Why I Love to Travel

I believe in the old cliche, "absence makes the heart grow fonder." I also like the one that claims "there's no place like home." Often when I leave and eventually return, I am reminded of these trite but apt phrases.

I've been gone twelve days. I love leaving. Travel is my escape, my soul food, my badge. I travel well: I pack light, I travel inexpensively, I am not afraid of place or people or difference, I embrace adventure. I take any and every opportunity I can to go.

I also love home, but like many I rarely focus on what I like about it. In fact, I am more likely to complain about small town politics and people, to disparage my limited shopping and dining options, to complain about the cultural and racial homogeneity. I even tire of the routine, the same geography, people, and pedantic pace.

Not surprisingly, though, when I'm away, I'm reminded of all I love about home: familiarity, security, freedom, simplicity, connectedness. I also in a strange way recommit to the people I love: I miss sleeping next to my husband, even though he occasionally keeps me up with his snoring (he vehemently denies this); I miss fixing meals in my kitchen even though it means I will have to clean and do dishes--a job which I despise; I miss watching television with the family, even though it means I won't have control of the remote. I miss the comfort of consistency.

As I journey home from this particular adventure, I recognize the familiar excitement of return, and it dawns on me travel is good for me--my soul, my relationships, my happiness. My heart delights as I embrace opportunities for enlightenment, exploration, and growth, but as I return it also rejoices in the idea of home and rest and familiar.

And now that I am home, wrapped in the comfort that is my life, I'm already plotting my next adventure, my next opportunity to leave and return.

Written 15 September 2015

Coming Clean on the Santa Thing

A colleague with a young son asked me this week how old my kids were when we came clean on the Santa thing. I had to think about it.

Meg, the ever-thinking and slightly suspicious child, was in second grade when we had to modify the Santa story. She had had a large Christmas, while one of her friends had had a much smaller Christmas. Late Christmas Day, after making the rounds and comparing the loot, she stated with a questioning tone, "I got a lot of stuff cuz I was so good this year, right?" Without even thinking, I mumbled yes, that was true. Then I watched as she knit her little eyebrows into a perplexed, sad expression and replied "so (unnamed girl) wasn't very good, so she didn't get very much." Her concern and her critical thinking skills stopped me dead in my tracks.

I thought for a moment and then knelt down so we were at eye level; I gave her an impromptu explanation about parents having to send money to Santa which meant the size of Christmas was really contingent upon how much money parents sent. I explained that we had fewer children, and so we could probably afford to send a bit more than some of her friend's parents could--you know, a lesson on economics. She accepted that, but I think it modified her belief. I don't remember having another conversation with her about Santa, but I think when her friends started questioning, she already knew. She did write a great story that year, though, about Santa vacationing in Hawaii after Christmas because he had so much money. She illustrated it with a wonderful picture of Santa dominating a huge wave in swim trunks, a Hawaiian print shirt, and a slightly askew Santa hat.

Seth's discovery was a bit more traumatic. He is also a thinker, but he has always wanted to stay young. He was in fifth grade when we decided that we were going to Hawaii for Christmas. We were tired of spending money just to spend. Our kids had everything they wanted and needed, so rather than buy gifts we decided we would make memories. I know the kids at school had been talking about Santa for a couple of years, but Seth had consciously chosen to continue in belief. When we announced our trip plans, Seth was immediately concerned about the trip because we wouldn't be home for Christmas. He was worried about how Santa would find us. We sat him down and told him he was old enough to know the truth. We explained that rather than toys, we were gifting travel, and that he ought not to expect gifts that year.

I thought he took it well. No tears. No anger. Just simple resignation. We had a great trip and nothing more was said . . . until Easter. I had been shopping and picked up some Easter candy. When I got home, I only halfheartedly hid the treats since, I thought, we were finished with the charades. After school a day or two later, I heard him rummaging through the closet for food. I heard the Easter candy bag rustle and so I hollered, "stay out of that. It's for Easter." He walked in with the most dejected look I had ever seen and a tear was forming in the corner of his eye. He could barely get out his indignation: "so, you're telling me the Easter Bunny isn't real either?" I could barely contain laughter as I apologized for the clumsy revelation.

Santa is an interesting tradition--a tradition that some people find harmful, but one that I like. Even though the shattering of the myth is sometimes traumatic and even though Santa sometimes detracts from the celebration of Christ, I believe the myth is worth transmitting. The idea that someone has that kind of love for children, the notion that children are accountable in some small way for their behavior (even if it promotes a capitalist reward system), and the magic of the imaginary are ideals worth promoting. Perhaps that imaginative play is in some cases psychologically beneficial in childhood development. It was for me and mine. And besides that, I kind of liked my turn playing Santa in the production that is Christmas.

Written 15 December 2015

Santa, Mrs. Claus, and at least one Elf might be related to me!

Me and (dare I say?) the "F-word"

One of my first gender memories occurred when I was about 7 years old. My parents had college friends that lived in Heber City and ran a small hotel. As I remember, Red and Petra were their names. I was intrigued by them. As a red-head myself, I couldn't imagine someone naming their red-headed kid Red; Petra was from Germany and sported a strong accent and hair-do that looked something akin to a bird's nest perched on top of her head. Sometimes I just stared at it, trying to imagine what might be living in there.

Red and Petra had a son a year older than me. I can't remember his name, but I do remember that we had the same birthday and that when we discovered this, he announced loudly and proudly that if we got married, I would have to make two birthday cakes....every year. I was young, but I remember feeling indignant about the comment--obviously promlatic since I still remember it. Perhaps I was upset by the idea that I would need to make my own cake on my own birthday, but the way I remember it I was upset by the idea that baking would be my job. A woman's job,

I felt similar feelings several times as I grew up. In fact, when I got married and was counseled, among other things, to submit to my husband, I remember confidently thinking that did not apply to me and quickly rejecting the idea. I'm sure Mitch has wished on more than one occasion that submit were a skill I possessed.

