Best Holiday Ever

Valentine's day is one of my favorite holidays.  Love is kind of at the root of most holidays (I'm looking at you Flag Day) but it is really called out in V-day.  And it is kind of magic to me.

I get that not everyone feels this way.  Sometimes holidays make you feel your life should be something other than what it is--that's hard.  And in Valentines you can get a weird "prove you are loved by how many flowers you get", so that is double weird.

So, for your consideration, let's just make this holiday about the different shades and ways we love each other as humans.  Let's celebrate how we are bound to each other in big and little ways and how these amazing bonds makes us mourn with those that mourn and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.

Let's do stuff like Eden did when she made sure everyone got a candy-gram especially the ones who might have been forgotten.  And like the cashier at Costco who had to tell me about the box of jerky his wife gave him that morning because "She just really gets me" (said with such joy and love).  And the lady buying flowers for her mom and carrying them to the parking lot while trying to push a cart.  Let's take a minute and say thank you to a co-worker who really makes your job better.

And then let's eat chocolate.

Tonight my family will sneak roses onto peoples front doors.  Not because they particularly need roses, but because we need to give them.

Valentines, like real love, is ruined if you focus on yourself.  If you expect and resent and ask for proof of love everything just fails.  But, if you can see the ridiculous amazing world of love we all live in, then you want to celebrate.

In Defense of the Smallest of Things

Saturday was my sister's baby shower, and everyone was in a rush to decorate for the exciting event.

I'm not gifted at decorating so I jumped at the chance to pick up some ice.  As I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, I noticed a "Bake Sale" sign  made of poster board hung on a folding table.  Behind it sat a young woman in a tank top with faded tattoos running down her arms.  She had a baby in a umbrella stroller, a toddler ran up and down the sidewalk and one older boy sat flopped over in the shade of a scraggly pine tree.

I'm a sucker for lemonade stands of all sorts. So I rummaged around for the few dollars and pulled over.

"I could really use some cake pops," I said as she opened up the cooler.

You can see the cake pops next to the flowers

"Wow these are amazing!"  Each pop looked like something from a baking show.

She smiled, "Yeah, I made them myself and I got pretty good at it"

"Yeah you did.  What is the bake sale for?"

"Um..."  She cast a glance over to the older boy who had come to stand by the cooler as I picked out my pops "I want to buy this guy some nice back to  school clothes.  He is going to kindergarten this year."  She smiled at him and he looked away embarrassed at the obvious pride.


I arrived with the ice just as the pre-party prep was in full crazy.  I explained the bake sale situation to my mom and sister.  And they both, without hesitation, pushed a wad of bills into my hands and asked me to go buy more cake pops.

I drove back down to the parking lot and told the lady that I needed a lot of cake pops for a party.  She beamed as I scooped up the cake pops and put them in the plastic bag she had un-wadded from her purse.

I looked in my rearview mirror as I drove away; the little boy was throwing pinecones in the air and the mom holding the wad of cash to her chest.

It was a tiny thing.  So small.

Fairy Godmothers at the Shower

But something in the granular nature of the fix was reassuring to me.  The mom didn't have money but she had cake pops.  I didn't have cash but I had time to drive.  My mom and sister had cash but not the time to drive.  And everyone gave something and the kid got new clothes.

I have dear friends who are facing huge problems.  One is going through a divorce.  One is watching a son die.  And one is neck deep in depression.  I never know what to do.  I never know how to help.  I always know that what I have to offer isn't enough.

But maybe I don't need to offer the whole picture.

But maybe I can give my puzzle piece and be confident that there will be other pieces.  And maybe, through the grace of a God who loves us all, there will be enough.

At least, I hope so.

Tell me what is happening

It was intermission when an older hispanic women marched up and demanded, in heavily accented English. "Excuse me...is she going to marry the black guy? Because I don't think that is going to happen"  It took me a second to realize she was talking to me.  When I paused, she explained a little slowly so I would understand,

"Tell...me...what...is...happening"

I gave her my weak cliff notes version of Merchant of Venice the first two acts.  As I did, she interjected with incredulous "No!" and "I did not think that was how it was happening" She leaned back and kind of peered at me like maybe I was making the whole thing up.  Honestly I wasn't sure I'd gotten it all right so I tried to shift the focus and asked,

"Why do you like Shakespeare?"

