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.

Emotional Work

(Disclaimer: This is a total processing post.  I came to the computer on emotional overload.)

I've had a day full of emotional negotiations with my children.

I'm exhausted and the day isn't close to being over yet.

I think?, maybe often, my mothering, as presented on the blog, could look like things are always rosy and figured out and neat and happy.

But they aren't.

There are days, like today, where I end up losing my cool as I'm trying to handle someone else's emotion.  

There are times when I raise my voice and I'm rude to my kids.

There are weeks where sometimes I feel like the offering that I have to give to them just isn't enough, that I'm failing them, that it's laughable that I'm supposed to be the adult here, or a role model for them, times where I just know I won't ever measure up or be what I need to be.

And it isn't just about seeing that as a mother (tho I see this all the time); it's about seeing what's lacking in my person, too, falling short in lots of other ways.

Over the last couple years of my life, I've been logging lots of things inside.  I've been processing and evaluating, pretty much on repeat, exhaustively, and I've learned a lot, but two things are coming to mind right now.

Forgiveness and acceptance.

Acceptance of what you can't change.

Acceptance that you are giving everything you've got, and if it isn't enough, it's still the best you have to offer.

And that, even when it isn't what it should be, it has to be okay.  You are doing the best that you can.  
And that isn't a cop out, by the way.  
I mean it---in the sense that acceptance means facing the realities, too.  Looking at a situation or a relationship or a problem and really seeing it for what it is -- that means acknowledging where it isn't enough, and accepting it.  Accepting it, even if it makes me uncomfortable, or even if everything inside of me wishes I could change it in a snap.  Wishes I could somehow be better or handle everything how I'd like to, or know the right thing to do.

I've realized, more than ever before, my humanity: my mistakes, my weaknesses, my failings.  I've looked, up close and personal, at my personality flaws, and that has led to some pretty eye-opening discoveries.  It has stretched me and forced me to be honest with myself.  And, in willing to be honest with myself, I have found huge relief.  In a very personal way, in a way I can't even articulate, I have felt deep down into my soul how profoundly personal the atonement is, how personally crafted it is, how it reaches out one-by-one.

Surrendering to the chaos and the process and allowing myself to accept it has helped me to forgive. And I'm not talking here about forgiving others, tho I think that's part of it, too.  I'm talking about forgiving myself, about acknowledging those parts of ourselves that are hard or that we wish were different, the stuff we're always working on, the ways we never feel we will be enough.

I've realized that I struggle to believe that I'm enough, and maybe all of us do.  Maybe this is part of it.  

Some days and weeks and months are hard, even tho they aren't without staggering joy, too.  The pain and hard is also entrenched with joy, with moments that make me stop and take in what an amazing, incredible gift life is.  Small, simple moments that I can put away and feel good about: small successes, small minutes of reassurance, small, meaningful conversations with people I love, a quiet listening ear, small moments where God lets you know of His love for you, or laughing, so hard, with a friend for a few quick minutes.

And maybe it's actually about realizing that we aren't enough, and that's the point.  

That we're fallible.

That we fall short.

That things aren't always how we like them, that life isn't like that.

And, ultimately, that that's okay.

Maybe it's really about learning to say "I'm sorry."

Maybe it's about being willing to try again.

Maybe it's about realizing that anything worth having involves emotional work, and lots of it.

Maybe it's about that beautiful process of being humbled---because ultimately, being willing to submit to that helps you to heal and to connect and to love others deeply.  

Seeing the humanity in you makes you less shocked when you find it in others.  

Acceptance.

Forgiveness.

Peace.

Moving forward.

Just Us Girls

This is completely unrelated to this post, but as I sat down to write this morning, Claire donned a walrus nose.

(I think she's kind of adorable.)

But, for what I was really planning to write about, let's talk about last night.

Mia has been asking for us to have a girls night for a long time.

Last night we made it happen.

On these evenings, we get to do the things she wants.

Last night she voted to make homemade pizzas and have a candlelight dinner.

After that, we had decided to do facials and pedicures.

Have you ever done a facial at home?

It's just five easy steps.

Clean your face.

Exfoliate.  

We made a homemade scrub with sea salt mixed with olive oil and some drops of lavender essential oil.

Steam.  

You can put a towel over your head and hover over a pot of steaming water for a few minutes, or you can soak a cloth in really hot water, squeeze it out, and then drape it over your face.  Repeat a few times.

Put on some mask.

After that has dried, 

rinse it off and moisturize.  

(For more details on each step, as well as recipes, go here.)

While we were busy doing these steps and pedicuring at the same time (and, having so much fun, I might add), I found myself thinking about a talk by Elaine Dalton from a few years back that I love.

I thought about this:

"When our daughter, Emi, was a little girl, she liked to watch my every move as I got ready for church.  After observing my routine, she would comb her hair and put on her dress, and then she would always ask me to put on some 'shiney.' The 'shiney' she referred to was thick, gooey cream that I used to prevent wrinkles.  As requested, I would put it on Emi's cheeks, and lips, and she would then smile and say, 'Now we are ready to go!'  What Emi didn't realize is that she already had her 'shiney'' on.  Her face glowed because she was so pure and innocent and good.  She had the Spirit with her, and it showed.

