Melody's Garden

The Power of Vulnerability

2012-01-31T20:31:00.003-07:00

This talk is one of my recent favorites. Enjoy.

Begin Again

2012-01-01T22:06:00.001-07:00

Tonight I lit the Christmas tree for the last time this season. The house is quiet on this Sunday evening. Day is done.

Blue lights glow lovely and clear—tucked mostly deep within the branches of the tree—amid gold transparent ribbon and paisley ornaments.

I usually leave the tree up well into January. But not this year. Tomorrow the tree comes down.

It's time to say farewell to seasons past.

Move forward into the coming year.

Begin again.

Again.

Happy New Year.

Thank you, Third World

2011-11-24T06:31:00.001-07:00

My daughter, Lauren, served a proselyting mission in Fiji. At the end of her service I took my other daughter, Sara, with me to bring Lauren home. We spent ten days with the meek of the earth.

"Sister Lewis" Fiji 2005

After this experience I came to understand the outrageous abundance with which I am daily surrounded. It is easy to forget. Even now I'm having difficulty clearly remembering the emotions I felt at the time. But I woke this morning thinking of a Fijian woman whom Lauren had taught and befriended.

She was near my age. She lived in a shack on a hillside. There were no windows or doors. Fabric was tacked over doorways, hung for privacy when it wasn't pulled back to allow for the breeze or light to come in. With her own hands she had built a primitive gazebo/seating area outdoors from scrap wood. It was shaded in the afternoon and she invited us to sit there while we talked about life and Jesus and my daughter, whom we both loved. It reminded me of when I sit beneath walnut trees in my own yard with friends and family. There were scrap-wood shelves on which she placed potted plants—potted in tin cans and maybe plastic dishes or a few broken ceramic pots. She grew a small garden. While we visited, her twenty-something son scrambled up a coconut tree and brought down fruit for us. Her only other child, a toddler from her second marriage, sat on her lap. This woman was beautiful in every way. Physically, spiritually, personality-wise. She felt very much like a sister to me as we sat together and talked. I wish I could recall her name just now. Lauren knows it.

She was a creative, talented woman who dreamed of being a seamstress. She had no electricity so she sewed things by hand and on a treadle machine which had broken a few months earlier. She wove purses and bags from plant leaves and fibers, then lined them with tropical print fabric. I still use the one she gave me. I gave her a framed photograph of the Savior. She showed me a clipping from a newspaper perhaps five or six years old. It was an advertisement for a sewing instruction book. She could not afford to repair her machine. The parts she needed may not have even been available. There was no hope of buying a new machine either. Buying a sewing machine for her would be like buying a new house for you and I. . . if you or I had no steady income.

It would take far too long for me to explain here why I did not simply buy her everything she needed or send money to her for the rest of her life. You can talk to Lauren about that if you want. My belly aches a little right now thinking about it.

As I write this post I am sitting on the sofa. I glance up at a James Christensen print hanging over the fireplace. I think I paid around twelve-hundred dollars for it. The leather chair in the corner on one side of the fireplace was a steal for about six-hundred at Costco. The custom upholstered chair on the other side of the fireplace was seven-hundred and fifty. The laptop I am typing on was a bargain (with student discount) for eleven-hundred and came with a free printer and a hundred-dollar iTunes coupon. There is hot water coming from the tap when I want it. This morning I will make cranberry sauce in a food processor and later I will drive to my sister's home. In a heated car. On paved roads. For Thanksgiving dinner. I could go on and on. . .

. . . I really wish I could remember her name.

Thank you, James Taylor

2011-11-22T18:33:00.000-07:00

Yep.

Thank you, Feet. Contest

2011-11-21T21:00:00.000-07:00

This is giveaway post inspired by my good friend, Dalene, who had her own blog contest recently. You can thank her if you win. Or, if you ARE her (because she is one of a very few people who read this blog) you can thank yourself.

If you want to enter, leave a comment below about why you are thankful for your feet. Include a link or e-mail address.

Feet are under-appreciated. They deserve a little recognition. They deserve a massage.

Which leads to this: The prize is a Foot Massage. By me. From me. For your feet.

I know. It's not a typical giveaway. Maybe you're one of those people who are uncomfortable having your feet touched or you just don't like your feet or think they are ugly. If you are one of those folks, well, try to get over it because this will be really good. If you're just not sure about having a friend massage your feet try to get over that too. It' no big deal. Your feet do a lot of hard work. They deserve a massage.

You may enter the contest through Sunday, November 27th at midnight.

One of those randomizer things will be used to select a winner.

Prize includes: Steaming washcloth cleanse (Like they do in the first-class section of airlines for your hands. Yes, it really happens. I've been there. Twice. By serendipitous upgrade. Except this is for your feet. The airlines don't do feet. At least not on domestic flights.) and foot massage with Bath and Body Works Aromatherapy Tranquil Mint Stress Relief Lotion.

This relaxing foot massage will be delivered on a day of winner's choosing during the first 15 days of December.

I will come to your home or you can stop by mine. Whichever is preferable.

Thank you, feet. You've carried me everywhere I've ever wanted to go. Now, let's go get a pedi!

Thank you, Quiet

2011-11-20T04:47:00.001-07:00

It is 4:45 AM. There is no sound in the house. There is no sound outside.

(Except just now a train whistle in the distance.)

Thank you, Poop

2011-11-15T10:43:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I wrote about God. Today I'm writing about poop. Bear with me. It's all about gratitude.

My daughter, Lauren, paid me a visit yesterday. She and the two littles ("Sunshine" and "Champ") and I went downstairs to visit with my other daughter, Sara, and her husband, Jordan, who live in the basement apartment. After lots of lively conversation about the coming holidays, speculation about whether or not the other sibling might be planning on having a baby anytime soon, here's how the conversation went.

I picked up Champ at his request (arms outstretched in a please pick me up manner.)

Me: I think Champ is poopey.

Lauren: He might be, but he's in a cloth diaper, so it might just smell like poop.

I move my nose toward his bum region then make the familiar visual inspection of said region by pulling a portion of said diaper out and away from said region. Visual and olfactory evidence confirm my suspicion.

Me: It's poop.

I look at Lauren and see the expression on her face. It's the expression of a young mom who gets very little sleep.

Me: I'd LOVE to change his diaper.

Lauren: That's a good idea. Thanks. It's great to have someone else deal with the poop now and then.

Me: (changing diaper) Wow! That's poop alright! It really stinks. (Let your imagination take you there.)

Lauren: I hate poop.

Sara: Me too.

Jordan: Me too.

Me: I LOVE poop. It means there is a healthy bowel in there doing its job! Hurray for poop!

Sara: Only a nurse would say that.

Lauren: Only Nurse Mom would say that. I'm pretty sure there are plenty of nurses who don't like poop.

Me: It's true. There are a lot of nurses who don't like poop.

Lauren: Of course, there could be a lot of nurses who aren't as mature as you are about things like that.

Me: It's probably more the whole "miracle of life thing" for me. A lot of nurses won't go there with poop.

End of conversation. Champ's bum is clean. New diaper applied. Smiles all around. Like I said:
It's all about gratitude.

Thank you, God

2011-11-15T05:17:00.001-07:00

A little while ago I had a teeny, tiny experience that changed my life.

(click on this photo) courtesy of Luke Lewis

How, when and where it happened were as important as the message itself. In fact, the Moment was the Message. (It was so-like-God-to-do-it-that-way.) This may require a disclaimer. We'll see.

I had purchased a rug at my favorite store, TJ Maxx. However, I needed another of the same rug or something similar to fill the space in an L-shaped hallway of my home. The preceding week had been outrageously busy. By the time Sunday rolled around I was exhausted. I'd worked 50+ hours including Saturday. I decided to skip church, take a nap, then head north to a second TJ Maxx where the second rug waited for me.

Throughout my life I have observed the Sabbath by, among other things, not going shopping. [There is the disclaimer. I had a feeling it was coming.] However, on this day I felt no guilt, no shame, no fear of "breaking the Sabbath." I was relaxed, happy, relieved to finally have one day free from any demands on my time. My heart was filled with gratitude for a day of rest. I felt unusually peaceful as I drove in the late afternoon with a spectacular autumn skyline to the west. The sun moved lower in the sky, shown through clouds, cast an amber glow across the valley.

To be perfectly honest, I don't remember what was on my mind when this happened. I only remember that it came out of the blue and knocked me right off whatever thought process had been running in my brain.

It's always difficult to describe these moments of personal revelation or enlightenment. And the message I received was not new. We've all heard this message our entire lives if we are Christian or religious or spiritual in any way. But I had never before KNOWN the truth of it in the way I do now. Again, it is difficult to articulate moments like this, but here is what came:

God has lovingly cared for me and watched over me in EVERY MOMENT of EVERY DAY of my life.
(I rarely use capital letters for emphasis, so this is really big.)

Every moment.

Every day.

Not one second has passed when God was not completely, utterly, intimately aware of me.

Not even a nanosecond. Nothing. No space in the time of my existence has been free of God's presence surrounding me. Not even now as I type this. Not last night while I slept or yesterday while I worked or went to school. Not when I sat at Mama Chu's waiting for take out. Not in the moment I called Lauren to see if I could stop and say hello to the grand babies on my way home. Not when I married the wrong person or when I was a child—alone and frightened in the world.

Never. Not ever.

It seems beautifully, divinely ironic—filled with evidence of the perfect way in which the Holy Spirit works—that this overwhelming and simple message came as I drove to a store. On a Sunday. In a moment of solitude, respite and even joy (if you know how I feel about TJ Maxx.) In my car. Northbound on I-15. I will never be the same.

God lovingly cares for and watches over each of us—everyone, everywhere in every moment.

I am still in awe. Thank you.

Thank you, Lauren

2011-11-14T07:42:00.001-07:00

You are a beautiful, amazing woman. You have always made it so easy for me to be your mom. I don't know how or why you came that way, but I can't thank you enough.

For creating a living legacy in the form of your firstborn and her middle name. (I know. It's your legacy, but still.)

For saying this in one of your recent blog posts:
I've never heard my mother say she missed this. I've never heard her say, "I'd love to go back to that time in my life." I've never heard her say that about any time in her life. I think she savored. I think she runs her life like a slow cooker-simple, easy, tender, and deliciously flavored.
(Once again, I can die happy because of you.)

For forgiving me and life circumstances that cause me to spend so much of my time just earning a living.

Thank you for being You. I adore you.

Life In Third Person to follow. Now I have to get to work.

Thank you, Moses. . .

2011-11-13T05:19:00.000-07:00

And roses and yodels; old folks, holy rollers;
over-throws, rowboats, toast, snowblowers.
Thank you for no particular reason.
Just because I like how the words sound—
hopeful, open and round.

Thank you, Giveaways

2011-11-12T08:29:00.001-07:00

This is my entry in the Just Ask Bucket List Getaway Giveaway. Just Ask offers a breast and ovarian cancer screening and is encouraging people to share 15 things that I want to enjoy in my lifetime as a reminder to be aware of my health. Want to enter? Head over to TodaysMama.com to get the details.

It's all about me. Or possibly you. If you also enter the giveaway.

1. See Paris. Again.
2. Write letters to several people who need to hear from me
3. Finish school
4. Take my children and grands on a family vacation to somewhere warm
5. Have more grandbabies
6. Enjoy watching my children provide #5
7. Reduce my resting heart rate to 70
8. Hike Mount Timpanogos, Utah - all the way to "The Shack"
9. Learn to sail
10. Buy a sail boat
11. Write my history, organize it so someone can actually read it
12. Read War and Peace
13. Make more quilts
14. Cook more Thanksgiving dinners
15. Get married. Again.

Thank you, Sewing

2011-11-12T06:02:00.001-07:00

I've loved you since sixth grade when I met you in the summer with Melissa Snow at ZCMI's beginning sewing class. We made shorts with an elastic waistband. In seventh grade you helped me make an apron, pants and A-line skirts with zippers. We were inseparable for years. You were my high school squeeze during all those hours for "Make It With Wool."

You kept me company through my early marriage, with newborns and toddlers. (How many footed jammies and sets of mini sweatpants and sweatshirts with raglan sleeves and ribbing cuffs did we make?) The weddings, the dozens of baby (and grown-up) quilts, the random Christmas gifts. . . You and I are BFFs. It's one of those things where no matter how long it's been since we've seen each other, when we do finally meet up, well, it's like we've never been apart.

It looks like you've been hanging out with my daughters.

I miss you. It's been too long.

Thank you, Wing'd Thing

2011-11-10T18:28:00.001-07:00

You have stayed with me along every darkened or reckless path. Ever present. Ever fluttering. . .

Hope is the thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Thank you, Snow. . . er. . . Leaves

2011-11-09T04:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I woke to two inches on the ground. It is green and flat. Not white and fluffy. Layered neck-deep to a grasshopper.

Typically, from this view on the porch I can see sidewalks, flower beds and turf sprawled across the yard. But no more. The usual scene has all but vanished beneath a blanket of leafy delight. The neighborhood children have begun to build nests in it. My belly still hurts a bit so I'll make no attempt to move it. People who drive past think it's an eyesore. I think it's magical.

Thank you, drifts of green stuff. You're something else.

Thank you, Fortune Cookie

2011-11-08T09:50:00.000-07:00

You don't taste very good, but sometimes I like to believe what you tell me.

Thank you, Serendipity

2011-11-07T05:07:00.000-07:00

My fiftieth birthday came and went last week. It was a lovely week, finished off yesterday with Sunday dinner at my home with all the kids and grand kids. But the "birthweek" didn't start out so great. My friend, Dalene, has several really good "Bad Birthday" stories and I thought I might be able to contribute one of my own when four days before the big event I had surgery; three days before the big event two of my kids said, "Oh! It's your fiftieth? We didn't know. We should have done something special." Later another child mentioned, "I was going to do this really cool thing for your birthday, but then you saw it on Pinterest and life got super busy for me, so I'll do it when you turn sixty." None of my six siblings mentioned it, none of my close friends suggested doing anything special. For a brief moment on the night before my birthday I thought maybe someone was planning a surprise party because everyone was so quiet and nonchalant about it. But no. There were no secret plans being made.

Don't get me wrong, I am usually very happy to create festive and delightful celebrations for anyone and everyone, including myself. But I just didn't have it in me this year [see para 1 line 4]. Besides, the money for the 50th birthday trip to Paris is now in the hands of a skilled surgeon and the University of Utah Medical center. I will save other various and sundry details about the Dreadful Early Morning Fiftieth Birthday Hours for another day -- except for the part where helium balloons a friend had tied to my mailbox were drenched with rain, hanging down around the sidewalk and one of them would have been carried away in brown gutter water if not for the strength of that tiny saturated grosgrain ribbon securing it to its companions. Yes, I'll tell you that part. The rest will have to wait for an essay in Dalene's book, which I am certain she will write. Heaven knows she has enough material. She even has a working title: Eat the Damn Cake.

What I want to share today is a series of happy accidents that made the half-decade birthday quite wonderful. First, Carol (of the soggy balloons) called while I was shopping (my first time out since surgery) at TJ Maxx and asked if I had plans for lunch. No, of course not. It's only my 50th birthday. Why would anyone think of inviting me to lunch? She treated me to Spicy Thai, which was marvelous. Second, my energy medicine practitioner friend gave me an appointment on my very birthday for a rejuvenating, enlightening treatment session. Nothing like a good "clearing" as they say in the business. Third, Lauren asked me to stop by her house while I was out so she could give me a gift on my actual birthday. We ended up making a trip to the mall where my grand kids played at the indoor playground and we all ate See's chocolates. There were fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh other little surprises that made the day perfect. But the cherry on top of what one friend said should be an Epic Birthday came later.

Dalene took me to a salon for a pedicure on Friday. It was her gift to me and it was heavenly. We enjoyed all the usual stuff with the massage chairs and the making-feet-soft-and-pretty. (Including a paraffin wax foot bath. Oh, my! Why didn't someone tell me about this sooner?) When we first arrived at the salon, I had chosen a color for my nails that basically called to me. Seriously, as I perused the hundreds of colors on the wall, this one may have actually been singing my name.

When all the pampering was done and we were walking toward the door to leave, Dalene stopped and said, "Wait! You have to find out the name of the nail polish color. These O.P.I names are the BEST!" So we turned around. I went back and picked up the bottle, turned it upside down, pushed my glasses onto my forehead, squinted to focus my fifty-year-old eyes on the tiny print on the tiny white circular tag on the bottom of the bottle. "It's MY Year"

Thank you, Serendipity. Happy accident, indeed.

Thank you, Winter Sky

2011-11-06T07:28:00.001-07:00

(Click on photo. You'll see what I mean.)

Yesterday the sky had the look of mid-winter Utah. It was strange and wonderful. Not a spec of snow on the ground in the valley, but the mountains had been dusted and the sky was unmistakably Winter-ish. This is a photo I used for a previous post. It doesn't show quiet enough of the blue, gray, white light brilliance of yesterday's sky, but it comes close.

Winter sky is nature's equivalent of a candy cane for the eyes. Except the red part is replaced with blue, intertwined with shimmering white vapor. It's crisp, clean and kind of minty-fresh.

I take back what I said (a million times) about how we should all live in central California on the coast because the weather is perfect there. every. day. of. the. world. And the cows are always happy. But I think I would miss that mouth-watering Utah winter sky. Especially on days like yesterday when it showed up a little early. Thank you, winter sky. You make me happy. (I can't speak for the cows.)

Thank you, Modern Medicine

2011-11-05T08:35:00.000-06:00

"I am on the edge of mysteries and the veil is getting thinner and thinner." Louis Pasteur

I am alive today and so are my children because of modern medicine.

2010- Luke, Sara, Lauren (Connor in Lauren's belly)

Almost thirty years ago, in spite of my desire for natural childbirth, my oldest daughter was born via C-section, (as were my son and second daughter.) There was no question in the room that day about what the outcome would have been only a few decades earlier. There would have been a note somewhere in the family history stating, "Neither mother nor child survived."

Last week I had surgery. The good people at University of Utah Medical Center performed an inguinal hernia repair with mesh placement. Unlike that first childbirth experience, no life-threatening condition prompted this surgery. Instead, a defect was repaired -- something that had been bothering me, causing minor aches, twinges and worry about the future. This relatively simple intervention prevents potential serious problems later in my life.

I could go on and on about this subject. For instance, I am amazed with something as simple as intravenous Ancef given pre-operatively -- an antibiotic medication timed for the moment when a surgeon's scalpel initially breaches the natural barrier of the skin, the moment of greatest risk for introduction of pathogens into the sterile environment beneath. This practice was initiated as a result of careful observation and tedious research surrounding post-operative wound infections. As a nurse I am continually awed by the beauty and mystery of the human body with its perfect and complex structures, chemicals, processes and their harmonious interplay. I am equally awed by the evolution of science in the areas of anatomy, molecular biology, physiology, pathophysiology, immunology and all the other ologies. There is beauty and mystery in modern science equal to the beauty and mystery of humanity. Every day all over the world new discoveries are made, old discoveries are re-examined, greater knowledge and understanding is gained about the intricacies of the human body. I feel grateful for this today. And for ibuprofen.

Thank you, modern medicine. You're still saving my life.

Thank you, Imperfection

2011-11-04T07:50:00.000-06:00

"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them." Book of Mormon, Ether 12:27

I am me. I am imperfect. I am enough.

Sometimes it is difficult to accept things about ourselves we see as imperfect. But these are important things that define us and make us unique. I'm not talking about physical imperfections. But I believe those also make us unique and beautiful. Currently I have undertaken the work of strengthening a few specific weaknesses. I love the scripture above for reminding me that the Lord is willing and eager to help me do this. Truthfully, I couldn't do it without him. He is the First and Best Helper. He loves me as I am. He wants me to become the best of who I am and while I'm working toward that he reminds me that I am precious and beautiful to him. And that I am enough.

My weakness compels me to seek Him. Thank you, imperfection. You are my friend.

Thank you, Sleep

2011-11-03T05:31:00.000-06:00

There are few things as delightful as waking up from a good night's rest. It goes without saying, really. But I had to say it anyway.

Such a simple thing -- so essential, so fundamental to good health and happiness. Yet, I rarely take time to thank my maker for this part of a perfect plan.

I revel in the l'heure bleue -- the blue hour. That precious, quiet space in time. A time of innocence as day surrenders to night and again just before the world has fully wakened; the gentle transition between the burden of reality and the unfettered world of dreams; perfect moments of circadian solitude.

I love letting go of whatever may be troubling my body or soul and drifting into sleep where unconscious wisdom rules the world. During those hours, the body takes care of itself without any attention on my part. This is miraculous to me. Body, mind and spirit renew, repair, re-generate, then come back to whatever may be waiting from the previous day with new perspective and fresh energy for the work at hand. What a gift.

Every day is new. Every morning is a resurrection. Thank you, sleep, for that.

Thank you, November

2011-11-02T09:51:00.000-06:00

I've always loved you.

I love what happens when you make your way around this part of the world -- the changing leaves, the harvest and the subsequent rest you provide. The slowing down of things; the layering of things like flannel, down, and wool. I love the moving indoors and lighting a fire in the fireplace; the quiet anticipation of coming seasons.

There is something akin to Nova in your name and since I was born on the first of your thirty days you seem to be plum full of first-ness, generative energy, new beginnings and all that.

And in the spirit of beginnings, I love that you have once again given me a reason for daily posts of gratitude, like a few of my friends are doing.

Thank you, November. I'm glad you're here.