I've been asking this to virtually every stranger I've bumped into at the festival.  I love all of the answers.  But I love this one the best.  (I may not have remembered of the words right but I tried to)

She answered,  "When I was at Provo, I cleaned for a lady who was a professor of English at the BYU.  She always talked and talked about this and told me she would get me tickets.  But..." and she gave shrug and toss of the hand that seemed to say 'you know how rich people are' and I tried very hard to look less rich.  "So when my husband had a job here for maybe two days I came with him so I could see the plays.  He doesn't want to come because he got up at 4 am to go to work.  But I came"

She then looked critically at me and asked if I was married.  When I said no she said I really need to tie the knot and hooked her fingers together for emphasis and walked off.

I was left a little speechless.  And, in most ways, I still am.

I looked for her after the play but in the push of people leaving I couldn't find her.  But she had come.  Something in what that English teacher had said made her want to be there.  And something about that makes me want to be here too.

Me and Will

Of the gifts my dyslexia has given me, I think Shakespeare is my favorite. 

I was in fourth grade when I pulled the Tempest off of my parent’s book shelf.   There was a ton of white space on the page and the letters didn’t go a swirling and need to be pinned down by my finger.  They stayed put all on their own.   It had one side with words and the other side with an explanation of the words. It seemed almost like a primer for how to read.  It even had pictures—wood block and awkward, but easy to color in with crayons. 

 I took the Tempest up to my room and pushed myself down in the narrow space between the wall and my bed and read it slowly and out loud with my head propped up on my hands.  At the beginning of each scene they explained what was going on so I could just follow the words for the shear beauty of the words.  

I liked how there were little stories in the stories (metaphors turns out they were called) I liked how the words sounded.  I liked how my mom lit up when I brought it down and asked her if she had any more books like this one.  My older sister was the reader.  But for some reason, my mom thought it was cool that I read this book.  Sucker. Little did she know, it was the easiest book out there.

Before the summer of my fourth grade was over I had read everything Shakespeare had written that was in the right format.  And then I learned that you could read the same play twice.  You could even memorize sections of it and still want to read it again.  It didn’t matter that you knew the story and it didn’t matter that you even know the words.  It was like singing along with your favorite song.  It got better the more you knew it…not worse.

I got my own set of works of Shakespeare for my birthday when I turned fourteen.  I loved that paperback book to pieces.  I tapped and re-taped it.  I remember tracing Shakespeare’s face  that was on the cover—it was a younger picture of him and he had an earring and a knowing look on his face. I remember making up intricate fantasies about me and Will.  He would meet me selling apples and invite me to perform at the Globe.  I would wow them even though women weren’t supposed to be on stage.  And then that pirate-earinged Will would kiss me.  Always a first kiss.

In high school I was shy.  Awkward and tall and never exactly sure what to do with my hands.  But I was a fierce Regan from Lear and witty Beatrice from Much Ado and was given the words I didn’t really know how to say by my good friend Will.  I performed at the Shakespeare competition in Cedar City and won sometimes and lost others.  Last year I even walked on the stage I used to perform on.  It still felt a little magic.

I don’t know if I would have read the Tempest if it wasn’t so easy to read.  I don’t know, in a parallel world, if I would put up with the archaic books if I didn’t need books that could be read over and over and over again.  I wouldn’t have met my first love.  I wouldn’t have sought out acting and I wouldn’t be here in the basement, below the Shakespeare Festival gift shop on my way to Merry Wives typing this, if words hadn’t been so mystical.

So when, two years ago, my daughter brought me a book she was reading and told me “I can’t read this, all the words are a swimming on the page” I hugged her up and said “Oh my darling, you may be one of the lucky ones who has dyslexia”. The world will never be the same to you as to others and you may be forty and and write an essay on Shakespeare and spell his name wrong each and every time (and in a different way).  But my darling, my darling, what worlds you may find and what hidden places you may go.

Dear Divorced Dad

Dear Divorced Dad,

Happy Father’s Day!

Today is going to be hard.  Hard if you have your kids by you and hard if they are far away.  And in some ways it is going to be hard because we as society has made it hard.  I’m sorry.

Divorced dads are the villain in the story so often.  But I want you to know I’ve seen you be the hero.

I have seen you live in a tiny apartment with one bowl and a fold out bed so your kids can have a large house and trips overseas and everything they need and most of what they want.

