On Bright Street

Family Home Evening with Rob & Georgia

Peasant picnic on the living room floor
• Red lentil dhal soused with tender corn and fresh cilantro
• Whole wheat pitas w/spreads
• Crunchy Fuji apples
• All-u-can-drink tap water
• After this we were too full for the ginger-pumpkin pie, phoo.

Opening hymn: #96, "Dearest Children, God Is Near You"
• Piano accompaniment was sight-read and played badly by Georgia.
• Verse 1 was sung nearly twice through by Rob before he skipped on to verse 3.

Opening prayer

Intro
• "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." (2 Timothy 1:7)

No one likes a frowny face.

Change it for a smile.

Make the world a better place

by smiling all the while.

One of the benefits of self-employment: Rob and I get to eat together—not every meal of every day, mind you, but we share a fine majority of our repasts. Family meals, being with people at table—so healthy. I'm convinced, and there are studies that back me up on this, that breaking bread together heightens the nourishing impact of food, especially when the folks gathered 'round the board allow themselves to relax and invest in good conversation. Do you believe in shared meals? The simplicity or complexity of the spread make less difference to the experience than the seasonings of love and friendship and goodwill. Certainly it's great to aim for food that's interesting and flavorful, but I for one will take a communal PB&J over lonely gourmet just about any day of the week, any meal. It's the company that makes the meal truly delicious.

Rob and I aren't very good at routine—often our meals take place at odd hours—but we do follow a few constants. One of them is our breakfast pattern. When we sit down together for this meal, we pray and ask for a blessing on our food, and another on our shared study time. We eat and visit, and then when the food's gone and we're sipping our Pero or smoothies or chamomile tea or what-have-you, one of us will bring up some point or principle or story from the scriptures and we'll have a small discussion about it. We pull from our personal studies to prepare for this morning time. Then we wash up dishes together (sometime this step gets neglected, ahem), and start the day in earnest with a kneeling prayer. It's a really grounding habit that has helped us come to know ourselves and each other better, and learn about the nature of life and happiness and truth. We are stronger, closer as a couple, and closer to God because we observe this practice. We're not perfect in our process—sometimes one or both of us are stressed or fatigued, or anxious about the day, but even when we carve out the merest moment to slow down and focus on something made of light, we are blessed.

I highly recommend that you give ideas like these a try with your own family. If you live alone, or have other circumstances which require adaptation, then you have a perfect opportunity to exercise your creativity. A shared meal can be so good for the soul. And adding the element of spiritual feasting makes mealtime exponentially more sustaining.

Bon appétit.

Equinox, a moment of balance. It came and went this morning at 9:03 a.m., while I was doing my morning study and meditating on personal liberty. Apropos.

The spirit of balance lingered today. I celebrated the even divide between dark and light by driving south with family for our annual grape-picking excursion at the home of some friends. Delicious green Himrods, those Utah beauties—oh! Soon my kitchen will be filled with the aroma of steaming grapes, and then we'll have the first provident bottles of 2011 ready to line the shelves of our pantry. I love the harvest season. And it's especially nice to begin refilling the coffers on a day of celestial balance.

On the drive down to Salem, I sat in the middle row of seats in my sister-in-law's van, next to my darling nephew, 3yo Finn. He announced to me happily, out of the blue, "Ga-ga, I KNOW you're gonna have a baby!" It seemed like all the grownups in the vehicle stopped breathing for a couple seconds, but maybe that was just me. I'm pretty sure this wasn't something Finn had heard from his parents, but I could be wrong about that too. Wherever it came from, I just laughed and accepted it. Why not? Who would know better than Finn? And who am I to doubt such an intelligent fellow? He made his powerful assertion again a little later: "Ga-ga, I KNOW you're gonna have a baby!" And then went on to describe to me how much he loves babies and likes to hold them, and I decided I would be very glad for him to hold mine once I have her... or find her... or him... or them... or... however this thing's going to happen. But I have it on good authority now; I'm gonna get one. Finn says.