Happy Half-Century

2011-10-30T11:19:00.000-06:00

Melody - Potomac River age 15

I keep wondering when I'll ever grow up. And also, does every adult feel like a teenager inside or is it just me? I look at women in their 70's and 80's and wonder if they feel grown up yet. I have several friends in this age group and sometime I guess I need to just ask one or two of them, "What does it feel like to be you right now? And how did you get that way?"

My half-century birthday is coming soon.
A couple of thoughts keep pressing on me.
One: Fifty years doesn't seem that long anymore.
Two: I'm never quite sure if I'm doing it right.

It's hard to know how to age gracefully when you don't have a mother around to show you. My mother died relatively young. For the past few years I've missed having someone to watch and learn from. Sadly, I'm not sure if my mom could have provided what I need right now even if she were here. She was a shell of a person by the time she passed away; beaten down to almost nothing from decades of living with a cruel, evil man (my father who, thankfully, had divorced her years earlier) and also, she suffered from all sorts of symptoms of a profoundly challenging life. My mother was a battered woman, a survivor of childhood abuse, an adult child of an alcoholic. She was all these things during a time when there was very little help available for someone like her. She did the best she could and I honor her for that. I'm grateful for the beauty and goodness that made its way out through the fissures and fractures of a very pained and troubled soul. She believed in God and she was committed to living what she believed. I'm certain this is part of what preserved her through her many heartaches.

It took a long while for me to get past the fact that she failed in her most significant calling as a mother: To protect her children. But I've come to realize she was limited by circumstances that shaped her— many over which she had no control. I've come to understand that throughout my childhood she lived in fear, just as I did. Her fear kept her prisoner. Kept her from leaving a dreadfully destructive marriage. She paid a price for this. We all did. I believe that her sorrow about this and about other things ultimately killed her. I don't blame her for this. I blame the ones who harmed her, who incrementally and very literally stole her life, stole her light and left her bereft.

Recently I have discovered some things I inherited from her—things I knew were part of me, but that I didn't realize had come from her. And I don't mean the brunette hair, the long legs or the slight impression running the length of one cheek when I smile a certain way. She gave me those things.

She also gave me an appreciation for fine workmanship in textiles, furniture, architecture; a sense of proportion, appreciation of color in design. I get down-right emotional when I look at anything by Frank Lloyd Wright. She also passed on to me an almost neurotic need to have nice things—things that are classic, that last. She had dresses she wore for twenty years and honestly, they were so lovely, they never really went out of style. Until very recently, I had no idea my love of art, form, and design came from her. But it did. What a gift. This discovery opened a door inside me, a previously hidden door. It was as a door to a secret garden and when I pushed away the dry and tangled overgrowth I found passage into a new place in my own heart and in my mother's heart as well.

My mother had an innate understanding of many of the finer things of life. This was an integral part of who she was. She simply didn't have the fortitude or opportunity to move fully into a life that allowed her to become a finer thing herself. She was oppressed in every sense of the word. Inside and out.

I used to try to imagine what she would have been like had she found a good counselor, supportive friends or found the courage to leave my father and stay away from him forever. She did leave him once, traveled 2,000 miles from Virginia with five children on a train to get away from him. But he came after her and she took him back. This was a grave mistake on her part. I can't even begin to innumerate the cost.

Once she had traveled all those miles, however, she did apparently have the strength to demand we stay in Utah. As a result, I was raised from about the age of six in a lovely, custom-built home in a nice neighborhood overlooking a pristine valley. This was a godsend for me. I think it was for her too. There was a kind of hopeful (if artificial) safety in that beautiful french provincial rambler on the east bench. Perhaps it was a reflection of what she knew she deserved. We were surrounded by university professors, local and state politicians, successful business-owners and their families. I had many wonderful friends and many opportunities in life as a result of growing up there. Although it was a lovely neighborhood I imagine my mother was not the only woman in that affluent area who hid dreadful secrets about her home life.

It's amazing to me how much of life is genuinely wonderful and awesome. And how an equal amount of ugliness can exist in the self-same space. Like the story I'm writing now about my mother.

For me, this truth, this opposition, has always seemed beautiful. Hard, yes, but beautiful nonetheless. I realize not everyone feels this way. I know many people who would rather leave the ugliness for someone else to deal with—good folks who prefer to enjoy the pleasantries of life without having to look at things that make them feel uncomfortable. Still others hold to the "don't air your dirty laundry" philosophy. But I'm not one of those people. And after all, this isn't laundry.

Truth is beauty, even ugly truth. Truth is light, even when it is cloaked in darkness. Discovering truth where ever it may be, then accepting and speaking it, well, that's part of what makes us free. And it's all important to the story. But I digress. . .

My mother had a lovely singing voice, although she never sang publicly. This makes me sad when I think of it. Her voice was a gift that she wasn't able to develop. But she passed this gift to all her daughters. I've always known that came from her. I can still hear her, sitting next to me in church, her perfect second soprano tones of "I Stand All Amazed." I often stopped singing just to listen to her. She sang lullabies sometimes at bedtime when I was very young. I have done the same with my own children. In fact I sing and hum a lot to myself while working around the house or cooking. My mother did this. And I often "sing" conversations with my grand daughter.

Han-nah Mel-o-dy, Han-nah Mel-o-dy, Han-nah Mel-o-dy Har-ris-son.
You are beau-ti-ful, you are beau-ti-ful, you are beau-ti-ful. I-love-you.

Hannah loves this. She sings a lot too.

Janice Maurine Dyer - hand stand age 14

I see my mother's legs in photographs when she was a teenager. They are my legs. They are my daughter's legs. I hear myself talking with inflections and phrases my mother used. I cry easily when expressing tender feelings. This was also my mother's way. Maybe, like me, at those times she was saying, "Life is beautiful. Life is painful and my soul wins a battle with my body in this moment—the battle to keep the painful things inside. In this moment I'll tell the whole truth in my tears." I've stopped apologizing for my tearfulness. My mother never apologized for hers. It was just part of her and she knew it. Maybe she was strong in some ways.

At any rate, she was the woman who gave me life, such as it was. She walked into the valley of the shadow of death to get me here, like every woman does for every child ever born in this world. Then she left the world early and left me with a mixed legacy—a legacy I mostly celebrate, but also mourn a little today.

My life is beautiful. My life is painful. With all its contrast, contradiction, ugliness and pleasantness,
Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me!

Sweeter Still

2011-10-13T22:29:00.019-06:00

"I think about him every day. I feel like the story I wanted to write about my life has evaporated and I'm not sure I have another story in me. I sometimes try to twist things in my mind to change the story, make it into what I want. That's when I feel the worst." Sunday, June 17, 2007

I used to have a private blog. Maybe it wasn't always private. I don't remember now. Anyway, the above excerpt came from it. Tonight I need to talk about it; about a man I once loved. My usual listening friends aren't around.

So I write. I want someone to hear me. But maybe "someone" is really me.

A few days ago I heard a woman singing on the radio. The song was beautiful and melancholy. I wrote down this line: Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste. That's what I'm tasting. It has been a very long time since I have felt this way. It is familiar, forgotten. It is uncomfortable and comforting all at once.

It's about love. That's all. I remember being loved. No ulterior motives, no twisted perspectives on his part, no trying to make me into someone other than who I am. Just respectful, peaceful sharing life together. I remember wanting to be my best self for him and with him, feeling beautiful, appreciated and just plain liked.

Even more I remember how I loved him-- freely, effortlessly and with all my heart. I remember thinking it was the most perfect thing I had ever felt. And when I recall it tonight, well, it still feels perfect. This is what I want to say: My ability to love has not been altered, diminished or corrupted by other, less loving experiences. This is the sweet part. Love. This is the fruit at the center of bitter things.

Maybe It's Genetic

2011-10-01T08:51:00.019-06:00

This morning I read Ann Cannon's column in The Salt Lake Tribune. Take a minute to read it. She's hilarious. And she started me thinking about what I believe may someday be identified as the Landlinefirstresponder Gene. Maybe it's not an actual gene, maybe it's more like a mutation.

Whatever it is, I have it. I get up quickly (from the sofa where I'm watching real time TV and writing checks to pay bills) to answer the land line. Thanks to technology my phone announces incoming calls with "Caller IQ." For instance, the phone says Harr-i-son, Clay-ton when my daughter calls. This feature allows me to determine the speed with which I should respond. But the point is: I get up.

(Also, I have no idea what I just did on the track pad of my new laptop to change the display size on the screen. But I like these bigger letters. And it's a MacBook Pro so technology-wise I'm evolving.)

Okay, maybe on rare occasion I don't actually get up. But that is rare. There is a certain sense of propriety, courtesy and concern for whomever is on the other end of the line that motivates me to answer. There is also, as Ann mentioned, the lottery thing. I watch other people sit calmly when their land lines or even cell phones ring. They seem to be oblivious to the sound, as if they aren't obligated in any way to acknowledge it except at their own convenience. I sometimes envy them, sometimes puzzle over it. And often think, Oh, so that's what they do when I call. Ann says it may be a matter of habit. I'm sticking with genetics.

A couple of months ago I was at a barbecue with my son, Luke, his wife, Rachel, and her family. It was a birthday dinner for Rachel's cousin and our families are related through marriage (twice) so I was invited. The details of the relation will be saved for another post. Anyway, a dozen or so folks were gathered around eating, chatting, enjoying the summer afternoon in the back yard when Luke's cell phone vibrates. He answers and discovers his teenage brother-in-law, David, calling from the bathroom downstairs. The toilet has malfunctioned. It's threatening to overflow and the only way David can stop it is to remove the tank cover and hold up the float. If he leaves, disaster will ensue. He's holding the float with one hand, watching with horror the debris floating in the bowl and calling on his cell phone for help with his other (hopefully dry) hand.

David tells Luke that he first tried calling his dad then his mom and two sisters and none of them answered the call. "So I called you, Luke. You're the only one in the family who answers your phone."

Like I said. Genetics.

Except I don't think Luke writes checks. And he has something on his TV called NetFlix.

Sunrise, Sunset

2011-09-23T22:51:00.026-06:00

I arrive home at 9:40 PM after a long day at work. As I turn from the street into the driveway my headlights sweep across the front yard illuminating a group of people gathered in the Adirondack chairs. When I had first approached the house and glimpsed forms in shadow beneath the walnut trees, I thought it was my daughter, Sara, her husband, Jordan, and maybe a few of their friends. It turned out to be a bunch of twelve to fifteen-year-old neighborhood kids.

These are the same kids who have built tent dwellings on the front lawn on early summer mornings; Kids who used to bring baby dolls and stuffed animals and narrate their play like all young children do. "You be the dad and I'll be the mom, okay?" Many mornings I ate breakfast to the sound of this narration. Now they are gathered beneath the same trees in true adolescent fashion: after dark with no grown-ups in sight. They are laughing, talking, and one of them in his usual neighborly fashion waves at me. I roll down the window as I drive toward the car port at the back of the property. I smile and say, "Hey guys!" That is all. Now they know they are welcome here. Even after dark.

In my younger days I might have come around to the front yard after parking the car. I might have struck up a conversation because I thought I needed to "check in" on things. Not any more. I learned by experience that watching from a distance and just letting things be is the best parenting technique of all. I'm not a perfect parent. But now that my own children are grown I know what it feels like to be a good enough parent, a good enough adult neighbor. And I like the feeling.

John Lennon was right.

I let them be. There is no danger here. There is no threat or need for my watchful eye. They are good souls. They are innocent. Maybe not quite so innocent as they were a few years ago, but their hearts are good. That is obvious from the tone of their voices, the quality of their laughter, the subtle hesitation when I first arrive and the sideways glances, wondering if it is really okay to hang out on the neighbor's lawn at night. They aren't the kind of kids who are invasive or disrespectful or entitled.

It is wonderful to watch children grow up, don't you think? It always seems miraculous to me that anyone survives the challenges of childhood and adolescence.

Now I am in the house. I can hear them outside. I can hear them becoming someone wonderful and I fall asleep to the sound of their laughter in the magic, early-autumn darkness.

As Dew From Heaven

2011-05-22T12:56:00.006-06:00

Rain

is what

matters. Gentle,

peaceful, clean, cool,

clear things falling singly

through uncluttered space. Things

whisper, touch softly, heaven gifts,

freely given, without constraint, devoid
of cost. Blessings sprinkled, bestowed
in transparent spheres. Rain matters.

Multitude of sometime silent small

things. Drop by drop anointing.

Tiny by tiny telling

truth.

Melody Newey © 2002
A poem. Not really about rain.

Chrysalis

2011-04-24T05:32:00.003-06:00

Three days of white

threads wound

fine

around

around.

Three days of light

shrouded linen

fine

white

light woven.

Three days of. . .

Where hast thou laid him?

And she thought,

Are his wings still wet?

When he said,

Touch me not.

Because It's Morning and National Poetry Month

2011-04-13T07:33:00.031-06:00

Recipe for Morning

Chop two dried apricots into quarter-inch squares.
Even if they have been refrigerated and are hard to cut,
believe me, it's worth your while. These fragments of
summer are irreplaceable on a cool spring morning.

Find your white raisins, even if they are hidden behind
nutmeg or cinnamon. Even if they are all dried out. It's okay.
And as you chop apricots, consider the sweet-tart pairing,
beneath steel-cut oats or old fashioned and butter.

Boil water on the stove in an old kettle. Or a new, lovely one.
Please do it this way. It has been far too long since you
have heard the screeching, higher-than-soprano violin
announce her steaming glory. She sings, Where have you been!?

If the butter has been on the counter all night and is soft,
all the better. You don't need to measure. You know
how a half-teaspoon looks on the end of a butter knife.
Slide it into the bowl with the apricots and raisins.

Now, pour the screaming water over all that yellow, orange
pale green earth like a flood. A flood that won't stop for
twenty days. Forty days is too long. Cup the oats in your
bare hand. Spread them like clouds, heavy clouds over all of it.

If you have a drop of vanilla. You can add that too.
Maybe stir now. Maybe not. Then cover the bowl
with the kettle. It's okay. The bowl can handle it.
Unless it's plastic. Don't use a plastic bowl.

Let the life in that bowl find its own way now.
Just leave it be. Like God did with Noah.
But instead of an olive branch, when you're ready,
bring brown sugar. Preferably in your grandmother's old spoon.

(Even though it doesn't match anything. You know where to
find it in the drawer.) Only brown sugar. Or maybe honey.
You don't need much. Pour just a little cream on top.
If you have it. Never use one percent milk here. Please. Never.

Find a window and a soft chair. If you have a good book
that's nice too. Just sit a while and read, taste your food.
Taste your life. Look at the lines your lips leave on the spoon.
Feel the warm round bowl of your hand holding a warm round bowl.

Lay a quilt across your lap. Tuck your feet. Or maybe prop them up.
Taste the morning, the oatmeal, the sky, the lilac bush or
the red brick house across the way with a silver
metal roof that the sunlight has just now turned pink.

Melody Newey © 2011

Life In Third Person. Helen.

2011-04-07T08:57:00.010-06:00

My dearest Helen, I thought I would be writing this Life In Third Person series for people who would or might outlive me. I was wrong. And that changes everything. By choosing to leave this world, you've created new possibilities for this part of my written history. Thank you for that. And for all the other things you changed in me. I will miss you more than I can say.

Yesterday my belly ached, my heart ached, everything ached for a moment while I cried. But after that I was okay, for the most part. And I figured out why. Sometimes people say things like, "I wish I could have seen her one last time." or "We didn't have a chance to say goodbye." or "I regret I didn't tell her how much I loved her while she was still here."

We saw each other in St. George last week. I gave you a hug and said, "I love you and I'll see you soon at the poetry reading." Besides that, every minute I spent with you over the past howevermany years has been just plain lovely and enriching. It's that whole quality versus quantity thing. For instance, right now I'm thinking about you and the other Keith Sisters reading from your book and singing together; notes of encouragement you left in margins on pages of my writing; the tone of your voice when you read during writers group—almost BBC English-ish; your presence, your very aura a unique mixture of glamour and impish delight.

And I have this feeling you were ready to go home. You did it in your own way too—unexpected, earlier than those of us who love you would have liked, but without a lot of fuss. And just in time for spring. I'll bet springtime in heaven is better than here. I'll bet the poets have wonderful gatherings and maybe they wanted you there for some special event. Easter perhaps. Of course you accepted the invitation.

When I awoke this morning you were on my mind. Pablo Neruda was on the floor by my bed and he invited me to read. It was one of those times. . . like when you open the scriptures to a random page and there on that page is the very verse you knew you needed to read. It was like that, only with Pablo.

Here is where the book fell open:

Still the atmosphere quivers with the first word uttered. . .

You are the mother my poet-self never had. You are my favorite poet aunt (unless Mary or Karen read this and then you are all my favorite). You and your sisters communicate the kind of love and respect for me that only comes from someone who knows what life can do to the soul, both good and ill. You reverenced and celebrated it; made me feel I had a home in this sometimes foreign land. You opened a door for me—a large and heavy, long-forgotten door with rusted hinges. You welcomed me in and asked me to sit down with you and your friends. We recognized each other the first time we met. . .

At your home, with other writers,
with oriental things
hanging on your walls.

You listened when I read my heart,
heard what I couldn't say,
watched me shift in the chair,
offered a glass of water.

Told me I was wonderful,
sighed when I recited from memory
"Nativity" for Luke,
your eyes tearing.

Before I left, you held my
face in your hands and said,
I'm so glad you're here!

Then there was the day
I stopped by unannounced.
You were clearing out bookshelves,
kept saying, Here, take one more. . .

My poetry library grew
because of you. (This is also
a metaphor, but you knew that.)

The last time it was this:

Before you left, you held
my face in your hands and said,
Never stop writing.

Of course, this is just
the first draft.

Melody Newey © 2011
In loving memory of Helen Keith Beaman.

White Kitten

2011-04-02T09:16:00.016-06:00

April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month. Did you know this?

The CDC states, "Approximately 772,000 children are confirmed by Child Protective Services each year as being abused or neglected. These confirmed cases, however, represent only a fraction of the true magnitude of the problem." That's in the United States alone.

Over three-quarters of a million confirmed cases. Only a fraction of the magnitude of the problem. That's a big number for a fraction.

Today I spent time reading what the CDC and other organizations say about child abuse. . . to remind myself of the reality of it and that it happens right here in my own neighborhood and community. Most days I don't think about it. I just do my best to love every child I see. I do this because of that whole "only a fraction of the true magnitude of the problem" thing. Most kids who suffer abuse do so in silence and loneliness.

In the medical community there is a term called "Standard Precautions." It means that anytime there is a potential for health care workers to be exposed to bloodborne pathogens they use precautions to protect themselves. It means each patient is treated as though s/he has HIV or hepatitis (or numerous others) weather or not s/he actually has it. Treat each patient with the same care, caution, compassion. You don't need to know who has the disease, just be consistent with precautions and everyone is better for it.

Maybe this isn't a very pleasant metaphor, but it works for me because I'm a nurse. And it is the easiest way to explain the commitment I made many years ago: Treat every child as if s/he comes from a home where abuse is occurring. I do not know, I cannot tell what pains a child may have to bear. But I do know that in the quiet heart is often hidden sorrow that the eye can't see. (Thank you LDS hymnal for these perfect words.) You don't need to know which child is suffering. Just be consistent with love and we are all better for it.

If a child is living in fear, in a state of abject emotional poverty, I want to be one of the people he isn't afraid of, who enriches his life; one of the people who cares about what is happening—even if he can't talk about it. I want to be someone he trusts to be consistently kind, compassionate and happy to know him; someone who communicates awareness of his inestimable value simply because he exists.

If a child is in need of someone who truly sees her, I want to be one of those people. If she needs a place to just be happy and enjoy childhood, I want my place to be that for her.

You matter to me, child. I care about you. I'm here to help you. I like you.

And if the child is fortunate enough to be raised in a loving, supportive home, all the better. Kids need grown-ups around who see them and like them.

Today I honor every child: those who are happy and healthy and those who endure abuse of any sort. And there are probably more sorts than most of us would like to know about.

I also honor a woman who once was a child. She told me her story more than a decade ago. After she shared with me, I wrote a poem for her. Today this poem honors not only her, but other women and men, other children—those who are part of the fraction courageous enough to "tell" or blessed enough to have someone intervene and protect them. . .

And those who are part of the other fraction.

White Kitten

What happened here,
no one knows.
Silence the only witness to
the crime unspeakable.

No one knows
what happened here,
but a brown-haired little girl
clutches a white stuffed kitten
and trembles herself to sleep.

Melody Newey © 1998

That One Thing

2011-03-20T09:37:00.132-06:00

Yesterday—Saturday—I had one thing on my to-do list. Only one. I didn't even write a list because there was only one thing on it and, well, you know, why bother.

The entire day had been pre-booked for several weeks prior with a few important events, so I didn't need to add That One Thing.

Here's how it went: On the previous day—Friday—I had worked an early shift then spent the late afternoon and evening being my dear friend, Roxanna's, wedding helper or, rather, wedding slave. If you've ever been the mother-of-the-bride you know that every MOB needs at least one slave or minion or something like that. Some people pay a lot of money for wedding planners to avoid the burden of managing minions but my friend has no problem with the potential challenges associated with unpaid labor. She's a good manager and I was happy to "pay it back and forward" from all the help I'd received at my own kids' weddings. Her daughter was being married on Saturday and the reception was held the night before so, along with other volunteers, I worked my tail off. I ran errands, helped with set up and found my reward in a lovely black apron and in pleasant conversation with wedding guests as I served up the bride's choice of Dad's Famous River-Run Chili, then directed them toward the groom's choice for dessert: BYU brownies. Oh, yes, I ate two or three of those, but that still makes me pretty affordable as good help goes.