I finally came across a framework for these feelings when I innocently enrolled in a "feminism" course while I was in graduate school. I spent a semester studying feminism and feminist texts from an intellectual and historical perspective. Mitch took the class vicariously (whether he wanted to or not). I shared with him most of what I learned and felt over the course of the semester. He was a good sport, always willing to listen and offer support.  At the end of the semester, he pronounced that he felt so "liberated" as a result of this course. I was immediately defensive.  In fact, I lectured him in a loud voice that this course was about centuries of oppression towards women and that I couldn't believe he was somehow making it about him. So like a man, I remember thinking.

After I calmed down and realized I needed to mend hurt feelings, I asked him what he meant by that comment. He told me in all seriousness that he had never felt like he had a choice as to his future. As a man, he felt like he was required to get a requisite education so that he could secure a job to provide for his family. End of story. He boldly stated that he now felt like he had an option: he could stay home and raise the kids if he chose to. 

I knew at that moment that what I had been offended by so many years before was the idea of equality and choice. I had thought it wasn't fair that I had to make both cakes. And as I have matured in my thinking, I have also realized that while many inequities over the centuries have been directed towards women, those inequities also pigeonhole men. It certainly isn't fair to men that we provide gender constructs so rigid that many men feel like they have no choice about their futures.

All we really want in regards to gender issues, I believe, is choice and then subsequent respect for those choices. Choice over who we are, what we become, what will be required of us, and respect for our decisions as we do our best to live them out (consequences and all). We owe that to each other. Most importantly, we owe that to ourselves.

Written 25 October 1016

I Need a Beach!

I'm lying on the beach listening to the waves, soaking up heat, watching surfers battle their competition with occasional success, enjoying families as they play and bond and laugh. As I burrow my toes deep enough into the sand to feel coolness, I soak it all in and breathe. I am truly relaxed.

I find myself thinking everyone needs a beach, that, in fact, every state should have its own beach within a short and easy drive--at least the state that I live in.  I grumble to myself that a ten-hour drive should not be requisite to this feeling.

But I immediately talk myself out of such nonsense. I don't live in Southern California for a reason. Not everything about the locale elicits these same feelings of fondness. I am not a fan of traffic, the sheer numbers of people overwhelm me, the high crime rate and high natural disaster rate (I know this from the media) alarm me. Those things stress me out. When I visit Southern California, it is actually only on the beach that I feel relaxed, and even then not always. Sometimes the trained lifeguard that is me feels obsessive about the wave or the current or the negligent parent.

And then, as I think this through further, I realize there are plenty of places at home that provide a similar kind of relaxation: a canyon drive, that spot on the couch with a book or an iPad or a remote in my hand, an unscripted conversation and long walk with a friend.

As I lounge on the beach in my relaxed and contemplative state, I am left to conclude that it isn't necessarily the location that is truly important. The essential awareness is knowing ourselves well enough to orchestrate relaxation when we need it.  Simply knowing you need a beach is sometimes the equivalent of finding one.

Written 11 October 2015

Language Barriers

I am watching my sister teach a machine quilting class to seven Russian women, none of whom speak English. Likewise, she speaks no Russian. There is an interpreter, but even with her attempts to relay language there is chaos.

The women know the basics of the machine--sort of. Even while she sets up, though, there are many questions and multiple camera phones capture her every move.

She has no choice but to resort to pantomime. I detect some frustration, but only because I know her so well. The women just see a smile and patience.

While watching, I am also reading an email from my son, Seth. He has been in Korea one week after studying the language intensively for 9 weeks. It was not enough. He can understand very little and communicate even less. I sense in his emails a bit of frustration, although he doesn't admit it. I just know him.

I am reminded of the many times I have traveled and struggled communicating. Even now, I'm sitting in the quilt shop contemplating (writing about) my sister's struggle rather than venturing out in the city to encounter my own communication problems. I will tomorrow and the women will be very impressed by my independence and adventuresome spirit, but today I am postponing my own communication difficulties: how do I get to this place? How do I get back to my hotel? How much? Where am I? Which train?

Usually, a lack of communication is frustrating. Sometimes, though, it is enlightening. Funny how it stretches us. Even with the language difference and cultural difference, this group of women is laughing, smiling, learning, quilting, and growing. They are understanding...at least something. They are asking her to pose for pictures; they are nodding assent; they too are pantomiming. Communication, although fragmented and slow, is happening.

Language barriers naturally complicate communication, but sometimes we struggle communicating even when we speak the same language. Misunderstandings are more nuanced. We respond to tone, we are impacted by what is not said; we worry about intention and innuendo and feelings (usually our own).

Interestingly, much of this doesn't happen when there is a language barrier. We celebrate even the simplest communication. As I watch the quilting women "talk" and celebrate their success, I am struck by the idea that we ought to replicate this celebration even when speaking the same language. Perhaps if we celebrated communication, miscommunication would diminish. Perhaps if we paid more attention to when we got it right, rather than when we got it wrong, we would get more right. Perhaps we should take more joy in the simplicity of communication rather than getting bogged down by the complexity of language. Perhaps.

I will celebrate our success in effectively negotiating a price for these fashionable items!

Written 22 September 2015

To list? Or not?

It has become quite the trend to blog about lists (yep, this is me following that trend): 10 things to do (or never do); 10 signs of happiness (or unhappiness); 10 signs your spouse is cheating...

At least weekly--and I would surmise even more often than that--my social media threads suggest I read an article filled with numbered strategies on how to be better or happier or skinnier or more successful. Sometimes I read them; usually I do not.