Last year when we went grape-picking I was the beneficiary of another magical sentence, shared with me in a whisper while little arms were wrapped around my neck, a secret from my niece, Scout. Since it was a secret I won't share it, but it was a lovely shaft of light that came in through my ear and went straight into my heart to burn there all these months. I appreciate the tiny shiny voices of these people I love so much. I treasure their gifts and don't minimize them the least bit.

After today I'll be in my last week of my month-long garden detox diet. I took a Mason jar full of green smoothie with me grape-picking: it was lunch, if you use your imagination. There was enough that I gave everybody who was brave enough to try it a taste. Finn wanted a drink of it, so I helped him tip up the heavy jar and when it came down, he was wearing a Kermit green moustache. Ha! After his second swig, his moustache had grown into a perfect half-circle of swamp nog, plus a bright green unibrow from pressing the messy jar against his face. Pretty hilarious. I grabbed my camera but before I could shoot he'd sleeved his cheeks and was focused on the next part of lunch. (That green unibrow dried in place though, I'm tickled to report.) Scout saw me trying for a Kodak moment, so she obliged by taking her own big drink of my stuff and modeling the latest in lip fashion:



"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." —Leonardo da Vinci

Here's the latest Adoption Progress Report from Bright Street:

• Got a replacement Social Security card and copied it for the agency so now my background can be checked for criminal activity. (Glad to know this will not include reports from the Fashion Police.)
• Have heard from a few people that requests for character referencs and official inquiries are being made about us.
• We've been given the key to the front door of the LDS Family Services adoption site. The key won't turn in the lock yet (some strange password issue we're waiting to have resolved), but soon we'll be working our way through the next round of paperwork, online this time.
• We have been assigned an actual case worker. Her name is Paige. We have our first meeting with her this Tuesday. Every time I think of it my stomach does tuck and roll.
• My mum-in-law gave me a beautiful black mantilla which belonged to Rob's great-grandmother, Josie. Josie wore it while she was pregnant with Rob's maternal grandmother, Daphne. I love Grandma Daphne very much, and was privileged to live near her in the last years of her long good life. She once made a present of a piano to me, her mother Josie's. I was shocked, and still am. But there it stands, in the living room of a novice pianist, adored. Now I feel really honored to have this mantilla, especially as we try to move through this journey of growing our family. I wore it on Friday to the temple. It felt beautiful around my shoulders, like support, like protection, like knowing, like grace.
• It seems that I've been given a magic looking-glass. It's no circus mirror like the one I've made a long habit of staring at; this new glass shows accurate dimensions. Each time my attention's been directed to peer into it these past couple weeks, I've been shown something important about myself. None of it's been pretty, which is to say that this is not a mirror invested in flattery or petting; I see the shape of things now and what's possible (that's the more appealing part which keeps me willing to continue studying). The first good look I took made me go quiet, stopped me cold. I've got a blog post that ventured halfway into that particular vision; I really meant to write it all, but it got too intense to publish and I had to let it go. I do take comfort in the fact that something in me is apparently ready to receive such information and not bolt. Anyway, each look has been different; one that happened on Friday night was really fascinating. I got to observe and help someone else going through a personal crisis, and got all sorts of understanding. I got my lesson and a satisfying twist of irony. I don't mean to skip over stories here, but it doesn't feel right to elaborate further. I'll just say the glass and I had an eventful weekend. 
• (And just in case you're wondering, I do equate the last bullet point with adoption progress.)
• On the 17th I decided to start a scripture-reading program. Five chapters a day will see me through the entire Standard Works  in a year's time. For me, an important aspect of parenting is being able to teach from the scriptures as well as from life and nature and all good sources. That means I gotta know my stuff. Or at least be better acquainted with my stuff. Or simply be in the habit of finding my stuff. So, I downloaded some handy-dandy bookmarks to track my reading, and right now I'm working on the Book of Mormon and the Old Testament. I'm enjoying the time, and it goes by quickly. To keep myself moving forward—march, march, march—I'm simultaneously reading and listening. Makes for an interesting experience. Sometimes it's useful to hear a different delivery than the one that speaks out in my own head. Also, with two senses engaged at once it's easier to keep my mind focused. I've had a tough time with that lately—a result of anxiousness, I'm sure. 
• I'm de-hoarding the basement. Construction will soon follow. 
• We had our dandelions treated. Obliterated. So our neighbors will be like us better and not hold our future children for ransom (their single demand: "Kill the weeds!"). Mind you, I'm a great believer in dandelions as a concept (and they make excellent tea), but I'm not as recklessly anti-social as one might think. I do love my neighbors. And their tidy nice-people lawns. 
• I'm dusting off a colorful blankey project I started last time I was pregnant. Man, is it pretty. And I find I can look at it again now without too much emotional kickback. I'm going to finish the thing, whatever happens.
• I'm gearing up to become an early morning person, as of tomorrow. Wish me luck. Now, goodnight.

