Buff and the Bronco

As part of our “farm kid training” my parents made all three children endure this thing called “Horse 4-H”.

Someday perhaps Brooke will give you her version of it because it is by far, the best. But for our purposes today I am going to steal a moment from my “little” brother Buff.

Buff rode Chief. I believe you have already met Chief, but if not here is his Bio:

Chief is 29 years old Welsh pony. His position at Appenzell farm is recession proof, even though he once bit Lindsey, ran across two hayfields with first-time-rider Brooke, and rolled in fresh horse plops ten minutes after getting bathed, shampooed, and manicured for a horse show.

His admirable qualities of: untying all varieties of boy scout knots with his lips, being able to gallop and eat alfalfa at the same time, and convincing large draft horses that he is higher in the pecking order, all make him worth keeping around.

Chief’s favorite food is whatever is growing on the other side of the fence. His best friend was a dog named Jeddie. (Who has since passed). His favorite speed is “The Nailgun Trot” and his favorite pastime is practicing ventriloquism.

Back in the day Chief and Buff were quite the pair. Buff was an adventurous horseman/ponyman and got along quite nicely (much better than his sisters) at this whole “Horse 4-H” thing. There are seven events that “Horse 4-H” kids compete in:

1. A written test. Brooke’s favorite as it didn’t involve touching a  horse.
2. Halter: This might have had a fancier name…but essentially you walk around an arena leading your horse/pony, trying not to get run over by the bigger horses, and showing off that fine shampoo you gave your horse/pony….before he rolled in horse plops.
3. Showmanship: Competitors walk, trot, and lope for a score based on how many silver inlays are in their saddle, and if they can cut as many other horses off without the judges seeing.
4. Trail Riding: A horses imagination is tested as it is required to: 1. Cross a bridge 2.  Walk past a “boogie man” and 3. Back up through a complicated course without the use of a rear-view mirror.
5. Barrel Racing: Yea yea. The best event. Run a clover around three barrels and don’t knock’em down.
6. Pole Racing: The Second best event. Run really fast weaving through poles and don’t knock’em over.
7. Wild Card Race: I can’t remember the name of this waste of time event. Essentially, you had to weave through barrels, and poles, and then finish the race by jumping an English style jump.

Buff and Chief excelled at all of them. Buff passed the written test, he kept Chief from biting the judges during Halter, he lapped all the horses in Showmanship, he tried eating the “boogie man” in Trail, and he totally rocked it in all the speed events. No, they didn’t win, but Buff would lean way forward on Chief, and would kick as hard as he could. Chief would pin his ears back, stick out his tongue and run as fast as he could. It was a little like watching a parent and a toddler race, but at least Buff and Chief thought they were going fast!

Then came that darn Wild Card Race. It was a bit confusing for a horse. Typically, western horse riders don’t run around arena’s jumping jumps, which is a good thing because, well, have you ever noticed that English saddles are missing this thing called a saddle horn? Not only that, but Chief has Small Mans Disease. He thinks he is bigger than he is. So from far away a jump looks like a little thing, but up close its like, “Whoa!”

Despite any hesitancy because of confusion, Buff had confidence in good old Chief.

Buff led Chief into the arena.
Chiefs feet were prancing and his ears were already pinned back.
The timers sat ready on either side of the finish line. The whistle blew, and they were off!

Clovering around the barrels!
Weaving through the poles!
Racing like mad to the jump!

when….

Chief pulls the park break and hoof-stops it to a halt. Buff bounces precariously in the saddle.

The crowd looked on lazily. (Who hasn’t seen a horse pull this trick?)

Buff kicked Chief as hard as he could.

Chief shakes his head.

Buff kicks again and gives Chief some more rein.

Chief stomps his feet.

And then, like it was an afterthought, Chief hurtles himself over the jump while unprepared Buff flies through the air over Chiefs head…

and lands just shy of the saddle, but on Chiefs neck. The reins have fallen. The saddle is dangling off the pony. The crowds in the stands unanimously wipe the mustard out of the corner of the mouth, crane forward with interest, and take another bite of hot dog.

Buff’s eyes widen when he realizes the closeness of the possible fates he avoided. (Landing on the horn…not so good. Landing on the ground….also, not so good).  He has now found himself uncomfortably close to being disqualified, and awkwardly dangling from a pony’s neck.  If he wanted he could have put a foot down and peddled to the finish line, but Buff is not a quitter.

So with a thematic, “Ha yah!” he patted Chiefs neck for encouragement and the two cross the finish line (eventually) looking like an inebriated donkey wearing a dangling monkey scarf.

The audience cheered as Buff slide off Chiefs neck to take a bow.

