Thursday Inspiration

I wholeheartedly believe that love is never wasted, 

which is probably why I loved this quote when I read it a while back. 

I don't know who said it, but it resonates with me.

"don't cross oceans for people 

who wouldn't cross a puddle for you.

No, do it.

Do cross oceans for people. Love people, all people. 

No conditions attached, no wondering whether or 

not they're worthy. Cross oceans, climb mountains. 

Life and love isn't about what you gain, 

it's about what you give."

Also, Claire Elizabeth was lying down next to me in my bed this morning as I worked, 

trying hard to figure out how to snap her fingers. 

I got the pleasure of hearing her first successful snap.

"Mom, I did it!"

(#lifegoals)

I Love This

I was cleaning up my kitchen after dinner and listening to Bonnie Raitt.

(I have forgotten how much I love her Luck of the Draw album! Love!)

But anyway, had you been hanging out with me in my kitchen tonight, this is what's currently on my fridge:

a picture of my sisters and I,

a magnet quoting Winston Churchill: "If you're going through hell, keep going,"

a photo of my Grandpa Joe, 

insulin dosing charts and phone numbers for Primary Children's, 

a question from a friend, years ago, during a text conversation, that stopped me in my tracks, 

another quotation from a Christmas devotional encouraging a life lived with more love for others, 

a photo of my boys when they were not yet a year old, 

and a Fred Rogers quote that has become a favorite.

Four years ago (maybe?), I read a book called I'm Proud of You, an account of the author's friendship with the late Fred Rogers (remember Mr. Roger's Neighborhood?). 

I loved it.

And this particular quote was something that resonated deeply with me.

In fact, it has gone into my words-to-live-by category.

But, I'm gonna tell you one of my secrets.

And actually, I'd be willing to bet it's something that you -- whoever you are -- can relate to, too.

And it's this: 

I can be pretty hard on myself.

Sound familiar?

But.

It's only recently that I've started to apply those words to 
my relationship with myself.

I think I've always thought of them as a meter for interacting with others, for several reasons:

We're all learning, and none of us are doing it perfectly.

We've all lived different experiences.

Most people are carrying some hurt in their heart, and not everybody exposes that.

Some things may not make sense, we may not know, or we may not understand.

And I generally think that behaviors are indicative of things we're processing.

In other words: if we really walked a mile in someone else's shoes, we'd get it and we'd understand.

Bottom line?

We're all on this life continuum, figuring things out.

This is why understanding, kindness, compassion, and forgiveness make sense to me.

For all of these reasons.

(And, side note: If I need to look for imperfection in an individual, all I need to do is look in the mirror.)

So yeah, be kind.

For sure.

(And apologize when you're not, right?)

But, here's the thing I'm learning, and it's a total game changer: 

Being kind also means 

being kind to yourself.

And sometimes that's the hardest of all.

Sometimes being kind means sticking up for yourself.

Sometimes being kind to yourself means setting boundaries.

It means not letting others walk all over you or dictate your emotions.

Sometimes it means saying no.

Forgiving yourself.

Not expecting too much, and giving yourself a hug when you fall down.

Sometimes it means recognizing that something is so much bigger than you...and that's okay.

Just submit to it.

It doesn't mean you're a failure, or that you should be able to handle it better.

I think it's also about taking ownership for where we fall short without beating ourselves up.

It's choosing to shed shame.

It's choosing to live your life in a raw, real way, with honesty and vulnerability and beautiful imperfection.

Yup. That's pretty much it.

Be kind to everyone else.

But also?

Be kind to yourself.

And if you haven't seen this, do yourself a favor and watch it.

It is SO WORTH the 20 minutes.

Creative Play

We have been graced with some seriously gorgeous weather the last week and a half, folks.

Like, wow.

Beautiful beautiful, especially for the end of February.

And March hasn't disappointed so far.

The other day I was sitting at the kitchen table in the early afternoon.

I was writing an article for work, sitting in the sunshine as it streamed in through the window.