I've been neglecting my blog home On Bright Street for a long time and I know it. I've nearly pulled it down a few times in the past several months, but can't quite seem to make my peace with that choice. I've finally come around again to the point where I began—plain and simple, this started out and continues to be a good way for me to be in touch with a few very significant people in my life, since I stink with telephones and hardly anybody gets into writing real letters anymore (although thankfully, Becca still does). But if I'm going to use Bright Street as that kind of communication tool then I've got to write here more than I have been. Imagine! Posting on one's blog! Novelty, indeed.

I have been doing a lot of writing lately—stories, journals, illegibly scribbled notes on pieces of napkins and scraps that sometimes enter another dimension through pockets and purses and laundry piles. I've been stringing words together, just not too much here.

But I will repent of my mum ways. In good faith, I will this very moment pull out for your inspection, like a rabbit from a hat, my latest contribution to a private blog generally written for two exclusive readers: myself and Rob. I'll give you this little peek into the state of our union before it's even a day old. Then hopefully I'll find something more to share here very soon.

Dear you—

I let myself check the calendar today, crunched some growing numbers, and decided that I really must be pregnant again. And guess what—I was not terrified by the prospect of a number five. I was thrilled.

I prayed. I asked for help. I eagerly shot one of those fridge-chilly, messy, still-ahead-of-expiration-date progesterone bullets up thataway, carefully adhering to last year's prescription label's strict directive: "1 per vagina." I studied scriptures. I thought secret things. My hands trembled. I simultaneously read and listened to an old recording of Genesis 1, the creation story, cried with happiness, and pled with the Lord to Let there be light in my womb. I borrowed a great line from a real Biblical trooper: "Is anything too hard for the Lord?" and gave a good Sarah-worthy bellylaugh. I felt that sure of the situation.

I hopped on your bike because mine has a flat and put your seat down a little too far and pedaled like a low rider down to the dollar store for a dollar test, then I laid down not one but seven dollars, splurging on a silly color riot: sparkles for my eyes, bright nail polish, false eyelashes that would make a drag queen envious. I smiled my face off at everyone and nearly kissed the cashier but she had a goth's manicure and didn't look interested.

I hurried next door to The Good Earth to pee, which seemed appropriate. On my way in I picked up a sample of agave nectar and drank it down, saving the cup for my golden specimen. (I really went deluxe this time, yes?) Freddy Mercury was singing, "Aw, you're my best friend," and I thought of you and agreed. Locked in the public potty, I washed out my agave cup and then filled it again with something I thought might prove even sweeter, but . . . when I carefully wielded the plastic eyedropper and put four drops of my own nectar to the test only one pink stripe appeared, not two. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was so sure I wold see a positive reading. So. Sure.

Should I even be telling you this?

I think so. Because I know you would want to share this with me. Even if it makes you sad.

Because you are my best friend.

I had been planning to go to yoga class this afternoon, but now I all I want is you and a toasted coconut donut. Anyway, I'm leaking progesterone now, and it makes me uncomfortable.