Saturday's schedule was as follows: Wedding 10:30 AM in American Fork (yes, lovely ceremony); carrying Roxanna's mother-of-the-bride paraphernalia so MOB was free to do her mothering; lunch and gathering at Roxanna's home in Pleasant Grove into the afternoon and early evening; get a massage at the Utah College of Massage Therapy in Lindon because I knew by that point I'd be ready for it.

The only thing I added to this day was one simple thing: purchase a blow dryer. I planned to swing by the Orem Costco on my way home to Provo at day's end. It was a simple, flawless plan. Who needs a list?

And let me just say, I am so tired of replacing blow dryers every six months! I don't even use it every day. What's up with that? Anyway, Costco has consistently delighted me with the quality and convenience of virtually every product I've purchased there. The blow dryer I bought for my daughter last September still functions beautifully so I figured I'd pick one up for myself. Mine had been dying since Wednesday, limping along with predictable airflow, but sometimes heat/sometimes not.

Thank you, Sara, for the use of your dryer on Saturday morning.

It seemed so easy, so clear in those few days before the wedding. But when Saturday afternoon came and I was exhausted and the massage school had an hour-and-a-half wait and my schedule shifted ever-so-slightly, I found myself going to Costco to utilize the spare time. I couldn't for the life of me remember why I needed to go to there, nevertheless, I went, trusting it would dawn on me.

As I entered the Kirkland Temple and joined the numberless congregation of faithful followers worshipping at the alter of wholesale, I soon considered leaving. The place was way too crowded. But I knew I had come for a reason, so I pressed forward. I knew I needed berries, fresh berries of whatever sort Costco had to offer. So I headed for produce and filled my cart (not really, because who can afford to actually FILL a cart, but covered the bottom anyway) with strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and other wonderfully fresh and colorful produce. Then I remembered an amazing open-faced turkey/apple/Havarti cheese melt I wanted to make, so I made my way through the throng to the meat and cheese section. I picked up the smoked turkey and Havarti then paused with a vague sense of "something is missing." What was it? I knew there was something else I had come for. Then my cell phone rang. The caller was a home hemodialysis patient who needed help with placement of fistula needles. My shopping would be cut short, because at that moment I became acutely aware of the one hour remaining before call back time for the massage.

That vague "something is missing" instantly disappeared. I made a bee-line for check out where I had never EVER seen such long lines. Seriously, in howevermanyyears Costco has been in Orem I have never seen lines like that. Maybe people were trying to get there and get out before the BYU game started. I don't know. All I knew was that my feet hurt from the night before, my back was a little achy and I needed to get out of there fast. Oh, and I would NOT go without those berries. So I did what every good Kirkland Temple-goer does. I asked the powers of Costco Heaven to be called down upon me and my cart to move us through the chaos in time to go to Provo, place needles and get back to Lindon before I lost my place in line at the massage school. Miraculously, there was one short line toward the West end. I successfully navigated past the Sweet-n-Salty nut bars, rounded the corner by the glucosamine and slid in behind a lady with wavy brunette hair who only had three or four items in her cart. I said a little prayer of thanks and took a deep, grateful breath.

It turned out the lady with the wavy hair was Ms. Jet Set. That was a nice surprise. She probably has a working blow dryer.

To finish up: I made it to UCMT just as my name was called by a wonderful massage student named Tiffany. Don't be fooled by the delicate name. This mother of three had the strongest hands I could imagine and gave one of the top five best massages I've had in the decade I've been a client at the school; met up with another friend for an impromptu late supper at Bombay House and came home with a full tummy, warm heart from the day's events, and leftover rice pudding for breakfast this morning.

Yes, delightful breakfast this morning.
That's about the time I remembered The Thing about the blow dryer.

Found While Cleaning

2011-03-13T11:50:00.006-06:00

This is why I need a better system for organizing my writing. More particularly poetry. Sometimes I go months or even years without reading something that, when originally penned, held so much meaning, so clear a picture of what was happening in the moment. I had almost forgotten about the massive letting-go that came with the marriage of my first child.

So many lettings-go throughout the years. So many good-byes. I always thought I was finished and then another came. Another cord cutting, bon voyaging, have a happy life-ing.

I am so delighted now with all of it—with all my children and their lives. I hadn't thought of this feeling for a very long time. Then just this morning I found one of the poems I wrote when Lauren and Clayton were married.

I remember watching them walk away from my door one evening in the days before their wedding. I felt a little earthquake inside me. I felt the landscape of my life forever altered, not in a bad way either. And not just my life, but numberless others, into eternity. I saw what they were walking toward together—all the adventure and hardship and joy.

Some people keep journals. I write poetry.

Landscapes

The ground moved yesterday;
my grown daughter fell from my womb
into the arms of her future husband.

He wiped her tears,
whispered devotion into crescent flesh,
promised to honor, adore.

Earth shuddered as
they walked from my door
toward sunlit union.

I trembled to my knees,
sang their name, asked God to
part the sea for them.

Melody Newey © 2006

Ashes and Regret

2011-03-05T11:25:00.034-07:00

I cleaned out the fireplace a few days ago. It was a messy process and took more time and energy than I anticipated. Oh, I've done it dozens of times before, so it wasn't like I didn't know what I was in for. Ashes, soot and those familiar remnants of cedar and pine: featherweight coals, cooled to a perfect shiny black, that roll so easily off the shovel when scooped up—had waited a long time for my attention.

This is how it looked mid-way through the process.

As I worked I became distracted by something I've been thinking about.

I used to say I want to live life without regret. And I meant it. And I did live that way for a good long while. Sure there were little regrets, mostly having to do with foregone retail purchases. Big regrets? Not so many.

That changed a couple of years ago. I made a decision that I have come to regret. At first it was difficult to admit this; admit that I do in fact regret it. There were all sorts of messages in my head and coming from supportive friends allowing me to keep a safe distance from the negative feelings of regret. Messages like: You did the best you could. You made a good faith decision; just a little misplaced. Look at all you learned from this.

These messages were comforting and true. My faith was misplaced and I did work hard to make it fit. I did learn a lot. For instance, I learned I was more vulnerable to things like deceit, manipulation and bullying than I had realized before and that, like many women in similar situations, I was capable of denying painful realities right before my eyes. These awarenesses have become wonderful, essential gifts in the light of truth, but they were initially indescribably painful to accept.

So, that's the backdrop for this post. And some of the reasons for my round-a-bout journey to appreciating regret.

What I really want to say is that regret is not a bad thing. It is, in fact, a very good thing. It has inherent value. I believe every emotion is a gift from God, placed within us for divine purpose, each with unique, essential functions. When we deny or diminish any emotion (including pleasant ones and those with which we are uncomfortable or which our culture labels "bad") we diminish our spirit, our agency, and our ability to grow and truly change. Once we are willing to acknowledge and express the full spectrum of our feelings, we discover the truth of our experiences and in so doing, the truth of who we are and who others are. We become free. Free to be ourselves, to understand ourselves, to move forward with becoming our best and truest self.

And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. John 8:32 King James Version.

And the truth was, I felt regret. Once I saw it and honestly accepted it, regret asked me to do something hard and ultimately freeing: Give time and attention to something I would rather not; stop, turn around and look at myself, my life and choices with eyes further removed from the event; to stand by its side and review what had happened, not as a participant or as a victim, but as an empathetic helper. Regret provided a unique opportunity for sacred work and I believe it will do the same for anyone who chooses to feel it and move forward with courage, compassion, and care toward the truths beneath.

There's a popular saying in my community. "Don't Look Back" or "Don't Turn Back" something to that effect. As it turns out, in many circumstances looking back is the only way to really move forward. I feel this is one purpose for regret.

Until I got in there and cleaned things up, I could not safely or effectively build a new fire in my fireplace. Regret is like those remnants in my fireplace. It is an unattractive, burnt out, messy leftover. It may be avoided for a time, troublesome to deal with, and when fully acknowledged may require more energy or perhaps a different kind of energy than we are accustomed to using. But I found that as I accepted regret—cleaned up the aftermath of the fire—I remembered, realized and discovered invaluable truths that I simply would not have discovered had I ignored or denied the feeling by just "focusing on the positive" and "moving on with life."

This is how I look more than mid-way through the process.

Oh, and by the way, there are fragrant evergreen boughs in the fireplace now, waiting for the next perfect cold snap or snowfall or just some night when the day has been long and it's time for the warmth and sound of living flames—by myself or with company—right here in my own living room.

Thank you, ashes. Thank you, regret. Thank you, God.

Life in Third Person. Dalene.

2011-01-09T07:21:00.011-07:00

I remember when I first saw this photo. I remember looking at it and thinking, "There she is. Clear-eyed and happy; welcoming, gentile. That's my Dalene!"

Throughout the years I've known you, I have been blessed by your bright-eyed smile, gentle and reassuring. I've also been blessed by your compassionate half-frown. I call it a half-frown because that's what it feels like to me. There is always hope in it. It's like you're saying, "I see you are hurting. I hurt with you and for you. I love you. Now, let's go and see how the roses are doing in my garden this year."

I remember one late afternoon almost a decade ago when I had been at your house talking about a struggle in a relationship, a serious relationship with a man for whom I cared most deeply, but who I pretty much knew I should not be with. Remember how I walked away to my car, still a little distressed, and you waved good-bye and spontaneously called out with a smile, "Be true! Be true!"? Well, I remember. It comes back to me from time-to-time. It's one of those iconic moments in life. I am nothing, if not true. And more than once you have reminded me of that.

Then there was that time at the surgical center with my shoulder. You drove me there, came with me into pre-op and after surgery took me home. You were a friend and sister to me. You were also surrogate mother to my frightened inner child, a child who had been profoundly harmed, who was terrified to be drugged and left helpless in the hands of people whom she hardly knew (skilled surgeons and compassionate anesthesiologists to my adult self—but just a bunch of people with more power than I had and sharp instruments—to that wounded inner child). Your presence and your willingness to know and understand the roots of my fear helped heal me. That frightened part of me had a new experience in large part because of you; a different experience, a healing experience because you were willing to share my burden.

Have the sick and the weary been helped on their way? When they needed my help, was I there?
You were there.

But it's not just about how you are willing to share my burdens and sorrows. You have a way of being happy for me, with me. My greatest joys in life are greater still because of good women like you.(I know you don't always love looking at photos of yourself, but I love all these images of you. I hope it's okay to include them.) When I looked closely at this one, I first noticed your smile. You are delighted to be there, sharing the day of Lauren's wedding. It meant so much to me then. It means even more now, since we've added lots of great and glorious days to our happy repertoire. Next—and this surprised me, made me catch my breath a little—I saw that you were holding my jacket. I had taken it off and was busy trying to get the wind-blown hair out of my face before Luke started snapping pictures. (He never waits for me to get my hair out of my face and as a result, we have some really great shots, like this one. I'm serious. I love the photo. But there are several through the years that show me with my hand somewhere about my head or face. It's signature Luke.) Anyway, this is also signature Dalene: happily carrying my jacket while I fretted about how I looked in my daughter's wedding photos. You are kind, caring and carrying. Always carrying something for someone. On happy days or sad days.

And of course there is this. You're an auntie to my kids and now to their kids.

Seriously, what baby doesn't love to be held by you? In fact, what grown up doesn't love a Dalene Rex Rowley hug?! I don't know anyone who doesn't associate you with warm, nurturing hugs.Even exhausted, post-triathlon, you're still all about the hugs.

Just a few weeks ago in church I noticed a young mother walking up the aisle with her babe in arms. She would be speaking in the meeting later and as she passed you, you tapped her arm, looked up at her and smiled and (I honestly don't know if you even spoke a word or if she just knew from the look in your eye) that baby was swung from that mother's arms into yours without the slightest skip in her stride. I mean it. She. did. not. break. stride. Just gave you her baby and went on her way to her seat a few rows ahead.

Women trust you with their most precious things: their babies, their fears, their dreams for the future. And you hold each of these as securely as any woman I have ever known. I (and they) feel honored to have a person like you to share such things with.

You are like a Queen Mother. Yeah. That's what it feels like.

Which leads me to this.

It was several years ago when I first knew I needed to write this next part. I apologize for waiting so long to actually transcribe it from my thoughts and share it with you. There are many reasons for the delay, but they don't matter now. The impressions I had then are as clear as if it were yesterday.

Maybe I told you about that day in Relief Society around Christmas time when a few of us had been asked to give readings in the voices of women from Christ's life. You were the wife of a shepherd. You were wearing that warm, deep forest green dress. It's a heavy knit fabric, almost like velour, perfect for winter. Did you have a veil or shawl? I'm not sure. But you were lovely. Simple. Beautiful.

Well, anyway, I think I've told you that sometimes I have visions. Not like Joan of Arc, mind you, but visions nonetheless. They often come as dreams, but on occasion they show up in bright daylight. This day in Relief Society was one of those occasions.

I was watching you and listening to your recitation and without warning, without my bidding, in my mind your dress became a long velvet gown with a train behind it; the color was intensified in a way I can't describe, but it was richer, brighter, brilliant midnight green. You appeared taller and there was a crown on your head, or something like it. Maybe one of those wreathes with flowers and candles in it. You held a golden scepter in your right hand and you appeared to be illuminated. Literally. I heard music that made me think of the song Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella. Your cheeks glowed roses. And what I felt as I listened to you and watched you speaking as a humble shepherd's wife (or perhaps as an elementary school teacher's wife) was an undeniable awareness of who you are in God's kingdom. It may seem absurd that I should say I know such a thing about anyone. But I know what I felt and what I saw and I have no doubt it was real. As real as you are.

It seemed to me as though I saw the Truth. The truth that often becomes obscured by insecurities, misunderstandings and the odd mis-shaping of things in this mortal sphere. The truth, perhaps, not only of who you are, but of who we all are if we could see better than through a glass darkly. But this isn't about the rest of us. And my vision didn't include anyone else that day. Only you.

-------------------

After I wrote this I took a moment to search for Bring a Torch . .. because, honestly, I don't know the lyrics, other than the first line. It is a beautiful song of celebration. It's about shepherds and milkmaids coming to the stable in joy to see the baby Jesus. It's about having to contain their joyful noise so as not to disturb the infant. It's about preparing a feast (did I mention how wonderful your cooking skills are and how much you have nurtured me with food?) . . . regular folk, who celebrate the happiest day of all days together and adore the sleeping child with his rosy cheeks. Oh, and it is of French origin, so, my French-speaking friend, you probably already knew all that.

-------------------

Dalene, Happy late December Birthday to you. I believe you are a queen. I see things powerful and noble in you and I don't care what the world makes of either of us - that's who you will always be to me.

I love you. Thank you for being my sister and friend.

17 April 2011
Today you sent me an e-mail. You linked to a blog of a woman who is suffering and feeling alone; a divorced woman who had started a new and loving relationship with a good man. She ended it because she recognized that she can't love him and also love God (and ultimately herself) in the way she needs to if she stays with him. Once again I am made aware of your expansive compassion and kindness; of your willingness to reach out to others and even beyond that—to create possible connections between people who might be able to support each other. You are weaving strands of love in the lives of people you know. What is that phrase from the relief society of old? Hearts knit together in love . . . something like that. What a blessing you are, Dalene.

12 November 2011
I cherish the invisible bond, the unspoken understanding we have of each other. Sometimes I feel that I should articulate it. But then I feel I should just let it be silent. Like it has always been. I knew the first time I met you, before I knew you, that you were important to me.

And Suddenly There Were With the Angels . . .

2010-12-26T08:02:00.023-07:00

Fifteen, maybe twenty years ago I sang with a choir for a Christmas program. We rehearsed several times in the late evenings. On the night before the performance I drove through eight inches of new-fallen snow for dress rehearsal. The streets had been plowed, but it was still a challenge to get through the drifts and mounds. Some cars parked on the side of the road were almost obscured, left there too long, perhaps by college students flown home for Christmas. And more snow was coming down.

I remember street lights glowing through feathery air, inverse cones shining onto the streets below. The light seemed warm and hopeful. I remember my car sliding just a little as I rounded the corner toward the church house. I remember being stunned to discover the parking lot filling, droves of people in coats and boots walking toward the entrance. Nearly everyone had made it through the snow.

Inside the choir director stood at the front of the chapel on a platform facing the pews, the choir seated, then standing there. The room was packed with choir members. It was a massive congregation, the largest choir I had ever been part of. I don't remember what songs we sang. In fact I don't remember the performance or anything other than a solitary moment during the rehearsal.

One of the songs was through-composed and at one point during our singing, each of the vocal sections sang a different lyric, each part—Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass—sang with beautiful harmonic variance. There were instruments too, strings and maybe a french horn. It was complex and wonderful.

At this moment I felt as though there were something profoundly familiar about the music, about the movement of the notes—a tune that did not repeat itself, but created itself anew with every phrase, every stanza; multiple voices, multiple melodies and harmonies and words; each unique, separate, making its own joyful noise and all of it coalescing perfectly. I was overcome, filled beyond my ability to accurately convey what I experienced, what I remembered. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has had such a moment. And the poem doesn't do it justice, but I suppose that is as it should be.
And Suddenly

Our voices join December;
a chapelful of maybe familiar faces.
Fair-haired form caresses air,
bids us wing our words on music.

Tones elevate, expand, descend
through rhythms sweeping
between hopeful harmonies.

Wind through organ pipes,
breath through brass,
strings sing gloria in excelsis Deo.

I wonder why we gather here,
what brings us through the
cold dark white,

then wander to where we sang
before with swells of friends
for miles and days and centuries,
not far from here—as heaven’s host.

Melody Newey © 2010

Life In Third Person. Luke.

2010-12-14T05:20:00.015-07:00

You've heard it before. I don't know how many times. But I suppose I will tell it many more in years to come—this poem. This night when I looked at you laying quietly, your small form making a manger of the down pillow. The other night when I re-told the story and the poem at dinner I couldn't remember your exact age. It came to me when I started this post. It wasn't when you were a toddler and had fallen asleep watching television or when you were older and I was reflecting back on your birth.

It was New Year's Eve 1983, so dark outside and so quiet. I was twenty-two years old, a young mother. You were my sixteen-day-old Christmastime son and I was feeling so very Mary-like. This is maybe why I sincerely love all those fancy candles and statues and all things Holy Mother-ish. It seemed I understood her a little, would forever be connected to her because of you.

You had awakened just before midnight or maybe just after. I had fed you, then carefully set you in the pillow I had brought with me from the bed to put under my arm on the living room recliner when I nursed you. (I did this will all my babies—used that soft down pillow to support me, supporting them.) Then I moved us both to the floor near the Christmas tree, laid down beneath the white twinkle lights.

You slept. I cried. I loved you more than I could say. I still do.

Nativity
for Luke

There were no wise men come
when my son was born,
ten days before the Holy One.

There was no star,
no bleating sheep,
no one traveled far.

But there was an angel—
spoke of light and love.
My newborn son, like Hers,
brought hope.

Melody Newey © 1983

17 April 2011
Thank you for the way you acknowledge me when you pray over the food at dinner when we are together as a family. You say things like, "Bless mom for her efforts to bring us together as family. Help her in her life." It means a great deal to me. And I believe the Lord answers prayers like that. I feel blessed.

My Life In Third Person

2010-12-13T07:37:00.012-07:00

Sometimes I think about dying. Maybe it's morbid, but it's what it is. Sometime I'll write about all that, but today I'm writing about writing.

One of the things I think about when I think about dying is: I haven't written a personal history yet. I've told my children that the volumes of poetry I've written—especially over the last few decades—speak more about me than any journal ever could. They know this is where they can go for my history after I'm gone. But even that part of my written history isn't well enough organized. (Some of the best poems are still on napkins or grocery receipts in a box in the closet . . . or is that box out in the storage shed? I can't remember.)

I was thinking about other ways to record the story, the important truths of my life. And one idea that seemed especially appealing came as I was working in the kitchen. I wrote it on the dry-erase board. "My Life In Third Person." I determined this would be at least one of my histories; not a history based upon chapters or seasons of growth or any such linear thing, but upon characters, people in the story who have become part of who I am and who have helped and are helping me become myself. Letters, if you will, to loved ones.

I have determined I will write this history here. On this blog. I will begin tomorrow (or someday soon thereafter) with a post for my son, Luke, as he was born on December 14th. I have no idea when the next Life In Third Person entry will come, but when it does I'll add it. And by the time I'm done, there will be a lovely, loving volume that someone can print from this blog and bind to pass on to whomever should be interested. I'll label each post to make it easier for you, whoever you are. Probably Lauren . . .

. . . maybe I'll start a new private blog for these posts. I'll let you know.

Getting the Heart Ready

2010-12-10T05:42:00.013-07:00

This Christmas season has been too busy. School. Work. Church. Shopping. Family. That's the order of things. Not so good. Besides that, I'm hungry for writing. Last month's daily "Thank You" on this site was a blessing in more ways than I can number.

Okay, I did attend a symphony performance with my sister and made it to the Messiah Sing-in and have managed to spend enough time with my grand daughter to know each and every ornament on her Christmas tree by name and how and when and where and by whom it was made. I have also been graced with a tour of her front porch with its rainbow-lit evergreen swag hanging about the door and the wreath hung there. She motioned, Vanna White or Carol Merrill-like, to each of these delightful holiday adornments. I adore her for this. Seriously, I wish you could see the two-and-a-half-year-old hand motion.

These moments of bliss have kept me sane and at least partially in tune. Yet, I am otherwise drawn and disconnected from my usual overarching feelings of warmth and reflection during this Advent Season. I suppose it's partially because there is too much going on outside to get quiet inside.

