All I've ever tried to do is honor what is familiar in me.*
Mothers' Day is one of the many days each year when I reflect on something special, this one thing in particular that is familiar in me. It's something I learned when I was a child and started caring about in a new dimension as a 22-year-old lady.
I'll cut the mystery on this something special: I believe that I am a child of Heavenly Parents, that my spiritual genealogy is simple and magnificent and common to every other person this planet has met. I believe that I have a Heavenly Father. I believe that I have a Heavenly Mother. I have spoken with and thought about my Heavenly Father every day that I can remember in my entire life. The relationship I have with my Heavenly Mother has been so small in comparison (and it is always in comparison), so short in its span, and that smallness truly breaks my heart. But I am trying to make Her every bit as central in my life as He is.
I wonder if I'll ever be able to do that -- make those relationships equal in some fashion -- because I became devoted to my Heavenly Father as a twelve-year-old kid with braces and such a water-clear sense of the world, and now I'm twenty-five, and the way my grown-up self connects with divinity is by necessity different from the way my child self did. I suppose that's all right. Maybe Heavenly Father is the childhood sweetheart that I'll know forever and ever, and maybe Heavenly Mother is the deep and challenging partner of my mature years. Maybe those loves have equal weight, even if they take different shapes.
So this belief in my heavenly beginnings, my Heavenly Parents, is something so dear and familiar in me. It's such a Mormon part of me. I'm comforted to find that I still cry at this facet of my testimony. It still makes me emotional. For all the ways I've deconstructed and reconstructed and analyzed and compartmentalized and reprioritized my religious knowledge, the thought of my Heavenly Parents is real to me and worthy of tears. This is still how I form my understanding of divinity. I honor them as a set. I love them individually.
And on this Mothers' Day, I'm thinking of my own mom. The one who brushed and curled and braided my hair. The one who sends me texts with funny emoticons. The one I've seen crumpled in sadness and laughing in the sunshine.
I wonder if my Heavenly Mother is like this. I wonder if She tended to my needs and my nitpicky desires while I was still in spiritual infancy (or am I still in that infancy?). I wonder if She sends me messages in Her own way. I wonder at Her experience of the terrible grandness this universe holds. I wonder how She manages to feel so much.
And on this Mothers' Day, I'm thinking of the mom I want to be. A mom who judges rightly when to cuddle her toddler and when to let that same child explore with minimal supervision. A mom who tells her teenage kids about the first time she fell in love. A mom who tends scrapes and slivers with a tender hand.
I wonder how this will train me for my next progression. I wonder if I will know the godly skill of holding on and letting go. I wonder what wisdom I will most want to transmit. I wonder if I will be able to heal the ones I love in a manner most befitting their independence.
I wonder about Her and I believe in Her. I honor Her as someone familiar in Me.
*I can't claim credit for that sentence, one that I find totally
brilliant. It's just something I heard a few years ago in a podcast interview with Ashley Sanders. [PS I love her and I love that interview.
I'll try to expand on why in my next post.] But anyway, even if I
didn't make it up, those words are true and they just stir something in
me.
Mother Mother
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
The first thing I can tell you about yesterday is that I saw other naked adult women for the first time. So that happened.
Blame it on the fact that I've never had a gym membership or been a fashion model. It seems like changing rooms/backstage dressing areas provide ample opportunities to see other folks in the buff, and since those aren't places I've ever been, yesterday represented a first. I purchased a Groupon deal (a few months back) that would allow me ten 90-minute sessions of hot yoga, and with my blessed day off from work, I ventured forth to see how my body would like it and if I would, in fact, DIE as a result of excessive sweating and excessive stretching. Walking into the changing room pre-class, I was met with about five women in various states of undress, recovering from the class they'd just finished. I registered their nudity in my head -- "Oh, they are naked" -- and proceeded without concern. Being a self-analytic, self-reflective person means constantly evaluating your emotions and reactions, deciding if you like them and if they make sense. I was pleased to note that I didn't feel weird at all. I could notice these women without staring, and noticing their breasts or the tattoos on their bums didn't feel any different than noticing someone's nail polish. Next thought: when I'm done with my class, will I be naked in front of strangers too? Will I do that? Will I feel comfortable enough? Should I aspire to be that comfortable? Et cetera. Self-analyzing is a chore sometimes.