During the awards ceremony Buff was awarded an elegant white ribbon. (The nice thing about horse 4-H is that you always get a ribbon).

I have felt like this year had been the year of the unseated horseman.

I don’t have a friend,  family member, or acquaintance who hasn’t been affected in some way by our shifty economy and its clingy residue that grips our daily lives and the decisions we make financially and even creatively.  Doubt, worry, concern, stress, and fear swim a bit more freely through our minds.

I think many people feel as if they were speeding through life, weaving through the barrels and poles with ease, when all of a sudden they find themselves dangling unexpectedly from their ride.

The remedy for this problem is self prescribed and unique in every case, but perhaps we can all have the same mantra: Hold on!

And as an afterthought, my favorite saying: “The race is this step now. There is a bucket at the end, you can puke then!”

Hi. Lindsey here.

I have to clarify, because I am about to use  a camera for an example and before I go and twist the lingo I wanted to explain: I am not the photographer!!!

This is Brooke. She is the tall, redheaded, musical, motivated, entrepreneurial, skills-to-pay-the-bills, photographer. She is also my sister.

Do we look alike? Have you confused us before?

If so, I would like to point out that I do not look like her, she looks like me. (She was doing this bubble bang and hat thing and converted to my sleek and stylish ways later in life. Seriously.  I have to point that out because she is the oldest, and I got questions most my life about whether or not I was like her. No, I don’t play the piano, or sing, or take really awesome photo’s. Don’t even ask.)

Brooke.

Lindsey.

Brooke and Lindsey.

Now, lets talk habits!

Our lives are full of thousands of little habits:

Wake up: push snooze twice, roll out of bed, take a shower brush teeth…

Exercise: go to the gym, take the same class, use the same machines…

Work: Drive the same way to get there. Park in the same spot. Work on the same reports…

Family: Dinner at the same time. Mondays pasta, Tuesday’s rice, Feed the kids, clean the kitchen, read some books, watch a show…

Some habits seem so inconsequential, in fact, we hardly even notice them. (I brushed my teeth this morning….didn’t I? I don’t remember it, but it is so ingrained in me….)

Essentially we are like a camera with the settings in automatic. I am assuming most of you who come to this site know what I mean. (I’m not the camera professional, but I’ve picked up a few things from having a sister who is). This isn’t a bad thing. I mean, my camera works just fine in automatic and my life seems to be going almost decently with out messing too much with my own settings. Or is it?

Last night at a quarter to ten, I could have been found throwing my pen at the wall and yelling “AHHHHHHH” out of frustration. I have been working on this writing project for so long and it is going no where. I have seen dishes wash themselves faster.

So as not to wake my sleeping baby I retrieved the pen and started scribbling in my journal about all of my frustrations. I wanted to wrangle this problem to the ground, tie its feet together, throw my hands up in the air, and listen to the crowd cheer.

Obviously I needed to get off the horse to do this. I started looking at my life critically and with an honesty sieve so fine that what ended up in my mind were all these chunky habits that I had thought were just inconsequential: The blogs that I read that used to be useful, that are now ways that I let myself waste time; the people that I surround myself with, and how certain things they do influence me and my work because they change they way I feel about myself; the habits of organization that do or do not exist pertaining to my goal….All of these things that I do absentmindedly, as if I was shooting my life in automatic–just letting the presets have control.

The thought occurred to me as I asked myself a hard question, “Could I really be strong enough, focused enough, resolved enough, to completely edit these things out of my life?”

It would take mindfulness about my actions. It would take honestly about some of my daily habits and their actual results. If I could add more positive habits to my life and delete the negative, it would be like shooting my life in manual. I needed to change the BALANCE and let more light in. I needed to change my DEPTH OF FIELD so that my goal was the object of focus. Then, with those things in line I could have control of my final composition. I could even be artistic!

After resolving to be more mindful of the little things, I was surprised at how much closer I felt to my goal. It was a good indication, as if I knew all along that it was I who had set up some obstacles along the way and that it was I who needed to remove them.

It is empowering to have self control.

It is empowering to not leave things to chance.

It is empowering to shoot your life in manual.

*I don’t have my two photo’s to show–yet. Oh boy did I work on them. The effort, has been discouraging, self revealing, time consuming, and ultimately rewarding. Yet I have nothing to show! I am not giving up, just asking for an extension. Hopefully that gives more people time to try. In the meantime please go check out Samantha’s links to see her photo’s and give her some feedback. Here are some of my thoughts in relation to the experience:

Sunrise at Oxbow bend: courtesy of Jocilyn Corbridge

I have spent the past week living life as close as I probably ever will–to a monk.