Today my feed advertised an article, "10 Things Confident Women Never do." I didn't read it. I did, though, as a confident woman myself, ponder what might be on the list. I admit I even spent a moment composing what I believe should undoubtedly be the first item on the list: 1) a confident woman would never read a list of things confident women never do.

Looking for confirmation that you are confident is essentially a sign of insecurity. Reading a list of things confident women never do in order to strategize about how to be more confident doesn't seem a likely way to increase confidence. In fact, the list might make the non-confident woman feel less confident as she recognizes her behaviors on the list. Seems a vicious cycle. In a conspiracy theory mode of thinking: perhaps the list is in fact designed to keep readers who can only be described as insecure feeling ...  insecure (hence, keeping the demand for such an article alive and well).

As a confident woman/person (does it really matter if I am male or female?), I don't need reassurance that I conform to a list; I don't need evidence that I am actually secure. Not reading it, I believe, is a personal declaration of confidence.

But these kinds of lists bug me for other reasons as well: when advice becomes listable, reducible to a small number of must-dos (or don'ts), it generally becomes trite and useless. Case in point: David Letterman made for a career for himself, among other things, making top ten lists, lists that by their very mention invoke laughter. Lists that are nothing more than jokes. And why are they jokes? Because his writers find funny things to say? Of course. But on a deeper level, the very concept is laughable. Part of the humor is the formulaic claim that all things are reducible, listifiable, rateable, and static.

I do believe in some lists, though. Lists that are useful, lists that remind me what to buy, lists that prioritize my tasks for the day, or even lists of things I want to accomplish in my lifetime. In fact, I could be described as an "avid lister" in this regard, but I'm not really into digesting lists that are designed to make me feel good about myself, or bad about myself, or suspicious, or superior.

My current list!

Instead, I plan to focus my reading time on reading good literature, on books that compel me or articles that truly educate me. I may eventually compose an article listing my top ten reads...but probably not since I won't likely add that to my list of things I need to do.

Written August 9, 2015

Beware the Empty Nest

We're not that great at selfies, but we are great at adventuring!

Empty nest: a reality I have dreaded the last few years, knowing full well it was approaching more quickly than I could admit or wrap my mind around. People warned me about it, made jokes about it and its impending doom, and truly made me worry.

For the last 22 years, my life has revolved around the two children that we brought into the world. We hadn't had Meg for more than just a few weeks when my husband, Mitch, came home from work and began what had become our primary conversation once she entered our lives: how is she, how well did she eat, how many diapers had I changed, how much did she sleep? For some reason, it struck both of us that particular day just how much our relationship, particularly our communication patterns, had changed.  We had been together for seven years and had forged a relationship centered on shared interests, intellectual stimulation, and adventure. In a matter of days, though, all of that had been replaced by her. And when we added Seth to the picture, we had twice as much to discuss, to worry about, to focus on.

As the kids developed interests, so did we. As the kids studied for school, so did we. As the kids struggled, celebrated, and grew, so did we. Truly, our relationship centered on our common goal of investing every ounce of energy we had into raising happy, confident, competent children. And, as a result, our conversations centered almost exclusively on them and their lives (although as they aged we talked less and less about their bowel movements). In the process, we seemed to lose the first seven years of our lives together, those interests and conversations and that relationship that had been the beginning of our journey. Perhaps we could be criticized for investing ourselves so fully into parenting that we neglected our marriage. But it was a decision mutually agreed upon and consciously made. It was a decision we had never regretted.

About a year ago, knowing this day was on the horizon, we began talking about how we would fill the holes and gaps. We talked about developing new interests, taking up new hobbies, and both of us worried, I think, about living alone in the house together. We worried about what we do without the kids, without our center.

That day is here and many people regularly ask me if I am ok—with genuine concern in their voices. I feel a bit guilty that I have nothing but happiness to report. I am sad that my children are grown and that phase of our lives is over, but unexpectedly, an empty nest has proven less difficult than I had anticipated. In fact, it has proven to be fun. We have essentially picked up where we left off and our relationship is once again our focus, except now we have adult children, our beautiful best friends, to share it with.

I now believe that empty nest is the wrong metaphor and our fears were without merit. Our lives are not empty. Our home is not empty. Our relationship is not empty. In fact, the opposite is true. Our lives are more full as our children fill their nests and share them with us. I am now thinking I should warn others that an empty nest may, in fact, be something to look forward to, that an empty nest is a just reward for those wonderfully crazy parenting years. 

Oh, and as an added bonus, we can streak from the bathroom to the bedroom worry free (you know, if we forget to take a clothing item to the shower of if we change our minds about what we want to wear)!

Written January 18, 2015

Yep, I Have Been Visited (at least Verbally) by an Angel

Soon after our arrival in Manti, we purchased an older home which, as you would expect, required a ton of work to get it into a desireable condition. We actually spent the better part of an entire year simply demolishing--Mitch would say that is a strong word, but my sense was that it was live-able when we bought it and a year later it was no longer inhabitable. Initially, I didn't have his vision. 

Soon, though, I could see it. In the dining and living rooms, my husband had torn out the false ceiling--which was covered by those school-ceiling sponge-like tiles of the 1950s--to reveal beautiful 10 foot ceilings and missing molding. He was working on replacing the molding and I was working to remove nine layers of wallpaper, a veritable history of decorator trends. I was soaking the paper with water and then scraping the walls over and over and over with a 3-inch razor-type tool. Piles of gold, baby blue, green, and rose colored torn scraps of paper fell in mounds around the walls of the room. It took weeks to remove the paper with me working hours and hours at a time.