You should feel very proud of me. I never said the d-word or any other regrettable word even once and don't think I will this time. But I shall here and now make a rude and Queenly noise to express my vast displeasure and provocation whilst simultaneously keeping my clenching fists occupied and affirming the great and constant blessing of my life (to wit, you). Feel free to join in.

xoinfinity

I think I'll give it a go—a month of daily posts in celebration of October. Sometimes just a list maybe, like today's inventory of gratitude:

• starting the day with a clean kitchen (thanks, Rob)
• resurrecting my best recipe for freshly-ground whole wheat pancakes (thanks, cookbook shelf)
• then fancying them up with chunky plum syrup made by the lovely and talented Shakes (thanks, Emily)
• receiving a sweet visit from my favorite Jehovah's Witness girl (thanks anyway)
• after a couple days of stress, finally prying the Hi, Tony! website from the dysfunctional clutches of MobileMe and transferring services to Bluehost (thanks, online support team—I'm especially talking to you, EricW)
• beginning a new class, the Master Gardener Program (thanks USU Cooperative Extension)
• learning from two knowledgeable teachers, not just one (thanks, Larry and Adrian)
• coming home with two unexpected sacks of vegies—pumpkin, tomatoes, hot peppers—from the local "jail garden" (thanks, inmates)
• leftover love note (thanks again, Rob)
• still loving the care package our friends in Seattle sent (thanks, John and Mary)
• especially cooking to their mix CDs (thanks, John and Mary and iTunes)
• dropping dinner plans in the middle of boiling pasta water, throwing on shoes, and racing to Taco Time so we could make it into the dollar theater in 15 minutes (thank you, spontaneity)
• sneaking two vegie burritos and salsa into the movie—yes, I know they say "no outside food or drink" but it was that or starve (thank you, deep fleece pockets)
• finally getting to see Up and crying over a good story (thanks, Pixar)
• priming the baseboards while Rob installed hardware for hanging curtains (thanks, teamwork)
• reading great essays to Rob when his job took longer than mine (thanks, M. F. K. Fisher)
• remembering what I learned this morning while reading scriptures (thanks, Friend)
• looking forward to beating the chill by borrowing some warmth from my sleeping bedmate (thanks, my radiator)

Welcome, October!

• crying over a beautiful belated anniversary letter from my fella
• enjoying a triple chocolate sundae for elevensies, solo and guilt-free
• a hilarious story about my 60-something male cousin in Carolina having his first mammogram (and a not so funny lumpectomy—but it was benign, gratefully)
• a get-ready-for-it meal at our new favorite restaurant, Fusion
• this:



• wrapping my arms around the African detachment of our Tribe for the first time in too many months
• scrumptious archetype: Pooh-shaped toddler
• nieces and nephew blowing stinky plastic bubbles with their aunts and uncles
• making it comfortably into adorable size 8 green cords in the hospital gift shop (I owe it all to 2% spandex) (too bad they weren't on sale)
• wearing my dad's ruby aviator ring for courage
• an expertly done blood draw
• dabbing on just a tich of Chanel No. 5, vintage 1940s, and thinking of my mom
• significant pre-pay discounts
• helpful advice, strengthening words, and partnered faith from loved ones
• finally figuring out the recurring dream metaphor that had me freaking me out this morning
• reading a random passage of scripture in a way I never had before, and recognizing a personal answer that put an end to my panic attacks about surgery
• two backrubs!
• many excellent hugs
• check-in time changed from 6:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m.
• Becca's lemony peach pie
• being encircled by husband, father-in-law, and brothers-in-law and given a priesthood blessing
• family members fasting with me after 11:00 p.m.
• finding an AVEDA CARE PACKAGE waiting on my doorstep, complete with helium balloons I can suck on for breakfast!
• fantasizing about answering hospital intake questions in a helium-induced Munchkin voice
• not a mastectomy
• not my right side
• petting a clean dog
• a relatively clean house to leave and come home to
• laundry's done
• carrying around a lot of love
• taking "Before" pictures
• knowing Johnny Cash is on the way
• looking forward to being held
• by this time tomorrow it'll be over

O Lord, thou hast searched me, and known me.
Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off.
Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways.
For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O Lord, thou knowest it altogether.
Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it.
Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?
If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.
If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;
Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.
If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me.
Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.
For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb.
I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.
My substance was not hid from thee, when I was made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.
Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them.
How precious also are thy thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them!
If I should count them, they are more in number than the sand: when I awake, I am still with thee.

Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts:
And see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.

(Psalm 139: 1-18, 23, 24)

This morning I checked in on a friend's private blog and found she'd posted a list of books, reportedly circulated by the NEA, of their Top 100 Books . . . of all time? of readers' choice? of modern culture? Not sure about that part. I searched the NEA site to try and find the answer, plus #99 and #100 on the list, since my friend had inherited a truncated one from another blogger. I didn't find what I was looking for, but spotted several other similar Top 100 Books lists from other groups as I was Googling about. There's a healthy overlap among these, as might be expected. I'll share a few links with you, in case you like to peruse lists like I do.

Harvard
Radcliffe
Guardian UK
Us and Them
Jackpot!
Waterstone
An illustrated guide—page one—page two—page three—page four
Project Gutenberg
NY Times Notable Books of the Year
College Board
Banned Books
Entertainment Weekly's "The New Classics"
100 Best Children's Books

And so it goes on for 22,100,000 results.

So I had lists and 100s and books on my brain first thing today, and I was immediately primed and ready to obsess over reading—you know, get busy absorbing and check all those neglected books offa those lists. But I had a workday laid out before me that wouldn't allow for the leisure of sitting down with any book, good or bad, so I decided to strap on my iPod and let my ears do the page-turning for me while I painted. I looked over the NEA list and sort of did an eeny-meeny-miney-mo; the first title for which I could quickly find a free audio recording would be my listen du jour. Whaddya know? I came up with Dumas' The Three Musketeers, thanks to Librivox, my old haunt. So much for random selection. But okay, I thought, at least that will provide me with some light entertainment.

Trouble was, it took a while to download the TWENTY-FOUR PLUS HOURS of recorded readings (ack, what an investment!), so while I waited for the main event I thought I'd give a new podcast a try. Last week I subscribed to the New Yorker: Fiction podcast, and was eager to see what it was like. Oddly enough, I was surprised that the very first episode I listened to was A List of Books, featuring a terrific short story by Bernard Malamud called A Summer’s Reading, about a young man who, in order to make a good impression, claims he is spending his summer reading through a list of 100 books recommended by the library. Perfect! That's what I call happy synchronicity.

I took it as my sign to forge ahead with a serious reading/listening plan. Today while working I enjoyed several amazing short stories (thanks to the New Yorker), all I could handle of The Three Musketeers, several chapters from The Book of Mormon, and an episode of This American Life.

I highly recommend reading . . . and iPods . . . as work and mental health helpers.

What are you reading with your eyes or ears right now?

One of the benefits of being self-employed is that when we have our schedule in relative balance, Rob and I can enjoy most of our meals together. Granted, intrusions abound—a business call rings insistently, a client arrives to pick up work, UPS bangs on the door, ink which is drying on a press nags at the printer to hurry and chew—but we get more chances than most to share a brief visit while we eat. I try to be conscious of keeping mealtime discussions comfortable and free of stress; anxieties and pressures aren't good for digestion. Most mornings, once we've eaten, we read a scripture together and talk about it for a moment or two before we leave the breakfast table. It doesn't take long, and the practice infuses the day with a nice energy and thoughtfulness. I like our habit.

This morning, Rob suggested that at lunchtime we start sharing poems. Sounds like a great plan, I said. Rob's been reading a book from the 60s on children's literature, and so today he chose from that a poem by Elizabeth Coatsworth, which I like:

Swift things are beautiful:
Swallows and deer,
And lightning that falls
Bright-veined and clear,
River and meteors,
Wind in the wheat,
The strong-withered horse,
The runner's sure feet.

And slow things are beautiful:
The closing of day,
The pause of the wave
That curves downward to spray,
The ember that crumbles,
The opening flower,
And the ox that moves on
In the quiet of power.

I was glad to be reminded that slow things can be as beautiful as the swift ones, because I really do move and think and live at a snail's pace, and I tend to get down on myself over that. I'll train my meditations in a different direction now. That was a pretty satisfying lunch.

What things, swift or slow, are beautiful to you?