Remorse

90 days until Elder Wadley comes home.
I'm scared.
I'm thrilled.
I'm definitely counting.
I get the impression from some that counting makes me weak.
I'm tired of that impression.
I'm counting.
I don't care.
I do care.
I wish I didn't.
90 days I'm attempting sugarless. 
90 days I'm working on "wellness'.
I even have a ppt.
But on day ONE - today...
I got angry.
Annoyed.
Exasperated.
A head ache.
And then I made a mistake.
I spoke.
I shared the anger.
Fail.
Fail.
Fail.
Wellness?
Bah!
At least I have some where to go...
Wellness has got to be the state of mind that doesn't prevent bad, but permits it.
I'm not there yet.
Good night.
I'm sleepy.
Pills for the head.
Sleep for the anger.
Hopefully I don't talk in my sleep.
Writing for remorse.
xo

children

October 2011

David's been wearing a terrific pair of round sunglasses with his 1840's cap.  His moppy blonde hair peeking out from every rim and corner, and his precocious smile sneaking out underneath.  He's quite pleased with his new old sense of fashion.  He's a different child than my others, somehow terribly alive in being adored by the older three.

Corinne is babysitting and I'm sure so well.  She may be running a more perfect home than the dear mother who left her in charge.  That certainly happens when I leave her.  Jessica is outside swinging and playing her guitar with two adorable friends who I would invite to stay forever if their own mother's wouldn't miss them so.Douglas is on an adventure.  He's out with a new old friend to visit an old new friend. Rich is tracking all of their activity and will eventually wrangle them in for prayers and sleeping.  It won't be an easy feat.

I have absolutely nothing to offer but the ramblings of my own days and my own sorting.  I have no new way of learning or loving or living to give up to the world.  Its all been written, painted and sung, and by artists endlessly more talented than I.  But I'm new.  I haven't been here before, so the old ways feel new on me.  More clarity comes into focus as I see fewer days ahead than in the wake, and I'm most certainly afraid of what I may not write, paint or sing.  But the stillness comes as I learn what I'm meant to do and do more of it.  There's no end in sight.

Dare to Dream?

Dare to dream?

"I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the kisses of the autumn Summer sun. I would rather have been that poor peasant with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky, with my children upon my knees and their arms about me...and so I would ten thousand times" -Robert G. Ingersol

Dreaming about being an actress, is more exciting then being one. Marilyn Monroe

Dreaming or awake, we perceive only events that have meaning to us. Jane Roberts

I cannot sleep for dreaming; I cannot dream but I wake and walk about the house as though I'd find you coming through some door. Arthur Miller

I find myself dreaming of doing normal things - like staying home and washing dishes. Shalom Harlow

One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today. Dale Carnegie

The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I don't have lofty dreams. Do I? Does that mean I'm afraid? Does it mean I don't have vision or I lack scope?

SOTW

I'm amazed at the things I learn while watching Savior Of The World. Here is a sampling:

It's interesting to think about always being on camera. I guess we really are. We really are always on camera. What we do, matters. Always. This is integrity.

As I watch friends on stage portray such important historical figures, its really interesting to think about their personal relationships with each other. I shouldn't belittle my relationships.

What if I always lived as if I was on the colonnade? Always looking at people as though their circumstances don't matter, but only the experiences they are having? What if I saw everyone with the same compassion and hope as I feel when I'm up there?

Am I teaching my children to learn to recognize the spirit? What experiences are they having up there?

The Shepherds were ready to tell and testify even before they were invited in to see the baby.

It's easy to love my 17 year old when he is on the stage playing a Shepherd.

I have had many thoughts that sadly didn't get written down. And I guess in some ways, I'm surprised - that I've had them. I always think that as I come to this production again and again that it can't possibly be that I could still learn from these lines. But as the gospel consistently does, I do learn. It seems it always has something different to teach depending on life's circumstances. As thy days may demand... I am blessed, even in moments of pride, by humbling events that bring me to these rehearsals on the edge of tears and as I hear the words and principles proclaimed, I find myself comforted and humbled by the very comfort. There are even moments of sorrow and forgiveness. The tears surface even now.

As I conduct I am remembering watching that conductor in Santa Cruz. Gorgeous church. What was that event? I was with people from school I think. She danced. This woman conducting this small chamber orchestra was totally inspiring to me. As I reflect on the opportunities I've had to conduct at various events over the last few months - including women's conference and this beautiful production, I am tempted to wonder if that moment is Santa Cruz wasn't revelation. Or at least preparation. I'm grateful for what music has brought to me.

"Perhaps this is what God wants." Oh, this phrase rings so true in so many situations in my life.

Smarts.

I think I log on to facebook when I'm craving some kind of interaction.  No wait, craving makes it sound desperate.  That's not the right word. Maybe it's just a preference - My preference is to have someone to talk to or look at or ask a question.  But I'm alone and so I log on thinking that someone on facebook will talk to me.  That's the misconception.  No one will talk to me there.  They talk at me or near me or through me or around me, but not to me.  And then I have to deal with whatever burdens have been placed on my news feed and instead of having my craving (preference) satisfied, I'm now worried about 8 different people, upset about some political conflict I don't understand and basing my self-worth on the fact that my first boyfriend's daughter is Han Solo, Arwen, the color purple and should live in a cottage in Nepal.  Not helpful.  I repeat, not helpful. 