One hot summer day, I loaded 3-year old Seth up and we went over to the house to work.  I turned on some music, picked up my tools, and quickly immersed myself in the layers of tightly glued paper; Seth got busy exploring both inside and out, which was our typical routine. We had replicated this exact process dozens of times.

I honestly do not know how much time had passed (you are welcome to launch parenting attacks at this moment), but I know I had made what I felt was good progress when suddenly I heard an audible and urgent voice order me to "find Seth"!  I stopped abruptly and began to look around. He wasn't in any of his usual hangouts, and as I searched I felt a heart-gripping sense of urgency. I went outside and ran around the house yelling his name. He was nowhere, I was panicked, and I was at a loss as to where to look. I stopped, calmed myself, and asked for guidance.

Immediately, my attention was drawn to the car. I walked toward it, not seeing my baby but feeling compelled to move in that direction; as I neared, I heard a tiny little muffled voice screaming for help. I bolted to the car and opened the door, expecting to find him. I didn't, but the voice grew louder so I flipped the trunk latch where I found a crying, sweaty, limp little boy who was heat exhausted, dehydrated, and terrified.  Had he fallen asleep or passed out, I'm not sure I would have found him in time. More importantly, had I not heard a voice, I may not have gone looking...at least not at that moment. 

That hot summer afternoon is not the only time that I have felt guided, that I have felt someone I could not see was watching, caring, and protecting. In fact, it has happened enough times that I don't question. If I'm driving down the street and feel prompted to change my intended path, I do so without question.  

Generally, I have no idea if tragedy was averted. Generally, I don't know if I was in fact inspired or just reacting to random thoughts. On that day, though, I knew--and I still believe--that someone not of this world intervened to save the life of a curious little boy who somehow found his way into the trunk, shut it, and was then helpless to save himself. I also believe that because of that voice, I was spared a lifetime of sorrow and regret and was granted a couple of decades (and counting) of happiness in my pioneer home.

Written 17 May 2015 

Tolerance: Not My Favorite Virtue

I was involved in a conversation recently about the word "tolerance."  My friend was explaining that, for her, tolerance is an essential element of being a good person, a trait which she was working on developing and improving. I must have paused, or pulled a face, or even gasped because she stopped and asked what I thought.

I told her that I struggle with the idea of tolerance, that inherent in its definition is the concept of superiority. If you tolerate someone or something, you merely put up with them or it. I tolerate freezing temperatures. I tolerate flies (okay, maybe not, since during fly season I have a fly-swatter almost permanently attached to my hand). I tolerate (at least for a short time) messes in my home that are made by other people. I tolerate loud chewing (this, admittedly, is more difficult for me and sometimes I tolerate loud chewing by leaving the room which might not actually qualify as tolerance). I don't, though, claim to tolerate people--unless, of course, something about them bothers me and I am merely putting up with their presence--but that notion doesn't seem to be a trait for which to aspire. I often feel guilt when I feel like I'm tolerating someone, and then I overcompensate with kindness. Tolerance, to me, is not a characteristic of a good person. It is rather a natural part of the human condition and in some ways requisite to survival--at least sane survival. How else would I survive freezing winters, fly-filled summers, messy rooms, and noisy eaters?

Nevertheless, people use the term regularly and generally as a positive, aspirational attribute. They tolerate others--those who believe differently, those who make choices they themselves wouldn't make, those who don't conform or live up to certain beliefs of expectations. In essence, they put up with them. Most assuredly, they judge them. Tolerance, used this way, separates people into dichotomous groups: us/them, good/bad, acceptable/unacceptable. What (and where) is the good in that?

I told my friend that I believe we misuse the term. What we usually mean when we speak of tolerance is love. Truly good people love others. They love others despite their differences. There is no us and them, only us. No judgement. No tolerance. Just love. Surely love is an essential, perhaps paramount, attribute of good people and something to which I aspire. She agreed--or at least tolerated my rant.

Gay Marriage:Hear Me Out

Just a few weeks ago, the Supreme Court ruled that gays have the right to marry in all 50 states, that marriage is a fundamental right, that love and commitment win. I admit, I celebrated. It was a landmark decision. It was a controversial decision. It was a decision a long time in the making.

At the risk of oversimplification, those opposed to the decision suggest that allowing gays to marry undermines the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman. They argue, using slippery slope logic, that allowing men to marry men or women to marry women will lead to future breakdowns in the sanctity of marriage: polygamy, bestiality, bigamy...

At the risk of oversimplification, those in favor of the decision believe that all Americans, regardless of whom they love, should have the social, financial, and political benefits of marriage. They argue that Americans, regardless of whom they love, are entitled to these basic rights. They also cite statistics (usually results from studies of heterosexual marriages) that reveal higher success rates for married couples than co-habitating couples.

I must admit, I am a bit puzzled by the controversy. I cannot understand the argument that allowing gays to marry somehow undermines or even affects in some small way my own heterosexual marriage. I don't see it. My marriage is a personal commitment made public between me and my husband, but I'm not sure it impacts society (or anyone else's marriage for that matter).

Maybe it comes down to definitions. I believe in family, and for many years we as a nation have re-made definitions of family as we have talked about and celebrated variety in family make-up. That attitude, of course, has a history of controversy as well. Traditional families, defined as husband, wife, and 2-point-something children, were for many years (and maybe in some circles still today) sacrosanct. But over time, that traditional definition of family became insufficient as a way to define the way many Americans actually live. It almost became taboo to suggest that there is only one kind of family, that those groups connected by blood and commitment and love (regardless of make up) were somehow less significant or valuable than "traditional" families.

I truly believe that this more inclusive definition of family strengthens the family unit in a way that also strengthens society. Recognizing commitment, love, choice, and responsibility in all its variety cements those values; it strengthens the value of family.