I’ve seen you fight like a lion to get your disabled kids the support they need. You have law books by your coffee table and ‘how to sign’ books littering your bookshelf.

I know some of you drive eight hours to see a soccer game, hug your son and drive eight hours home in the dark and still smiling.

And some cheer for your kid’s mom’s new boyfriend even though it aches because you want your kids to feel safe.

You have told me with an air of triumph about the day you learned how to buy tampons.  And I know of your fear when your baby was sick and you were alone to hear her cry.

Some of you traded visitation days so your could wake up this morning and pick the kids up.  And some of you won’t see them today except on skype.

But, please know I see you.  Single parenting is hard.  And you are doing it.  My kids never see their father so I know the value of what you are offering yours.

Don’t give up.  Keep finding ways to be with and support your kids.  You are making all the difference in the world.

Happy Fathering Day.

Shooting for Adequate

I tend to hang out with people who are in much better shape than I am.  Generally this is fun.  They make me hike, swim, bike and climb more than I usually would.  But, sometimes, it is a tad dangerous.

For example, I was eating tacos with one such friend and suddenly we were talking about doing the Spartan.  When I'm with these friends I get an inflated sense of my own muscle capacity.  They are super strong so I think I'm pretty strong too.  So we made a team name, downloaded the groupon and signed up.

And it hit me as I was eating my third waffle covered in whipped cream.  I need to trail run 10 miles and do 34 obstacles.  And, I do it in eight weeks.  I told this to Eden who was sitting across from me.  "Mom....maybe you should lay off the waffles..."  Truth Eden.  Truth.

Eight weeks.

Just so you know, here is a picture of me at the end of a two-mile trail run a few weeks ago. I was almost dead.

I love the absurdity of this.  I love the fact that I am in no way ready to do this race but I'm committed to doing it anyway.

We have a family motto "Shooting for Adequate!" I love this motto.  Let's just try, it says.  Let's just see what we can do in the next eight weeks and let's do it.

Adequate here we come!

It's complicated: Mother's Day 2.0

I don’t really know what it is like to parent with two people.  I vaguely remember calling Jared to pick something up at the store or finding the lawn mowed.  But, for most of my mothering days, it has just been me…or me and a sick husband.

I can’t help but envy two-parent homes.  You can tag team sport practices and coordinate orthodontist schedules.   You can have two paychecks and one parent can be sick while the other one covers.  It looks awesome.

And it looks pretty different than how my kids are raised.

That worries me sometimes.  Okay, to be honest, it worries me most of the time.  You never want to look up statistics on single mom households.  Trust me.  You just don’t.

 I lay awake at night staring at the ceiling fan and worry. Do I help too much?  Do I help too little?  How much screen time is right?  Are they in the right extracurriculars?  Do I work too much?  Am I up to this?

And…every once and a while, in this whirlwind of inadequacy,  I get a moment like this.

Eden was roller blading and I walking next to her steadying her by holding her hand

Eden: Sue (Eden’s friend) is asking questions that aren’t questions

Me: Weird…like what?

Eden: Like ‘why are you wearing that?’ And ‘do you think that is cool?”

Me: Dang…

Eden: I figure she is either:  a-being mean or b-(Eden pauses skating and looks at me with total seriousness) giving me a chance to be hilarious.  (Eden wiggles her eyebrows at me)

(She starts skating again)

I’m going with b.  Because I can be pretty funny with those questions.

But…even if Sue is being mean…it doesn’t matter because I. Am. A. Child of God.  

Boom.  

And with that-she power-skated away.

I just stood there watching her skate/strut down the sidewalk and parenting didn’t seem so hard.  All of those midnight worries just fell off of my shoulders.  And when I looked at the basics of parenting, I saw this: 

Parenting means I remind my kids who they are.   

I  love them so they know they are lovable.  Listen to them so they know they are interesting.  Give them responsibility so they know they are responsible. And show them the good person they are even when, and especially when, they have forgotten.

That’s it.

And I can do that.  Even on my own. 

Maybe you parent alone.  Maybe you wish you were parenting alone.  Maybe you have a great partner. None of us are perfect.  None of us need to be.  

We love our kids and our kids love us.  And that is totally of worth celebrating.  

So happy mother’s day one and all!  Enjoy your cake—you’ve earned it.

Going home

It is never a good thing when a Chinese immigration official takes your passport.  “No visa, wait here please” She said strapping a rubber band around our three passports. 