I wish every...woman...would know and understand that your beauty---your 'shine'---does not lie in makeup, gooey cream, or the latest clothing or hairstyles.  It lies in your personal purity.  When you live the standards and qualify for the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost, you can have a powerful impact in the world.  Your example, even the light in your eyes, will influence others who see your 'shine,' and they will want to be like you.  Where do you get this light?  The Lord is the light, 'and the Spirit enlighteneth every man through the world, that hearkeneth to the voice of the Spirit.'  A divine light comes into your eyes and countenances when you draw close to your Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.  That's how we get the 'shiney.'"

(Go here for the full talk.)

After we had finished, we headed downstairs to watch a movie together.

But before we started it, we were lying on my bed on one of my big pillows.  

I opened that talk on my phone and read her that segment.

True beauty comes from goodness.

That goodness and truth bring the Spirit.

It shines in your eyes.

It warms those around you.

I want her to know this, because she will be bombarded about other messages of beauty her whole life---especially as she gets older and encounters all the negative messages given to women about their bodies and

 what beauty is and how to measure worth.  

I want her to recognize where true beauty comes from, 

and I hope she stays close to the source.

Then she can be a light for others, and for other women.

It's a light we so desperately need today.

******************

And, this is a shameless shout out.  

I am trying to find work.

I'm trying to find something I can do from home to support my family, so I don't have to leave my kids.

If you have any leads or ideas for me, will you drop me a line (my email is in my profile)?  Or, if you have my cell, shoot me a text?  Will you keep your ears open?

Thanks, friends.

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!)

It's All Good

Yesterday, I gave this sweet friend of mine a birthday present.

She's 25 years young.

 I adore her.

We have a phrase that we often say to each other in our conversations.

Sometimes it's a joke.

Sometimes it's to signify that we're moving on with a point in the conversation, that there isn't much else to say.

Sometimes it's admitting we are pathetic, as we laugh.

(ie. We haven't showered and it's 5:00 in the afternoon.  

But, hey, it's all good.)

For her birthday, I decided to make the t-shirts 

that I've been thinking about for some time.

When she opened up the shirt and saw what it said, she burst into laughter.

This saying ties us together, she and I.

Last night, when I finished running, I was thinking about fully embracing that phrase -- every day.

What if I chose to believe it in all aspects?

That everything is, or will be, all good?

What if I chose to believe that:

everything ultimately has a purpose,

things don't happen by mistake,

pain is my teacher,

things that are now muddy will one day be clear,

love is worth it,

learning and growth are part of what I signed up for,

kindness is never wasted,

my life is tailored to the things I need to grasp,

everything shakes out eventually,

all experience is part of a whole,

and that, in the end,

it really is all good?

I guess that's akin to living with faith and hope and optimism, patience and forgiveness and love.

When I live, trying to apply these ideals, 

my life really does feel good.

(And, as an aside, as I'm looking at these pictures, I can't help but think that we look like we are part of a breast cancer cause or something -- all that pink and white.  It's kind of humorous to me.)

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.

Seeing Lucky

Last week I was outside, trying to get our garden ready for tending.

Evening light has to be among my favorite things.

I was busy pulling out plants that had come up in the spring, stuff that needed to be pulled so the ground could be tilled.

Shortly thereafter, Isaiah and Mia came over and began picking them up.

Mia exclaimed,

"Look how lucky we are!"

Her delight at spongy parsnips and small onions was genuine and full of joy.

They set to work making soup.

That one line has stuck with me.  

In my life's assortment of onions and parsnips, can I see how lucky I am?

Am I willing to do this thing?  

Am I willing to submit to the process?

To learn?

To find joy and growth in what could have been cast off?

Seeing Behind the Glass

Sometimes I think it's possible to look without seeing.

One night recently I was in the bathroom before bed.

I was staring off -- and then realized that I was looking at one of my favorite pics from our engagement photos several years ago, a orange/brown sepia shot of our faces, close together, sitting on the window ledge.

I was looking, but I hadn't seen it until my eyes focused again.

Sometimes it can be easy to imagine what it might be like if things were different.

The journey of our lives on a chronological road, and we wonder about the possibilities of alternate turns.

If things had gone a different way or we'd gotten what we wanted or thought we needed in certain situations.

If it had happened how we had it mapped out.

Or, we remember things in the past and can live there for awhile.

Or we plan into the future, thinking contentedness will come when this or when that occurs and we feel we've finally arrived.

Sometimes I think we figuratively can look at the glass and not see the picture beneath it.

The beauty of living right now and embracing what is and finding the glorious beauty there.

I don't want to miss the moment of now.

We don't know what will happen in our future lives.

Death could change something in a moment.

An accident could forever shift the landscape.

Change is inevitable, always.

When I gazed at the glass that night, I felt really reminded of this, probably in the context of what I was reading at the time.  A fiction memoir, of sorts, with the main character reflecting on her life and looking back and saying things like, "if I had known then would what happen...".

I want to live now, because I don't know what's ahead.  And if we look back or look forward searching for something different, we miss the now.

The people who love you.

The individuals who make your life all worth it.

The relationships that have meant the most.

"This is our one and only chance at mortal life—here and now. The longer we live, the greater is our realization that it is brief. Opportunities come, and then they are gone. I believe that among the greatest lessons we are to learn in this short sojourn upon the earth are lessons that help us distinguish between what is important and what is not. I plead with you not to let those most important things pass you by as you plan for that illusive and nonexistent future when you will have time to do all that you want to do. Instead, find joy in the journey—now."

---President Thomas S. Monson