Earlier this week I missed the annual Christmas gathering of my poetry friends with its brilliant, thoughtful and often sacred original seasonal poetry . . . because I was on campus—in class, then meeting with a tutor to prepare for the great and glorious statistics final next week. Now I'm hearing Handel's hallelujah chorus.

If I had gone to writers group I would have taken the first draft of my 2010 Christmas Poem to share with my friends there. Maybe you would like to read it. This is it. Even though some people believe one should not share one's writing, (especially in draft and especially if one ever wants to attempt to publish it) I am compelled.

Merry Christmas and God bless us every one.

How Silently

softly in the night you came,
with only your mother's
breath to warm you;

went about your business,
not so lovely as to draw any
particular attention to yourself.

How stealthy, unassuming in
your raisings from the dead,
healings of lame and leper.

And when you come again,
a thief in the night,
who will see you?

The creator hides himself
and not on purpose
from his created.

We are blind to the one
who made us whole,
who makes us still.

Still, away in a manger you lay,
in a garden you knelt, on a cross you stood.
Would I have known you then?

Melody Newey © 2010

Getting the Tree Ready

2010-12-08T07:18:00.001-07:00

So that part's done.

Getting the Room Ready

2010-12-05T09:49:00.013-07:00

Yesterday I left the local art market around noon and realized I hadn't had much for breakfast, so I headed downtown for lunch. As I drove I thought, "Gee, maybe I can find someone to eat lunch with." I called my friend and, amazingly, she was only a few blocks from where I was headed. She was just finishing some shopping of her own and would love to meet up with me. I love it when that happens—lunch with a friend. And it's easy. Actually this has happened a few times lately with this particular friend. I'll call her out-of-the-blue and she will just happen to be blocks or moments away and we meet for lunch or a quick store browse or whatever. It's a little gift of friendly grace.

So, anyway, as we were dining, I asked if her Christmas tree was up yet and she said, "I figure I'd better get the room ready before I commit to the tree." Good idea.

My room was ready two days ago, spotless. So I brought the fresh cut tree in from the front porch where it had been waiting for maybe five or six days for me to saw off the bottom and trim some of the lower branches. (By the way, thanks to Lisa and Jim Fischer, Jordan's parents, for so thoughtfully fetching a tree for me when they went to cut their own.) Now the tree is up and the room looks like this. Click on photo for best view Note the following in the above photo:
1. The room is no longer clean
2. poinsettia in white pot on the mantle—a gift from a friend
3. more poinsettias on the floor near hearth—a gift from me
4. red Target bag full of plastic globe ornaments for big plans in front yard
5. long-handled loppers for larger branches I missed when trimming outside
6. (back to the mantle) said branches—the first of many
7. angel tree topper on end table in front of fireplace (hard to see. it blends in)
8. (back to floor) laundry—whites folded on the floor
7. reds and yellows folded on the ottoman
8. more stuff from target and See's candy on ottoman and scotch tape
9. gifts from art market on the striped chair
10. outdoor Christmas lights timer on the floor in front of striped chair next to teddy bear, coconut and baby doll
11. more Target bags on floor with more gifts
12. small clippers on dining chair used for trimming tree top and for shaping mantle branches
13. brown box and packing material on floor—just delivered online order of my favorite lotions

I had great aspirations for finishing the tree and the room yesterday evening, but instead, I went to Salt Lake City with my sister for a Utah Symphony concert and tea.

The room can wait. Maybe I'll post another photo when things are tidy . . . later today . . . or Wednesday.

Thank you, Words

2010-11-30T19:55:00.037-07:00

I remember when I was five years old in Mrs. Ammott's first grade class at Wasatch Elementary School. I distinctly remember when my mind made the connection between the symbols on the page and the meanings they held.

I remember Sam. Am. Hat. That. A. The.

I remember the illustrations, the simple story line. I remember feeling that a great mystery had been revealed and as a result I would be forever free. I was liberated from whatever held me captive and I knew that no matter what happened in life, I had the power to get through it. I had a vehicle to move wherever I desired. I felt as though I could fly, only better.

Words did this for me. Words. It was beautiful and terrible—like Wrath of God terrible, only it was on my side. These words and knowing these words, felt wondrous and mighty. Ironically, forty-some years later I'm having difficulty finding the right words to express this.

Within a year after learning to read I wrote my first poem.

Halloween night so dark and gray
it's not like Easter light and gay
with ghosts in the brush
you hear a silent "hush"
and then
you RUSH!

Last month Alex Caldiero visited our writer's group. Among other things, Mr. Caldiero spoke of something I had never considered. In all my years loving words I had never thought of them as living entities. He said, "Words are living as much as I am . . . They are the most humble, most Christlike creatures . . . they will do whatever we ask them to do . . . they will even let themselves be abused, tied up, misunderstood."

He went on to describe the visceral, organic origin of words, of sound. How one's entire body is intimately involved with the process of making words—either on paper or with vocal cords; how the breath moving in and out as we speak, as we say our words, perform our story with sound, is no different than the words themselves. They are living, breathing things.

Maybe this is what I felt in first grade. Maybe I knew that life depends on words. At least for some of us. Maybe I took a big deep breath when I first recognized these indescribably glorious creatures, these pieces of self encased in scratchings on paper. Maybe I knew I was in here somewhere and words would bring me out.

Thank you, Cactus

2010-11-29T05:12:00.005-07:00

It's seems like a bit of serendipity that while I'm pondering the loveliness of fresh-fallen snow, the bitter, magical beauty of winter, the calming ebb of color outdoors, I should happen upon this little darling in the powder room. Okay, I didn't just happen upon it. It's been there for over a year, but it did start blooming again only a few days ago.

I'm struck by the brilliant pink-red-orange-ness of the Christmas Cactus blossoms. And although it isn't technically a cactus, it nevertheless provides a perfect contrast to the winter outside. Such a friendly reminder of the beauty of the earth in all her seasons. Such an easy thing to blog about on this, the second-to-last day of NaBloPoMo.

Thank you, blossoms. You done good.

Thank you, Snow

2010-11-28T14:40:00.004-07:00

When I woke this morning at 3:30 I was delighted to discover four or so inches of snow on everything. I felt only a little nervous about the early morning commute to work, fifteen miles north. The highway had not been plowed yet. In fact, none of the roads had been touched by anything other than a car tire or two. After feeling mildly disturbed that the snow plows seemed late in their duties, I relaxed and enjoyed driving in predawn dark. It was so quiet, so soft.

Once the sun came up (somewhere it was up) I stepped outside the clinic and snapped this photo. (I had to work today on a rare Sunday leaving the prior Thursday free for both patients and staff to spend Thanksgiving with loved ones - it's complicated, but that's the simple version.) Maybe not the best photo, taken with my phone camera. But it captures the feeling. Snow still falling . . . makes the background misty and white.

I like snow. I like to play in it, ski in it, shovel it, drive in it (especially when no on else is on the road) and especially I like watching it make its way from up there to down here - a million tiny, perfect crystals of light floating with gentle precision to their resting places. Piles of happiness, glistening like nobody's business.

Snow makes me feel like a child again. I like that too.

Thank you, Compassion

2010-11-27T06:27:00.023-07:00

Compassion is not pity, nor empathy, nor sympathy. (Although it may have qualities of these and these have merit in and of themselves.) In my mind compassion feels like the grown-up, more mature, older brother to all those emotions.

The Wiki definition references Latin roots: com-passion = co-suffering = to suffer together with. For me, compassion means moving into another person's space of grief, sorrow, hardship or what-have-you; to mourn with those that mourn rather than simply feeling sorry for them; to take action rather than observing from a distance. It is a virtue that some people seem to be born with, others grow into, and still others never acquire or attempt to develop.

Again, from Wikipedia: More vigorous than empathy, the feeling commonly gives rise to an active desire to alleviate another's suffering.Compassion is the willingness to give something of one's self to benefit another in his or her time of need. It is friendship, devotion, often proven in times of inconvenience to the giver and sometimes with great personal sacrifice. Compassion is Love made visible.

Today I am thankful for compassion and for people throughout my life who have demonstrated the same; who have taught me by example how to be compassionate with others and with myself.

*Parable of the Good Samaritan, Domenico Feti, c. 1623

Thank you, Jesus

2010-11-25T05:09:00.004-07:00

It's Thanksgiving Day 2010. The sun isn't anywhere close to coming up yet, but I know it's a beautiful day. It always is.

On this day three years ago I said everything I wanted to say. It bears repeating. Bear with me. It's kinda long. Thank you for reading.

Lauren, Clayton, Luke, Rachel, Sara, Jordan, Sunshine and Champ. I love you more than words can ever say.

And of course, Jesus just loves you more.

Thank you, Morning

2010-11-24T06:10:00.012-07:00

And Cat Stevens.

This thing happens a lot. This thing where I wake up with a song in my head. Here's today's morning melody. If you can, take time to listen. It's nice. And the video is classic. Circa 1976.

When I pay attention to these early morning musical musings and sing along, sometimes out loud, or just hum, I often discover that whatever song has planted itself in my waking consciousness, had its origins in unconscious dream-time. Melodious messages about life or whatever happens to be going on in my heart, my world at a given moment. They provide insight and often give answers to queries I've posed. I could devote an entire post to this phenomenon. Perhaps later.

More reasons to thank Morning. . . Today, for instance: the moon, the blackblue earlydark sky, poked through with pinholes from heaven and that big fat slice of white light. Clouds have moved over it just now, but at 5:00 AM it was clear, unobstructed, breathtaking.

I adore the newness of each day. The start-over-ness of morning, the perfectly untouched-ness. The resurrection from the death of sleep. I like how all night those tired feet have been off the floor, level with the heart, blood flowing effortlessly to them and back through every organ, every cell, repairing, restoring, regenerating. With morning, I am whole again. What a gift.

Thank you, Morning.

P.S. For my sleep-deprived family and friends I wish you one good night very soon. And every good night sometime not too long in the future. I sincerely do. Morning comes easier that way.

Thank you, Walnuts

2010-11-23T18:06:00.003-07:00

The trees in my front yard produce more than just leaves. Every year they spring forth with a bounty of walnuts. Lovely, mild, English Walnuts.

Tonight, I gathered the last of the season's harvest in the dark; the wind groaning, growling like a wild animal all around me. Honestly, it was groaning, growling in earnest. The forty-year-old tree branches above, pushed and pulled in directions they aren't accustomed to being pushed and pulled in.

As I worked to move the nuts toward a garbage bag, conveniently blown open as wide as it could be by that wicked wind, (thank you, wind) I felt grateful for the food on the ground. I devised in my mind a tale of a pioneer woman gathering nuts before winter's first great storm. The storm that would paralyze the world around her, keep all the good, hard-working folks from finding nourishment other than what had been stored up for just such an event. . .

I remembered when I first found this home and how delighted I was to discover the property was rich with fruit and nut-bearing trees, how it delighted me that my kin would never go hungry because we had food growing right here on our land! I felt it again tonight in the wind, in the dark.

Silly me. Lovely walnuts. Thank you.

Thank you, Disarray

2010-11-22T16:02:00.005-07:00

It somehow makes array all the more enjoyable.

Thank you, Sabbath

2010-11-21T07:23:00.008-07:00

For stopping the world and letting me get off. If only for a day.
One day makes a difference. So, thank you.

For pulling me back,
away from deafening din,
turning my face toward sunrise,
my heart toward home;
for making me part of
the better part.

And this morning, for making the garden into this.

Thank you, Color

2010-11-20T19:48:00.017-07:00

As I walked in the house after making a late night visit to a home health patient (after an all ready too long working Saturday) I figured I'd just skip the NaBloPoMo thing today. All sorts of stuff went through my mind about what I might post if I actually had the energy. But, honestly, I just couldn't do any of it. Not worth the time or effort.

I headed toward the living room, set purse and scarf on the back of the sofa. My scripture case happened to be there too. When I turned on the light in the room, this is what I saw. It's not a great photo. It's from my iPhone, not the best lighting and I'm too tired to wipe off the lens and go take another picture. The tones are much richer in person. Blah, blah, blah and so on and so forth. Anyway, this little scene gave me a perfect (and brief) post de Jour.

I love color. I love bright, brilliant, variety of color. After a long, tiring day I feel happy and grateful to live in a world where our eyes are fed with all the delicious hues of the earth. From the intensely satisfying teal ocean and flaming flowers of Fiji; to the luminescent white of Mount Timpanogos flanked by clear, crisp winter blue; to the olive and salmon leather accessories pictured above. (Those colors remind me a little of Southern Utah.) Well, I love it all.

And, also, I love leather. 'nough said.

Thank you, Mandelbrot

2010-11-19T06:11:00.016-07:00

Call me a Nerd. A Nerd Mama. I don't mind.

The first time I heard about the Mandelbrot Set was after reading a book about quantum mechanics. I have neither the time nor energy to say much about that here, only that I have moved in and out of interest in the worlds of physics and mathematics in various intervals throughout my life. Having found myself in a statistics class, I am once again in love with science and for the first time, I am in love with math.

Because it is 6:18 AM and I need to finish studying for a statistics exam I am taking later this morning (do I really love math? maybe not) I will just say two things:

1. Many years ago I had a spiritual experience watching a special on PBS. A mathematician, quantum scientist explained and expounded the Mandelbrot Set and fractals.

It wasn't so much about the fractals, although they are glorious and beautiful. It was about a mathematical formula associated with the Mandelbrot Set which had unlimited possible solutions; an infinite number of values in its solution set. It was to me essentially a mathematical equation that explained free will or free agency. Infinite solutions to a mathematical equation. Infinite possible outcomes for our lives.

We change the course of our lives with each and every choice and we can choose anything at any given moment and we will continue in a certain direction into eternity. There is no limit to our choices. God cannot, will not limit our choices. It is mathematically and morally impossible.

2. I woke up the other day with a poem in my head. It's about math and emotion. It started like this:

Pain is the denominator.
It sets us up, on top,
above the line,
then fractions, fractures,
into pieces of the whole,
for all the king's horses
to wonder over. . .

Thank you, Banana

2010-11-18T13:21:00.014-07:00

Yes, that's right, I said Banana! Because it is a perfectly packaged, individual serving of sweetness and light. It's got vitamins, minerals and plenty of carbs for an on-the-go recharge. And isn't it just the prettiest thing? Yellow and all.
I do love me a good banana. Though I can't say I love them enough to be bananas about them. Except the ones I ate right off the trees in the yards of folks we met in Fiji a few years back. Those smaller, sweeter kind that I had never before seen or tasted; and haven't since. I am bananas about those bananas.

But don't you think they are at least worthy of a blog post in this month of thanks? Well, I do. That's why they're here today. If you like, you can take some time to get to know our little yellow friends a little better here.

God bless you and have a lovely day.

And a banana if you want.

Thank you, Friend

2010-11-17T06:32:00.037-07:00

A work in progress. If your name isn't here and it should be, just tell me. I will add it with sincere gratitude for our friendship.

In alphabetical order.

Adrienne, for the note you wrote before you died that I happened upon and read again this morning. Especially the part where you said, "Let's do something wonderfully artistic together later, when I'm well, either in this life or in the next."

Carol, for being a good and true travel companion, gourmet cook and pajama party friend. For taking time to listen when I have something important to say. For forging the way on the whole advanced nursing degree thing. Moving in your wake makes my journey a little easier.

Clayton, for loving and caring for your wife and children. For being a protector and provider for them and for providing support to me recently during an especially difficult time of life. For sharing your feelings in quiet unexpected moments that sometimes take my breath away. You are a good, good man.

Cynthia, for the art. For treating me with the most tender, kind, consideration from the moment we met. For uniquely observing my vulnerabilities and communicating your reverence for them while never underestimating my strengths. This is a rare gift.

Dalene, for reaching down into the crashing waves when I'm swept overboard and hoisting me back into the boat. Then laughing really hard with me about how ridiculous life is after I finish crying about how I almost died down there! For understanding this metaphor.

Fae, for your hands, your heart, the list you read and then sent me for my birthday. For our wonderful collaborations of not just art, but with so very many good and enobling things throughout the years. For sharing the sanctuary of your life with me.

Georgia, for being open, warm, loving and for brightening my world. For the maternal energy that encompasses and flows from you and spills over to nurture me in every way. I see you surrounded by babies, numberless babies. I hope it's okay to say that.

Janet, for doing my taxes and always, always pointing out my good qualities. For being delighted that we are friends and for being someone on whom I can call any time, anywhere. Even if I don't do it very often. You are a comfort to me.

Janet, for introducing energy work to me. For recognizing my light and teaching me how to let it shine better. For your indefatigable happiness even in the face of difficulty. For seeing truth in all its forms and living in it. You're a wonderful example.

Jeanie, for being my friend all my life and nursing my baby because we had babies and were nursing moms/sisters at the same time and it was the only way to comfort her when I wasn't there. For sharing your love of nature and of all things bright and beautiful. We are Newey Girls, yeah!

Jordan, for your loving devotion to your wife. For liking me even when I sometimes say things that embarrass myself or others. For your willingness to help out at a moment's notice because you happen to live in the apartment downstairs. I really appreciate you for that and just for being you. I like you, son.

Julie, for becoming my friend in the most subtle ways. I don't even know how it happened. For your Profanity Acceptance Level which made me more accepting of myself. Seriously. For your willingness to embrace the best and worst of life in stride. This makes us sisters. For your quiet, reassuring presence in my life.

Laura, for the crocheted dish cloths, the life you give to my brother, the bright and sensitive perspectives and warmth you have brought to our family. For your niece. Can I give you credit for that? I love you.

Lauren, for being willing to be the oldest child, to bear that burden. For publicly acknowledging me as your mom and as someone you love and admire. For your depth of understanding and your generous, loving spirit. And for those grand babies! P.S. I really could have named you "Joy".

Luke, for being willing to be a man in a sea of women (here, yet again). For bringing your masculine perspective and influence to our family and for leading the way for your siblings to follow by going to the temple, serving a mission. For friending me on Facebook.

Rachel, for your beauty inside and out. For recognizing and loving my son and for graciously letting me be part of the wedding plans, even when I'm a little annoying. For adding another facet to the living sculpture that is our family. I couldn't be happier!

Roxanna, for showing me how to be a gracious woman. For enriching my life by teaching me about art direction, script, story and social implications of film. And for knowing things about me that no one else in the world knows. For not being afraid to know more. For calling at 6:00 AM because that's when we have time to talk.

Rynell, for sharing my first great love and being willing to help me enrich my relationship with it. For understanding that it's good to give honest feedback, not just praise. And for committing, as I have, to keep the love affair alive come hell or high water.

Sara, for letting me use your laptop ALL THE TIME and for showing me in little ways that you care about me and my life. For our trips to the farmer's market and for giving me honest fashion advice. For your strength and hard work in your life and for growing into a friend from a daughter. You're amazing.

Shawnna, for opening up to me and making it safe for me to open up to you so we could be not only professional colleagues, but dear friends. For caring about my life and for tearing up when I do. For loving the patients we serve.

Stacy, for being one of three poets. For pushing yourself to do amazing things, like getting your chap book published and generously sharing your life and story with me both in person and through your art. I adore and admire you.

Suzanne, for understanding and speaking my language, but with a little different dialect and for loving me easily. For seeing me right away, without really even knowing me. For the apricots.

Syl, for sharing new ideas and new ways of seeing things, for being an example of creative energy and a successful business owner. For the many thoughtful gifts you have given me through our years as sisters. Especially the U-2 concert and free Yoga and massage.

Twila, for your writer's heart and your thoughtful, supportive conversations on the phone and occasionally in person. For seeing me as a I am and honoring and respecting who I am with my strengths and weaknesses. I miss you, little sister.

Von, for doing your best to protect me when we were children together and for always remaining my sister, in every sense of the word, even when life makes it difficult to connect with each other. For your Christlike love and for watching over me even now when we are grown women.

Thank you, Simplicity

2010-11-16T04:07:00.015-07:00

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,
'tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
and when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'twill be in the valley of love and delight,
when true simplicity is gain'd,
to bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,
to turn, turn will be our delight,
till by turning, turning we come 'round right.

The other day I stepped out of the shower and turned 'round to close the curtain. This is what I saw. It seemed beautiful and simple so I snapped a photo. (Okay, maybe still life with fifty-year-old glass block shower window sill isn't beautiful to you, but it is to me.) I thought of all the millions of products used by people all over the world to clean and beautify one's self; all the commercials, the endless claims made by cosmetic companies about which cream, lotion, soap or conditioner will make us appear younger or somehow more acceptable, desirable.

I thought about all the areas of life where I have too much "stuff." Well, not here. This is the depth and breadth of my beauty regimen. (Thank you for the hand made soap, Dalene.) And I felt grateful for this one place where I have achieved true simplicity.

Thank you, shower simplicity, for bringing me one step closer to the valley of love and delight.

Thank you, Firelight

2010-11-15T07:36:00.025-07:00

When I purchased this home thirteen years ago the fireplace was one of the big draws. There is nothing so delightful, nurturing and warm as a glowing fire on a cold night. There is nothing so simple, elemental and ancient as firelight. Besides, I really think every home needs a hearth.

Last night my son-in-law, Clayton, built the first fire of the season. My children gather for "Second Sunday Dinner" at my home each month and Clay has become the fire builder extraordinaire.

Around this time of year I tend to start lighting candles too. I have a few of the smelly kind, but that's not the main reason I burn them. It's for the light, the glowing testament to something magical, real and lasting. Something that started when the earth was formed, or perhaps even before. Something neither time nor technology can alter or extinguish.

There was a reason people used to keep candles burning in windows for absent loved ones. And that women kept their home fires burning while their men were gone to war. There is still reason folks light candles in cathedrals and at community vigils in the dark. I suppose my reasons are much the same. How about you?