“We don’t need a visa we are just flying through to San Francisco” I tried to explain as if somehow she had forgotten her job.

“No Visa” This particular official clearly thought louder would help me understand better.  It didn’t.  So she tried again. “Not, going to USA.  No visa.  Wait here please”

As she walked away with our passports I called out to her retreating self as only a sleep-deprived traveler can

 “Look, we just want to go home

 It took a rather worried hour to straighten it all out.  It had something to do with a “technical layover” and they could grant us a one day visa.  Honestly, I’m still a little vague on what happened.  Forms were filled out, lines were waited in and somehow it all worked out.  I can’t tell you the relief I felt when “Party of three to US.  You have the visa now.  Go to plane it is boarding”

My Uber driver is from Afganistan.  He “did some projects for America” and got a green card.  He’s going back to Kabul for Ramadan for the first time in two years.  

“Ramadan in Kabul is never lonely.  They have parties from sunset until 3 am.  Here, I just microwave a burrito and go to bed”

For almost 25 min he told me, in great detail, the food he was going to eat: the yogurt, the berries, the meat, the sauces...he just wants to go home.  He wants to hug his nieces and nephews (35 of them) and bring him mom a nice ring from America. He is excited that it is safe enough for him to go home.  He loves America and is studying computer science and practicing a Californian accent.  But, I could feel his ache for home with every mile.

I love to travel.  I love the countries I get to see.  I love the people I meet.  But how grateful I am that I can go home.  It is fun to enter the US and have the immigration official joke with you about knowing who won the world series or ask the kids for their favorite Thai experience.  It is nice to sit down to a huge dinner of pizza and say grace for all those who can’t make it home today. 

Standing in Holy Places

We saw a Buddah today that filled the three story room with golden brilliance.  When I turned to see him my heart thumped in my chest.  It was majestic.  It was awesome.  I saw it and I gasped.   I stepped forward and despite the glory of this was taken aback again.



There are a set number of positions that Buddha is depicted in each one represents a time in the Buddha's life.  My favorite is "Calling the Earth to Witness".  The position has one hand on the lap and the other facing down toward the earth.  When Siddhartha was beneath the tree the demon of illusion Mara came to him.  But when Buddha became enlightened he touched the earth and the earth goddess saw he had become Buddha and with tears washed the demon of fear and lies away.

It is in my mind the "Calling the Earth to Witness" Buddha  is the Buddha victorious.  It is the Christ by the empty tomb.  It is the glory of a path made open and a path made clear.  Seeing it in golden splendor surrounded with families kneeling in prayer I was humbled and touched.  The glory shifted from the three stories of gold to the family of five that knelt to the side of me below the Buddha's eye.  The mom was looking with adoration  and the dad was trying to keep the three kids quiet and still with one on his lap and holding the back of the others shirt  of the other while the eldest daughter laid bored on the floor.

The Thai people wrap the stone Buddhas in acres and acres of saffron cloth--that pulls and flutters in the wind.  It gives such life to the statutes.  And I guess that is what watching the family did for me.  Buddhism alive and elegant and lovely.

Faith is at our most vulnerable.  To believe is to take your heart and place it on view.  It is to take your most holy and to make it bare. It is no wonder that all religions create ways of protecting the holy in actions, in dress or in words.
 For the temples we were going to today it meant covered leggs.  I hadn't brought a long skirt so a bought one from the tourists stands.  

Burma ransacked through the province in the 1300s and after decades of war they wanted to hurt the Thai people as much as they could.  And so they did what truly vicious conquers do.  They hurt the most vulnerable part.  The cut the heads off of the holy statues.







In Thailand before you go on vacation you visit the temple.  You don't move into a new place before your reground yourself in who you are and what you do.  The temple is filled with soon-to-be tourists ringing bells and kneeling quietly.  In front of the shrine to two former rulers of the area you can ask a question, shake some sticks and get a sheet of paper with the answer.  Mine was so bad that our guide wouldn't even read it.  She just put it back in the little wooden box and said "That is bad so we put it back".  While I liked our guide's philosophy, I am a little nervous about what the fortune said.

Because she is my Eden

I’m not going to remember much about yesterday.  I don’t mean that in a negative way.  It was an delightful day.  We took a all day boat tour of the islands surrounding Phuket.  We shuttled from scenic spot to scenic spot.  We had a “Spectacular Thai Buffet” with a bunch of tourists from Hong Kong that weren’t drunk (no alcohol all day) but were so happy to be together they acted drunk—blowing whistles and dancing.  It was everything we want out of a brochure tour taken on short notice (my shoulder needed a break from Muay Thai).  But I won’t remember that for long.  

