Fhe.......

This poor neglected blog that I love. I'm sure it feels like it's been replaced by Instagram. 

It's kinda right. 

But there are somethings that demand the space of a blog. 

Recordable things that need to be remembered. 

I'm sure I have neglected many of these moments. 

So today I sit and peck away with one working hand to record at least one before it becomes lost into the mess of memories and life. 

I give you the events of last weeks fhe. 

Family business. 

Olivia "I have some family business. So I there is this girl at my school who doesn't have a family and is in foster care. I think we should surprise her and adopt her this weekend. Mom and dad you guys get all the paperwork done so I can tell her on Monday morning."

"Oh and she did inform me she has bed bugs so I call not bunking with her"

Grace " what are bed bugs?"

Sophie Kate " (sigh) I'll bunk with her"

Olivia " I'm sure mom can get rid of them."

Luke "why another girl? Don't you know any boys who need to be adopted?"

Olivia " I'm sure I could find one. I'll look around at school. Then we could adopt both"

Grace " I can't believe I'm getting another big sister!"

Ben looks at me and says " what just happened here?"

I have no idea. 

But it's pretty clear who's running the show. 

It's like y'know......

I had been searching for it for a really long time. 

When I found it I knew. 

Like a punch to the gut it instantly took away my breath.

That word. 

Those words. 

After awhile it had become almost a joke. 

To actually catch sight of one was rare indeed.

Those that did were usually close, intimate friends. 

It's an intimate thing. 

The kind of friends that sat quietly in the woods with me.

The kind that didn't rush a mountain view or casually stroll past a tree full of wisdom. 

Well except for that time I went parasailing with the strange man with serious body odor. 

He saw one. 

But I figure he didn't notice, he probably gets a lot of people gasping for breath. 

I'm one of those people for whom words never fail.

It's my curse. 

And my blessing. 

But every once in awhile they do. 

In these moments they always do. 

"Like...... I don't know a nature panic attack" I said, after she saw one for the first time. 

The tears were still streaming. My face red. My heart pounding out of my chest and the overwhelming desire to climb into the very earth itself. 

To wrap myself in that mountain. That tree. The way the water pierced that rock. The green folding itself onto the granite. 

Whatever the view. 

When the earth speaks it takes my breath away. 

And my words. 

Instead there are a lot of gutteral sounds. 

Now do you see why I am careful with my company? 

She laughed. 

She gave it it's own name.  

The only one we use now. 

Probably not fitting for print. 

But they understood it.

Kindred spirits always do. 

The first time I read Anne of Green Gables I wanted to run like the wind all the way to Prince Edward Island and sit at the feet of Lucy Maude Montgomery and say 

"I didn't know. I didn't know anyone could put into words the earth. I didn't know anyone could say what I felt. "

It has happened many times since. 

John Muir

Henry David Thoreau 

That article about the national parks that I tore out of the drs office magazine. 

But never have I heard it put into a word, this feeling. 

Until last week. 

I read it. 

I read it again.

And again. 

I couldn't believe it. 

There is it was. 

So perfectly written I was instantly filled with overwhelming envy. 

I coveted those words. 

I wanted to steal them for my own. 

The author had snuck into my mind and read my thoughts and put them into print and then defined them with a simple word. 

"When the earth strikes the senses in such a way that it renders one speechless and can only be attributed to a higher power, the only word that can be uttered is sublime."

At least that is what I think it said. 

I was on Percocet at the time. 

But it burrowed into my heart and spoke truth. 

I wish I had those words now. 

Percocet is mind thief. 

I wish I could remember the magazine. 

Backpacker I think? 

Sunset? 

I wish I knew the author. 

I would thank her. 

She gave me a gift.

A word. 

And companionship.

The gift of knowing someone out there is sitting on the dirt with tears in their eyes in a full blown you know what. 

Fishing for compliments.......

I must have spent 3 hours trying to catch that fish. 

Or maybe 45 min. 

Either way it was long. 

And I was really trying. 

This wasn't any half baked effort. 

On my knees, shorts and tee shirt wet, ball cap dripping with lake water as I wedged my shoulder under the rock to get my little red bucket into the crack where he had dissapeared. 

Have you ever caught a fish with a bucket?

Yeah me either. 

I think there is a reason that's not a thing. 

But see I didn't plan on fishing that day. 

He saw the fish. 

He wanted to see it again. 