For me, marriage is fundamentally a social construct designed to support family. Family is the more significant term. Families are the bedrock of the nation; families are the fundamental unit that must be supported and celebrated. If recognizing gay marriage provides structure to solidify and strengthen some families, then it is good and necessary. Would anyone dare argue that recognizing a gay family unit would somehow weaken single-parent, traditional, multigenerational, childless, child-filled, his/her/ours, and/or adopted families? Would anyone argue today that including gays in the makeup of family would lead to crazy new definitions of family that included animals (oh wait, I think some people already claim pets as part of the family).

Marriage is a legal contract that binds two people who choose commitment; family is a group of people who choose to love and support and care for each other through the ups and downs of life. Marriage doesn't necessarily create family, and family doesn't necessarily need marriage.

If I have to choose to defend one of the two: I choose family.  I believe in family, and as such I believe in any marriage that strengthens and potentially supports family.

Written 26 July 2015

I Believe in Writing

I believe writing is therapeutic and I have proudly passed that belief and practice along to my children.

When we first moved back to Manti, we lived with my aging grandmother.  It was a blessing for both of us: she needed assistance and we needed a place to live. However, I had been away for a number of years and had missed out on some of her aging process and it was initially very difficult for me to witness the grandmother of my youth deteriorate both physically and mentally. The woman who lived next door throughout my childhood, the woman who functioned as my second mother, was slowly disappearing and being replaced by a forgetful stranger.

I struggled to know and love this new woman as I had the woman of my childhood, so I turned to writing. I wrote about the grandma of my youth who could find anything being the near opposite of this new woman who could not find anything (in fact didn't know to even look for lost items some of the time). I wrote about feeling sad when she would wait for Evan (her long deceased husband) to join her for dinner and me having to remind her over and over gain that he wouldn't be coming and why. I wrote about a woman who had a sharp sense of humor, and this new woman's efforts to retain that quick wit--often delayed, but still funny.

When she died, I was asked to represent the grandchildren as a speaker at her funeral. I happily accepted and then as I tried and tried to prepare, I regretted my answer. I couldn't center my thoughts; I didn't know what to say. My husband suggested I just read some of what I had written. So I did.

It was a hit (if I do say so myself). Several of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandma's friends asked for copies of what I had written. One cousin, obviously a believer in the notion of writing as a chore (or something you would only do as a school assignment), asked me why I wrote all that: I answered that I wrote to deal with my despair, I wrote as therapy, I wrote to cope, and I wrote to remember.

That night, my daughter disappeared to her room. Her kitten had just been killed and she was struggling with grief. When she emerged from her room, I asked what she had been up to. She said she had been writing about her kitten. Not realizing she had been shadowing me all day and listening to my conversations about my talk and about my grandma, I (sounding a bit like my cousin) asked why. She answered: you said writing made you feel better, that it was therapeutic, and so I decided to try it. I could barely mask my pride as I asked her if it worked. She nodded and grinned in affirmation.

Over the years, it seems that we (me, husband, children) have written a lot--I guess we have needed quite a bit of therapy. Without fail, writing has helped each one of us deal with trials, writing has made us more grateful, writing has provided inexpensive but effective therapy. I repeat: I believe--wholeheartedly--in the power of writing!

Red/Blue? A/B? Introvert/Extrovert?

Type A or a Type B?  Introvert or extrovert! As a society, we love to categorize people, to label and pigeonhole actions, personalities, and careers. Using these frameworks, we label ourselves, we categorize and judge others, and no doubt others also categorize and judge us.

Typically, those categorizations are based upon polar extremes and are often mutually exclusive. If you are one, then you are not the other. Those dichotomous labels, following the typical good/bad construction, carry social capital. Extroverts find praise and introverts find criticism simply due to their preference for rejuvenation. Judgments are implicit throughout these systems.

Without ever taking any real personality test, I know I'm Type-A, I'm a Red, and I'm an Extrovert. Most of those labels are positive: I'm assertive, independent, driven, social, and accomplished.  But because I'm a red, I am not a blue. As a result. I'm never labelled as a compassionate, peacemaking, or empathetic person. 

I do have natural personality traits, but I struggle with labeling that suggests those are fixed and unchanging. I am assertive, unless I'm not.  Compassion might not be my natural state, but I show compassion regularly. As an introvert, my husband might dread social events but he attends them and is often the life of the party. My son, labeled blue, is generally a peacemaker but sometimes he instigates conflict. My daughter, a type B personality, is not driven by competition, but she often wins.

At a leadership conference, I was recently introduced to another categorization system for motivation that further continues this division: intrinsic and extrinsic. Intrinsic motivation is of course privileged over extrinsic motivation. Doing something for a reward is apparently less valuable than doing something simply for the sake of doing it. I reacted the same way I always do: with skepticism (that Type-A personality of mine compels me).

Why do we feel a need to label and privilege? When I evaluate the traits that are divided up between the extremes, I see traits that are situationally dependent. Sometimes external rewards are good motivators; sometimes they aren't. In some situations, aggressiveness is valued and in others non-aggression is the more valued trait.

I decided a long time ago that I am by all accounts (and reputation) a feminist, but that I was going to more accurately label myself a humanist--again because I don't like what the label assumes. As a humanist, I am concerned about gender issues in society, but not exclusively issues tied to womanhood (as feminist might imply). I care about individuals, I believe that femininity and masculinity are equally important, and I argue both men and women can and should exhibit cross-gendered traits.

I'm tired of either/or thinking, and I believe we should rely on it less. Today, I declare myself situationally traited: I am an A and a B, a red and a blue, an introvert and an extrovert, and sometimes I'm externally motivated and other times my motivation is internal. I am all of these things ... and more ... depending on the situation.