This is all by choice, and the use of the word monk is only to point you in the general direction of what I really mean, because I cannot think of another word to describe it.  I know monks live life’s of solitude and thoughtfulness. They also shave their heads and have comfortable orange robes. I just went with the solitude and thoughtfulness.

I’ve still been a mom, but that is all. I haven’t chatted with friends or even hardly called family.  I have written love letters to my husband, who is away, but haven’t done the wifely duties of cooking, dishes, or ironing. I cleaned the kitchen and the bathrooms, but that was kind of a zen dust experience.

Instead, I’ve gone on walks just to look at quirky houses. I’ve read books. I’ve sat in a child’s tent and made Fisher Price Little People talk. I’ve gone to the beach and watched sunsets while soaking  like an olive at the bottom of a chilled Martini. I’ve sat on the beach for hours pushing sand into piles just to watch how fast the waves and a two year old can destroy evidence of any progress.

And I guess it was that–watching the sand being built up and knocked down, over, and over, that got me thinking of goals.

To best explain my sandy epiphany I want to share two of my favorite ME moments. If a genie ever gave me wishes I would wish to relive these moments. They seem so simple, but I am so attached to them.

The first involves the great peak Teewinot. It is the most dangerous peak in the Grand Teton Range, often forgotten to is more fame seeking brother, The Grand Teton.

Teewinot and I bonded, along with my friends Amberlynn and Johannes, one of the summers between high school and college graduation. The friends I hiked with, will forever be some of my favorite people, possibly because they came on some of my favorite journeys. Or possibly it is because without them, I probably would have died.

To ascend Teewinot you have to either be crazy or experienced. My friend Johannes was both. The first third of the path was steep switch backs. We started after a full work day in the blazing heat. I remember, distinctly, wondering what had ever possessed me to succumb to my peripatetic tendencies and try to conquer this wretched mountain. I felt a short relief when we crossed our last switchback, but was instantly overwhelmed at what lay ahead. The mountain loomed on, gray, rocky, and there was no trail.

Repeat. There was no trail.

We were to boulder our way up the next two-thirds of the mountain. I wanted to puke I was so exhausted.

Kind chaps– we hoped to be of the experienced rather than the crazy kind–had left rock piles as signs pointing the way. One such rock pile nearly had me killed.

We had come to a place were tidy climbing boulders had been overcome by craggy outcroppings jutting out of the mountain face. I was nominated to climb first, since the crazy expert was going to keep a visual on the mountain to guide me up.

Note: I am a terrible rock climber.

I began. Hand over hand–foot into nooks. I thanked my flexibility and fleshy muscular legs. It was moments like that it paid to have inherited my Swiss grandmother’s “sturdy” thighs. When I was halfway to the top I froze. I couldn’t see anywhere to put my foot. “Uhhhh, some help here!” I cried.

Johannes was being unnaturally quiet. “Can you put your foot over in the hole?” he asked.

“Maybe if I had a 12 inch insole!” I cried back. (And I really, cried back). My arms were shaking, my legs were shaking, and I knew in an instant, that I could not go up or down. To make matters worse, it had become apparent that this rock was not leaning towards the mountain. It was leaning away. I was chicken-fighting gravity.

(I always imagine heaven at moments like this in life, and the lame excuse I will render to my Maker for why my life was cut short.)

So while I hung there, Johannes and Amberlynn found an alternative route, hung themselves from above the rock, and “Heave-Ho-ed” me up.

The adventure did not end there.

Ten minutes later we were standing in a glacier field. A expert group, was crossing towards us wearing grippy attachments to their shoes. “That looks like a good idea….” I trailed off. Johannes, the crazy expert, was already crossing. Amberlynn and I followed. Johannes made it safely. Amberlynn and I slipped at the same time and started our first and last sledless glacier luge.

Have you seen a glacier? This isn’t your grandma’s snowy backyard. It was the size of a football field and was one big Cookies and Cream Bar of rocks and old snow that ended very near my last suicide attempt.

We were both saved, by Johannes. It was moments like that that I was glad that Johannes inherited his grandmothers exceedingly long and lanky limbs. (Even if they came with really pointy elbows).

I did not want to proceed, but then again, I didn’t want to recross the glacier field to go home. So up we went.

Up and up and up.

The mountain never ended. I never got a second wind, I never had the proper attitude adjustment, but suddenly we were there.

A sharp sphere, detritus in comparison to the rocky towers all about us, was the peak to Teewinot. You could stand on all two feet of its citadel, but I chose not to. (Why risk balancing my life in the hands of gravity again!)

Instead I sunk my legs into a secure looking crevice and gnawed on an apple like it was an edible gold medal.

Chewing would keep me from crying.