So I grabbed the bucket and went fishing. 

It was somewhere in this moment of straining that I noticed them. 

Two teenage girls on large rock a few feet from me taking selfies. 

They looked amazing. 

The way teenage girls do to middle aged mothers of 5 babies who consistently have to readjust their postpartum belly either over or under the waistband of their shorts. 

Their stomachs were still glued on. 

They hadn't fallen out yet. 

They had also clearly planned their beach outfits. 

Hipster cool like they had just rolled out of bed that way. 

After watching them for a few minutes I decided that that was the theme they were going for in these selfies. 

#justrolledoutofbedandlandedonthisrockinthemiddleoflaketahoelookinglikeamodelinthisposeididntspendallweekperfectinginthemirror

You might think I sound like a creeper right now but I assure you, they never saw me. 

I'm positive. 

They couldn't stop looking at themselves and critiquing every last flawless inch. 

They posed. 

And reposed. 

And reposed. 

And reposed. 

And after about 20 min they got the perfect spontaneous shot they were looking for and they left. 

And by left I mean went back to the beach to look at their pictures. 

You know the ones of them enjoying the beauty of the lake. 

Despite the judgmental tone of my voice I promise I have been there. 

That girl on the rock taking a picture and hating it and retaking it. 

Which is actually more embarrassing because I'm not 15. 

In all honesty I actually pride myself on being the kind of friend that will spend as much time as needed to get a good picture for someone. 

That's just what a good girlfriend does. 

But in that moment I had an epiphany. 

A small half wet mid fish catching view of the selfie. 

It's so self obsessed. 

(Stick with me here and save your slow on the uptake comments)

I looked down at my wet stretched out shirt only half covering my swimsuit that was working overtime holding up my saggy mom boobs. 

I hadn't noticed my stomach pooching out over my shorts because I was so busy straining to get that fish that I couldn't suck in. 

I hadn't noticed. 

I hadn't noticed. 

Because he was laughing and saying "fishy" and I was laughing and not thinking about anything but getting that fish. 

I was not conscious of myself because I was thinking about him. 

Which makes it really easy not to be self concious of my body. 

Consciousness is funny that way. 

Vanity had swept into view and selfishly robbed me of a refreshing moment of life at it's purest and truest form. 

A baby in love with his mother. 

A mother in love with her baby. 

Focused only out. 

On each other. 

And one stinkingly evasive fish. 

I looked up. 

The earth got it. 

The Earth always gets it. 

The lake and the sky and the trees giving beauty freely. 

Their exsistence dedicated to the gift of living for others. 

They don't admire their own branches or bend towards the water to catch a glimpse and critize their sparse and bare patches.

They reach high towards the heavens, spread their limbs and push their deep blue waters high onto the shore across the toes of a laughing baby. 

And it makes them happy. 

Cheers to moments in motherhood where we can get out of our own heads. 

Where we stop over thinking. 

Where we forget about appearances. 

Where we look out and not down. 

Less about how it looks and more about how it is. 

The pictures may not be as good but the memories are purerer. 

And for the record I never did catch that fish but I did slip on a rock. 

Into the water. 

Which made him laugh. 

And made me feel amazing. 

Hello old friend……..

The clouds were in fine form today.
They were in a mood.
Uncontent to lay casually in the sky, they billowed and pushed.
I liked the fight in them.
They came roaring across the sky, a worthy opponent for that blazing hot afternoon sun.
Within minutes they tempered her.
Blocked her intensity, and mercifully sent rain pouring onto our anxious skin.
It made me feel alive.
Thunderstorms always do.
It made me want to run through the grassy meadow.
Arms flung, legs uncontrolled.
It made me want to sing really loud.
A hymn……maybe some vintage dixie chicks.
It could go either way.
It made me want to write.

First things first.
Collect wet muddy children.
Throw them in car.
Drive.
Unload wet muddy children.
Wash them.
Feed them.
Try to ignore the fighting over the toothpaste.
Give up and try to referee fighting over the toothpaste.
Send them to bed.
Try to remember feeling alive.
Thunderstorm…….singing……trees…..mountains.
Send them to bed.
Throw water on your face.
Take off your ball cap.
Realize you need a whole lot more water.
Take a shower.
Send them to bed.
Tell yourself you need to write.
Remember your broken computer and the reason why you don't anymore.
Find your phone.
Cut yourself on its broken in a million places screen.
Open your email.
See your half composed unsent email.
Remember that you are supposed to be in charge of the family reunion in 2 weeks.
Wish you lived in a tree.
In that forest.
Where the clouds are rushing and alive.
And you were too.
Less than 5 hours ago.
Intellectual death comes fast.