Written June 28, 2015

Child Labor

I believe in child labor.

I am a farm girl, the oldest of five, and I have always had a fervent commitment to equal rights (even as a young girl), which meant that I had to work right along with the the men (and boys) on the farm. That commitment, I am sure, came from the reality that in our home, there was no distinction between women's work and men's work. Chores were a constant need, ever incomplete, and when they needed to be done, we all had to do them--regardless of age or gender.

One chore that everyone disliked was de-beaking turkeys. When poults were a couple of weeks old, their top beaks had to be partially removed for future protection: turkeys have a tendency to peck each other violently as they grow, to the point of death, so debeaking is a preventative and protective measure. Turkeys also subscribe to herd mentality, so when one starts pecking something, its peers join in. We needed a big crew to debeak thousands of turkeys in a single session, so my grandpa and uncles and cousins came to help. The smaller kids herded turkeys into small pens and then the debeaking crew stepped in and snipped beaks (using dog nail clippers) while the penning crew got another group ready. It was all perfectly orchestrated for maximum efficiency.

I was pretty proud when I advanced from the herding crew to the debeaking crew. My first time, though, I was a little reticent. The turkeys squirmed, the clamping down of the clippers required force as the material and shape of the beak resisted, the beaks bled, and the turkeys stumbled around dazed and confused when we set them down. I was also nervous because I had been warned repeatedly about the importance of cutting in exactly the right spot: a millimeter too short and the turkey's breathing would be stifled; a millimeter too long and it could still be used as a weapon, defying the purpose. Grandpa, the patriarch, took it upon himself to inspect each team member's accuracy, and he was not shy about pointing out error.

I got pretty fast (because I got plenty of practice) and I ended up hiring myself out to other farmers. My goal was always to be as fast and accurate as my mother, who held the title of most proficient debeaker.

Another farm chore that had to be done was feed transportation. We had an enormous ten-ton bulk truck, and when turkeys were large, we often needed to haul more than one load a day. My mom and dad didn't get off work until 5:00 pm, it took a half hour to get to the feed mill, and the feed company closed at 6:00 pm, which made it difficult for them to get and unload what they needed, especially when they needed more than one load. The minute I could legally drive, I was seen as a solution. They would send my sister and me for a load of feed after school.

I could reach the pedals if I stood, resting only about an inch of my behind on the seat. The gear shifter was as long as my leg and it required the strength of both my arms and most of my back to shift gears. The steering wheel, also enormous, required my full strength to move. Kelly provided coaching, moral support, and two extra arms for shifting as I fought with all my might to drive that beast.

My friends often laughed when they passed us. They joked at school that I was standing on the seat steering the beast while Kelly sat on the floor working the pedals. We truly were tackling a job that was physically bigger than the both of us.

While I remember complaining about how hard I had to work (a lot), I'm certain no child labor laws were violated.  I'm also certain that my mantra, "no job is too large," was nurtured in those turkey sheds and on the road behind the wheel of that big bulk truck.

My Dad

Today is Father's Day, which is the day that we as a nation collectively honor fathers.  While I often hear women speak negatively about the hype surrounding Mother's Day and its propensity to make them feel inadequate, I do believe one day a year devoted to gratitude for mothers and fathers is symbolic of the bedrock of our national values: the family.

In my religion, we teach that families were organized in the pre-existence and that we had some say in that organization. I'm certain, knowing me, that if I did have a say I carefully chose my parents, both of whom are well deserving of at least one day of celebration a year--today I devote this piece to my dad.

The Larsen Family Circa 1968

When I try to focus on specific memories with my father that are indicative of the kind of father he is and the depth of our bond, the specifics are blurred. Instead I am drawn to a general but overwhelming feeling of love, support, tenderness, and trust. I have always known I was the favorite child--the fact each of my siblings makes the same claim is indicative of the kind of father he is.

(I'm still working on a transition here, so just throw one in!)

One summer not long after Mitch and I married, we took a family trip to visit relatives in St. George. My dad and his brothers grew up on a farm and share a passion for horses. My uncle has a small horse ranch and he decided to take us on a family ride. Now, I don't like horses much; I didn't ever inherit or absorb the passion my dad and his brothers share. Perhaps that is a result of a throw we took when we were small: both of my sisters and I were riding with my father when the horse was spooked and before we knew it, we hit the ground hard, despite my father's attempts to somehow catch all three of us and soften the fall. I also knew that his attempt to protect us had actually prevented him from protecting himself as I watched him mask pain the next few days. I have been afraid of horses since that day. Consequently, I wasn't all that excited about my uncle announcing a family ride. However, I also struggle a bit with pride. I refused to voice my trepidation and somehow admit weakness or incompetence, so I jumped on a horse behind my husband (and behind the saddle).

Things were going fine until we headed up a hill. The horse we were on decided to pick up his pace and trot. The gait was bouncy enough that I was soon struggling to stay astride. Since I was seated essentially bareback behind the saddle (the widest part of the horse), I had no stirrups nor saddle horn to brace myself, so my only recourse was to wrap my arms around Mitch and hold on for dear life. Each time I came down on the horse, he took what felt like a leap and I was thrown back into the air. By the time we reached the top, my arms were wrapped around Mitch, my belly was flush against the horse's rump, and my legs were flailing behind the horse in sync with its bouncing tail. It seemed that the harder I held on, the harder the horse tried to rid himself of whatever it was bouncing up and down on his hindquarters. Needless to say, I was terrified.  When we came to a stop, my uncle asked if I was alright. I sheepishly replied that I wanted to switch horses and ride with my dad.