Despite what I've led you to believe so far, the main focus of my class was not sitting in this locker room and ruminating on the female form. No, I came to get my yoga on. Yoga is a now-and-then thing for me, something I enjoy but have never made into a serious practice. This particular form of yoga, hot yoga, is different from anything I've done, and the difference is summed up in that word: hot. HOT. In explaining the heat to Craig, I mis-estimated that the room was 90 degrees. No no, it was 105 degrees (just checked the website), and with 40% humidity. I wish I could capitalize letters to put the emphasis on that. It was sweltering. Just sitting in that room took it out of me. And then I had to stand like a very flexible flamingo in said heat, trying to maintain balance against forces that would have me faint and fall.
And oh, the sweat. I have never in my life sweat so much, not even close. My skin was positively slimy from head to toe, as if I'd been slathered in olive oil, and little streams of sweat were coming off the ends of my hair. My fancy new yoga pants looked like they'd been dipped top-first in a bucket of water before I put them on.
The only difficult thing was not collapsing, which might sound like a joke, but I mean that sincerely. I thought that the HOT YOGA thing would be tough because of the yoga, but it was actually tough because of the hot. I didn't find the poses that difficult, nor was I intimidated by the stamina it took to hold them. But I had to rest on my back about five or six times, trying to recover from the lightheaded, I'm-gonna-puke feeling brought on by the temperature.
In all this, I noticed little things about my body. The edges of my lips would tingle during each rest. When I lie down, my right foot rolls out and opens up more than my left, like my left foot is repelled by the ground while my right foot is like, "Meh, whatever." There's a tendon in my right foot that gets really tight, as do my shoulders. My arms are very long.
The thing that's remained on my mind since yesterday's class is a quote that was posted throughout the studio, an old proverb.
Be humble, for you are made of dung. Be noble, for you are made of stars.
And for those of you who wondered, this body, made of dung and stars, did indeed go naked in the dressing room when she changed from yoga gear into a t-shirt and jeans.
Blame it on the fact that I've never had a gym membership or been a fashion model. It seems like changing rooms/backstage dressing areas provide ample opportunities to see other folks in the buff, and since those aren't places I've ever been, yesterday represented a first. I purchased a Groupon deal (a few months back) that would allow me ten 90-minute sessions of hot yoga, and with my blessed day off from work, I ventured forth to see how my body would like it and if I would, in fact, DIE as a result of excessive sweating and excessive stretching. Walking into the changing room pre-class, I was met with about five women in various states of undress, recovering from the class they'd just finished. I registered their nudity in my head -- "Oh, they are naked" -- and proceeded without concern. Being a self-analytic, self-reflective person means constantly evaluating your emotions and reactions, deciding if you like them and if they make sense. I was pleased to note that I didn't feel weird at all. I could notice these women without staring, and noticing their breasts or the tattoos on their bums didn't feel any different than noticing someone's nail polish. Next thought: when I'm done with my class, will I be naked in front of strangers too? Will I do that? Will I feel comfortable enough? Should I aspire to be that comfortable? Et cetera. Self-analyzing is a chore sometimes.
Despite what I've led you to believe so far, the main focus of my class was not sitting in this locker room and ruminating on the female form. No, I came to get my yoga on. Yoga is a now-and-then thing for me, something I enjoy but have never made into a serious practice. This particular form of yoga, hot yoga, is different from anything I've done, and the difference is summed up in that word: hot. HOT. In explaining the heat to Craig, I mis-estimated that the room was 90 degrees. No no, it was 105 degrees (just checked the website), and with 40% humidity. I wish I could capitalize letters to put the emphasis on that. It was sweltering. Just sitting in that room took it out of me. And then I had to stand like a very flexible flamingo in said heat, trying to maintain balance against forces that would have me faint and fall.
And oh, the sweat. I have never in my life sweat so much, not even close. My skin was positively slimy from head to toe, as if I'd been slathered in olive oil, and little streams of sweat were coming off the ends of my hair. My fancy new yoga pants looked like they'd been dipped top-first in a bucket of water before I put them on.