Firelight

The candle
glows a lullaby,
shines me
quietly
to sleep.

Melody Newey © 2003

Thank you, Leaves

2010-11-14T08:46:00.011-07:00

When I first thought of this post it was entitled, Thank you, Kyle. But it also could have been, Thank you, Jordan, because both of these good souls helped me rake and pile and hoist twenty (count them - TWENTY!) forty-gallon bags of leaves from my front lawn.Jordan started the task, helping fill seven or eight of the enormous vessels. But other commitments demanded his time and at the very moment Jordan began walking to his car, Kyle came walking toward me from the sidewalk and offered to help. He was a Godsend, that little boy. That not-so-little boy.

As we worked, Kyle said things like, "How high do you think these leaves would go if we piled them one-by-on on top of each other in a single stack" and, "Imagine all the leaves all over the world and how many there must be . . . all the leaves that EVER WERE, and how many there would be" and, "Just think of all the different TYPES of leaves and their shapes and sizes and colors. It's a lot of leaves!"

He postulated theories for parachutes made of forty-gallon black plastic bags and how one might fuse a few of them together to make larger parachutes and how much weight such parachutes might carry.

We worked long and hard. Packed down leaves in each bag two or three times during the filling. And somewhere along the way I looked at those bags of leaves with utter amazement. Seriously, Kyle was right. That's A LOT of leaves.
Well, I guess that explains how and why the front yard stays comfortably shaded and cool even on the hottest summer days; how a person can sit quietly or work in the soil under those trees during a rainstorm and remain almost dry. Those big, black, plastic they-could-be-parachutes bags are full of thousands of tiny, perfect umbrellas, which, when combined in the way God set it all up, create gigantic, perfect umbrellas in the front yard. For several months of the year these leaves on these trees shelter, sooth, renew and delight anyone who chances to rest beneath them. Here's one view of the leaves in their glory, if you happen to be lying on your back looking up. Click on the photo for full impact.This also happens to be where the two tree's branches meet in the middle and the photo was taken several years ago which accounts for the light coming through. The leaves are even more numerous and dense in their cover these days. And some readers may remember this one of many lovely events beneath the leaves.

So thank you, leaves, for your splendid service on our behalf. And thank you, Kyle and Jordan for your service on my behalf, now that those leaves are done. . . until next year.

Thank you, Italy

2010-11-13T06:17:00.017-07:00

You know how Italy looks like a boot? Well, have a look at these little Italian darlings.

and you may want to click on the photo for a closer look.

Today I say thank you, Italy. And Nordstrom. And the cow(s). And not necessarily in that order. I even pulled out the good camera to snap the photo, because, you know, I think they deserve it.

After a six or seven year search (okay, I probably could have shortened that time if I had rallied all my hunting and gathering skills at once, but so be it, it's been a long, long search, anyway) I have finally obtained my first and possibly last pair of perfect-for-me all leather black boots. Yes, all leather. Uppers, lowers and lining! If you are a wealthy person who is accustomed to this type of boot and has owned several in your lifetime, this will seem a small thing to you. However, if you are a middle-class working woman like me, you understand my exuberance.

It happened quite by accident while I was browsing the clearance racks for mother-of-the-groom shoes for my son's upcoming wedding. I didn't find said shoes, but as I passed the boot rack, I heard a faint whispering, "Sono qui. Sono qui." I am here. I am here. I've never heard a boot speak to me in quite that way before and, seriously, who can resist an Italian accent?

So that is how I came to this day of great celebration and merry-making. A day of Merry-Christmas-making. It is a day for trumpets and flutes and dancing on the green. Indeed, it is un giorno splendido, a beautiful day.

I shall now proceed to Modern Show Repair for the requisite, life-extending, snow-biting, Vibram Soles. I guess I should thank Italy again and Vitale Bramani for that.

P.S. Please forgive me for not accepting your invitation to lunch as my eating out budget for the next month or two has a prior commitment to an Italian designer and a handsome young shoe salesman from Oregon.

Thank you, God

2010-11-12T06:34:00.016-07:00

For leaving the door of heaven open
just enough that sometimes I
can still smell your cologne.

You know how comforting that is.

And sometimes when I tilt my head
just so, I can see the corner of
your wife's smile. I miss her.

Thank you for not letting me forget
my native language -which is
what I am writing in right now.

And for whispering to me that I must
walk beside my older brother while
I'm here, instead of following behind

because He says that's the only way
to really learn what I need to.
Most of the time I can't keep up,

but I'm trying and I understand the reasoning.

Thank you for letting me play with
all my best friends and work around
my enemies. I told you I'd do that.

I didn't know it would be this hard though.

Thank you for opening the door a little
wider sometimes, so light spills out and
changes the way everything looks.

Oh, and thank you
for the rain.

Melody Newey © 2010

Gardening in the Rain, Brian Kershisnik

Thank you, Time

2010-11-11T12:10:00.018-07:00

Last night I had just settled my brain for a long winter’s nap . . . well, rather, for a moderate-length winter’s nap since I needed to wake up at 3:50 AM for an early shift this morning . . . when my sweet daughter called me on the phone.“Mom, Champ is bawling, he won’t go to sleep. I’m pretty sure he has an ear ache. Remember how the doctor gave me a prescription for an antibiotic in case Champ got worse? He’s worse. Clayton is still out of town and I’m wondering if you could come pick up the prescription and get it filled for me or stay here while I go get it.”

It was 10:04 PM. I had been sleeping for a little less than an hour. Interestingly, when I had begun settling my brain I’d felt an acute awareness that someone I love was in distress. This is not an unusual occurrence for me or for many of the Moms and Nanas I know. But I’ll write about that in a different post. Anyway, I said, “I’ll be right there,” then climbed out of bed, traded comfy flannel PJs for jeans and headed out into the night like a dry leaf that before the wild hurricane flies.

It all ended well, with a short wait at the pharmacy, the medication safely in Lauren’s hands, and me back in bed at 11:08 PM. Truth is, I felt none the worse for it.

In fact, I felt grateful remembering the energy I used to have as younger mom (which has diminished somewhat through the years); grateful for my daughter and the amazing woman she has become; for her tender mothering of her children through the quiet and not so quiet hours of every night and every day. This is not an easy job and I know it.

And most of all -- grateful that time has carried me along to this place in life where I sleep peacefully, undisturbed most nights.

Thank you, Time, for growing me older. I don’t mind it so much.

Thank you, NaBloPoMo

2010-11-10T07:02:00.012-07:00

Because of you I have turned November into "Thank You Month" at Melodys Garden. It feels nice, so, thank you for that. And thank you, again, Lauren and Dalene for inspiring me.

I know, it's not terribly original to associate a spirit of thankfulness with November, but it works, so I'm goin' with it.

It seems like there has been a wellspring of gratitude and abundance-related media in the past ten or fifteen years. I'm sure Oprah and God had something to do with it.(You may accurately sense a sardonic tone in the preceding sentence; with no disrespect whatsoever intended toward God.)

About eight years ago I reserved a section on the dry erase board in the kitchen where I list "Today I am Grateful For..." things. It is a simple way to bring a greater awareness of gratitude into the day. It feels good.

Writing like this -- every day, with gratitude -- feels good too. It is slightly less simple than a quick scribble with erasable markers. Posting every day may reduce the quality of the posts, but maybe this is a good opportunity for writing practice. Maybe a person could work toward distilling her thoughts into tiny, potent, well-written packages this way. Yes, that sounds good.

Excuse me. I think I'll go add something to the white board. Oh, and thank you for reading.

Thank you, Zion

2010-11-09T19:43:00.016-07:00

From last Friday through yesterday I was surrounded by this and this and this I slept all I wanted, ate only what I needed, prayed with Buddhists, listened to a former Utah State Poet Laureate read his latest work, wrote, dreamed, and walked for miles in this.Most of the time I had no cell phone, no demands, nothing but wind, rain, sunrise and quiet. The quiet was the best of all. It came back with me, inside me. I can feel it even now.

Fae provided the opportunity for all of it. She offered nourishing friendship, food, and shelter--not only from the elements of the earth, but from the storms of life. Thank you, Fae.

Zion provided the rest.

Thank You, Silence

2010-11-04T22:00:00.003-06:00

Thank you, Alanis Morissette. I'm spending a technology-free weekend.

Thank You, Facebook

2010-11-03T16:30:00.010-06:00

I never thought I would say it. I've fought the tide on this for so long, but with my birthday I gave in. I was swept away. It started early when people had posted the night before -- birthday well wishes on my wall -- from friends near and far and it was so delightful! Then at some point during the day when I paused from work and casually checked my facebook page I saw this on my notification bar:

Shari Z Austin, Rick Egan, and 52 other friends posted on your Wall.

Fifty-two?! And that was in a period of only a few hours! This party had the best turn out EVER and there was NO clean up! Seriously. I loved it.

It may seem like a silly thing. But it wasn't . . . because as I read each post I was astounded at the obvious uniqueness of the messages. Each greeting written in the distinct voice of its well-wisher. I didn't care that these were short and sweet and electronically generated! The messages, the folks who posted them, made me feel warm and happy and I responded to each one which made me feel warmer and happier. So, thank you friends, for letting me know I matter to you. (Even if that little red-lettered notice on the upper right side of your home page reminded you to do it.)

And thank you, facebook. I'm all yours.

Thank You, Susan B.

2010-11-02T19:41:00.020-06:00

"Cautious, careful people, always casting about to preserve their reputation and social standing, never can bring about a reform. Those who are really in earnest must be willing to be anything or nothing in the world's estimation, and publicly and privately, in season and out, avow their sympathy with despised and persecuted ideas and their advocates, and bear the consequences..." Susan B. Anthony

As I stood in line at the elementary school down the street, I visited with two good friends - both women, both living different lives, both there for the same reason: to vote; to make their voices heard in the great halls of democracy.

When I approached the registrar, she said, "You'll be the 500th voter!" She clapped her hands when I signed my name and shouted "We have the five-hundredth voter here!" We talked about the fact that maybe I should win a prize or at least, I said, "Can I have two I Voted stickers?" We joked about where a woman might place said stickers on her shirt.

Thank you, Susan B. Anthony, and your cohorts, who made this double-sticker day possible for me and all the other good women waiting in lines at elementary schools today.

Another New Day

2010-11-01T22:37:00.005-06:00

Not quite sure how many times I will feel new again. Maybe it doesn't matter. I was born forty nine years ago today and I feel young and hopeful - like I have a whole other lifetime ahead. My younger sister suggested that since this is my fiftieth year I should do something every month to celebrate it. I said, "I think I pretty much already do that." But maybe I will. It feels like a nice idea - mark the mid-century mark. And this made me think about the next half century of my life. I plan to live until I'm 96. That's my plan anyway. And to be in generally good health up until the almost end. (Do I sound like a naive twenty-two year-old?) Well, like I said, that's my plan. I hope God agrees.

Also, I'm following my daughter's and another sister's lead with the NaBloPoMo.

That's my plan anyway. Do you have one? A plan, I mean?

Collecting Umbrellas

2010-10-24T20:23:00.043-06:00

It's the only thing I've ever really collected in ernest. You know how some people have doll collections or spoons or dishes or other things? Okay, I've been accused of collecting shoes, but that doesn't count because I know for a fact that having a few dozen pair of shoes doesn't make you a collector, it just makes you pretty.

I love umbrellas. Maybe even more than I love shoes. I also love the rain, so the umbrella thing makes perfect sense. I don't mind getting wet in the rain either, but there is something magical about being in the rain, being part of the soaking of everything around you, yet being sheltered and dry. Sure it's functional. But it's also magic. Remember Mary Poppins?

Also, I just think umbrellas make people happy. I don't know why, but they do.

So, anyway, many years ago I had a lovely though small collection of umbrellas. My daughter, knowing how I loved them and being well acquainted with a certain antique-ish umbrella stand which I also loved and which sat in the corner of our entry, brought two - umbrellas, not stands - back from Europe after her month long trip there during high school. One was from Italy, another from France. I had also picked one up at the San Francisco MoMa and I'm pretty sure I had one or two unique umbrellas from other places I'd visited.

Why, you might ask, am I speaking in past tense about all this?

Well, you see, I do this thing where I give stuff away or allow people (or small children who really have no business playing with Italian umbrellas) to use things that I really shouldn't let them use and then they get broken. Or, rather, I used to do those kinds of things. As a result I currently own only one umbrella, one collectable-type umbrella anyway. But I'm starting fresh today. I ordered a delightful new one from Uncommon Goods for a birthday present to myself.

Interestingly, just yesterday I had an experience that made me realize again why I love umbrellas. I walked out of the BYU MOA into a small downpour, opened the aforementioned umbrella and made my way down the steps. As I approached the parking lot an older woman was getting out of a car at the curb with two young children - a boy and a girl. The girl looked to be about six and the boy perhaps nine years old. Come to think of it, they looked a little like Jane and Michael Banks, except not so well dressed. The boy had scruffy blond hair and was wearing a camouflage jacket and jeans. I instantly thought, "Good for grandma - bringing some art and culture into the life of this child who obviously needs it." (My own son dressed and looked pretty much like that at the same age and I took him rag-tagetty to every exhibit or installation of note throughout his young life. He's graduating with a BFA in Graphic Design next semester. But this only occurred to me a few moments later.) As I paused very near the boy, he looked up at the umbrella and this is what he saw. ~click on it and it's event prettier~
He looked at me. I looked at him and smiled. Then without any hesitation or restraint of his obvious delight he exclaimed, "Cool umbrella!" I smiled bigger, said, "Thank you!" and stepped off the curb onto the glistening wet asphalt.

As I walked away I thought to myself, "What a gift. All I saw was a scruffy-haired boy . . . He probably even recognized Monet. Melody, you're a fool."

An umbrella-loving fool.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

2010-10-12T08:30:00.004-06:00

No question - Lauren got a good man.
So did Sara.
And I got me some of these.

This is full on, all-out Show and Tell. That's what this is. (We won't talk about the trouble with the lens.)

If I were still in elementary school, this is what I would bring to class today for Show and Tell.
Some of you remember us like this or this. Now our family looks like this. Life is good. 'Nough said.

A Woman Needs a Pair of Leather Gloves

2010-10-10T08:35:00.022-06:00

I'm pretty sure my mother had them at one time during my childhood. I know they were far more popular in her era. For some reason, I think women who live or work in New York City or Paris all have a pair. I could be entirely wrong about that, but when I slip my hands into these lovelies I feel like I should live or work in New York or Paris . . . or Provo or American Fork, where the winter demands them.
Each one fits its given hand . . . well, like a glove. And if you know leather (which I'm sure you do) then you know what happens to those soft, supple icons of form and function as they slide over fingers, then curl around knuckles time and again. They become yours. Seriously, look at them now, resting on the steering wheel of my car. They are no longer two-dimensional as they were in the store, their perfect, flat cardboard hand shape held in place by a flat cardboard hand shape. No, they look like they could take hold of that wheel and drive to most any destination with no assistance whatsoever from their owner. Gives "hands-free" a whole new meaning.

Truth is, they don't look so glamorous here, but they never lose that characteristic leather sheen as they tighten around my fist. I adore them for that. I adore them even more for the warmth of the perfectly thin, perfectly soft felt lining that has preserved and protected these almost-fifty-year-old hands for the past two years. I put them on this morning when I made a quick trip around the block to a friend's house. When I walked in the door she said, "Oh, no! Gloves? That means cold and I don't like cold." Well, as it turns out, neither do my hands. That's why I have leather gloves. And because if I need to pop the hood or take out the garbage or do a quick turn with the shovel on a winter morning before I leave for work, I can do it in style. Thank you Ralph Lauren. Thank you even more T.J.Maxx

Oh, and London. I bet they wear them in London.

P.S. For more on leather, see guest post below. (Not really about leather, but for some reason, black leather made me think of Angelina Jolie.)

Why Women Secretly Want To Be Angelina Jolie's Character in SALT

2010-10-03T07:00:00.023-06:00

Guest post from Compulsive Writer. A few friends had gathered at a hotel for the weekend. The wedding of one of our daughters. We were piled on the bed talking, laughing, crying. Then CW and I realized we needed to make a trip down to the lobby, so we headed toward the elevator. CW tells the rest of the story.

She was wearing a sleeveless black party dress. We joined her in the elevator on the 2nd floor, wrapping up in hushed tones our insignificant conversation about social media. Melody was decked out in pale-blue flannel vacation p.j.s. I was sporting soft-cotton grey pajama pants with tiny butterflies (I keep thinking they're doves--they're not) and a t-shirt. We both looked up as the woman started to speak.

"If your boyfriend spent the entire evening going on and on about how beautiful another woman is, would you be ticked off?"

You could feel the tiny traces of testosterone floating around in that sea of estrogen rise up like a rogue wave and crash against the faux-wood walls of the elevator.

Our respective eyebrows raised in unison. We smiled. And nodded our respective heads in solidarity.

"Oh yea-ah!"

Though the sting in her heart was still visible in her eyes, relief and validation spread across her face as the elevator doors opened and she disembarked on the first floor.

"OK. I just wanted to make sure it wasn't all in my head," she said, making a beeline for the hotel exit.

We wished her well and continued to the front desk, where upon observing us, a friendly man accompanying a happy 10-year-old boy proclaimed,

"Pajama party in 206!"

He has no idea.

Letting the Butterfly Go Free

2010-09-12T09:37:00.096-06:00

This post is mostly for my children. They have heard some of it before. In fact, they have heard bits and pieces of it for at least the last decade.

nurse v.,

to heal, to touch;

make a word into light,
breathe it through flesh,
and into the future
where all is well;

to love.

I wrote this poem many years ago, after obtaining my nursing degree. I wanted to describe what I did for a living, what my career choice meant to me. Being a nurse has always felt like much more than 0.9% Normal Saline and gauze. Only later did I fully understand what I had written. It often happens that way - especially with certain poems that emerge fully formed, as did this one, from my creative unconscious. I never edited it. Just let it be. As it turns out, this poem revealed a deep understanding of what I am supposed to do with my life.

More than twenty years have passed since I began a career in health care -- first as a Licensed Practical Nurse, then as a Registered Nurse. At some point during those years I realized I would eventually make a career change, or at very least shift the focus of my work. It began as a vague feeling, a suggestion to my mind and heart that I was not on the right path. It wasn't that I was on the wrong path; just not on the right one. When the feeling came to me from time-to-time through the years as I worked and raised a family, I paid attention - every time. Couldn't help it.

The truth of the coming change was undeniable - even to my busy, distracted self. I vividly remember some of the places I was when it occurred to me: heading north on Carterville road in the late eighties; in my garden on 1150 east in Provo in the mid-nineties; in sacrament meeting on Grandview Hill in the late-nineties . .. and dozens of other times in between. Most recently it came again when I began a new job about two years ago at a local dialysis center, near the nurses station when I was facing West; last year in the kitchen at my home in Highland, looking out the window over the sink. And again this spring (after I ended my one-year marriage to the man who owned the home in Highland) working at the computer in my Provo home.

When it first started it felt more like a distant memory. Something I knew very well, but had forgotten for a moment.

You know how it is when you are trying to express something and there is a specific word you know you need to use to explain or express what you are trying to say, but in the middle of the sentence, you forget the word? It was like that. And then when it comes to you or when your friend cues you with questions because s/he can see you struggling to find the word and it suddenly comes to you and you are amazed, aghast and say something like, "Oh my goodness! I can't believe I couldn't recall that word!" because it is a word you know so well; a familiar word that you have used a hundred times before? It was like that.

It was like that. The truth is: I am a nurse, and inside I am more specifically a counselor, a therapist. Did you know that "therapy" comes from the Greek word meaning servant or nurse? Like I said, at some point I began to understand I needed to focus energy on learning how to help heal souls, rather than, or, perhaps, alongside bodies.

Once this awareness became clear, it was only a matter of time and timing before I began the course change. In fact, when I started working as a nephrology nurse two years ago it was with the intention of returning to school. The company I work for offers tuition reimbursement and my work schedule was ideal for a back-to-school-type nurse.

(to be continued . . .)

(and here we go . . .) Part 2

Now seems like the right time to move ahead. My children are grown and each is plenty busy with life. I took them out for a back-to-school-type dinner the other night since four of the six adults are enrolled in college this semester, including me -- Statistics. BYU. Don't ask. - - I told them I would be giving a lot of time and energy to school over the next several years and that I might not be as available as I'd like. They said that is okay. (Oh yeah, they are adults now after all.) I told them I was scared. They offered no pity even when I begged for it. "Mom you've wanted to do this for years. And there are people who have little children and sleep deprivation and all that and they're doing it. You have no excuse." Anyway, thank you, kids and spouses. I love you. And I love it when Mama Chu's does the cooking.

During the past few weeks I've been thinking about this new adventure and between moments of trepidation and self doubt I have felt something akin to joy as I consider the end result. I have been a nurse for so long. I appreciate the amazing people and circumstances I have been privy to as a result of my profession. I have cared for people with wounds large enough to encompass both my fists, people with intolerable life-limiting conditions or diseases that seemed impossible to heal. I have witnessed miracle after miracle occur in their lives. I have learned life-changing lessons as a direct result of these people and experiences. I am ready for new lessons, new experiences.

I'd like to mention here that one of the nice things about being a poet is seeing metaphor everywhere! Of course you don't have to be a poet to see it, but it helps. The world is rich with it -- in nature, machinery and most wonderfully within the human body. I can't tell you how many times I have learned invaluable lessons - indispensable truths - about spiritual and emotional health through the vehicle of the human form with all its metaphor and miraculous systems.