Once I got to the seeds I stopped my emotional suffering and started instead to examine the sensations of the moment:

My eyes panned into Idaho. A bucolic valley protected by the ominous spires of jagged peaks. I twisted towards the direction we had come and saw Wyoming. I recognized great lakes that looked like puddles, and hills that I knew were mountains. I felt the wind, I felt the rock, I felt the dust, and I felt the freedom.  I am struggling to explain it, but I knew myself the best in that moment– shoved into a crevice clinging to the top of the mountain with aching limbs  and an emotional heart, but feeling the sweetest cocktail of exhaustion and victory that nature had ever mixed.

The view from the top always makes the climb worth it.

_____________________________________________________________________

It was the same place, the same summer. This time I was alone.

The tourist season was waning, my friends had packed up their dorms and gone home, and I was hesitant to leave and start a different life. So I rode my bike from the hotel I worked at to a place called, “Chapel of the Sacred Heart.” The chapel is the size of a small bedroom, is wooden and simple with small pews and a large window. The real worship happens with that view.

I ditched my bike and hiked to a secluded spot intent to sit on the bank and meditate, but like occasionally happens to me in the quiet of nature, I was tempted beyond my control by the sparkling cool of the water and the secret seclusion.

So yes, I went skinny dipping. And yes, traffic was zooming above me completely unaware that I was having a much better vacation than they were.

Have you ever skinny dipped in a lake so large and cool, with the view of the sky and the mountains above you, in the perimeter, and reflecting back at you all at once?

Have you have been nature dipped in a fondue of water melted from a glacier then trickled into a recipe of rain, and fishes, and rocks, and mud?

Have you ever experienced yourself without your life accessories, without vulnerabilities, without fears, without expectations, and just felt the buoyancy of life and the freedom of the expanse?

In both instances, on the tip of Teewinot and in the drink of Jackson Lake, I allowed myself to feel small, but not overpowered. Both experiences remind me of goals:

1. Some goals are like climbing mountains: There might not be a distinct and direct path to the top, we might fight perilously and almost loose our grip, we might feel as if the task and the perils rage on and on,  but we know exactly when we get there–and nothing beats the view from the top.

2. Some goals are like skinny dipping: You will be intimidated, even shy to try it. You will feel vulnerable, you may not see the point. If you allow yourself to get in and you think too logically you will wonder, “How long should I stay? what should I be feeling? what am I supposed to be learning?”

Stop. Just experience.

There is no self reflective view from the top. The view is above you, it is around you, it is reflecting back at you, and it is–ultimately, in you.

Some goals can’t be checked off, the aren’t a destination, there is no clear beginning and clear end. Some goals are doggy paddles forward, backstrokes back, diving down, sensing and experiences. These tactile, organic experiences take a different type of goal setting.

You can and should set mountain goals, but leave some time for some swimming goals.

*Photo courtesy of Jocilyn Corbridge

* Post Edit: I dug this out of the many drafts of things I had written and hadn’t posted. It was written a couple of months ago, but it came to mind again today. Sometimes I write things that I need to reread because I should probably listen to my own advice more often. I find myself again not needing the sun to set later, but an extra shot of perspective for the future. I think the promise still applies…

Bishop Stewart had more spunk in his left index finger than most people have in their whole bodies.

This is probably why God only made him five foot four.

Like most Mormon bishops he volunteered his time, without pay, to preside over a congregation.

Unlike most Mormon bishops, he had a young family, a somewhat new career, and as previously mentioned, a lot of spunk. Which in Mormon terms, means that he didn’t fall asleep on the stand when the Stake High Counsel spoke– among many other of his quality quirks.

I wasn’t sure what to think of this spunky bishop when I first met him. At our first meeting he seemed indifferent to our formal names and started calling “Sister Jarrett”, the Sister I worked with, “J-Dog.”

The entire ward counsel sat in their ties and suits, ready for our missionary report. Without giving any indication that slang was even invited to the meeting, Bishop Stewart called on “J-Dog” to speak. I was the only one surprised by this–apparently the rest of the counsel had grown accustomed.

When Sister Jarrett was transferred and I started training Sister Spjut, he wrinkled his nose in his first attempt, “SpuJut?” and then announced that she would hereby be referred to as, “Sputnick.” (To which the Russian Sister, Sister Ignatova, exclaimed, (with her fist thrusting upward in an dangerously excited way) “I KNOW THIS WORD!!”

My initial impression of this man evolved as the weeks passed.

When the *Elders didn’t show up for a meeting and called apologetically because they were on the other side of town without transportation he taught me, “One person’s lack of planning causes another person’s emergency. Don’t make emergencies.”