I stopped at one point to make a bag of popcorn and take it out to the kids who were busy outside.  

I snapped some photos, because they had created this whole shindig on the deck, and I hadn't even noticed.

And then, a while later, I snapped these photos through the window of this guy making his way around the yard on his bike.

And last week, when I went outside, I found them busy kitchening, setting up their own stations and busy creating.

And I thought about this quote by Fred Rogers that I totally love:

"Play is often talked about as if it were a relief from serious learning.

But for children, play is serious learning.

Play is really the work of childhood."

Honestly, who could give a care about school work on a day when they could be out using their minds like this---

stretching their limbs, 

being imaginative,

breathing fresh air,

soaking in sunshine?

Yes.

Play is the work of childhood.

That's their job.

MLK Day

It has been gray out for days, it seems.

Yesterday morning we sat around the breakfast table and read from Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have A Dream" speech.

Afterward, I turned on music and set them to it with paints and large sections of butcher paper, telling them I wanted them to paint something that inspired them from the speech, or something it made them think about.

Isaiah painted the Lincoln Memorial, where King delivered the speech.

Benji drew King in his sleep, having a dream of little black boys and little black girls holding hands.

Mia imagined a storefront of a cafe from the '60s where segregation was still in place.

And Claire just painted---because.

Afterward, they busied themselves with whatever they wanted to do: playing with their cousin, time with friends.

My little gal and I made a cake for MLK day: we made a chocolate layer, then rinsed out the bowl and went for another round making the vanilla layer.

After the cakes came out, two of the kids were gone playing and two were in my bed watching a movie.  It was rainy/snowy out, and I slipped outside to run.  

It was cold---but not unpleasant, quiet and peaceful.  I got wet in the rain and listened to a good tune on repeat.  So relaxing and lovely.

When I got home, I got busy making both chocolate and vanilla icing and put the cake together, topping it with crushed peanut butter cups.

After dinner, we lit tea lights in the dark and talked about using the light within us to rally for causes that are right, for things we feel passionate about.  

I told them I have no idea what is in store for them or what will happen in days ahead.  But I'm really inspired by folks like Martin that used their voices to brighten the world, to shine light on truth, to build bridges of love and not hate.

Which brings me to this, because it is along the same vein.  This quote that I read on Sunday night by the fire in the quiet keeps resurfacing in my mind:

"How are we supposed to act when we are offended, misunderstood, unfairly or unkindly treated, or sinned against?  What are we supposed to do if we are hurt by those we love, or passed over for promotion, or are falsely accused, or have our motives unfairly assailed?  Do we fight back?  Do we send in an ever-larger battalion?  Do we revert to an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, or...do we come to the realization that this finally leaves us blind and toothless?"

(Howard W. Hunter)

I love this---so much.  I love how he expresses this idea.

He also taught that "gentleness is better than brutality, that kindness is greater than coercion."

I think MLK Jr. understood this too, fighting for a cause without becoming violent.

I'm inspired by his courage, his conviction, his light.

A Good Woman

The other night I had gotten the kids in bed and really just wanted to crash.

But.

I peeled myself off my bed after getting Claire to sleep, and returned to the kitchen to clean up all the dinner stuff.

Then I got dressed, put my running shoes on, and slipped out into the night to run laps in front of my house.

I listened to this talk that was given in 2013.

Elder Christofferson quoted something that Sister Nadauld said that I have loved for years.

I still remember exactly where I was when she spoke these words for the first time.

I was in the basement at my dad's, together with members of my family.

I was sitting on the couch that was on the west wall.

I remember sizing myself up in comparison to the quote, wanting to be a good woman.

As I listened to this the other night, I found myself grateful for the reminder.

I came home, showered, and wrote it down, and it has taken residence on my fridge for now.

I believe in the power of tenderness, kindness, refinement, faith, goodness, virtue and purity.

For both women and men.

These attributes, when applied, change the world.

Broken

I had a broken kind of day today.

Feeling brokenhearted, hollow, sad and empty.