The only difficult thing was not collapsing, which might sound like a joke, but I mean that sincerely. I thought that the HOT YOGA thing would be tough because of the yoga, but it was actually tough because of the hot. I didn't find the poses that difficult, nor was I intimidated by the stamina it took to hold them. But I had to rest on my back about five or six times, trying to recover from the lightheaded, I'm-gonna-puke feeling brought on by the temperature.
In all this, I noticed little things about my body. The edges of my lips would tingle during each rest. When I lie down, my right foot rolls out and opens up more than my left, like my left foot is repelled by the ground while my right foot is like, "Meh, whatever." There's a tendon in my right foot that gets really tight, as do my shoulders. My arms are very long.
The thing that's remained on my mind since yesterday's class is a quote that was posted throughout the studio, an old proverb.
Be humble, for you are made of dung. Be noble, for you are made of stars.
And for those of you who wondered, this body, made of dung and stars, did indeed go naked in the dressing room when she changed from yoga gear into a t-shirt and jeans.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
(It's been a while since I posted 'round these parts, and while I was away, GoogleBlogger went and changed the whole setup on me. Let's hope my skills as a native English speaker get me through this rough patch.)
What is it about some interests and hobbies that makes them seem noble, while others seem shallow? Why do some strike you as legit and others come off as immature? I'm honestly asking here. Because the thing is that my most enduring interest is becoming more and more clear by the day, and I have mixed feelings about it.
See, I love clothes.
(Side note: I forgot for a moment that this used to be my daily style blog and that you probably already knew that about me. I thought I was revealing something sort of surprising. But I am not. Carry on.)
It all goes back to the 5th and 6th Grades. Pretty sure of it. I had an aunt at the time named Jennifer. (Yes, "at the time," because she is no longer my aunt. She was married to my uncle, but that changed.) Jennifer would occasionally stop by our house and drop off trash bags of clothes she no longer wanted, clothes my mom and I might be interested in making our own. She was fancy and hip. She shopped in Las Vegas, acquiring cooler things than my mom and I found at Wal-Mart and sometimes JCPenney's. Those bags contained possibilities of pretty, promises of popularity. Jeans with leather labels -- mmmmm. I loved Jennifer's hand-me-downs. They gave me that special "Girl, you are movin' up in the world" feeling.
This affection for certain articles of clothing continued on through my years of middle school, high school, and college, but between my introduction to style blogs and my current job as a clothing buyer, it has sprouted roots and grown thick branches. (Yes, this love is a tree, or at least a solid bush.) I derive actual happiness -- a real kind, temporary but sincere and innocent -- from putting on a precious dress or a solid pair of boots. I revel in scarves. And it's not about acquiring things that cost a lot of money -- certainly not. I took stock of my wardrobe tonight, and 63% of it is secondhand. This collection, all in all, was pretty cheap. It's not about money or status, and I'm confident it's not about getting the boys and girls to think I'm pretty. It's just that I lovelovelove wearing beautiful things that help me feel beautiful alongside them.
But am I a superficial nincompoop for feeling so wrapped up in clothing? Am I small-minded? Does this make me a bad feminist? A bad Christian? A bad wife? A bad friend? A bad person? I ask myself these questions. I try to answer "NO" without reservation. Loving music isn't shallow. Loving fine cuisine isn't small-minded. Loving calligraphy or nautical history or birdwatching isn't an indication of poor moral fiber. So why this ambivalence when it comes to the clothes thing? Why does this interest carry a stigma? I'm accepting theories for consideration.
All I know is that yesterday I wore a green skirt with blue roses on it, a skirt that cost me eleven dollars, and when I stood at the bus stop and saw the way that skirt moved in the May breeze, I delighted in it.
What is it about some interests and hobbies that makes them seem noble, while others seem shallow? Why do some strike you as legit and others come off as immature? I'm honestly asking here. Because the thing is that my most enduring interest is becoming more and more clear by the day, and I have mixed feelings about it.
See, I love clothes.