This comment was said with seriousness–an effect I mentally noted especially when the consequence of these Elders for their lack of planning was to challenge them to a Sloppy Joe eating contest. Once their mouths were full Bishop Stewart quite simply called them to repentance for their ill-preparedness. He was met with a silent and an agreeable audience.

When one woman in our congregation who was experiencing very difficult times agreed to attend church more often, but confessed that she needed the money her Sunday tips gave her, our meetings with the Bishop were rescheduled for Friday’s in her section while she worked–so that we could leave a generous tip. I suspect other people in the congregation ended up eating more pancakes as well.

I overheard the sweet woman comment afterward, “She has made more money since she started keeping the Sabbath Day holy than she ever did working it…which is funny because Sunday always seemed more busy.”

I made note then from his example, that God is not unable to provide sufficient blessings to those who keep His commandments–but it never hurts to be the one to help administer those blessings.

The Thesis of what I learned from him though, came as a brief testimony in a ward welfare meeting.

At the time the congregation was weighed down with intensive needs from the leadership and the members. Not only was a lot being required of by the bishop and his counselors, but by all the presidencies in the ward. I could see the weariness in the eyes of each person in the room as tasks were delegated and dispersed.

I wondered, as I am sure many others wondered, how it could possibly all get done.

Bishop Stewart paused after delegating the tasks and shared that he had felt weighed down with all that was required of him as a father, husband, and a bishop, but that he had faith that: “When we put the Lord first in our lives, when we do what he needs us to do, no matter how great it is, he makes the sun set a little later in the day for us.

His testimony got a special file in my brain, and every now and then when I am deep cleaning the file opens with his testimony highlighted.

I believed it. I knew that he knew it. I knew it could work for me, but I never REALLY tried it.

This Sunday we had an amazing Relief Society lesson about the Atonement of Christ. The spirit spoke to my heart and humbled me. I saw the never ending spiral of need for Christ’s mercy. The more I need him, the more is expected of me, which makes me need him more. It was beautiful, but overwhelming.

Then the file folder opened and Bishop Stewart’s testimony echoed in my mind, “When we put the Lord first–he makes the sun set a little later in the day for us.”

My problem hasn’t been the sun.

My problem has been my energy.

Even I am sick of hearing myself complain about the heat, but it makes my skin constrict on my entrails and suffocates the drive and motivation right out of me. Then the  heat spurs my first trimester nausea. After a bout at the porcelain that leaves my throat aching, my face bloated and pressurized, and my heart racing, I feel ready to call it quits–RIGHT THEN AND THERE.

I also expect a lot of myself and get disappointed that so much of my energy goes to wishing I was helping others, rather than being able to do it.

But Sunday’s lesson really touched me and I began this week with more faith– that Christ would help me serve others.

Tonight as I walked and thought my prayers, I gratefully thanked Heavenly Father for the help I had gotten today. I didn’t do anything miraculous, but I made it through–and in good spirits.

I watched the sun set as I pushed Belle around the block and as I glanced at my watch I noted that the sun had set at the very same time as it did yesterday.

But I still had energy.

And I felt happy.

And I got two days worth of stuff done.

So I see why the Bishop promised, “If you put the Lord first, he will make the sun set a little later for you.”

*Elders: Male Missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. They are usually 19-27 years old. The term “Elder” is a title and doesn’t indicate that they are  “elderly” but refers to a calling within the Priesthood.

Cjane wrote this today about how being a mom is like Groundhog day.

At first, I was set to agree, but then I remembered:

Yesterday we turned our sidewalk into a zoo. The giraffe went blind (too close to the sun up there…so he has to wear glasses.)

The Elephant is going through a rebellious phase and keeps getting parts pierced.

The Octopus….Well…I distinctly remember asking, “Jace…how many legs does an Octopus have?”

He said, “I don’t know. With a name like OCTOpus its hard to remember.”

Yet this one still has only six legs!?!

And last of all, this Croc likes chap-stick about as much as Noelle does. Except she wears it instead of eating it.

Today we
a. Rehearsed, “Preschool, the Musical,” During breakfast. (Its a little ditty I am thinking about making into a film that will turn us into superstars).
b. Played “boys” (little people) in Belle’s tent).
c. Showered and sang “Santa Clause” using the shower head as a microphone.
d. Ran out in the rain with our underwear on. (Both of us were wearing underwear. I was wearing additional clothing.)
e. Practiced the alphabet while swinging in the hammock.
f. Walked to story time.
g. Ate lunch.
h. Read books in Belle’s tent.
i. Nap time.

I’m thinking the forecast for tomorrow will be different as well.

So uh, mothering is not Groundhog Day– in my opinion. You just have to be willing to put red lips on the Croc and change things up a bit.