And, in addition to that, feeling not enough, in many ways.

A day where I'm not sure, in my heart, if the desires I most want will ever happen.

Maybe that sounds dramatic---but when you're low, these feelings can be overwhelming.

I can't be the only person who feels this way.

I do, today, and probably for the next while.  I don't know for how long.

So.

All I have to share is another quote by Elder Holland that I read tonight.

It's beautiful, and gives me something to hope for and to believe in when my mortal eyes can't see how it could possibly happen.

Maybe it may lift any of you who might be feeling the same way.

"...someone wrote once that God apparently loves---and turns to our benefit---broken things.  It takes broken clouds to nourish the earth, it takes broken earth to grow grain, it takes broken grain to make bread, it takes broken bread to nourish us, and so are the cycles of life.  This divine sequence is akin to the Savior's parable that no kernel of corn can grow to fruition until it is first thrown away and, in effect, lost in the earth before its bounty can come back to us. ...It may be that among all the broken things God loves, He loves a broken heart most of all.  So when our day...comes---and perhaps sorrow will come with it---be trusting and be believing.  Know that God will accept your offering and that, through the great miracle of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, He will give your heart back to you healed and whole. ...By His grace and the goodness of God, all broken vessels are fully repaired."

(from his book For Times of Trouble, pg. 70)

Blessed

I see God's fingerprints everywhere, and know that peace is just a second away when I pause to feel and listen.

It comes singing to me, reminding me to feel alive and confident and hopeful.

The love of God comes, as on wings, lifting me higher, raising my eyes.

Yesterday I reread a quote by Elder Holland that made me happy.

"Those who say there is no love in the world have never seen a mother gaze into the eyes of her newborn child.  Those who say there is no beauty in the world have never seen New England in the fall or old England in the spring or the Swiss lakes and landscapes any time of the year.  Those who say there is no harmony in the world have never heard Brahms or Beethoven, Puccini or Vivaldi.  Who hasn't had a sudden intake of breath when first seeing the art of Michelangelo or Titian, Rembrandt or Matisse, Constable or Monet?  And what of all the widespread blessings of science, medicine, communication, and transportation?  Wherever we look, there are wonders of things in heaven and on earth."

(from his book For Times of Trouble, pgs. 25-26)

Yes.

Miracles are everywhere.

Beauty is overflowing.

Joy is ours for the taking.

Perfection (and Happy Halloween!)

This is my spirit shirt for the day.

I find the pun quite amusing.

I've been enjoying the BBC series of "Call the Midwife."

(I love it! It's reflective and beautiful.)

Last night, at the closing of an episode, I found myself pausing the movie long enough to type in a quote that was being said.  Listen, stop, write.  Listen, stop, write.  Repeat.  Play it again to make sure I got it right.

This was the quote.

"Perfection is not a polished thing.  

It is often simply something that is sincerely meant.  

Perfection is a job complete, 

praise given, 

prayer heard.  

It can be kindness shown, 

thanks offered up.  

Perfection is what we discover in each other, 

what we see reflected back.  

And if perfection eludes us, 

that doesn't matter, 

for what we have within the moment is enough."

("Call the Midwife," Season 3, Episode 5)

This morning we attended a play based on the children's book Miss Nelson is Missing.

When we came home, we did reading, writing, math.

Then, I got them lunch and made my green smoothie inside.

I joined them outside with the current book we're reading, which is Moccasin Trail.

As I sat down, I thought about how much I love the afternoon sunshine lately.

How those 20 or 30 minutes of the day are sometimes, literally, the golden minutes.

I love sinking into that chair, with my drink, and reading to the kids.  

Or sitting there (or lying there!) by myself.

And I thought about that quote again.

So often, particularly with my mothering, I dwell on what I feel I'm not doing right.

I think of the times in the day when I lost my patience (when I swore I wasn't going to again), the ways I'm not measuring up, the things I'm not doing, the ways I can't seem to get things together.

I think of things I'm perpetually behind on.