Life moves as quick as a summer storm.
Racing across the sky and changing the landscape.
I have been remiss at capturing it.
Too many excuses.
Social media is a mirage that tricks you into believing you are capturing it.
The small moments.
But the lack of words, real thought, deep and not always pretty.
It builds up and starts to clog the cathartic outlet, the words are forced to climb on top of each other until they are so crowded they make no sense.
And you find yourself holding a pair of matching socks and staring at the pile for a looong time searching for the other match,
The third one.
You know, the one that doesn't exist.
Intellectual death comes fast.

Which is why we must run in the thunderstorm.
Pee in the woods.
Thrust my feet in the creek.
Squeeze my baby's thighs.
And belly.
Talk with my children about the way the trees bend and twist.
Sing their favorite Bear song in the car up the mountain and down.
Dive off the paddle board deep into the clear cold healing waters of Tahoe and flip and twist like a insane mermaid.
And feel it.
All of it.
And for heavens sake find a keyboard and write it.
All of it.
Write it before it rolls by and the landscape changes.
Before your babies thunder past you, full speed into life and hope you're capturing their memories too.
Children are a little lazy and self-centered that way.
Moments.
Like a pile on the floor.
That must be carefully swept up, picked through, organized and recorded.
For they will come back and ask you what you did with them.
Where you put them.
They always do.
And I better know.
Or that's going to be one stinking huge pile of mismatched socks to sort through.
And we all know how good I am at that.
Pen up Mama,
we got some work to do.

The trees are talking………..

I can't even remember the first time I 

heard it.

Felt it.

I must have been small. 

All my life the trees have spoken to me. 

I was born loving them. 

I love them because they make me feel something.

People like things that make them feel. 

A thousand conversations.
Hushed and sacred.
It begins the same way. Everytime. 

A rushing feeling. 
Through my heart and into my ears.
A lump in my throat.
Breathing becomes harder.
There's usually tears.
"Hello, how are you?'
My answer is always the same.
"I didn't know until you asked."

And suddenly I have a million thoughts.
Things I want to ask.
Unresolved feelings.
Questionable motives.
Unmet validation.
Desire for goodness desperately out of reach.

We lay side by side on the earth.
Pushing our roots deeper.
Feeling the living breathing soil beneath us.
It is a quiet conversation.
Peaceful.
We never interrupt each other.
I close my eyes and pull the sunshine over me so that it covers both my feet and my head.
It resists but then gives way and covers me completely.
And then some.
Even more than I asked for.
I smile.
The leaves rustle.
We agree to meet again.
We hug like good friends do.
"Thank you" I say.
"Oh that isn't necessary"
"My mother would disagree" I laugh.
You never ignore a gift.

My grandmother was a tree talker.
We liked to wander together until we came to a spot that invited us to sit and stretch our legs.
Demanded it really.
She had a dancing laugh.
And a peaceful demeanor that brought the trees crowding around us, clamoring and excited.
We often talked through them.
To each other.
She smiled at me.
It made me feel worthy of the sacred moment we shared.
She was never rushed.
I loved her.
I love her forever.

Last week the trees stopped talking to me.
They ignored me.
The earth was silent.
My mind blank.
It was my fault.
There were too many other voices in my head.
Laziness on my part not weeding them out.
I had to turn them off.
Walk away.
Away into the woods.

It was a day of contradiction.
The air was warm and full of spring.
The ground was cold and snowy, buried in winter and unresponsive.
My feet quickly became cold and numb.

(Why didn't I wear boots?)
But I didn't care because my heart finally wasn't.
It could feel again.
It was quiet and open.
And I could hear them.
They didn't even get mad at me.
Despite my superficial distraction with unnecessary relationships.
I came back to feel centered.
And instead of commenting on it, the earth gently pushed me upright.
And trees said "Hello, how are you?"
And I answered,
"I didn't even know until you asked."

My way or the highway.......

I once told him that deep down I lacked charity. 

I told him in a hushed tone. 

The kind of tone you use when something is a secret.

Or when something is true. 

But makes you look bad. 

I thought he would tell me he did too.