It is, perhaps, the biggest insult I have ever hurled at my husband, but also indicative of the trust I have in my father. I'm nearly 50 years old and still when I need support, I turn to my dad; when I need praise, I call my dad; when I need advice, I ask my dad. While I'm always grateful for my dad, Father's Day gives me a little extra push to express it, a little reminder to pause and reflect.

To celebrate this year, I plan to tell my dad how much he means to me. Afterwards, I also plan to ask for a bit of advice.

Written Father's Day 2015

Healing Miracles

I had been working full time for only a few months when I received a phone message from my two-year old son's daycare provider, Lori. There had been an accident and she was taking Seth to the doctor. Her message was a bit hysterical, but I remember feeling calm as I made arrangements for my colleague to cover my classes. I immediately drove to the doctor, arriving at the same time as Lori.  I grabbed Seth from the back seat of her car and ran in. His hand was wrapped in what had once been a clean white dish towel, now saturated with blood. I remember positioning him and his hand so that he wouldn't bleed all over me; I also remember thinking that was a strange impulse and wondered what it said about me.

While the doctor unwrapped his hand, I could hardly look. My stomach was turning and I was fighting back tears. Unwrapped, the doctor revealed that one third of Seth's pinky had been severed and was hanging only by a very small scrap of skin. Lori, in tears, told us that Seth and her son Jacob had been playing in the playhouse and that Jacob had shut the door on Seth's finger.  Seth, completely composed, corrected her: he announced, to Lori's obvious relief, that Jacob had been nowhere near the door. The wind, he said, had blown it shut.

As the doctor cleaned and stitched, I focused my attention elsewhere. I had always thought I would love being a doctor, but I knew at that moment I could never do it--at least not if the patient was my own child. Seth, on the other hand, was fully engaged, asking the doctor questions, giving him orders, and calming his mother.

Eleven stitches later, we left with instructions to prevent the loss of the finger. I drove him to father's work so Mitch could commiserate and comfort (mostly me), and then I took him home. We were at the time living with my grandmother who was in need of near constant care and so as soon as I got him comfortable, I raced upstairs to check on grandma.

When I got there, it was quiet...too quiet. The silence communicated concern and I knew immediately that something was wrong.  My first thought was laced with the fear she had wandered off, but I checked her dark bedroom anyway; it was empty. As I turned to leave, I heard a tiny whimper. I found her pinned face down on the floor between the wall and the side of her bed crying silently. I went to lift her, but she cried out in pain. It was then that I noticed her left leg was stuck between the mattress and the wooden frame. Speaking in a quiet, calming voice, I lifted the mattress in order to free her leg. I carefully helped her to the bed and saw with horror that her leg was badly misshapen. I don't know how long she had been there, but long enough to disfigure her leg.

Over the next few days, as I nursed two invalids back to health I was struck by the miraculousness of the physical body. Over the next few days, I watched in awe as two very different bodies--one very old and worn and the other very young and fresh--simultaneously healed themselves. The finger reattached, the leg straightened and strengthened, both were made whole. Modern medicine assisted the process, but I believe the body is so perfectly designed it can and often does perform miracles simply doing what it is designed to do. 

Educated by my 4 year old!

I believe childhood innocence is a beautiful and all-too-temporary glimpse of the divine.

Children have no guile, no ulterior motives, no malice. That trust, that innocence, is sadly tarnished as they grow and develop and interact with adults--who intend only to prepare them for reality, for life. But before that innocence is tarnished, it is something to behold.

When Meg was four years old, I took her and her weeks-old baby brother shopping. I had Seth in my arms, I was pushing a stroller, and I was intent on finding a deal. Meg was born capable, and so I found myself paying little attention to this curious child as I immersed myself in my quest for a bargain. She obediently followed me through Kids Gap, one hand attached either to the stroller or her brother's dangling leg. However, at one point I looked down to find she was no longer attached. In fact, she was wandering off. I panicked, sternly called her name, and was ready to scold when I realized she was very interested in something, something she had not seen before. She was so interested that she had violated my rules and had begun to follow this small woman around the store unabashedly wide-eyed and intrigued.

I was immediately embarrassed. My sweet little child was staring at difference. My innocent girl was in the process, I perceived, of making someone feel uncomfortable. I smiled at her and quietly suggested that she say hello and move on. She couldn't. She was mesmerized and speechless. This woman moved, so did Meg. This woman sorted through a rounder, Meg watched. Her curiosity was unabashedly obvious. As I watched and tried to alleviate the situation without being noticed, I felt more and more uncomfortable--to the point that I used her brother as an excuse to leave and escorted Meg out of the store. I was at that moment ashamed of my daughter and her lack of social acuity.

I was ready to lecture; I was ready to teach. Fortunately, I held my tongue and allowed her to open the dialogue, to invite my developing dissertation on manners, politeness, and difference. And she did. She began, "mom, did you see that little girl?" I nodded, waiting for her to implicate herself in judgment. Instead, she finished with what was clearly a combination of admiration and perhaps a twinge of jealously: "she had her own credit card."

I was speechless. I knew immediately that my own perceptions were flawed, that my years of education and that my commitment to celebrate and accept difference were forced in comparison to her genuine acceptance. She hadn't noticed a small person, she hadn't registered fear or discomfort; instead, she saw independence that she longed for--a child shopping on her own, free from the restrictions of an intense, overbearing, quick-to-judge mother.

All too often, we impose our own insecurities and biases on others without even registering that those are our issues, not theirs. As a literature professor, I regularly have students resist certain texts.  So often in fact that I have resorted to a beginning-of-the-semester warning: you will read difficult subject matter in this class and you should consider dropping if you don't possess the maturity to handle it! Okay, in truth I say it much more professionally, unthreateningly, and pleasantly than that, but that is what I mean. That is the message I intend to convey. When a student later comes to me and behind closed doors tells me the text is too dark, or too ugly, or too violent to read, I resist the urge to lecture, to declare that an inability to find beauty and truth in darkness is a reflection of the reader's heart...not the text.