I'm allergic to sugar.  It gives me hives and my tongue fills up my mouth, I can't breathe and for the next two weeks I see everything with a purple hue, I have a taste in my mouth like asparagus and my right eye twitches uncontrollably.
False.  Darn it. I'm not allergic, I'm addicted.  Why is it that I think I can stay up later, write longer, return more emails, balance my bank account faster, vacuum and love more perfectly if I've had  5 oreos and a glass of milk?

Want one more?  Cause good things come in threes? I would rather have my contacts cement to my crispy eyeballs than get up out of bed to take them out.  Why?  Why can't I move my body?  Why can't I be reasonable?  Why do I lay down with them in in the first place?  Seriously, after 15 years of this phenomenon I haven't learned that when the TV is on, I sit on the bed, lean on the bed, rest on the bed, recline on the bed, lay on the bed....  then sleep on the bed.  For the night.  So, instead of wearing my glasses for 15 minutes before I go to sleep, I wear them for 15 hours the next day while my eyes recover from their nocturnal cement tomb.  Dumb.

Self discipline.  Restraint. Willpower.  Composure. Moderation.  Temperance.  Smarts.

In like a lion

Remember that saying from elementary school?  It goes along with the letter people, cartons of chocolate milk and carrot sticks, impossibly tall steps to climb on to the bus and praying I would never have to go to the bathroom.  That's what I remember from my first school, 1st-3rd grade.
But here we are on March 1st and it is perfectly blustery and cold and damp.  The rain is coming in sprinkles, shoved around by the east wind.  It's landing on soft, mushy, long grass waist deep in mud.  Every once in a while I smell something like dill.
I've been walking uphill lately and for the last week there has been a stream of water coming down the street. 
I keep forgetting my coat.
David hasn't worn jeans to school for a week and a half.
Corinne doesn't mind walking to rehearsal.
Ben's glove was found in the back yard.
The stupor has gone, the misty vision lifted, the weights of the world sluffing off, I run a little faster, I climb a little quicker, I'm more sure of myself and less worried.  It's easier to love and faster  to forgive.
I find myself thinking about the ocean and that beautiful road that climbs over the Sierras.
Do you know what this means?
It's March.  It's spring.  I'm glad.
Thank you winter for reminding me how blessed I am that the snow melts, the cold wind blows briefly, the birds fly back, the flowers only sleep, the leaves were right there all along, and the sun was just on holiday.   
I am still loved, still blessed, still adored.

Dai.

"Jesus is like Santa, but not fat.  And better.  He gives everyone what they want.  Think of how many gifts He's gived.  Think of all the people on the earth.  And He's answered every single wish." - Dai Wadley.

The burden and delight of love - Muses from La Traviata

Opera fascinates me. 
Not in the -- I can't get enough of it -- kind of way, but more in the -- really? -- kind of way. 
But I'm drawn back to it. "Ok, let's try this again." 
Is  it the 19th century's version of 8th grade drama? But because it's set in another century and you have to go to a university to be able to sing it, then fancy people without enough to do with their time or money will pay $85 to sit in a semi-decent seat to listen to it sung in a language, that albeit beautiful, is not their mother tongue? 
I submit, that when examined, the plot line is repeated in grade schools throughout the world.  I want to write an opera set over three days in a jr high school.  Someone will certainly have to die, but that would be the only real shocker.  The rest is the same.

"I don't know how to love, wait - he loves me, so I love him, I've changed my mind, I do know how to love and we are together, but wait - I might ruin his reputation, so I'll go back to someone who is no good for me.  This makes him angry and mean.  But he is angry and mean because he loves me.  So I have no choice but to love him.  I do.  He does.  It's too late, I'm dying."

This is La Traviata - yes?  And despite my "really?", I'm completely smitten. 
It's gorgeous and passionate and I am drawn in to the story and I fall in love with Alfredo and the sheer magnitude of emotion that erupts on to the stage and into the first few rows is like having your soul cleansed of guile and cynicism. 
Opera is a love story boiled down until all of the extras have evaporated into the steamy air, then what's left is baked in the juices of emotion until so tender that the insides come flowing out so freely that one is pushed along in a rush of rich turkey basting love.  Delish.
And when it's over, you are exhumed of all the grit and grime that once encrusted your weary heart.  And now you are able to love; better and longer and with gratitude and vigor.  Because love is a burden and a delight.

I submit again - 8th graders know this.  Well, they've just begun to discover it.  By sophomore year it is well covered territory, and they are either delighting in it or carrying an eternal burden.  They get it.  They get the inevitability of attraction and the capricious nature of men and women.  It's alive in them.  You don't have to have cushy red seats and gold leafed everything and woodwork and tassels and impractically long dresses and tuxedos that don't quit.  But somehow love does look more mature all dressed up.  It's true. 

But the next time you need a purging of the soul, and you don't have $85 to spare, strike up a conversation with your local high school freshman.  You'll learn about the burdens and delights of love.  And you'll be better somehow.  Especially if you validate that passion and pain. 

Maybe that's how I should look at it. 
Opera is validation - of all we ever experienced in the world of love before we were swept up by practicality, responsibility, and a house in the burbs.  Maybe that's why it carries us away.  We know the story. 

Thankfully, consumption doesn't take us out of the game.  We live to die another day.