(Side note: I forgot for a moment that this used to be my daily style blog and that you probably already knew that about me. I thought I was revealing something sort of surprising. But I am not. Carry on.)
It all goes back to the 5th and 6th Grades. Pretty sure of it. I had an aunt at the time named Jennifer. (Yes, "at the time," because she is no longer my aunt. She was married to my uncle, but that changed.) Jennifer would occasionally stop by our house and drop off trash bags of clothes she no longer wanted, clothes my mom and I might be interested in making our own. She was fancy and hip. She shopped in Las Vegas, acquiring cooler things than my mom and I found at Wal-Mart and sometimes JCPenney's. Those bags contained possibilities of pretty, promises of popularity. Jeans with leather labels -- mmmmm. I loved Jennifer's hand-me-downs. They gave me that special "Girl, you are movin' up in the world" feeling.
This affection for certain articles of clothing continued on through my years of middle school, high school, and college, but between my introduction to style blogs and my current job as a clothing buyer, it has sprouted roots and grown thick branches. (Yes, this love is a tree, or at least a solid bush.) I derive actual happiness -- a real kind, temporary but sincere and innocent -- from putting on a precious dress or a solid pair of boots. I revel in scarves. And it's not about acquiring things that cost a lot of money -- certainly not. I took stock of my wardrobe tonight, and 63% of it is secondhand. This collection, all in all, was pretty cheap. It's not about money or status, and I'm confident it's not about getting the boys and girls to think I'm pretty. It's just that I lovelovelove wearing beautiful things that help me feel beautiful alongside them.
But am I a superficial nincompoop for feeling so wrapped up in clothing? Am I small-minded? Does this make me a bad feminist? A bad Christian? A bad wife? A bad friend? A bad person? I ask myself these questions. I try to answer "NO" without reservation. Loving music isn't shallow. Loving fine cuisine isn't small-minded. Loving calligraphy or nautical history or birdwatching isn't an indication of poor moral fiber. So why this ambivalence when it comes to the clothes thing? Why does this interest carry a stigma? I'm accepting theories for consideration.
All I know is that yesterday I wore a green skirt with blue roses on it, a skirt that cost me eleven dollars, and when I stood at the bus stop and saw the way that skirt moved in the May breeze, I delighted in it.
Monday, January 16, 2012
In the past week, I've had two dreams in which I was married to someone other than Craig, even though I knew I was supposed to be married to Craig. In the first one, I was married to a sexually-aggressive Indian man (Indian as in "from India"), and in the second one, I was married to a gay man, although he didn't tell me he was gay until after we were married. I literally said, "You know, I really wish you'd told me that before we got married."
But in both dreams, I was a little confused, because I remembered being married to Craig and I had no recollection of ever divorcing him/of him dying/etc. So I kept asking people to recap what had happened with that.
Analyze away.
But in both dreams, I was a little confused, because I remembered being married to Craig and I had no recollection of ever divorcing him/of him dying/etc. So I kept asking people to recap what had happened with that.
Analyze away.
Friday, January 13, 2012
If I had an iPhone, I'd use Instagram to save and share the pictures I took with it, but since I opted for Android, I use an analogous program that I actually like quite a bit. It's called Lightbox; this link will take you to my profile there, should you care to see it. And here are some recent pictures from my Lightbox, and therefore, some recent sights from my life.
October 26, 2011 (okay, these first few aren't exactly recent)
This was taken going over the 520 bridge between Bellevue and Seattle, which is a bridge floating right on the water of Lake Washington. It's pretty cool; it actually took my breath away the first several times I drove on it. The bridge tends to create a divide between the water, with the lake on one side being choppy and kind of fierce while the lake on the other side is very calm. Which side is which is ever-changing, and I have no idea what's causing that situation, but it's pretty cool to observe. Anyway, the state just turned the bridge into a toll road, so gone are the days of driving on it and having my breath taken away.
October 27, 2011
Taken from my seat on the 105 bus, the first of three buses that I take to get to work.
November 5, 2011
A sticker on the side of a newspaper box in Seattle. I agree with the sentiment, a lot. And I also think the woman in the drawing looks a lot like a co-worker of mine named Jolene, which is funny and fitting, since I can totally imagine her going to a rally with a sign like this.