Or that I was cute. 

Or that I had other things going for me so it didn't matter. 

He didn't. 

He said "yeah I'd work on that, it seems like a big one."

I was born naturally selfish. 

Not everyone is. 

Some people just have a gift for noticing others. Their feelings. Their needs. 

They don't have to work at it. 

They just have it. 

It's a spiritual gift. 

And bravo for them. 

But I don't think they should get a whole lotta credit for it. 

That should be reserved for selfish people like me. 

People who really have to dig deep and make a choice to care more about others. 

It's such a harder position to be in. To be something you're not naturally inclined to be. 

We are the ones who should get the real credit. Those that have to painfully try to be what others already are. 

Does that seem selfish?

Are you suprised?

I have a deep conviction of Christ-like charity. 

Happiness comes from loving others more than yourself. 

I know. 

I've felt it. 

Yet I still have to get up everyday and fight my natural man to choose to live this way. 

It still doesn't come easy. 

I mess up a lot. 

It's hard to get outside ourselves. 

It's hard to not view things from our own lens. 

It takes effort to see the world from anothers perspective. 

We see it so naturally from our own. 

It takes a lot of selflessness to recognize that we may not have all the answers.

That our way is not always the best or only way.

I've never understood mommy wars. 

It seems ridiculous to me to shoot at someone on the same team. 

Someone who is in the trenches with you. 

Fighting the same fight. 

Mothers above all need charity.

Understanding. 

Support and love for each other. 

Selfishly we want to defend how we do it. 

Most of the time to convince ourselves  that we are doing it right despite our deep feelings of inadequacy. 

If you're wrong then I'm not. 

A desire to compete in a competition that doesn't even exist. 

It seems awfully stupid. 

We forget that we are fighting individual battles in a collective war. 

It is pure arrogance to think we have all the answers. 

Or even understand someone else's fight. 

I was discussing this concept with my Sunday school class last week. 

The arrogance of saying our way is the only way. 

We have not earned that right.

Only One has. 

He is the only one in the history of the world that has paid the price to claim the ownership of a perfect way. 

He can promise it because He provided it. 

No one else can. 

No one else paid that price. 

No one. 

They can give advice. Opinions. Insights. 

But not doctrine.

Not perfect doctrine. 

He paved the only path. 

He asked us to walk it. 

And to love each other. 

Selflessly. 

To be compassionate and humble and accepting. 

To lift each other. 

Not to our way. 

But to His. 

That takes charity. 

Sometimes it takes keeping our mouths shut. 

Sometimes it takes opening our mouths in kindness. 

Caring more about others happiness.

And feelings. 

I'm in the fake it till you make it camp. 

Because I love Him. 

And I hold out hope that one day it will become second nature. 

Heaven help me. 

Scars.......

Why is it when your body is healing your mind becomes.....

blanker?....

dumber?...

.........just me?......

I need to write before I forget how. 

It might be too late. 

I've had a couple long weeks on the couch recovering from my emergency spinal cord surgery. 

It's made me soft. 

And not just around the middle. 

My brain feels muddy. 

Extended couch laying makes you start to forget who you are......

Do I know how to run?

When did I have all these children?

What color is my hair when it's washed?

Atrophy amnesia. 

A reacquaintence was in order.

(And a shower)

I wasn't exactly the same person I was just a few weeks before. 

Experience changes us.

Trials change us. 

Little by little. 

At least it should. 

Life should change us. 

It should soften us.

Humble us. 

Deepen our convictions. 

Cause us to think better of others. 

Less of ourselves. 

Have you ever ran into someone you hadn't seen since high school? 

Has that ever happened to you while half naked packed in ice in a hospital room?

Yeah me too. 

I was on some serious morphine at the time.

He walked in and introduced himself and I said "oh I know you! We went to high school together!"

He said "uh I don't think so"

To which I replied " sure we did...Davis High?........but imagine me not packed in ice, I wasn't then."

My sister just sat and horrifyingly watched this awkwardness. 

At this point I told him my maiden name and we shared some small talk. 

Morphine small talk. 

Which is extra awesome. 

No longer medicated the whole thing makes me laugh.

And think. 

Of course he didn't know me. 

And I didn't know him. 

Maybe a little name recognition, but I mean it was high school.

How much life has happened since then? 

Real life.

People and struggles and accomplishments and dissapointments. 