I look around me, seeing so many things that need my attention, and then feel overwhelmed because I just can't do it all.  

I think of the ways that I feel I am failing.

Does this sound familiar?

As I sat down in the sun, I thought of the quote again.

It inspires me.

Life isn't about having it all polished.

It's about the process of polishing.

It's about living sincerely, genuinely.

Acknowledging each simple, completed task.

Giving praise.

Prayer: asking, seeking, thanking, praising, reflecting, resting there.

Offering simple kindnesses.

Focusing on discovery.

Dialing in on relationships.

Finding the meaningful in each moment.

Yes, I fail each day.

But there are moments of this kind of "perfection" every day, too.

And I need to be reminded (maybe all of us?) that it is a process of polishing, not exact and precise and every single moment of each day.

That failing is part of it.

That struggle is part of it.

That trying again is part of it.

So, my goal?

When I'm starting to feel down for the failures of the day, I want to shift my focus and think about these "moments of perfection."

Yes.

One step.

And then another.

And then another.

There's holiness in the striving.

(And now, I'm off to prepare for family to arrive.  We've got games for the kids, dinner to be had, and then trick-or-treating.  Photos to be shared on Monday.  Hope you have a lovely Halloween night!)

Simplifying

(Wild sunflowers up the canyon by our house)

I had a bunch of ladies at my house last night, and one friend talked with a few of us at the end of the evening about how overwhelmed she is feeling right now.

I suppose we all feel that way, at different times, and in different ways.

Lately, for me, it has been in a series of days -- and ways -- where I have felt like a mom fail.

Sometimes that can turn into a domino effect -- suddenly I am bugged by everything and flustered and start feeling overwhelmed.  It becomes difficult to see where I may be succeeding -- small ways tho they may be, easy to feel bogged down.

The other night I was running and listening to this talk, and I have thought since about a little thing he mentions.  He says: 

"...it wasn't long after astronauts and cosmonauts orbited the earth that they realized ballpoint pens would not work in space.  And so some very smart people went to work solving the problem.  It took thousands of hours and millions of dollars, but in the end, they developed a pen that could write anywhere, in any temperature, and on nearly any surface.  But how did the astronauts and cosmonauts get along until the problem was solved?  They simply used a pencil."

I guess what I've been wondering is how I might be over-complicating things.

What am I demanding that I could let go of?  

What is my ultimate goal?  

What do I want my children to feel?  To remember?  To know?

How about the other people in my life too?

How can I "simply use a pencil" -- slow down, focus on what is closest to my heart, and let the rest go to the wind?

I don't have all the answers yet, but it has been good food for thought.

Timeless Grace

Sunday morning I got up and it was rainy, wet and gray outside.  The air smelled clean and I got ready to go to a rededication session for the Ogden Utah temple.

In that session, the temple was described as "a place of timeless grace."

When I hear that word, I think of beauty, gentleness, stillness, holiness.  

And I think of help I so desperately need -- heavenly attending, of power beyond my own that comes to aid me in overcoming, seeing more clearly, and being made free.

I may not always see that in measurable ways -- but I believe in it, and I believe in promises I have felt in my heart.

For me, the temple hasn't always been familiar. There was a time when it was new and a little strange and it felt different.  I wanted to have deep experiences of peace and revelation there.  Over time, I have found that the more I go, the greater the quiet in my heart, the more love and peace I feel -- the more aware I am of it being an intersection between heaven and earth.  

Just last week, I attended the temple on Thursday with a friend.

Before getting ready to leave the temple and head for home, I sat in a quiet room where the stillness was tangible.  As I let that quiet envelop me, I started to feel other things -- thoughts that came as from wings, from some other place, touching me and gone again.

I run up against a perennial challenge, tho, and it is this.

While I'm there, I can kind of zone in on thinking about holiness and purpose.  I can think about my questions.  I can ask them in my mind and sometimes have a conversation of sorts, with answers coming -- more of those wings.  I can feel and have experiences in that intensity of focus and quiet.