I’m likely even to forget the fishing island built on the water.  The mosque is all that is built on earth.  Everything else is on piers sunk down below the ocean.  In time, I will forget watching an old man drop something and send his grandson shimmying off his shorts and diving into the water like a crane.  I will forget meeting the boy's eyes when he popped out of the trash layer of water victorious, holding the plastic trinket up for his grandpa to clap.  These kids, more fish than kid, play soccer on a floating soccer pitch and jump swimming after the ball when it is kicked off.

But someday that story will even slip from my memory like the boy beneath the water.

But one thing stands glistening in my mind.  One thing I hope will play in my head when I lay dying.  

The water had gotten too deep for Eden but I could still stand in it so she clung to my back and we jumped up and down in the clear waves laughing.  “Despacito” was playing from the beach where the Hong Kong group danced and yelled jokes in English to each other. Eden and I had been trying  and failing to sing along with Depsacito when Eden said “I keep thinking they should be singing ‘Desperato’.  

“You know there is totally a song called Desperato” 

“No way” 

“My child, how have I neglected your education?”

I sung her around to my front and put her hands in waltz position.  I sang all of the words to Desperato in a twangy voice throwing her into the waves and collecting her up as she laughed and sputtered and laughed again.  The sky was clear the sea was warm and we were so happy to be together.  I won’t forget this.  Ever. 

 And maybe it is foolish of me, but I hope she won’t either.  Not this specific event.  I know she won’t remember the waves or the dancing.  But I hope my daughter has built for her an anchor and a boat of millions of events like this where she knows I love her.

My daughter was named Eden because her dad knew he wouldn’t see her grow up.  He needed her to know that where ever she was was his paradise.  It always makes me cry when I think of it.  I ache for a girl who never knew her dad.  I love that she has a name to remind her that she is his paradise.  I hope she remembers that she is mine too.

Eden is eleven now and if Karma has anything to say about it, she is likely heading into a phase where mom doesn't know anything.  I will be embarrassing and be either too much involved or not enough and our relationship will get…complicated.  And when that complication hits, I want the waves of moments like today to whisper back to Eden, "You are loved. You are loved. You are your mother’s Eden too."

Muay Thai

It might be helpful if we start with what my gym is like in the states.  It is carpeted with potted plants.  There are cardio machines and a steam room and sauna.  It is made to look more like a living room with some things in it.  Less intimidating I guess.  There are classes where really nice skinny women say encouraging things while you exercise together to Katty Perry.  

I like my gym.  Even the weights are covered in plastic to give them a more friendly feel.  I like doing zumba and maybe lifting a couple of weights.

Now let me tell you about our gym here in Thailand.  First off there are no walls.  You can watch the cow grazing in the coconut field while you work out.   The roof is corrugated metal and there are no cardio machines.  There are jump ropes.  And tires.  

We are here to learn Muay Thai so for two hours a day this gym is our home.  We share our home with about 10 fighters most of whom are from Russia there is one guy from Kenya and a dutch woman.  They are all amazing fighters.  Most knew Muay Thai before they came here and are just here to get polished up.  I don't have any pictures of any of them because they scare me.  A lot.  Not that they are anything but nice.  But there is something about watching someone beat up another person that makes you not want to snap a selfie with them.

Our instructors are a different matter all together.  They save the nicest ones for us.  Eid is a clown.  When I spar with him he takes hits in the most dramatic fashion.  He also tells me what he is about to do so I can block correctly.  He knows how to count in English and how to say "again".  I kind of get the rest from hand gestures and a wee bit of Thai I'm picking up.  

Chai is a technical genius.  He doesn't let you get away with anything.  And I mean anything.  If you are punching a bag and start getting lazy he will run over saying "NONONONONONONO" . "like this" and then "Again.  Again. Again" until I've proven to him I will never even think of being sloppy again.   I pretty much live for Chai to say “Ah...better” and nod just a little bit.

Then there is the sweat.  I don't think I have ever worked this hard in my life.  I drip sweat when I do push ups.  There is a little pool of it right under my nose.  My gloves make squishing noises when they make contact because they are filled with sweat.  My clothing is wet within half an hour and I'm so slippery that when we go to do our cool down stretches I can't get a grip on my legs. 