One of the most wondrous of these truths is that the process for healing the body and the process of healing the soul is essentially the same: provide a few essential supplies and an environment conducive to health, nourish the cells, then stand back and let the body or soul do what it knows how to do. Some forms of therapy involve a therapist or other professional trying to make something happen, doing something to the patient. I have never felt this was the best approach to healing. For me it seems that some structure is necessary. But too much structure is disrespectful of the person and process. One must honor, support and trust the innate ability of the human being to grow and heal. Maybe I'm talking about faith or something like that.

At any rate, the idea is expressed beautifully in an excerpt given me by the social worker at the clinic where I work. I told him of my choice to pursue a career as a Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner and one day he showed up with something he had read early in his social work program that he felt I might enjoy. When I read it, my heart just opened up. Kind of like a butterfly. I suspect the author may be Thomas Moore, but when I discover for certain who it is I will speedily credit him/her. I'm grateful to Aaron for sharing it with me.

Here's where I'll start: "Never forget that "analysis" means loosening, and "psyche" means butterfly, a beautiful but elusive being that should be glimpsed in flight but never pinned down. Quite literally, psychoanalysis means "letting the butterfly go free.""

Later the author continues, " . . . we stop talking and the soul speaks, we stop doing and the soul acts, we stop interpreting and the soul is revealed. But stopping is not easy, especially in the face of suffering or when you feel that your profession requires you to act . . . This kind of work, allowing the soul to have room to play itself out, is captivating, and the soul teaches and initiates, performs the therapy we're looking for - as our dreams interpret our lives and our conversations give rise to theory and principle. In a real sense, we are interpreted by our dreams, we are healed by our illnesses, and our theories and ideas are born from our suffering . . . Therapy as care of the soul doesn't take place only in a clinic or consulting room; it happens every time we do anything that nourishes the breath of life, whether that breath is calm and secure in our homes and families or excited in panic, anger, fear, or confusion. Therapy takes place whenever and wherever we allow the soul to assume the lead and when we tend its needs."

". . . whenever we nurse life along, truly serve it when we see it faltering, we are doing therapy."

I have seen this happen with physical wounds. They don't like to be messed with any more than is absolutely necessary. They like to be nursed along. My desire is to better understand and assist this same process with wounds of the soul.

I think I can help. I want to help.

The other day I was praying, sharing my worries about the years of preparation and education ahead. I asked God, "Will you please help me do this?" The answer I received: "By doing this you are helping me."

What's In a Name?

2010-09-03T09:41:00.041-06:00

My name is Melody. More about that later.

Sometimes I feel a need to restate my reasons for blogging. It’s kind of like reminding myself of my blog mission statement. Now is one of those times. I blog for three main reasons:

1. Writing practice. Thank you, Dalene. This was fully your doing and for this I am forever grateful.

2. Journaling. Aside from the volumes of poems which I have directed my children to read as evidence and stories of my life when I am gone, this is my primary vehicle for journaling. Every now and then I write more traditional Mormon-ish journal entries on paper, but, otherwise, this is it. As such, I will occasionally make personal disclosures in this public forum. I’m okay with that. I hope you are too.

3. Truth and Love. I want to love better. I want to learn to love God, other people, places, things and myself better. Writing and journaling helps me do that. It helps me consider, increase and spread love and truth as I understand it to a few more folks than I would without a blog.

If there were a fourth reason, it might be that I like to be heard. I like to speak (type) and be heard and occasionally adored. I don’t suppose I’m much different than most people in this way, but I thought I’d mention it in the spirit of full disclosure. So, to quote one of my favorite blog authors, “it’s a blog about me. and maybe [other things.]”

Now on to the post d’jour.

My name is Melody, but I have many other names. I started thinking about this recently when my new son(-in-law) prayed over dinner and said, “Thank you for this good food that Ma made.” My daughter, Sara, his wife, calls me Ma. When I call her phone a photo of me appears with the name “Ma” attached. She has listed me in the relatives section of facebook as Ma. I like it a lot. I don’t know where it came from, but it is unique to these two and it delights me. Okay, sometimes her brother calls me that too.

When my first-born was preparing for her first-born I was asked by people how I felt about becoming a grandma. I distinctly remember the first time one of my friends asked this question. I paused, there was an uncomfortable silence in the conversation. I didn't know how to answer and thought, “What is she talking about?” I wondered if maybe she was speaking another language because I honestly didn’t connect with or comprehend the question. I wasn't old enough to be a grandmother. At least not in the way I thought of grandmothers. My mind did a quick life review and it became clear that, indeed, my child was old enough to give birth. Thus, I was chronologically grandma material. Then I was able to form an intelligent response. "I'm not a grandma," I said. "I'm a Nana." And have been ever since.

When my son was in high school, on a mission and post-mission I thoroughly enjoyed his friends. Luke has always had a circle of smart, funny, solid, true friends. I felt quite motherly toward them and they must have felt it too because to many of them I became MamaNewey. And it looks like I still am. Here's a quote from facebook last week from one of Luke's many fabulous friends, John."Thank you very much Mamanewey. And you are right about well wishing; the giver gets the majority of the warm and fuzzies. Hope all is well with you (again, it's about me)." Good friends. Good family. I like being MamaNewey.

My friend, Roxanna, often calls me Melzy.It just popped out of her spontaneously one day many years ago and it stuck. Yesterday I asked her how she spells it in her mind. She said, "It has a 'Z' in it. It's hip and sassy. It's my name for you, sister." I like it. I like her.

When I was in second grade at Wasatch Elementary School in Provo I briefly became Melon-head. I don't recall who started that one. I didn't like it at the time, but it didn't last long, for which my seven-year-old self was grateful. Of course, now I see it as second-grade-mean-kid's attempt at alliteration. It also has three syllables, like Melody. The poet in me applauds these second-graders for that.

During fourth grade my family moved to Bloomington, Utah for one year. Apparently it was long enough for a classmate to coin a new nickname for me. I think her name was Nancy and we were kind of friends, which was nice for me, being new in town and all. But she had a mean streak too. She started calling me Spider-legs. This because my very long, very thin legs allowed me to dodge the ball like nobody's business when we played Dodge Ball. I had a good arm too, so I was somewhat of a threat on the court. Nevertheless, the name-calling was hurtful and even when I told her so, she laughed and kept it up for as long as we lived there. I tried to come up with a mean name for her and failed. However, I never failed at Dodge Ball. After we moved away and I matured a bit, I realized she was jealous of my skills. She was not long and lithe; far from it. If I had been better at defending myself from cruel nicknames I may have said something like, "Yeah, these legs were MADE for Dodge Ball, shorty, so deal with it!"

Mellie is a nice name. I'm pretty sure Geo has used it once or twice. Like Melzy, it feels like a loving term of endearment. My favorite memory about this name involves a woman who passed away more than a decade ago. She lived near Kiwanis Park in Provo, in the neighborhood where my kids and I lived just prior to our move to Grandview thirteen years ago. She was a warm and friendly woman who always took an interest in me and made an effort to connect with me. This was partly because I had grown up with several of her children. (I didn't live in their neighborhood back then, but if I had, I might have called her MamaWhite.) She had cancer and was sitting on her front porch when I passed her house on one of my Sunday morning walks. I didn't notice her initially and I don't think she saw me until I was almost past her property. When she did see me, she waved her hand and called out in a weak, but delighted tone, "Happy Sunday, Mellie!" It was the last thing I heard her say. She died not long afterward. I still think of her and her singular greeting on beautiful Sabbath mornings like today.

The name I have most often been called throughout my life is Mel. I don't really remember when my siblings began shortening my name, but it happens in families. (This photo is missing my oldest brother.) And there's nothing really wrong with it. But in my case, I began to accept this as my "real" name and it continued with me beginning in about Jr. High and lasted through high school and young-adulthood. In my late twenties to early thirties I reclaimed my whole name. I no longer introduced myself as Mel, or said, "My name is Melody, but most people call me Mel." I just used my name.

Now I find that new friends or work associates sometimes call me Mel once they get to know me. It's a natural nickname for Melody, especially if someone has family or friends named Melissa or Melinda or Melanie. We just do that - shorten the names of people we know and love because it's familiar and to-the-point. I'm not offended by it, in fact it makes me feel good when someone I've known only a little while spontaneously calls me Mel. But if they ask what I prefer, I will tell them. "I don't mind being called Mel, (for reasons stated above) but I like to be called Melody."

I like my given name. I think God helped my parents who were, unfortunately, cruel and unbalanced, give me a good name; a name that would heal me and remind me of who I am. I won't go into details here, I just want to say: This is why my name is important to me. This is one of the beautiful ironies of life that I feel is typical of how Heavenly Father works. He sends us on this treacherous journey to earth and always, always leaves portions - great and small - of his tender mercy along the way.

The simple, sweet, three-syllable name reminds me that God loves me. That's what's in my name. I think I'll keep it.

Provo High School Class of 1980 - Reunion 2010

2010-08-15T07:32:00.033-06:00

"Thirty years passes like a nighttime."
~ By Diane Santiago, wife of Scott Santiago

The people and faces in the photos on The Provo High School Class of 1980 group site at Facebook tell a good story. Thanks to Janelle Carlson for creating the page and to her daughter for shooting photos at the reunion.
The faces and people missing from the photos tell another story, so before I write the formal report of the evening's events I would like to tell my version of that story.

It feels important to acknowledge all those who were unable to attend. I'm not joking either. There were many, many comments made like, "Where is So-and-so? Why didn't You-know-who show up? I thought [insert-name-here] would come for sure." And the feeling with these comments was one of friendship and concern. If you couldn't make it, for whatever reason, just know that you were missed.

I became aware of classmates who had passed away over the past decade or two, people who have not had easy lives, one classmate whose child is fighting for life with a serious illness. I remembered when I was going through a divorce and simply couldn't face people at a reunion. I'm sure there are folks among the Class of 1980 who don't feel welcome or connected. One classmate received an e-mail from another who didn't particularly enjoy the last reunion because it seemed all the old familiar cliques and exclusionary behaviors were still intact. I've heard this sentiment several times through the years and I think it's valid. Fortunately or unfortunately, we all get to do our best to be good people and struggle through life together. It's nice when we can occasionally do it over a good meal with '70's and '80's music in the background. So, thanks for the friendships and God bless us each where ever we are and whatever we are doing!

We hope to see everyone on July 2nd, 2015. And we hope "Dr. Bob" Rasmussen is still Dean of Students at UVU so we can meet there again. It was a perfect location and the food was great. If you would like to be part of the committee - we can use you.

Now, on to the FUN!

The evening began with gathering and compulsory name-tagging. Yes, we need to identify ourselves. Our memories are not as good as they once were and our faces have aged just a tad over the past thirty years! Bob was gracious in every way, offering the venue, acting as MC for the night, drawing people out through the roving microphone and his characteristic talk-show-host persona.

He introduced me and I introduced the idea of the Six Word Memoir. We worked on the memoirs as we visited and ate dinner. It is a fun and interesting way to catch up with each other and there was a nice door prize awarded with the activity. Try it sometime. I think you'll like it. Below are all the memoirs that were gathered at the end of the evening, written by 1980 classmates and their companions. Some brave people read theirs aloud. Some people wrote more than one memoir. Some used a few more or less than six words. Some wrote their name on their memoir, others did not.

I've taken the liberty to add small explanations to clarify a few things - as some people did that night when they shared their memoirs. All of them are wonderful. Enjoy.

I'm still runnin' with the Devil. (married to a Springville High alumni)

I have broccoli in my teeth.

Grey hair, but it's still there.

My life is a Green Fairway.

Happy and hard times.

I am: not who I was.

One plus one soon becomes six.

Brent Kitchen looks EXACTLY the same!

Today, I realized my memory's poor.

I only came for the food.

Four plus four make it eight.

Old in body, not in mind.

Thirty years passes like a nighttime.

Grand-children great!!! Kids - not so much.

Perfectionism, fibromyalgia, deathwish. Return to wholeness.

Nine lives, but not about cats.

Nine babies later... figured it out.

Always loved to play. Still do.

Dislike bosses and never had one.

Why climb? Because it is there. (rock climber extraordinaire)

No less hair, just different places!

Lawyers cannot limit to six words. (written by a lawyer, of course)

Boys more handsome. Friends more fun. (than in highschool)

Married at 36. Twins at 41.

Trying to take time to smell. . . (the roses)

My nightmare; Turning into my Mother!

Jim Fischer's son married Melody's daughter.

Married, 4 boys, 2 girls. Happy!!

I finally got my bachelor's degree!!! (this one and many other things during the evening got a well deserved round of applause)

Sex gets better with age.

Frozen embryos make great little boys.

Goof-off slob; BYU, UofU, now Dr. Bob.

I was 18, she was nine. (married when they were 36 and 27)

Dave's wife, Dave's friend, Great life.

Met on line, now life's fine.

Two boys, two girls, busy life!

I've learned to love the roller-coaster.

I need my glasses to write.

As I typed these it was so fun to read them again and re-visit the evening. Such good people and great times!

Bob showed a slide show of photos from our Senior Year Book - compiled by John Lohner.

Several people went home with nice door prizes including gift certificates to Olive Garden, Lowe's, Barnes and Noble, Bajio, $150 gift certificate to Alyssa's Bridal, jewelry items, Family Tree software, clothing and other fun stuff.

Trivia question winners went home with fabulous and fashionable Provo High Football t-shirts courtesy of the Bulldog Booster Club. Winners were as follows:

Wendy Gardner Johnson (see the shirt on her facebook profile photo) correctly guessed the top hit of 1980 - ACDC's "You Shook Me All Night Long." (Are you singing it in your head now? What memories!)

Janelle Horton Carlson guessed the most popular T.V. show - Dallas (can you say "shoulder pads"?)

Stephen Covey was able to correctly name the U.S. Secretary of State in 1980 - Cyrus Vance. (Go Steve! That was impressive.)

And here's the perfect way to end this report: I honestly cannot remember the fourth trivia question and who won the shirt! I'm embarrassed and horrified and feeling my age. It will probably come to me later, but if you can remember, feel free to leave the answers or anything else you would care to add, either in the comment section of this blog or over here!

There were several people who said this was the best reunion yet. We came from near and far. We reconnected with old friends and got to know people whom we didn't know well thirty years ago. We laughed a lot and bragged about our kids and grand-kids. We shared memories from the past and plans for the future. And it was amazing how very pleasant a couple of hours at the end of a typical week could be! This was not a fancy or elaborate event, but it seemed to me that it could not have been better. Thanks again for the nice time, everyone.

Got it! The Empire Strikes Back - top grossing movie. Bob Rasmussen won it! Whew. That was close.

See you in five years.

New Look, New Life

2010-08-01T20:23:00.030-06:00

Several weeks ago I realized I will be fifty in another eighteen-or-so months. The phrase that keeps going through my mind and slipping out my lips lately is, "What am I going to do with the next fifty years?" (Of course, the other phrase that keeps going through my mind is, "How can I arrange to be in Paris in another eighteen-or-so months?")

Yesterday I had my hair cut. The day before yesterday I bought some new t-shirts. The day before that I planted a pink geranium in a bare spot in the garden. No matter that summer is moving toward autumn (you know it's true, you can feel it too) the geranium needed her day in the sun and I needed her pinkness. Today my son stopped by to help prettify my blog.

The new blog design makes me happy. New look, new Life.

The vegetable garden is producing beautifully.
This in spite of my former husband's demand to have the grow boxes returned to him when I divorced him. "Of course." I said at the time, "You built them. If you want them you can have them. I know how much you enjoy gardening." I was sincere and he replied, "You won't use them anyway." I'm not entirely sure what he meant by it, but his voice had a familiar sarcastic tone, so I accepted it as one more in a long strand of disparaging remarks. On one of my days off I hoisted said boxes into the back of a pick-up truck and un-hoisted them at his apartment. Later I learned he gave them away.

But I digress, sort of.

The zucchini and crook-neck are perfectly out of control. I'm sharing them with family, friends and co-workers every-other day. The cucumbers are delicious. The spinach has gone to seed, but I had plenty and to spare. Sara (my daughter who lives in the basement apartment of my home with her husband, Jordan) wants to try growing next year's crop from this year's seed. I've been picking a few apricots each day - just enough to snack on - frost stopped most of them before they were born. I enjoy raspberries on breakfast cereal several times per week, the walnut crop looks to be plentiful, as always (let me know if you want some) and the latecomer tomatoes will be red any day now.

And here I am writing. This is the best part of all.

Oh, and I have an actual writer's desk in the ideal location. There are views to the south and west from where I sit. The room is filled with art I love and photos of my family. There is a new lampshade on the acrylic base. The color of the shade brings me so much delight I can barely contain myself. My friend re-named this color: Melody. It fits. It is deep Pacific water, winter Snake River rapids over boulders, teal. I have seen this color at unexpected times and places in nature and it showed up in a pillow I bought for my bedroom and in a limited edition print I purchased recently. You can see it in the photo on the sidebar too. It always speaks to me. Don't ask what it says. I can't really express it. But it makes me happy. The lampshade is satin and the sheen creates ever-so-slight variances of hue as light in the room changes throughout the day. New look, new Life.

Autumn is coming to Utah. The autumn of my life is coming in a decade or two.

Now seems like a good time to begin again.

Fish Bones

2010-07-16T21:47:00.005-06:00

Fish Bones on Black Stones

Unwilling to be hungry,
we stave our cravings the moment they arise,
demand the body be silent.

We have forgotten the
tethering calls of shepherds
grown famished looking for lost lambs.

No sunken cheeks or fervent
glances toward the buffet table,

we rise from our chairs before pangs
expose our lack – to others or to ourselves;
move toward food, liquor, whatever satisfies.

We do not know how to cherish want or
savor the sanctity of an empty bowl,
fish bones on black stones of an ancient lake bed.

We will not listen to what our hunger tells:
that someone has taken the thing that feeds us,
replaced it with a notion that we are not enough.

We have grown hungry for ourselves and
fill our bellies with everything else.

Melody Newey 2010

So Good on Paper, So Romantic, So Bewildering

2010-07-08T20:50:00.014-06:00

~with thanks to Carly Simon~

I'm trying to write about something. It's the only thing I feel to write about just now, but I'm not quite sure how to do it.

A few months ago I wrote this. It's brief. It's grief. I'm feeling much better now.

Echo

You hollowed me,
unexpectedly took more
than you left,

opened a place for
poems like this,

whispered something
not quite audible
on your way out.

I sit by the pond
watching fish swim
around rocks,

water so clear
it echoes
between my ribs.

Melody Newey 2010

This Is What Matters

2010-07-07T21:00:00.001-06:00

Today there are no words, just love. Come see what I mean over here.

Some Birds Mate for Life

2010-05-14T07:33:00.013-06:00

The poem below is a gift for Sara and Jordan (my daughter and newest son) who were wed at noon on May 1st in the Manti LDS Temple.

The day was perfect - a downpour at our home in Provo when we left that morning; blue skies obscured in places by rolling cumulus in Manti. By the time we returned for dinner, Provo skies were clear and the air moist. It was stunning, really. God smiled on us that day.

Jim and Lisa, Jordan's parents, hosted dinner. Lisa is a talented quilter. The bride and groom used images of birds on a tree branch for their wedding announcement. The same theme would follow for the reception.

I told Sara as we left the temple that the poem wasn't quite finished (read: I had three or four key phrases in my head and a general idea of the flavor of the piece) and that I may need to read the poem later, perhaps on May 8th at her reception. She looked at me with a familiar compassionate, imploring expression I have seen on her face many times. Sara is a kind and loving daughter who is exceptionally sensitive to the stresses of life for a single mom. She simply said, "I really wanted you to read it at dinner."

That was all it took. I said a prayer and my son, Luke, sat down in the driver's seat of my car. I picked up the pen from the console between us and wrote as he drove from Manti back to Provo.

Some Birds Mate for Life
~for Sara and Jordan on their wedding day

It is Spring and early morning,
before sky has lightened. They begin.

They are chirping outside my window,
singing something new.

I can't help wondering what they're up to.
Are they simply flying by, stopping to rest
on walnut branches for the fun of it?

Or is it something else?
Yes. They are building a nest;
gathering sticks, dried grass,
shreds of fabric and thread blown unnoticed
from a mother's sewing room window sill,
remnants of her latest quilt.

Sometimes I wonder why they sing;
how they know the tune so well.
I wonder at the perfect pair -
they fly in tandem, then separate,
swoop and soar again in what seems
like pure delight.

They seem to love each other.

It is Springtime, in the late evening
after sky has turned to midnight. They begin.

They are talking downstairs,
giggling, as they often do.

I can't help wondering what they're up to.
Are they simply passing time,
laughing because it is late enough that
everything seems funnier than it really is?

Or is it something more?
Yes. They are building a life;
gathering love, patience, family,
furniture and a mother's latest quilt.

Sometimes I wonder at how well they know each other;
how his gentle strength and her playful smile
fit so perfectly in a gray suit and white gown.
They work in tandem, planning the future,
living a song composed in heaven -
a song birds sing when they build nests,
that men and women hum when they build a life.

Some birds mate for life -
swans, eagles, falcons, doves.
They do not leave each other alone,
they fly together, learn together,
build nests and play in silver linings.

Some people wed forever.
They love together, cry together,
build their future and fly
through clouds of life,
in and out of sunlight and storms
toward silver linings of eternity.

Melody Newey 2010

Crescent Morning

2010-04-28T05:47:00.003-06:00

I wrote this the day my first child received her endowment in the LDS temple. A crescent moon graced the sky that day. Today my last child will do the same. The moon is full.

Crescent Morning

Azure expanse,
bring us your good will
and fire.

