then, late at night, I cry. I don’t want to cry anymore. I’m exhausted. I want to laugh all the time. To smile every moment, even in the chaotic, disappointing ones. I want to smile because I’m me. And being me is good. Being me is enough. I want to be present with my family, really present. I want to see and taste and smell them in the seconds that we share together. I want to experience ev...

There's a tree in my front yard that's quite pathetic. It has but a small tuft of leaves on its topmost branches. Many, strike that, all of its lower branches are long gone, stripped away by forceful winds. And yet the tree is hanging on, growing ever higher, its leaves as green or greener than its healthier, neighboring trees. It reaches for the sky, taller than all the others, waving its arms unceasingly. “I am still here,” it says, “I’m not done yet.” And I wonder, do the trees resent the wind? Would you if it had ripped away pieces of you, large important parts that define you? Do the trees hate the constant push and pull of the breeze? Do they shake as if to say, “go away you merciless bully, quit picking at me, and let me alone?” Are they scared of the storms? Perhaps they aren’t. What if, instead they loved the wind, thanked it for the constant companionship? Maybe they adore the way their leaves look as they wind whips through them, all shimmery in ...

Let's be clear, I'm not God. Nor am I His spokesperson. But I have studied His words for the majority of my life. I've poured my heart out to Him. I have listened to His still, small voice. And, I hope, I've learned a few things about Him. Of course, I could be wrong... but as I understand it--in my understanding of God's love for His children--this is why He doesn't save all the starving orphans, all the children born into abuse, all the mothers who lose their little ones, all the little ones who never get to take their first breath of Earthly air, all the fathers who mourn the innocence of their children gone to the wiles of addiction and fornication, all the parents that never get to experience children of their own, all the men and women that lose their jobs, their families, their lives, all His children that experience pain in all its gloriously pervasive forms... Because God doesn't keep any of his children home. What does that mean? Let me expla...