We always get a taxi ride home even though it is just a few blocks.  Mostly we take it because I can't walk anymore.  But also because I like our taxi driver.  We always get the same one.  I think he is a friend of someone at the gym.  I tried to pay him extra today because I know we smell terrible.  He wouldn't let me.  I've been in a lot of taxis in a lot of countries.  Never have I met one who refuses a tip.  Have I mentioned Thailand is the best?  Because it is.  You should all come down.  I have a nice sweaty gym for you to join.

A Responsible Party

Officials are always a little perplexed by the lack of an adult male in our party.  Once upon entering a country I had the following exchange with immigration.  We had just flown in from Norway and it was the hardest I’ve ever been questioned.

Official: Did your husband drop you off in Norway?

Me: No he has died.

Official: I’m sorry.  Is your brother picking you up?

Me: No

O: Does your dad live near by?

Me: No

O: Do you have a boyfriend?

Me: Really no.

Incidentally the country we were entering was Florida.  

So I wasn’t surprised when the Thai baggage claim official listed Mr. Samuel Lyman as the “responsible party”for the baggage claim.  It’s not a big deal that my just-out-of-braces son is listed as the one responsible.  I apparently can still call and get updates and do everything that I need to do—just on paper, we have a Mr. who is responsible and that make everyone feel better

What is a big deal is how responsible Mr. Samuel has always felt.  His dad died when he was nine and I remember my skinny little floppy haired boy coming in to the kitchen to tell me “I’m the man of the house now so I will take care of you and Eden”.  I got down on my knees and hugged him and told him I was the adult of the house and I would take care of him.

But he really is a responsible party.  He insists on carrying the heavy backpack when we travel.  He jumps to take out the trash so “Mom doesn’t have to go out in the cold”.  And he invites Eden to play with his 15 year old friends if she is looking bored.  

I’ve known since Sam was nine  in that kitchen that my job was to be such a confident adult that he can have a childhood.  This means kids don’t worry about things kids can’t fix.  When we travel this means that I am always confident and never worried.  I laugh off problems and I make phone calls off on the patio while the kids sleep.  

It’s hard when you have a hard-wired responsible party as a child.  He will take any worry I give him and try to fix it.  It is endearing to see what a wonderful husband and father he will someday be.  It is a tribute to the adults in his life that he is so sure that manhood and service are the same thing.

But for now, he is a child.  And for just a few more years I get to be the responsible party, no matter what the form says.  And, as much as I love seeing the man he will eventually be, I love more seeing the kid he is.  While we waited for someone who spoke English to arrive at the hotel he made a game with Eden of singing silly songs while playing in the hammock.   They were hilarious songs and I couldn’t stop laughing.  It is a privilege to be a mom.  And to be a mom to my little adult, is a miracle of grace. 

The Hero and the Victim

They have become free forever
Knowing good from evil
To act for themselves
And not
To be acted upon 
--Lehi (approx 600BCE)

Eden was almost in tears.  "Mom, we are going to be in Thailand for the typing test!  If I have to take the test all by myself before we go on our trip then I will fail.  Just fail...."

 I was putting dishes in the dishwasher when it happened and I pushed the dishwasher closed with my hip and pulled her into a hug.

Because somehow the parenting gods were with me, I had an idea.  I grabbed the back of a envelop and said "It sounds like you have a choice, you can be the hero or the victim.  Let's list what it looks like for each"

The victim got to blame the trip to Thailand for failing.  She could maybe make the trip miserable and she could fail the test.  She would get to blame something else for her fail.  But she would still fail.

The hero would study really hard.  She would practice for the next six weeks and get even faster than the needed word count before the test.  The hero could fail too.  But if she did, she would know that she had done her best.

Eden looked at the envelope with the two columns and said "Victim looks kind of like a bad idea.  Like really bad idea"

I went back to doing the dishes but I saw Eden hauling up the card table from the basement.
"What is that for?"
"My desk is at the wrong height for typing so I'm using the card table"

Um...okay

I poked my head in her room a few minutes later and saw this

Eden had made a paper version of the keyboard (to practice on when Sam is using the laptop) a study schedule and a check box for when she does things.  Because she is, and we are, heroes.

This isn't a pep talk.  This is a definition of self. I have remarkable power over my life and how I live it.  And so do you.