Night lingers in
sliver white,
hung sideways.

Tomorrow relents,
we are won with daybreak.
The price of cloud cover paid
at crescent morning.

My First Due Date

2010-04-21T06:27:00.008-06:00

Just now I clicked all the little 'x's on the Mozilla tabs on my computer screen and came here instead. It feels nice.

Today is an important day. Not because it is the 100th anniversary of Mark Twain's death or because it is Administrative Professionals Day. Although I appreciate those things, they simply don't matter a whole lot in the face of what this day means to me.

Twenty-eight years ago today my first child was due to be born - April 21st, 1982.

Lauren eventually arrived, pink and perfect (well, not quite, but I'll wait for a couple of weeks to tell that story) on May 5th.

She is and always has been exceptional. (scroll down her blog to the Barnyard Bash post about Sunshine's birthday - my firstborn daughter's firstborn daughter turned two last week) and you'll see what I mean. I don't care if it seems like I'm bragging. She deserves miles and mountains of praise from me. .. her being the "practice" child and all. It's true. I learned how to be a mom by first being HER mom. I'm much better now than I was then. She occasionally reminds me of this and I usually sincerely apologize. Incidentally, my children were all mothered well, in that I love them with my whole heart and soul, but I am not afraid to acknowledge my weaknesses and limitations either.

For instance, if I were a really good mom, you, reader, might be looking at a bunch of photos of her in her babyhood or me in my pregnanthood that I had scanned and downloaded here. But I didn't. I'll just post this. And this.

And say, "Lauren, I'm so glad you were due on April 21st. Twenty-eight years later I still remember the excitement, anticipation, utter joy and most of all - the difficulty expanding my lungs that you brought to me on this day. I love you."

Shopping With Jesus

2010-03-30T15:15:00.037-06:00

A few months ago my 27-year-old daughter coined a phrase that stuck. It was how she described a phenomenon that has followed me throughout my adult life.

Some might call it intuition or sensitivity or possibly dumb luck. (No, it couldn't be called that because, well, it simply isn't that.) It is the rare and wonderful gift of knowing exactly where to go to find a certain something (you choose the item) that is ab-so-lute-ly perfect for the occasion, space, person, event, whatever.

The phrase, the phenomenon is: Shopping With Jesus.

Some of you know what I'm talking about. You've done it too.

When it happens, it is like being "guided" to the store, shop, mall or general vicinity of a needed or desired item. Sometimes it is as simple as knowing the right combination of colors to select for a birthday party. The birthday girl said, "This is the most perfect combination of colors for my birthday balloons! How did you know!?"

Often it is a result of a question, a thought, or, perhaps, even a prayer.

The question or prayer might go something like this. "I need a new bag to carry my things in when I go to the temple." This was the case a decade ago when I needed a replacement temple bag. The result was a whisper one evening; a very specific impression to check the luggage department at ZCMI. (Some of you remember that store at University Mall.)

I had pictured this very bag in my mind. This was my dream temple bag and there it was on the shelf next to the rest of a matched luggage set. I only needed this one. So I bought it; a lovely Garden-of-Eden-ish, tapestry-ish, carpetbag-ish beauty. I still love it and I think of Jesus each time I pick it up.

Once it was: "I'm not getting any younger, but I would like to honor my youthful attitude with a leather jacket . .. something pretty and classic." Thanks to TJ Maxx and Jesus, I came away with this. The lining extends beyond the end of the sleeve in a barely noticeable ruffle. It is divine. And very feminine. I will still wear this when I am ninety.

When we bought our first home I wanted beautiful art to grace the walls, but had a small budget. This is one of the blessings that came from Shopping With Jesus. A pre-framed still life print costing $29.99 with a label on the back crediting the artist, Henk Helmantel, and giving a brief commentary on his life and painting technique.

More recently I found myself needing new bedding. I was struggling because I had bought exquisite drapes with a woven floral/paisley pattern; warm gold, red-orange and green tones. In the same room dwells a cool, calming bluebird-of-happiness blue dresser. Both the drapes and dresser are delightful, no, they are delicious! But the drapes and dresser don't necessarily match, color-wise. I really needed something to pull the two utterly sublime, yet tonally dissonant pieces together.

Jesus apparently knows about Pier 1 (and I'm sure he is personal friends with the buyers at TJ Maxx.)

This is what he led me to.
My friend went with me when I followed Jesus to Pier 1. I thought I might need her opinion. Silly me. When I saw these three throw pillows (on the left-click on photo to see them up close) I grabbed them and said, "This is it. These three are the answer." My dear friend doubted me for a moment, but soon acknowledged that Jesus does indeed know best. As the room came together we were both amazed. There is more to this story about how sheets, bedspread and art which will eventually hang above the bed, have repeating patterns of leaves and vines and were all purchased at different places at different times. But I won't go into that.

I know I am not alone in this kind of experience. I've heard other people describe similar phenomena. Everyone has their own name for it. My daughter calls it what it is. She spontaneously coined the phrase and delivered it at a family gathering. We all laughed when she said, "Mom's been Shoppin' With Jesus again." I instantly knew it was true. I wondered just for a moment if it were, perhaps, irreverent.

Then my daughter, my wise and pure-hearted daughter said, "Doesn't Jesus want us to be happy? Of course he does. He cares about things like birthday balloons and art and pretty shoes. Of course he helps you do kind things, happy things, for others and for yourself."

Of course he does.

Something Magic

2009-12-25T04:30:00.012-07:00

There is something magic in the quiet of winter mornings after snow has fallen in the night. There is something sacred in that early hour before cars or snowplows, or even joyful children have broken the silence. On these mornings all the world seems perfect and new. All the earth seems waiting for something.

Several years ago, on one such morning I found myself awed by the beauty of winter and surprised by a peculiar thought: How much does all this snow weigh? And how does the earth bear it? A second thought followed closely behind the first: How much does one tear-drop weigh? And how on earth do we bear the weight of our sorrows?
I found myself imagining millions of unique, perfectly formed crystals falling from heaven to earth; then a myriad, often invisible heartaches laid in careful layers over the human heart, perfectly formed, perfectly placed as gifts from heaven. Like snow, these gifts may burden our lives, but they are in their own way beautiful. These heartaches give us experience, teach us compassion, patience, humility and love. On that quiet winter morning I felt an awareness of a God who sees every snowflake, every sparrow, every single teardrop fall. This God knows that we, like the earth in its winter white, are perhaps weighted, perhaps waiting for something.

This poem is a draft that came from that morning. Some of you may already have read it. Thanks for reading it again! Maybe it's not quite finished, nevertheless, it is my Christmas gift for whomever may visit this blog.

Merry Christmas and God bless.

Something Magic

Snowflakes fall in single file,
combine to weight the earth
and man
with tons of frozen moisture.

So too our sorrows come,
yet one by one they
lift from heavy hearts -
with time
and God's abundance.

El Niño

2009-12-14T06:00:00.018-07:00

Twenty six years ago today my son was born. Happy Birthday, Luke.

I have only one. This son. "The boy." He's mentioned once or twice that it wasn't particularly easy being the only son.He has told me several times that being the middle child of three in this house of women was additionally hard. I do not doubt him. I do not question the difficulty of his life, this son, this middle and neglected child; this rock of the masculine juxtaposed against a river of femininity.

He never had enough "man food" to eat. I fixed "girl food." We ate in girl-sized dishes. Sometime in his late teens I realized I needed more meat on the menu. Sometime in his twenties, after he was living on his own, I gave him a man-sized cereal bowl and he thanked me. It was the least I could do and long over due.

This son, this only man of my children told me recently that he misses me; that he misses parts of me that seem to be lost. One of those parts is the part that writes. It isn't really a part. It is something in my center, my soul, my truest creative self.

It seems I have been hiding out for reasons that I am just now coming to understand. And it is this neglected, underfed, middle child man who hollered down the hallways of my mother mind to say, "Mom! Where are you? Come out and play!"

He has drawn me out of myself in an act of love -- in spite of my apparent neglect of him and his boyhood needs. (What he said, among other things was, "You need to blog, Mom. You need to write! Enough is enough! It's been too long.")

I owe him a great deal for that. I owe him an Ode. And here it is.

For my son.

Ode to El Niño*

From somewhere south of love,
Luke brings himself: a winter storm,
wind from heaven, he flings himself to
earth on cool morning. Then, with his breathy cry,
a warming trend, forecast of goodness.
I set aside billowing pink,
swaddle him in blue-sky, sing lullabies,
delighted to mother this boy.
I mark time by my rising, setting son.

He climbs, plays, glides in pillow case capes
over imaginary waves, casts shadows -
a sundial on the shore of my heart.
He wears me thin with wondering,
builds forts, mixes potions, paints pictures on walls,
finds questions in rainbows, answers in rain.
He watches the day for what comes soon,
waits at dusk for the tidal moon.
Centering himself between sister hemispheres,
he steadies the world - Ecuador,
invisible ribbon, invincible string.

Changing seasons move him further out to sea,
bring him home, pull him again away from me
to places where he finds new eyes
for beauty; tells truth in images
splashed with vivid hues or
grayscaled black and white.
He lives his name, shapes the light.
He changes the climate of my days,
alters forever the current of my life -
this child, this man, El Niño.

*The El Niño-Southern Oscillation is often abbreviated as ENSO and in popular usage is commonly called simply El Niño. El Niño is Spanish for "the boy" and refers to the Christ child, because periodic warming in the Pacific near South America is usually noticed around Christmas.[3]

I'm Working on Something to Post

2009-11-07T17:23:00.005-07:00

It feels strange to be writing to the ether . . . but at least I'm writing! Besides, when I looked at the last date I posted I felt I must post something SOON to maintain a semblance of blogging dignity. So, anyway, I am working on it, but the creative process takes time. Perhaps as a little distraction while I compose, you would like to visit the blog belonging to the subject of my work-in-progress. Go here. Meet my son. He's cool. He's an artist. He gets it from me.

Look In Here

2009-04-24T10:45:00.034-06:00

One more for National Poetry Month. This one is mine. I wrote it for Poetry Month. Enjoy!

I tell my children:

If you want to know me, look in here.
There will be no other record after I'm gone.
These slim cardboard volumes are what I leave in place of ashes;

these and the songs I sang to you
at bedtime or while stirring vegetable soup
late at night with the first autumn cold snap.

You will not find me bound in tidy brown leather,
gold leaf lettering the cover; or embellished with
stickers on acid free paper.

I will be faded to almost nothing where I wrote in pencil.

When you read, you may hear my alto, perhaps,
remember the way my hands turned pages.
You may discover a blossom pressed where it fell

unknown from the wisteria one summer.
Remember how it grew in braids up the ancient Cedar
by the corner of the house; how in early morning

I sat beneath walnut trees, writing about
robins digging worms in rain-soaked soil
or a crescent moon at daybreak?

If you look, you will find me recalling a certain sunset,
my daughter's golden hair, her little sister tasting
ocean sand, the smell of my son when he was seven.

You will find me here, quiet in the hammock,
the apple I was eating fallen to the ground unfinished.

Melody Newey © 2009

National Poetry Month

2009-04-10T12:07:00.007-06:00

I suppose this is a good time to begin blogging again . .. my son tells me I need to write more. "It's been too long," he says. My sister-friend, who brought to blogland to begin with has probably given up on me. My daughter is doing a wonderful job on her blog.

So since this is National Poetry Month and I love poetry I offer this initial post, courtesy of the Poem-a-Day e-mail from Poetry.org. One day soon I'll add one of my own. Enjoy!

How to Read a Poem: Beginner's Manual
by Pamela Spiro Wagner

First, forget everything you have learned,
that poetry is difficult,
that it cannot be appreciated by the likes of you,
with your high school equivalency diploma,
your steel-tipped boots,
or your white-collar misunderstandings.

Do not assume meanings hidden from you:
the best poems mean what they say and say it.

To read poetry requires only courage
enough to leap from the edge
and trust.

Treat a poem like dirt,
humus rich and heavy from the garden.
Later it will become the fat tomatoes
and golden squash piled high upon your kitchen table.

Poetry demands surrender,
language saying what is true,
doing holy things to the ordinary.

Read just one poem a day.
Someday a book of poems may open in your hands
like a daffodil offering its cup
to the sun.

When you can name five poets
without including Bob Dylan,
when you exceed your quota
and don't even notice,
close this manual.

Tasting Life Twice - part 2 - In the Beginning

2008-10-06T18:54:00.014-06:00

It all started with my friend, StielCrazy. She happens to be a nurse like me. She also happens to be married to my new husband's brother. Most importantly, she happened to be one of my best friends at what was a new job in home care a couple of years ago. I adored her from the moment I met her and I trusted her implicitly, still do. If I were mortally wounded or otherwise incapacitated I would want her to take care of me. I trust her with my life. As it turns out, I was right to put my faith in her.
At some point Ms. Stiel mentioned that she knew a great guy that I should meet. "He just needs someone to get out and have a little fun with. All he has ever wanted was a true companion - someone to jump on a snowmobile with and maybe someone to cook dinner for him when he comes home from work." Somewhere along this time I heard Paula Cole in my head: "I will wash the dishes while you go have a beer . .."

Now, don't get me wrong, like Paula Cole and all the other real women in the world I too have wondered: "Where is my John Wayne? Where is my prairie son? Where is my happy ending? Where have all the Cowboys gone?" However, I am something of a feminist and have lived on my own for over a decade. So fixing dinner for a snowmobile-riding cowboy didn't quite do it for me.

I resisted giving permission for her to share my phone number with him for a week or two. But Stiel's little wink from time to time, the way she smiled at me when she talked about the possibility of my meeting him and her occasional, "What can it hurt? He really is a genuinely kind man and I can't say enough good about him" finally broke down my defenses.

No, that's not true. It wasn't just that. It was a warm feeling I had inside when she spoke of this man whom I had never met, had never seen and who came out of the blue at a time when I wasn't particularly looking for a man. That is the real reason I said, "Okay. Go ahead. Give him my number."

Tasting Life Twice (part 1)

2008-10-03T07:43:00.015-06:00

Something happened recently. Something really important. Something so significant that the months-long writing dry spell I've had must end now. It must.

Last weekend with my dearest friend and companion I took a leap of faith.

On Friday, 26 September 2008, in a small town in Idaho I married the man I will spend the rest of my mortal days with; the man I will spend the rest of my immortal existence with; the man I chose and who chose me to share both the sacred and profane, thrilling and mundane, peaceful and insane moments of life with.

We became one. Or at least we vowed to become one and to never give up working toward that end. This oneness is no small deal for me. When I speak of it or write of it I am referring not only to a oneness of body, or even a oneness of spirit. Far more significantly, I believe, like others of my faith, that there is a kind of oneness that is essential for lasting happiness. This oneness isn't just about the two of us coming together. It is about coming together in God. And, God knows, we will need it.

In Case You Were Wondering

2008-07-24T11:47:00.001-06:00

Every girl should know which Disney Pricess she is most like. . .

You Are Jasmine!

Independent and adventurous. You don't want much; just to break out of the guilded cage society has put you in and experience life to the fullest. Following orders isn't really one of your strong points, and you would rather live a life of poverty than being forced into something that you hate.

Which Disney Princess Are You?

I'm Having a Baby

2008-03-03T19:46:00.028-07:00

My belly hasn't started bulging yet.

But I am compelled to connect with every enlarged abdomen I come across. I always ask permission (okay, maybe not always) before I rest my motherhand gently, but securely on that floating basketball of womanhood. Just in the past few days I have warmed the surface of several protruding baby-filled balloons: my friend, Julie; the young woman in the mall; most of all, my daughter.

My firstborn is having her firstborn.

I'm really not having a baby, she is. But I find myself wishing I were. It's quite insane, but it's undeniable. I am baby hungry at forty-six years old.

My belly aches sometimes. I remember how my waistline disappeared almost imperceptibly over those first weeks. I remember my breasts swelling, feeling tender, looking divine. I remember feeling that I was, in fact, a Goddess. Yes, a Goddess. I was unashamed; unabashedly, indisputably, magnificently important in the world. My worth was unquestionable, I glowed with virtue and purity. I knew that I was more than just myself and I loved every minute of it. . . okay, I didn't love having to pee all the time or the fact that I wanted to nap 23 hours a day or the difficulty breathing during the last few weeks. But everything else I LOVED. I didn't get sick. I was awash in estrogen, progesterone and who knows what all else. It was positively mood altering.

I want to do it again. My motivation is selfish, I know. I want to feel those feelings again. Even more, I want to mother a child with several decades of none-too-easy child rearing behind me. I want to share with just one new soul the peace, the wisdom, the joy and understanding that has woven itself into my being through the experience of mothering three beautiful (now beautifully grown) children. I can mother so much better now than I ever could before.

This all sounds so idealistic. And, honestly, I don't know that I could endure chronic sleep deprivation again. My body revels in afternoon naps and my heart almost giggles with the freedom I have to come and go as I please. But those four AM breast feedings in the quiet predawn, the smell of my babies, the newborn sounds; the trips up the sledding hill when they were toddlers and the bedtime stories; the utter delight . . . well, nothing really compares to it.

It seems one of life's strangest ironies that we become good parents by simply being parents. We slog through the child-rearing years as best we can. Then, about the time we figure out how to be great parents, the ones who needed us most to be great parents are all grown up. I don't really understand it.

Of course, for a nice Mormon girl like me, there is also the issue of needing a loving supportive spouse to make a baby and raise a baby with . . . and since I don't currently have one of those, well, I suppose the truth is that I am on my last round of baby hunger. I haven't had any of this for several years.

I remember giving up the idea of having more children when I rounded the forty-two-year-old bend. Since then I think I've only felt this way once before and it was merely a moment. This recent bout has lasted several weeks--long enough for me to think about blogging about it.

Maybe it is because my baby will have her baby very soon--within a month or so. Or maybe it is simply the death throws of a hope that was never realized. I had hoped for five or six children. I always imagined myself as a mom to a big family, but my life circumstances haven't allowed for that. I don't know that I will take the time to figure out exactly why I am having these feelings. Maybe I'll just enjoy them.

Maybe I can take all this good mother love and share it with my grown babies and their babies as they come along. What do you think?

Late Winter

2008-01-20T10:24:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been thinking about how life never seems to let up. Just when there appears to be a moment of rest or relief from the ever-present struggles of family, work and church life, a new challenge comes along. And it doesn't seem to matter what the challenge is - it may be emotional, physical, financial, spiritual.

It's like being sucker-punched in the belly. There is a sense of shock, the requisite momentary loss of breath, the ache afterward. It hurts. It makes me question all sorts of things. And it always, at least initially, leaves me feeling like, "Hey! What's up with this? I'm doing my best. Why doesn't God cut me a break here?"

I know I am not alone in my reaction.

I dare say that at one time or another every one close to me has expressed this same feeling. It may be the result of a major plumbing problem the week before Christmas (ask me about that later), the loss of a pregnancy, a failed marriage, or a rough spot in an otherwise successful marriage. It could be a job change, an investment gone bad or a broken radiator, a broken heart, a broken dream. Whatever it is, it always seems to take us by surprise.

Recently I read a poem I wrote many years ago and it reminded me of a principle, a practice that I have tried to embrace and that I am still growing into. You can call it "look for the silver lining" or "see the cup half full" or "count your blessings." Today I think I will call it, "Listen for the Tulips."

It feels especially applicable in the deep of winter when, here in my neck of the woods, nature seems to slow her breathing to an almost imperceptible rate. Life takes a holiday, color disappears or hibernates beneath a white-gray shroud and one might wonder if or when Spring will ever come. (Make no mistake about it, I love winter for many reasons. But for the purpose of this post, I'm staying on the somber side, the seasonal affective disorder side, the chapped lips and dry skin side.)

I remember one winter when I was younger, walking through a park, looking up at tree branches - bare, cold, still. I thought, "Do trees ever wonder if they will come back to life?" This thought was quickly followed by another: "They don't have to wonder. They know God."

On occasion I have thought that God has it in for me. I know in my deepest parts that, in fact, God has great things in store for me, good things. I believe this is true for everyone.

But in those cold, dark, despairing, seemingly lifeless winter times of life, it is difficult to hold on to that truth. Sometimes everything we see around us supports the idea that spring will never return to our world.

Sometime after the experience in the park with the trees, I had another wonderful epiphany. It was during one of those winters when the snow falls heavy, early in the season; then the temperature stays so cold that the snow stays too . . . forgive me if I've shared it before. But today, looking out my window at the front yard and feeling some sadness and longing, I thought of this poem again.

Late Winter

In our bitter late-winter's eye,
squinting against chill breeze,
we look for Soon When It Is Spring

and fail to hear, even now,
beneath old, browned snow
the hum of tulips
growing.

2008-01-06T21:15:00.001-07:00

Couldn't resist this one. I tried, but alas, I am an impulsive, romantic, impatient Austen-type girl, so what else would you expect?
I got the idea from my friend. . .

Which Jane Austen character are you?
You are Marianne Dashwood of Sense & Sensibility! You are impulsive, romantic, impatient, and perhaps a little too vocal in your honesty. You enjoy romantic poetry and novels, and play the pianoforte beautifully. To boot, your singing voice is captivating. You feel deeply, and love passionately.

Take the Quiz here!

2007-12-18T17:57:00.000-07:00

Here is what I am working on for my writer's group. We like to try to write a new Christmas poem each year. I started this one in 2005, but I always felt it needed one more stanza. This year it came to me. Enjoy. . . and Merry Christmas to all.

Waiting for the Words

Years now I have listened to
the song in my head about
a manger; have wondered
how to write the only story.