On that shopping day, though, I had to give myself the lecture. My discomfort was mine; my tendency to look away from difference, to pretend it wasn't there, was indicative of a hypersensitivity to difference not a guileless acceptance of it. On that day, I was truly educated by my 4-year old daughter and her first encounter with difference...a little girl with her own credit card.

Written 26 April, 2016 

Faith in Doubt; Doubt in Faith

I believe in doubt. 

There, I said it. In doing so, I may in fact have opened the doors of cosmic retaliation. So far (sigh of relief), I have seen no lightning strikes nor felt any jolts of electricity; make no mistake, though, I have knocked on wood, my fingers are crossed, and my lucky rabbit-foot is poised protectively by the side of my keyboard.

I make no claims of being a religious scholar, but the religions I know of are, without exception, premised on the concept of faith.  And, as a language person, I can't help but point out that, while we don't often talk about it, faith itself is predicated upon doubt. You cannot have one without the other.  If you do, you have certitude. Certitude by definition is not faith, and faith by definition is not knowledge.

This complexity of thinking is not new. Derrida, for example, explains that translating language is incredibly complex: when looking at Plato's use of the word "pharmakon," which of course is translated as "drug," the translator then must choose between two competing, in fact polarizing, concepts.  A drug, he argues, has both the ability to cure and to poison--two extreme meanings, two binaries or opposites, and yet both contained within one word.  Rejecting the limitations of translation, Derrida suggests that the single word, pharmakon, carries both hope and despair and in so doing the word embraces simultaneously polar extremes. (I know that is a an oversimplification for you Derridian scholars.)

Language is like that:  complex, challenging, paradoxical, thought-provoking.

For me, faith is one of those terms that demands attention, but only if you allow yourself to think about it. Many of us proclaim faith. But in the simple act of merely proclaiming faith, we are also admitting doubt.  Faith by its very definition is coupled with doubt. Faith is not the quest to remove doubt. Instead, faith is the ability to accept doubt. To admit it. To choose to believe in the midst of it. Faith is the ability to believe in contradiction, to accept uncertainty.

For me, faith is the human mind's, the human heart's, acceptance and resignation of not knowing. It is the ability to hold two competing ideas in your heart and still breathe, and in some cases faith pushes those with doubt toward a search for truth.  

Perhaps faith is more honorable, more courageous, more powerful than certitude. Perhaps faith is higher order thinking. Perhaps faith, confidence, belief, and trust allow us to survive an uncertain existence amidst the certainty of doubt.

Written 29 April 2015

"Love at Home"

I grew up with my grandparents living next door which was both ideal and burdensome.  It made for an extra set of loving and protective parents, but it also added an extra regimen of rules and authority.  Instead of having grandparents that spoiled us and protected us from irrational parenting techniques (which is what I plan to do with my own grandchildren), our grandparents helped parent, discipline, and shelter us. If the parents were gone, the grandparents were sure to step in to ensure our chores were complete (to satisfaction), we were behaving properly, and that we treated each other well. They even added some of their own expectations: grandma always thought it would be nice if we did a few "extra" jobs to surprise our overworked mother, and grandpa always needed someone to go the farm and open gates and turkey feeders.

While we resented them at times, we also forged a bond, a bond so strong that we felt about our grandparents the way we did about our parents: we loved them, we feared them, but most importantly we knew them.  I knew that my grandpa could read, watch television, and sleep simultaneously.  I didn't believe it was actually possible, so I would frequently test him: inevitably, he could answer any question I asked about the television program always on in the background even though I intentionally centered my questions on information relayed at the exact moments I heard him snore, and somehow the books he read with his eyes closed were finished regularly.  I knew where grandma hid her wintergreen lozenges, her Tab (which she denied drinking), and that she took care of anyone in the community who was taken ill or suffering misfortune.

I also knew who to call when something turned up missing. Grandma was a rescuer who had a unique ability to find anything in our house.  When something was lost--a school book, a homework assignment, a new blouse, a shoe--we called upon her and she would rush over and produce the lost item.  

As we got older, we tried to assert our independence and insist we didn't need grandma or grandpa babysitting us when our parents were away. However, I'm uncertain if we actually made it through an evening alone without one of us calling for help--usually one of the younger kids complaining that the older kids were being mean or bossy (which is just not true). Generally, we older children were convinced the accusations were made up just to acquire grandma's attention. Whatever the reason, grandma would hustle over and rather than scolding, or taking sides, or separating us from each other, she would sing. As she entered the front door, she would erupt in song: "there is beauty all around, when there's love at home. There is joy in every sound, when there's love at home." Every. Single. Time.

Annoyed, we would roll our eyes, or glare at the person who had made the phone call, or immediately begin to defend ourselves. She would not take the bait. Instead, she would smile and continue in song: "Love at home.  Love at home." While singing, she would begin doing the dishes or the laundry or any number of the neglected chores in our full and busy home; generally, we ended up helping her, both out of guilt and to quiet her down. She was a master.

Grandma has been gone a long time, but I still hear her singing that song whenever I feel angry or frustrated with one of my own kids. I may in fact have sung it out loud a time or two when they argued or pulled faces at each other or expressed annoyance with life at home.

I also hear that song in the back of my head when I think about my childhood, my happy memories, my siblings, my parents, my grandparents, and our home.  Strangely, though, all these years later I can't hear that song without feeling the urge (or a push perhaps) to dust, or wash dishes, or tidy a room.

Grandma--singing to the infant version of me

My date to the daddy-daughter date (my sister took my dad)

Written April, 7, 2015