December 16, 2011
This was the day that I cut my own bangs. They're a little shorter than this now, but I've learned how to make them look "right" and I truly love having them. I feel like I should have had bangs this whole time (meaning "my whole life").
December 25, 2011
Part of a series I call "Walter Sitting In Things or On Things." In this piece, he's sitting in a red bag that previously held my mom's Christmas present to me (which was a purple KitchenAid mixer, by the way -- score!). He really likes sitting in or on things that contain him in some way. Whatever that's about.
January 4, 2012
My rainiest day in Seattle thus far.
January 5, 2012
I strung up the lights from our Christmas tree above the bed. They make me really, really happy.
January 11, 2012
Walter getting belly-rubbed, big time.
January 11, 2012
Fun with toenail polish (those are my feet, yes), and an addition to the aforementioned series where Walter sits on things (maybe while he considers having some toenail polish fun of his own?).
January 12, 2012
And again. This time, Walter is sitting on a precarious piece of cardboard.
January 13, 2012
All of these socks are missing their partners.
January 12, 2012
I made this pizza and it would have been REALLY good if I'd chosen to use different dough or if I'd made the dough better somehow. Anyway, you should try it: any bread dough you want (homemade, store-bought, etc.), topped with havarti cheese, cheddar cheese, chunks of chicken, red and yellow peppers, spinach leaves, and garlic salt. No sauce. Add any other toppings you want and just do all of it according to your personal tastes.
January 13, 2012
I bought this beautiful vintage necklace today (part of my last purchase for two and a half months!). I conferred with my friend Amy, and we think it's made from moonstones and mother-of-pearl.
January 13, 2012
The Seattle Washington Temple (this was my first visit) and a really great sculpture that I enjoyed on the temple grounds.
This was taken going over the 520 bridge between Bellevue and Seattle, which is a bridge floating right on the water of Lake Washington. It's pretty cool; it actually took my breath away the first several times I drove on it. The bridge tends to create a divide between the water, with the lake on one side being choppy and kind of fierce while the lake on the other side is very calm. Which side is which is ever-changing, and I have no idea what's causing that situation, but it's pretty cool to observe. Anyway, the state just turned the bridge into a toll road, so gone are the days of driving on it and having my breath taken away.
Taken from my seat on the 105 bus, the first of three buses that I take to get to work.
A sticker on the side of a newspaper box in Seattle. I agree with the sentiment, a lot. And I also think the woman in the drawing looks a lot like a co-worker of mine named Jolene, which is funny and fitting, since I can totally imagine her going to a rally with a sign like this.
This was the day that I cut my own bangs. They're a little shorter than this now, but I've learned how to make them look "right" and I truly love having them. I feel like I should have had bangs this whole time (meaning "my whole life").
Part of a series I call "Walter Sitting In Things or On Things." In this piece, he's sitting in a red bag that previously held my mom's Christmas present to me (which was a purple KitchenAid mixer, by the way -- score!). He really likes sitting in or on things that contain him in some way. Whatever that's about.
My rainiest day in Seattle thus far.
I strung up the lights from our Christmas tree above the bed. They make me really, really happy.
Walter getting belly-rubbed, big time.
Fun with toenail polish (those are my feet, yes), and an addition to the aforementioned series where Walter sits on things (maybe while he considers having some toenail polish fun of his own?).
And again. This time, Walter is sitting on a precarious piece of cardboard.
All of these socks are missing their partners.
I made this pizza and it would have been REALLY good if I'd chosen to use different dough or if I'd made the dough better somehow. Anyway, you should try it: any bread dough you want (homemade, store-bought, etc.), topped with havarti cheese, cheddar cheese, chunks of chicken, red and yellow peppers, spinach leaves, and garlic salt. No sauce. Add any other toppings you want and just do all of it according to your personal tastes.
I bought this beautiful vintage necklace today (part of my last purchase for two and a half months!). I conferred with my friend Amy, and we think it's made from moonstones and mother-of-pearl.
The Seattle Washington Temple (this was my first visit) and a really great sculpture that I enjoyed on the temple grounds.
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