I wander through holy lands
in my heart, patient pen
cradled between fingers.

Alone, I veil my hair,
descend beside a stream of tears
into the silent night.

Lambs bleating on the hillside
disappear when I turn to look,
their keepers gone with them.

I study the ground beneath my feet,
kick pebbles as I go, watch dust
blow away toward Bethlehem.

Still, still in the long dark
I hear a lullaby,
lift my midnight eyes,
hoping for a wise star.

Melody Newey 2008

Happy Birthday Compulsive W. - - PARTY ON!!

2007-12-09T09:39:00.000-07:00

Please join us to celebrate our dearest Compulsive Writer as she begins her journey into the joy and horror of mid-life.

We'll celebrate with a CREPE BREAKFAST / BIRTHDAY PARTY!

Saturday 15 December
OPEN HOUSE
8:30 AM - 10:30 AM (Yes, AM)
Contact melody.new@gmail for address/directions/questions

Please drop in at your convenience to enjoy the wrapping . . . We'll wrap good things in warm crepes! We'll wrap Compulsive in the warmth of friendship! We'll rap on a pinata with a roll of wrapping paper. And if all goes as planned, we'll wrap some children in blankets too.(See below)

The guest of honor has made one simple and characteristically generous request:
Do not bring a birthday gift for her. BUT, if you like, you are welcome to bring fleece, blanket or quilt fabric, a fleece blanket or other blanket of your choosing or money to purchase the same for Utah Valley Regional Medical Center Pediatric Department.

A donation of any of these things will be appreciated. BUT PLEASE do not trouble yourself if this would cause a hardship for you. The best gift of all will be your presence!!

Below is information about the blanket needs and a hint about where to pick one up if you so desire.

*** 50x60" fleece blankets are on sale right now for $4.99 at Shopko

*** Blankets CAN be tied quilts - they just need to be bound really well. Fleece and crocheted blankets go home with the patients, but the department is also in need of nice blankets to stay in the units.

Gratitude

2007-11-22T07:28:00.025-07:00

When I woke up this morning and considered my blessings, considered expressing gratitude here in this public forum, I had a single thought: be not ashamed of the testimony that is in you. In months past I have spent time putting my personal testimony into words for the purpose of sharing with my children and other loved ones. Today, dear reader, I share it with you.

Some people might think a blog is not an appropriate place for a personal expression of one's most closely-held beliefs, but I'm not one of those people.

I am not ashamed of the thing I am most grateful for in my life. It is the thing I have always been and always will be most grateful for and I owe a debt to My Savior for this thing, this gift of testimony. I offer this as a token to the One who has given me all and who makes it possible for me to be all that I am.

I love Him. I want to love Him better.

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

I believe I lived in heaven in spirit form with a heavenly father, heavenly mother and other loved ones before I was created in physical form and born into the earth. I know I made promises and covenants there and that if I am true and faithful to those covenants and promises, I will have the opportunity to return to live with them again.

I believe I was a valiant spirit in heaven and that I was given a choice about my life, about coming to earth and about the circumstances into which I was born. I believe that free will or agency is an eternal law by which the children of God live. I believe that we each make choices about what to do with the lives we are given and that we experience consequences for good and ill based upon our choices and upon other people’s choices. I believe God wants us to be happy and helps us make choices that will lead to our happiness. I believe in The Great Plan of Happiness and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints contains the greatest amount of knowledge and truth about God's plan for our eternal welfare.

I also believe The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only true and living church on the earth; that God continuously reveals His will regarding His children on earth through living prophets. I also believe God reveals to each of us personally, through the Holy Ghost, His will for our individual lives. I believe that other churches or faiths contain truth and light which are beneficial to the human family.

I believe utterly and completely in the central doctrine of this church which is: Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, repentance, baptism by immersion for the remission of sins and the laying on of hands by those who are in authority to bestow the gift of the Holy Ghost. I have been given and have accepted this gift and I know that the Holy Ghost or Holy Spirit influences my life daily.

The testimony I record here, specifically those places where I state that I know certain truths, is a result of the witness of the Holy Spirit. When I say that I know I could just as easily say that I witnessed it with my own eyes, because when the Spirit bears witness of Truth, any truth, it becomes part of my being in a way that is clear and powerful and difficult to put into words.

I know the Holy Ghost is a personage of Spirit and that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are separate and distinct personages who have divinely refined and glorified physical bodies. I believe these three personages are uniquely united in their hearts, minds and will. I desire to be united with them in purpose.

I believe the world is a place of chaos and confusion; that this is a result of the fall of Adam and Eve; that this fall was the first great act of free will on the earth and that it was an act of innocence and courage on the part of our First Parents. I know the fall was essential to the Great Plan of Happiness and I am grateful for the courage of my First Parents in accepting this responsibility.

I know Satan is a real personage of spirit who actively corrupts the works of God where he is able. I believe that because of this, the pathway to heaven and our connection to God is increasingly obscured by distraction and deceit.

I believe Joseph Smith was a humble, human, servant of God who, early in his life, was sensitive to this confusion and felt a call to ask and subsequently to answer a question of faith. I believe the question pressed upon him because God had a mission for him in this world. I feel that the world needed Joseph Smith to ask the question: which of all the churches was true, and when he asked this of God in his prayers, he did so not only for himself, but for the entire human race. I believe his answer was a divine revelation intended not only for himself but for all of humanity.

I believe Joseph Smith saw what he said he saw. I know he was an instrument in restoring the fullness of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

I believe the revelation he received was part of a divine plan to restore to the earth the essential powers of heaven which were first brought into the earth through Adam and Eve. I believe Christ himself brought this power, priesthood power, (the power to act in the name of God, through the Love of God) with him at the time of his mortal life and that this power, as well as the pure spirit of the Holy Ghost, was later lost from the earth through a lengthy apostasy.

I know Jesus Christ lived and walked upon the earth. I believe Jesus bestowed actual physical/spiritual power from his own body upon his apostles and that some of these very apostles appeared to Joseph Smith for the purpose of restoring this same priesthood to the earth. I believe this priesthood power, the power to act in the name of God, to administer saving ordinances such as baptism and confirmation of the Holy Ghost to the children of God on the earth, is held today by worthy Latter-day Saint men.

The heart of all my beliefs is this: I believe Jesus Christ is God, a divine being of flesh and bones; that he was born of a virgin into a mortal existence with loving mortal parents; that he is singular and unique; the only begotten of the Father.

I believe he not only lived, but he died and was resurrected. I believe he is the only person who has ever inhabited the earth who has had full access to and understanding of agency, full free will, and that he used his will or agency perfectly, making perfect choices without exception. I know he used his agency to surrender his life and take it up again. I believe he did this not only by virtue of his Godly power and supreme will, but as an act of supreme love for me and for all of humanity.

I believe he appeared after his resurrection to people on the earth in and around the place of his mortal ministry, and in other places as well. I believe he appeared to the inhabitants of North America and that the Book of Mormon is an inspired and divinely translated volume of scripture which contains accounts of Christ's appearance to the people of the time. Like the Holy Bible, it contains testimonies of his existence, his love, his power, and of the role he played in the lives of those who knew him and of those who knew of him and believed in him. I believe in him. He is the Messiah.

I believe Jesus performed an atonement; that he miraculously, mysteriously and literally experienced the pain and suffering of every man, woman and child who ever lived on earth; that he absorbed the destructive power of this suffering and that through him every man, woman and child can be healed if they have faith in him and ask it of him. I have been healed of many physical, emotional and spiritual infirmities throughout my life by virtue of his atonement, his grace, and his loving compassion on my behalf. I know he is intimately involved in my life and that he knows me personally.

I believe he has the power to restore us all to wholeness.

Most importantly, I believe through his atonement, his death and resurrection, he transcended all of the painful life-limiting effects of mortality, including sin and death. I believe his atonement effectively cleared the confusion and chaos of mortality and obliterated the long term effects of evil and darkness in the world and in our lives. I believe that through him, I and every one else can transcend both spiritual death which comes from sin, and physical death which comes because we are mortal. I understand that we do this through faith in Jesus Christ and by obeying his doctrine. I know if I am faithful throughout my life to the doctrine of Christ I will be resurrected and will live eternally with him, my heavenly parents and with all others whom I love.

I believe Jesus Christ did what he did because he loves us. I believe love is, in fact, the power by which he has done everything he has ever done. I believe love is the power of God, the power of Christ, that it is an essential element of all life. Love is as real and concrete to me as any physical element; it is essential to physics, mathematics, art, time, space, form and matter and that without it none of us would exist.

I believe the most important work I will ever do in my life is to know and love Jesus Christ and to better love my brothers and sisters in the human family. I believe the scripture in the Holy Bible, Matthew 22:40, "On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets."

I believe after death and resurrection that we will all continue to grow, to gain light, love, truth and understanding in increasing measure; that we can do this while enjoying the companionship and company of our eternal family and in so doing we will become more and more like our Savior.

I believe he knows how to love and how to express love in a way that is so unique, so perfect that none other could do what he has done and what he continues to do for us. I believe at some time far in the future we may hope to learn to love and to use the power of love as he does. I love Him. I want to love him more.

Finally! Something to write about . . .

2007-09-22T10:23:00.000-06:00

I found myself this morning-
unexpectedly, on the quiet underside
of a turning maple leaf.

For the past month I have spent the early hours of Saturday morning hiking to Stewart Falls. I started visiting the falls as a child with my friend, Keller Clark, and my little brother, Lance, when we spent time at Keller's cabin during summers (and winters) at Sundance. The vast meadow below the falls has filled in with scrub oak and long grasses, but the falls are as steady as time.

I began this routine for several reasons:
1. To start getting in shape for ski season.
2. I have a nice motorcycle tailpipe burn from my son's new road bike (that's another story - I should have taken a picture of it. When it happened he said, "Cool, mom. Now you're a real biker chick.") so I can't swim for exercise right now.
3. I just like to "run away" to the mountains sometimes. Besides, there's nothing quite like autumn in the mountains.

Stewart Falls is a relatively easy hike. It only takes about 1 & 1/2 hours start to finish. The first time I made this hike, several weeks ago, I experienced the requisite 48-hours-later muscle soreness. But the last few weeks . . . nothing. My body has responded, as bodies tend to do, to the demands placed on it and it feels great.

As I start up the trail I am engulfed in the heavy, heady aroma in the shade of decades-old pine trees, the scent suspended in moist alpine air. I step on pine needles peppering the ground and think about aromatherapy and how there has never been a pine-scented candle (or anything else artificially pine-scented for that matter) that can compare to this.

The trail is so familiar. I've been here dozens of times over the years: ferns beneath aspen trees about a third of the way up; the place where the trail diverges around an aspen trunk; views across the valley; sunshine through morning mist; autumn colors spreading over the mountainside. I notice the stinging nettle field - where we used to hold our arms practically over our heads to avoid getting stung - is sparse and dry. The drought has done me and other hikers a service.

One of my favorite places on the trail is the spot where the falls can first be heard but aren't visible yet: a grove of scrawny maples and old aspens. Many of the aspens are scarred. One catches my eye.
"Stef + Nate" is swollen gray in the white bark.

A chipmunk runs ahead of me. A garter snake moves in the grass.
A golden eagle soars over the valley, watching for something below. There are more deer tracks today than usual. And someone has come through on horseback since last week. I don't want to spoil the mood here, but, you know, horse poop is a sure sign.

I pass two women moving slowly with a white mixed breed dog.
These are the only other souls I've seen.

The sky is clear September blue and the air is cooling down as clouds approach; I'm grateful for that. It's perfect for hiking.

The trail becomes more rocky, dropping to where the falls meet the valley floor. I make my way down. Below the cascades, boulders and fallen logs have been strategically placed to make a way to the other side of the stream. I step from stone to stone, move closer to the falls, sit beside the water. Wind from the falls dries the moisture on my neck and forehead. The water is clear and the rocks behind the falls are covered with moss and drooping grasses. It brings to mind pictures I've seen of Hawaii. It's an ideal resting place. I take off my shirt and dip it in the stream to cool the return trip. It's early enough in the morning that I don't worry about being seen.

After a few minutes I move back up the hillside and pick up a leaf from the trail, roll the stem between my fingers and notice the pale backside behind the brilliant red face. I suddenly realize something amazing, something that should have occurred to me sooner:
I'm not running away from anything, not at all. I'm running, or, rather, hiking toward something . . . this doesn't feel like escaping.

To me, this feels like coming home.

Sitting on an Almost Empty Nest - Part 2

2007-08-12T20:22:00.000-06:00

Just when you think you're sitting on an empty nest . . . the fledglings start laying their own eggs!

My firstborn is having a baby! She hopes for a girl. Unfortunately, the cat got to the announcement balloons before I got to my camera. It does leave me wondering if the remaining balloon is an indicator of things to come . . . can balloons predict the future? I wonder if we could dangle a balloon string over my daughter's wrist and watch whether it rotates in a clockwise or counterclockwise direction to determine the number of babies she'll have and the gender of each child. Is there some sort of baby balloon feng shui or helium powered astrology at work here?

I'll let you know on or around April 6th 2008!!

Sitting on an Almost Empty Nest

2007-07-22T08:52:00.000-06:00

My children are away this week with their father's family. I find myself thinking about what the next few years might hold for me,
for our family.The above photo was taken in March 2003 when my son, "Jack" left for his mission to California, Spanish speaking. Here he is a few months before coming home.His sister, "Jill" (above center) left to serve in Fiji in April 2004. Even though she had lived away from home for several years while she earned her bachelors degree, this was the time when I became aware that our family was moving toward an empty nest.

With Jack and Jill out of the house, their younger sister, "Jane" and I grew closer than we had been before. She needed this time alone with me. I needed it with her too. (Through the years she had expressed feeling isolated from her siblings - they were 19 months apart, she came five years later.) During this time she found a place in the family she hadn't had before and she matured in ways that allowed her to feel a closer connection with her older brother and sister.

These mission years where pivotal for all of us. Both missionaries had the kind of coming-of-age experiences that one would hope for. Jack and Jill came back better than they were before. They each came home with more of their very best and truest selves. In those few years Jane grew in monumental ways too, partly due to the influence of her siblings and to the spirit that was in our home during that time. It was a time for sealing bonds between all of us, like putting frosting on our family cake. Collectively, we reached a level of maturity that created a natural springboard toward the next phase and gave all my children greater freedom to fly.

Jill married early last year, soon after her return from Fiji.
Jack moved out this summer - permanently. When I made a comment about how he is always welcome to live at home if he needs to, he replied, "No, Mom, this is it. It's time for me to be on my own."
He's right, of course. I'm proud of him for knowing that.

So, now, with only one child left at home, I am beginning to feel a kind of freedom I've never felt before. It's as if I get to have another life, a whole new life if I want it; another fifty years of whatever I choose to do. I can have a new career, move to a new place, do essentially whatever I want. (So long as I have enough money to travel when grand babies come along.)

Part of this new found freedom comes from not having a spouse and that is not so pleasant, but it is the way it is for now, so I am truly free to do anything, anytime, anywhere. I suppose this is really true for anyone at any given moment, but the responsibility of nurturing and raising children tends to limit our options for a time, as it should. Parenthood, especially single parenthood, places demands on time, energy, resources. When those demands are lessened and/or removed, boy, howdy! the world becomes an entirely different place.

I'm a newbie to the whole empty nest thing. And I feel it. I feel vulnerable and young again. Like my own wings are still wet, like I'm learning how to breathe again before I can really fly.

I'm not entirely sure what to expect or which direction I should go. In some ways I feel like my youngest child feels . . . she is still living at home, teetering on the edge of the nest, looking out into the wild blue yonder and taking short flights from time to time. The other day she sent me a text message on my phone: Do you realize it's been two whole days since we have seen each other!? Even though we live in the same home, our work schedules and her social schedule (read: steady boyfriend) create gaps between the times when we are both home and awake at the same hour. Anyway, she's on her way to real adulthood and there's no stopping her. I wouldn't want it any other way.

Maybe it's because I have been on my own raising them for the past fifteen years that I don't feel as much angst as someone else in this position might feel about letting my fledglings go. I have given up so many things to raise these three babies that sometimes it is hard to even think about it. I am tired. I'm ready to let them fly. That doesn't mean it's completely comfortable. Change is always uncomfortable, brings with it unexpected challenges and opportunities. Like this weekend - a little more quiet than usual, a little empty space inside my house and heart that I'm not quite sure what to do with.

I think I am ready for this. I hope I am. When I finish breathing lessons, maybe I'll sign up for something else, like . . . flight school.

Life in the Slow Lane: Part 2

2007-07-06T09:28:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was nice. I feel rested. But today I'm ready for a little more something and a little less nothing.

Interestingly, I discovered some important things on the nothing day:

1. I don't want or need a sugar daddy.

2. I can't be happy blogging and/or shopping all day.

3. I must have been really bored and/or un-creative because when I re-read my post this morning I thought, "Hmmm. Not my best work."

4. Now I feel excited to clean the litter box and caulk the tub . . . And take my new chain saw for a spin around the trees!

Hey, mister chain saw, who's your daddy ?!

Life in the Slow Lane

2007-07-05T14:17:00.000-06:00

Usually I'm a productive person. I'm not one who has to be doing something all the time or someone who runs herself into the ground at the cost of good health, but I do try to use time wisely. I have worked to earn my keep since I was 17 years old, paid for my own wedding at 19, wanted desperately to stay home full time with my babies, but didn't quite manage it. Then when I divorced, I went to work full time and have been doing that ever since.

Most of the time I'm okay with all of this. I feel grateful to work in a profession I enjoy and I absolutely love my current job. My children seem to have grown up successfully despite my necessary absence from our home. My point is, I've become accustomed to working hard. Even on rare days off I enjoy a different kind of work, you know -- around the house, the yard, catching up on laundry, etc.

However, today, something is different.

Maybe it's the heat, maybe it's that no one is home but me and I'm taking a few PTO days, or maybe it's that I'm feeling how hard life really is and I'm tired.

So, anyway, today I'm determined to do pretty much nothing . . . all day.

I committed myself to this course early on, just after eating fresh blueberries with cream around 7:00 AM. A couple of hours later I went outside and sat down in the grass with my daughter, "Jane," before she left for work. She had stopped on her way to her car to pet the neighbor's gigantic, perfectly proportioned, white cat who had come over to enjoy Jane's gentle touch and the cat food on our front porch.

When Jane drove away I meandered into the first of the daily requisite impatiens watering sessions. In July and August the delicate shade-lovers must be drenched at least twice daily and I do it - willingly, joyfully. Because they need it and because in the 100+ degrees I like to soak myself in the process. Darn it, I won't surrender to this God-forsaken desert.

Okay, I did clean my bedroom, leaf through some books that have been waiting on the bottom shelf of the nightstand (one was quite enlightening, the other didn't really tell me anything I didn't already know -
I won't say which is which).

I took a mid-morning nap. Later I might swim a few laps at the gym, eat more food, nap again, watch a little TV, brouse blogs, and not answer the phone. Nothing else . . . nothing . . . all day.

I find myself imagining what life would be without the demands of full time work and parenthood. I'm thinking of mid-aged women who don't have to work and are married to men who make a lot of money; and of empty-nesters (who were married to men who made a lot of money before they retired with their nice pensions).

I'm thinking, "This is what those ladies do who shop at the kiosk where Jane works selling jewelry and handbags."

Sometime last week I visited her at her work. The owner of the kiosk makes some of the jewelry herself and it's quite nice, but a bit pricey for me. I asked Jane who her customers are.

"Is it college students," I said, "or moms with kids? Who seems to buy the most stuff?"

She replied, "No, it's older ladies."

"You mean older ladies like me?"

"No," she said, "You know, like, grammas with suntans and long nails."

That's all she had to say. I know these ladies. There are a lot of them in Texas and Florida. Apparently there are some in Utah too. Maybe tomorrow I'll pretend to be one of those ladies. Yes . . . I'll forgo the tanning and acrylic nails, but I'll definitely add: shop for jewelry and handbags to my list of nothing to do all day. In time, I think I could get used to this.

Maybe I should shop for a sugar daddy while I'm at it. Has anyone seen a good sale?

Five Girls & Two Boys

2007-06-16T09:10:00.000-06:00

I came upon this photo the other day.
It was taken last year at my daughter's wedding.This is my family -- minus one.
He would be smiling too if he were here.

We are nurses, bankers, web designers, writers, ski instructors, econometricians, yoga instructors, contractors, professors, business owners, moms, dads, uncles and aunts. But first we were brothers and sisters.

I have always reveled in the shear number of us. I know there are bigger families out there, but ours has always felt big enough for me. As a child I was acutely aware that I was a portion of something larger than myself, something large enough to lean on, to talk with and play with. I still love that feeling.

These are the ones I shared the fragile years of life with, the becoming years. They are part of the soil I was grown in. So, in some inexplicable way, not only am I a part of the whole, but they are part of me -- like my voice inflections, breathing pattern or fingerprints. I sometimes see them when I look in the mirror. I hear myself in their laughter.

We are siblings: a living unit -- dynamic, flowing, ever changing. We are bonded by joy and sorrow. We love each other in varying measure and show our love in different ways at different times.

I wish I could tell you the whole story behind this picture. Not just that we had come together to celebrate or that the weather was perfect that day. But about the heartaches, the intimate, sacred, unseen complexities of these seven lives; of the life experiences -- shared and individual.

Perhaps the whole story is unnecessary. Perhaps the photograph says enough. . . that these are the ones who first taught me how to laugh, how to love, and to share. Among them I began to find my place in the world, I learned how to listen and how to ask for what I needed. They are the ones who answered then, who still answer. These are my brothers and sisters, my family.