*Previously Posted here

“You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit!”–a five year old once told me, and a seriously underpaid kindergarten teacher once told him.

Catchy isn’t it? You may want to remember it next time you are divvying out fruit snacks amongst four year old’s who only want the red ones. It is also a good mantra to sing to yourself when you are fed up with your jealousy map.

Remember the jealousy map? I needed a refresher this week. I found myself justifying, and therefore blocking myself, by blaming my inability to progress on the wretched fact: life was just not fair.

Ok, ok, ok, so maybe being jealous of someone helps me to really pinpoint a direction I should be headed in my life, but honestly–was it fair that some people had been ushered in that direction? Pampered with support and loving kindness? Given money? Given opportunities? Had more time?  Can’t I still not like them since obviously life isn’t nearly as hard for them as it is for me?

Pretend for a minute that you have thought the same thing so that I don’t feel like the only clod.

Has it ever bothered you that a camera you worked really hard for was just gifted to a friend? Has it ever just itched at those unreachable irritable places that someone got that scholarship, that opportunity, that hand up, the constant support, the financial backing, the talent that came out of no where?

(Stamp your feet and yell YEAH! with me).

Now I have riled you up and taken you back a few paces I want to share a modern dance memory with you. Before I proceed, you must know that modern dance memories are gems, so you really need to feel privileged in the next couple of moments.

Brace yourself, there will be some improvisation, but no one will be asked to pretend to be a tree.

Have I told you before that I am a dancer? Oh yea, I bring it up all the time. But did I tell you about my first run-in with modern dance? It started at a dance tryout where I was told to dance like I was “peanut butter” and then proceeded throughout my degree at BYU where I did everything from improvising for fifteen minutes only using my toes, to a painful and awkward touch improvisation where I was paired with a boy (yeck) and we had to touch each other and move together (double weird and yeck).

There was a point that the weirdness of improvisation caught on in my mind and I found myself enjoying the uncharted land of my imagination and movement. I started to see the organic truth in vulnerable moments as I danced–not trying to be right, or pretty, but purely bent on discovery.

I could stop right here and sell you all sorts of truthful propaganda about how modern dance is therapeutic, and self revealing, and spiritual, and …, but I would have to bring in refrigerator lights and neon dance pants as props and then we might all get distracted.

Instead I will tell you about a particular project we were assigned for a choreography class. We were exploring ( dancer’s don’t learn–they explore…) the fundamentals of dance: time, space, and energy.

Our teacher randomly assigned topics, and then had the gall to impose some serious restrictions! Some were limited in the space they could use, others were allowed the entirety of the room. Some were limited in body parts they were allowed to dance with. One was told she could not get off the floor. Half were told they could only move quickly, the other half were informed that they could only move slow. The restrictions were very particular for each dancer and were suspiciously catered towards our weaknesses. (Since I was always in a hurry to “be done” with performing in front of my peers I was not surprised to be told I had to dance r e a l l y slow and cover the entirety of the room.)

We were given ten minutes to “create”. That, is not a lot of time to pull something magical out of a hat. I began this project feeling overwhelmed, and slightly annoyed by my non-conformist modern dance teachers. Why couldn’t we just put on some pretty music and dance? Yet I persisted as I knew that as awkward as just standing their doing nothing would feel, the more awkward and unusual my movement was would actually earn me a better grade.

Our time to create trickled by.

We dimmed the lights and watched each creation.

A fiery folk dancer, practically famous for her Irish footwork, did an entire dance standing on one leg.

A poised ballerina, army-crawled, and crab-walked a quirky, comical solo.

I embarrassed myself. But I also accomplished said mission of dancing r e a l l y slow across the whole floor, and it was r e a l l y painful. Yet, oh so poignant.

Why? Because we had all mustered up movement that our bodies had never done before. These weren’t steps we had been taught, or routines that we had memorized.  With our limitations we found new paths. We abandoned our tried and true methods  of performing and discovered that even in our weaknesses we could create. Our professor summed up the experience. “Restrictions are Miracle Grow to creativity.”

If you are reading this you are breathing, and if you are breathing you have life, and if you have life, then you have dreams. Oh that we could all rub a lamp and have a genie appear and hand us some help on a silver platter. But a five year old told me once, and an underpaid teacher told him, “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit!”

Instead, explore the space of your restrictions. You may not have the money, but what do you have? Resources? You may not have as much time, but what do you have? Focus? You may just have things really hard, but what do you have? Strength?

Sometimes what we wish we had, what we think we need, what everyone else has, is too much. Having nothing may initially feel kind of crappy, but restrictions–and crap, are the Miracle Grow to creativity.