But things do happen to us.  Lots of things, some of them really really bad.  I would argue that even when bad things happen we are still the hero.  We can ask ourselves "Does this event take away my ability to be kind, brave and good?" If not, we sill have power, because we still own our response.

My brother and I once boarded a pre-dawn bus out of Cusco, Peru. We were going to spend the day mountain biking and had paid extra for seats to hopefully get some sleep on the way up.  The bus was packed with passengers standing shoulder to shoulder in the aisles.    Most had worked all night and were headed home for the day.  My brother saw a tiered old woman board and stood to give her his seat.

I learned something interesting on that bus ride.  I was a victim of the bus ride.  I was uncomfortable and tired. My brother was a hero.  He was uncomfortable and tierd.  And happy.

The bus ride is going to happen to us all.  We will be uncomfortable.  We will be jostled.  We will be tired.  But we can choose exactly how happy we will be.  Because we are the hero.

I've remembered that bus ride over and over again when I've been in hard places.  The week after Jared's funeral I signed us up to deliver food for the food bank.  I did so for a very selfish reason.  I needed my kids to see that they were heroes--always and especially when things were hard.  Its one of the only real gifts I can give my kids.  Knowledge that whatever the situation, they have power.

Because heroes never loose their power.  It doesn't matter if it is a typing test, or a bus ride, or cancer.  We've got this.

A Sparrow Shall Not Fall

I visibly jump when someone gets shot on TV.  My kids will walk in on me watching the Vietnam documentary with my face buried in a pillow.  I'm not a wuss.  I'm not childish.  The more I know pain the more it hurts to see it.  I am the opposite of jaded.  When I see pain, I feel empathy.  Not sympathy but heart-wrenching empathy.  It doesn't matter if the characters are real.  They are built as real and watching them suffer isn't easy for me.  I didn't always feel this way.

I used to watch James Bond with my dad when I was young enough to not get most of the innuendos.  I never jumped, I never had to close my eyes.  Violence was as fake as magic.  I couldn't hurt for the characters because I had never hurt.  So, being an American teenager, I watched hundreds of thousands of characters die before I knew what death was.  I didn't mind to see slaughter.  Even Slovakia and Rawanda didn't really hurt--they were removed like the movies, like death.

But I got older.  And I saw pain.  And I saw death.  And when I count the gifts of watching someone you love suffer and die.  I count this as one of mine.

I know what it means when someone dies.

It isn't a very enviable thing to know but it is mine to know.  There should be a meaning waving like a banner over the dead.  There should be a reason.

Only, mostly, there is not.  And it should hurt us too much.  We should hide our heads with the pain of it. Life is so very precious.

And as much as I am embarrassed at my ability to feel pain, (you don't want to be the grown woman closing her eyes at action films). I see the soft and glowing other side to this coin.  I know the value of life.  I know it deeply and like chocolate poured though my body.  Like hope and peace and warmth.

And I love my life.  My daughter wakes me up by flomping on top of me.  My teenager writes me notes about his life.  And every night before bed, we drink a cup of tea and talk about our day.  I am learning ballet and hip hop.  I am traveling to Iceland and Thailand.  My brother calls me to check in on my.  And my sister sends me flowers when a boy breaks up with me.  In short, I am surrounded by love and happiness.

And if I have to close my eyes for somethings they are all the more open to others.

We live.  We live.  What a joy to live.

Saturday April 1st

Cold

I don’t do well with cold.  For me it is less like a temperature and more like physical pain.  It is hard for me to ignore.  It is hard for me to think about doing other things when I am experiencing it.  So my choice of clothing was very intentional.  I brought essentially, one outfit with a million different layers in it.

I practiced wearing it on the coldest days in SLC.  I would go out on my back patio and try to do things for an hour. It worked.  I was warm.  And then yesterday happened and i’m beginning to doubt my warm outfit.  

It was raining when we arrived in Namche.  The city looks huge after the two to three hut villages we have been walking through.  So many streets and so many stores.  We had been really warm all day.  I had a shimmied off my long johns behind a rock early in the morning and pushed up my sleeves for most of the day.  But once the rain started and the wind started I was cold.  I put on my layers and I was still cold.  I put on my hat (bought in Latvia for Latvian winters) and I was still cold.  Maybe it is the altitude.  Maybe it is just me being sissy…but I was still cold.