But then I come home.  

Lately, I have felt frequently frustrated in my mothering of my boys particularly -- and I am longing to feel more of that holiness and peace with them, more confident in the job I am doing in mothering them.  Wanting more intersections between 

heaven and earth in these four walls.

Less yelling and frustration and contention in exchange for more selfless service, love, beauty, unity and respect.

I need the temple because of the powerful reminders of 

covenants and forgiveness and faith.

I need it because it keeps me looking forward, and upward. 

I need it because of what I learn there, of the blessings and promises I have been taught about there -- those things that keep me holding on and believing and striving.

Those blessings and promises respond to the 

deepest yearnings of my frail and faulty heart.

And they are taught there, alongside the acknowledgement of my not being perfect, and of astonishing love for me and for those I love.

I go there, because I can remember -- and feel sustained by -- eternal truth.

I am reminded of this quote by Rene Daumal:

“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.”

Mmm hmm.  

Yes.

When I come away, back into my very imperfect, very faltering, stumbling offering of my day-to-day life, I can still seek and strive for:

holiness,

purity,

stillness,

selflessness,

service,

revelation,

quiet,

beauty,

and love,

because of what I've seen and felt there.

And when I stumble and mess up, like I do every single day, I exercise faith in that "timeless grace," asking God to let it wash over me and urge me forward.

My Motto

Last week, at the cancer treatment center, I was so startled by the beauty of this sign on the wall.  The message kind of took my breath away.
Pulled out the iPhone.
Snapped a picture.

I have thought of this sign and that moment again and again this past week.

In all of sadness and beauty and memory and growth and hope and peace and love and life and death comes the fruit.  We eat of experience and joy.

Yes.

A resounding yes.

Planting Hope

Yesterday was a quintessential Fall day.

It was overcast and blustery, but warm, foretelling the cooler temps and stormy weather to come.

Leaves, carpeting the streets, were making that classic blow-down-the-street sound in the wind.

The kids and I went out to plant tulips and daffodils.

87 bulbs.

Papa let each of the children choose 20 tulip bulbs, the really big beautiful kind, from a large variety at the garden center.

I spent time one on one with each of them.

I dug the holes.

They put the bulbs into the ground, tip up, and then covered them with soil.

I felt like we were planting hope, tucking it away into the earth, hoping we were doing the right thing, that the sun really will catch them in Spring and bring them pushing up through the earth.  I imagined us watching them through the window every day then, a bright carpet of color.

Sitting there, I was reminded of this quote:

"No ray of sunlight is ever lost, but the green which it awakens into existence needs time to sprout.  And it is not always granted to the sower to see the harvest.

All work that is worth anything is done in faith."

--Albert Schweitzer

This guy and I were bent over the flowerbed, when we heard that familiar honking sound in the sky and Benji said, "I want to watch the geese, Mom."

(Watching the geese and hearing that sound are another thing I love about this time of year.)

We could hear them before we could see them, and here they are, disappearing beyond our view as they blend in with the treetops.

I've been thinking.

Sometimes I feel like there is almost a false sense that we control so much of our life, or that what surrounds us daily is mundane.

While I believe that agency is at play and we manipulate certain factors, I am convinced of being surrounded by grace, and that God is the great Keeper of Life.

He gives Himself away all over the place, in a multitude of miracles.

Flowers blooming.

Seeds put into the ground that grow beautiful, healthy, delicious food.

The joy of sound and smell and touch and sight.

Amazing creations in music and art and technology and science that had to have happened with enlightenment from a higher source.  To me, the impact these things have on my spirit is enough to witness of greater inspiration and involvement beyond the mortal realm.

Listening to my boys reading to me and witnessing the miracle of the brain, doing what it does (somehow) and astonishing me in the same breath.

The color of the sky and the enormity of a vast universe out there.

Spirit-to-spirit connections with others.

I'm stuck here, feeling gratitude.

Next March, as I look out the window and see lots of happy tulips, I want to remember this:

God is awake.