You’ve heard me whining about how hot it is in Hawaii.

Nod head yes.

One of my complaints has been that most clothing I have needs some sort of extra coverage somewhere. I am not just talking about modesty here. Who wants to see the deep depths of my armpits? No one.

So layering happened. Everyone thought layering was the greatest. I bought into it and bought all kinds of “layering” shirts and we lived happily ever after.

Until I realized that wearing a shirt, on top of a bra, on top of…..dedicates….just so that I could wear a shirt was dumb.

Enter these:

That I found here:

I was so excited about them I wrote a little comment on their website, and the owner actually emailed me back.

So yeah, I don’t do advertising here because advertisers prefer to advertise somewhere where the blogger can spell.

But I am someone who is a total pushover for good customer service. So here I go. I am going to go buy some of these shirts, and then, I am going to recommend them to you.

Because my pregnant belly is claustrophobic.

See, the turkey timer say's "I'm done!" This belly wants out!

Because I am tired of looking like Gus Gus when my “layering” shirts get all riled up and start wrestling each other until this happens:

uhhhh gus gus

Because these are going to make nursing easier, when that time comes.

Which reminds me of a funny story when I wore a turtle neck dress to church. In the middle of a meeting I slipped out to the very busy nursing room only to awkwardly discover I would have to lift my WHOLE DRESS to make lunch time happen. I ended up in the bathroom stall half naked, balancing a newborn, wishing that nursery kids would stop peeking through the cracks in the door.

Because I am going to pretend my abs look like this when I wear them.

This is me...probably, three weeks after baby. (Chuckle chuckle).

"Break lights"

My mother called me this week and in between some serious news, and some light chatter, she slipped in a little, “And by the way, you spelled break wrong.”

Hmmmmm. Maybe that is why I get very few comments here. People are sitting on their twitching fingers wanting to tactfully tell me that I can’t spell. Sadly, it’s funny when it is done here, but not nearly as funny when it is unintentional unintelligence.

No worries mom, friends, blog stalkers, and friends alike. Memo received!

Not only can I now spell Break, I can also spell Brake, but if you knew how my day was going you would see why break is preferable to brake anyway.

Confused?

Try on 130,000 miles on your car for size and then you tell me how your brakes are feeling. Then we will talk about struts and alignments and all that other mumbo jumbo that I don’t understand but I know means $$$$. Oh, did I mention my husband is home from work today because we only have one car that did try on 130,000 miles for size? The same husband wasn’t super excited when I told him he could borrow my stroller. (I’ve got wheels too! I just don’t have to pay insurance on them!! Ha!)

Enough about Maximus Arrilius. (That’s the car’s name BTW, but it makes him sound all muscly and strong when in reality he is probable some wrinkly old man in car years.)

Lets talk about my grammar some more.

It all started….Well, first I would like to point out I am a voracious reader. Not only do I read a lot, but I read fast. Like really fast. Which is probably why grammar doesn’t matter much to me. The words are a blur anyway…..zm zm. (That was a zoom zoom whizzing by in case you needed me to slow it down for you).

Dd yu knw tht if I lft out mst of the vwles in a sntace you wld stll be abl to read it?

So you would think with all the reading that I do I would be able to spell.

Not so.

In ninth grade I decided to write a book for my mother for Mother’s Day. It was entitled “I Survived the Ninth Grade”. It was about how…..wait for it.…I survived the ninth grade. Survived, and passed actually, which is miraculous seeing as how I spelled “gorgeous” like “gorges” all throughout the book.

Come on! Just a few vowels were missing. And it makes a lot more sense to be drop dead gorges instead of drop dead gorgeous because I am pretty sure you’re more likely to drop dead in a gorge rather than from being gorgeous.

Agreed?

Then there was that time I had just finished serving a 18 month mission. So I had been out of school–hold on let me calculate–for 18 months. I was sitting at the computer stressing out because I had to cram two semesters worth of classes into one semester all because this one boy had asked me to marry him with his next sentence being, “And then we are going to move out of state so we can put 130,000 miles on our car.”

So, in my best stressed out voice I was explaining to my family how imperative it was that I finish my schooling pronto since no other school would accept my credits. I was simultaneously doing an internet search trying to find other universities that might actually have “Ballroom Dance” as a major. Yet my search for “collage, dance, ballroom” wasn’t yielding what I wanted.
In a rage I yelled, “Education is really important to me! How the heck do you spell college?”

My parents should have staged an intervention, because they probably thought I was going to end up living in a van down by the river.