Even my dear high school girlfriends, with whom I've never lost touch, are different people. 

Thankfully so. 

The girls I liked have become women I love. 

They are deeper, with so much more substance. 

The issues in our lives are less superficial. The conversations are more meaningful. 

What a wonderful phenonmenon!

People change. 

And grow.

They get more interesting. 

Wiser. 

I don't know how you were in high school but I'd like to believe I "get it" more than I did then. 

If I don't something has gone terribly wrong. 

I get that "it" isn't a competition. 

Life.

I get that people connect with other people for a reason.

Lives intersect for a purpose. 

Kindred spirits are real. 

Social status cliques are not. 

And kindness trumps everything.

Everything. 

Life has changed me. 

I see the world through the lens of a mother. 

Talk about perspective. 

Bringing a new life into this world. 

That changes you. 

Perhaps the hardest thing in the world is getting to a point where you see those years for what they were.......and have to  watch your child head straight into the thick of it. 

Everything in you wants to just "get it" for them. 

Push your wisdom and hind sight on them like a warm heavy coat that will protect them from all the hurt. 

And cold. 

But it feels uncomfortable to them.

They don't like the style. 

It's too big. 

It drowns them. 

You don't understand why they have to get their own coat. 

Why you can't just give them yours?

Experience changes us.

We have to walk through it in order for that to happen. 

Life has to happen. 

So that we can say "I'm different than I was then. I'm better. I'm not the same."

My girl is turning 11. 

There is so much goodness in this world.

I want her to see it. 

There is so much pain. 

And loneliness. 

And stupidity over things that seem to matter. But don't. 

I want her to see past it. 

I want to keep her from it.

But she pushes it away when I try to offer her my coat. 

She might listen to my wisdom but she wants her own. 

So I pray. 

And hug her. 

And try to throw little pieces of fabric at her everyday. 

Pieces that might make it easier to make her own coat. 

"Be kind"

"Everyone needs a friend"

"Don't be afraid to be different"

"Popular and pretty are no match for kind and selfless"

"Pray"

"Pray"

"Pray"

"God is real"

"Jesus Christ lives"

"You are a force for good"

I wish I could walk it for her.

For all of them. 

Knowing what I know now. 

I feel like I could rock it. 

But I think I thought that then. 

And I so awkwardly stumbled through it. 

I know that now. 

Knowing yourself takes time. 

And consistent quiet rendezvous. 

Scars tell stories. 

And not just awkward morphine encounters. 

They tell stories of change. 

Mine was an increase of compassion for pain. 

And those who have to live with it. 

It was a hard one. 

But my coat is warmer for it. 

My funny foreign friend

He is my first baby to suck his thumb. 

He loves his monkey blankey. 

It took him forever to walk. 

We think he might speak French. 

Or German. 

My last baby. 

He is by far my most babyish baby. 

He loves he to be snuggled, rocked and carried around. 

He is huge. 

He just doesn't know it. 

His idea of a good time is laying in my arms sucking his thumb and poking my face until I sing to him. 

Turns out my idea of a good time is the same thing. 

But sometimes I have to run away from him because my family's idea of a good time is having dinner and clean laundry to wear. 

So I hide. 

And try to get things done. 

He always finds me. 

He peeks around the corner and babbles (Italian maybe?) and smiles at me. 

A smile like he hasn't seen me in years. 

He toddles over and lays on my lap, pops his thumb in and looks up at me. 

Pure love. 

Clean clothes are overrated. 

I have seen babies grow up before. 

But I shudder to think that will happen to him. 

He is too rolly. And giggly. And chubby. And cuddly. And desperately needy. And always hungry. 

His cheeks are pudding filled pillows.

He doesn't care how long and hard you kiss them.

He seems to understand they serve a higher purpose. 

He's so chill. 

He softens the heart of every member of this tribe. 

What does one do without a baby? 

I think a part of my heart will close up. 

Close around the sounds, the smells and the feelings of babyhood. 

Tuck them away. 

For they are too sacred to leave out on the table. 

What does one do without a baby?

Without that simplistic sweetness. 

Wide eyed curiosity. 

Wet drooling kisses.

What will I do with my arms?

What does one do without a baby?

I really don't know. 

Tonight I gaze down into his crib and watch him sleep. 

And tomorrow I will squeeze his little footie pajama guts out. 

And wrap his chubby body around my face like a scarf. 

And ponder that question another day.