My most prize grammatical moment happened on my family blog. I had shyly posted a paragraph from a short story I was writing. This is the paragraph:

It was for that reason that he patiently dealt with the four other judges, that he spoke great elucidations to the pubic, and that he wrote meaningless propaganda in the scrolls. The time was nearing. He could almost taste it, like a bat about to feast, blind, but senses inclined towards things that others could not see.

Notice any problems with it? I didn’t either, until the eighth commenter finally pointed it out. (Thanks again Monique!)

So in summary, I would just like to thank you for sticking around even though, try as I may, I don’t always write whats right.

My mom needs an editor!

See this whale swim.

My mind has been surging forward lately.  Mentally I have broken through the dense haze that could have been the heat spell, could have been the hormones, and could have just been life.

I am seeing, enjoying, feeling, laughing more.

Somehow, my body has been left miserably behind.

Is it really possible, that I am growing something inside me? We had an ultrasound this week. The technician showed me our child’s brain.

I commented out loud, “Here I think I am just doing the dishes, and picking up toys, and yet my body is busy growing brain cells that will someday make something think and move. Whoa.”

So I am growing something. But I feel like the really sad potted basil on my back porch that I spent all summer watering, and then abandoned to this “cooler weather.” (cough cough…still 80’s).

We went for a hike today, per my request to “see the whales.” We climbed a familiar path straddling ocean views, and mountain views to get to our perch. It seemed, we weren’t the only ones with the idea. Like lemmings we herded ourselves with other hopefuls who carried camera’s, binoculars, and small children.

We walk a good clip, Jace and I. Even with Belle in the backpack and me with the baby bump we passed quite a few groups. Each surged a bit as I passed. (Can’t let a pregnant woman pass us!) I don’t know why, but I wore a shirt that said, “Army.” People couldn’t help but stare at the pregnant army.

They also stared at the girls who hiked the whole trail in bikini’s three sizes too small.

I thought of asking one of them if my stomach was as flat as theirs–you know, as a joke. But, I knew my husband would be embarrassed if I engaged them in conversation.

In the end, the crowds were bearable because the weather was so sublime. Overcast. Windy. Cool. ish.

We found a spot along the path and watched for evidence of whale play.

The impact of water on rocks, the wind through the trees, the surf, the spray–the perfect calming and relaxing combination. I tuned out tourists, pretended to watch for whales, and pressed “RECORD” in my mind. It seemed the perfect soundtrack to play back to myself when I go into labor.

“Now, why are the whales here now?” I asked.

“Its the warm calm waves. The lack of predators. It is a safe place to have their babies,” said Jace.

How fitting.

I mentally filed the audio soundtrack under “Good Birthing Conditions.”

We took our time on the way back.

I passed another pregnant woman, on her way up. She was not passing people. I smiled at her for encouragement.

The house, when we got home, was stuffy, and hot. I cringed as I opened windows. I didn’t feeling like passing people anymore.

I felt like passing out.

And that’s what I mean, about my body feeling like it is decaying–aging.

I am a twenty six year old who feels eighty. My back aches. I waddle. There is a constant throb in my ankles. Muscle fatigue. I can hardly stand feeling so …unwieldy…

Is it the dancer in me? Confined to a leaded encasement and forced to deal with the officer of gravity?

Is it because I’ve never been known as the “pretty girl” or the “smart girl” but have always seen myself as the “strong girl” ?

They do tell tales, farm girl folklore, of how I was hired by farmers to haul hay because I could load two bales at once, and if I could do it, the useless city boys, suddenly, could do it.

There was a time, I carried my backpack loaded with scriptures and faith, along with my companions backpack loaded with scriptures….and….bricks?, and while she rested on unanswered porches, I reminded myself that being built like a pack horse was a blessing.

Is it because, the next four months, and events…

-two weeks without a husband. (Japan without me. The punk).

-Dr’s visits

-Delivering a baby: finding someone to watch Belle, praying there isn’t bad traffic, praying that all goes well…

-recovery. Two kids. recovery.

-Fly 16 hours there and back to find a house. Leave Belle with someone. (ohhhh. leave Belle with someone. Can I do it?)

-Organize house. Organize life. Clean house. Pack house.

-Send car across the ocean.

-Juggle newborn and toddler without a house.

-Fly to the mainland. Fly with two kids.

-Stop. Visit family.Cram a  years worth of “I miss you’s” into three weeks. Recover. Two kids.

-Fly to “home?!?!”

-unpack house.

-Breathe.

Would not be so hard to handle if I could, see my toes? Carry the toddler? Not need a nap? Pee less then six times a night? Not feel like I am decaying? Feel strong?

Stop.

Search for file.

Play.

Wind and Waves………..

Breathe. (in….out….)

I’ll be ok as long as my body doesn’t have to move.