Post-Holiday Musings

As a young girl, I used to spend hours drawing adorable little animals on reams of rough brown newsprint that my dad brought home from our small-town post office. Whimsically dressed in Victorian attire, these big-eyed bunnies and squirrels often portrayed idyllic holiday scenes. I loved Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter and infused my artwork with childlike hope and expectations. When I finished coloring each bonnet, bushy tail or bow, I'd hurry to show each masterpiece to my parents, relishing a few moments of their attention and praise.

I craved joy, perfection, beauty. It's painfully obvious during infrequent times when I've sorted through old drawings in an attempt to reorder the past. There's the happy squirrel mother serving cookies to Disney-cute carolers. A circle of furry faces smile around the festive Thanksgiving table.

Fast-forward to The Holidays 2010.

My husband and I have followed a fairly standard procedure of spending Thanksgiving with his family one year and my family the next. Ignoring that pattern seemed the best option this year. We had initially planned to celebrate with my family, but after weeks of trying to figure out what my siblings were planning, I thought that most of them were staying in their own homes. So we decided to spend another year with my husband's family and try to make good memories for the sake of a relative who is struggling with another bout of depression.

Several relatives had helped plan the meal and everyone furnished food. Some traveled considerable distance and paid motel expenses to foster family togetherness. But nothing seemed to lift this relative's spirits. She rarely smiled and when I made a positive comment about the day, she just said she was glad it was over.

Sometimes I wonder if all this effort was worth it.

I understand that negativity can cloud the reality that people care and are trying to make life happier for a depressed person. I'm trying to remember that she is not herself. In my frequent failures to acknowledge all that God or someone else does for me, I too stand in need of mercy and someone who gives me some slack.


On the other hand, I'm slowly learning that I can't "make it all better" for someone else--this relative in particular. I can listen, empathize, and even offer an awkward (though well-meant) hug. But my efforts can't fix anything, convince her to stay on medication or make the anxiety go away. At some point I have to let go and consider other valid needs.

Much as I once loved creating images of a perfect holiday, it's a fantasy that doesn't exist. Don't get me wrong. I'm no Scrooge. I start listening to Christmas music well before Thanksgiving. I like spending time with family. But this year other commitments (besides the usual shopping) and personal struggles drained my energy. My youngest child decorated the Christmas tree and the rest of the house after I'd crashed on the couch one evening. I let my husband do some of the cooking. I told my daughter there was butter and cream cheese in the fridge if she wanted to bake raspberry ribbons or other goodies. She went on a creative writing binge instead. That's OK.

We shared laughter and our brand of crazy togetherness during the past few weeks. Like every family, we struggle with problems, but it feels like we're learning to live with an ever-evolving reality.

Meanwhile, I'll tuck away my childhood drawings from holidays past. For auld lang syne.

Good News!

Last spring I once again submitted a hymn text to the annual LDS Church Music ummmm . . . competition? (That doesn't seem the proper word for a church-sponsored event, but that's essentially what it is.) Last year my text was a finalist, but this year my submission didn't get that far. That's OK. I didn't put enough time or effort into it--I actually tried to write the entire text in one day. That never works, though I'd pondered on the idea for a while. Nevertheless (as the scriptures say), I procrastinated because I feel so inadequate when trying to write words for a hymn.

It helps to know that even Janice Kapp Perry experiences the same problem at times. She recently wrote an article about how her songs occasionally come back to "haunt" her. A few months ago, while taking care of some grandchildren, she grew very tired and rather impatiently helped them through a bedtime routine. Then one of them wanted her to sing "Love Is Spoken Here" before she went to sleep. What a reminder!

Now back to the good news. At the same time I entered my hymn text in the music competition, I submitted a poem, "Likening the Miracle", to the cultural arts committee. I recently received word that it will receive a Deseret Dramatic Recognition Award at a presentation in Salt Lake City. Eight other poems will receive the same award so mine is certainly not the best, but this is validation that I needed at this time.

The presentation is scheduled for February in the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. I don't know yet if I'll be required to read the poem; the prospect sets my heart pounding but there is no reason to worry about it yet. I am excited to meet some other poets. In the meantime, maybe I'd better ask Santa for a nice dress for Christmas. On second thought, I'd better buy myself a dress for Christmas. Santa gets extremely stressed about shopping for clothes. :)

After the presentation, it might be OK to publish the poem here. I'll have to check on that.

Decisions

I really don't know what to say about this summer. We got in a modest family vacation and my husband and I were able to enjoy a couple of cultural events by ourselves when we celebrated our twenty-fifth anniversary. All of this is more than many people can do these days. I know how blessed we are.

I just wonder if writing is ever going to pay off even marginally and I wonder if I should concentrate on finding some kind of employment that will enable my husband to actually retire when thirty years at his current job are over. The past couple of weeks I've spent hours looking at job prospects or reading about a couple of careers that seemed mildly appealing only to discover that there is no work in those fields here. I'm no longer a twentysomething who is free to work any where since my husband has a stable career and family issues need careful consideration.

Essentially I want to continue writing more than anything else. Is it too much of a "luxury" to spend a lot of time on it right now? Am I selfish, egotistical or unwilling to face reality?

Most people don't live their dreams. In hard times they fold or do whatever is necessary to survive. It might come to that. I read the news. But, as I told my husband, I spent too many years believing that I wasn't good enough to succeed with my talents. If I have to work outside the home, I want to do something meaningful. I've just got to figure out what's right for this stage of my life.

In spite of the economy, people still write books. But most of them have day jobs. Decisions . . .

Two for the (Online) Road

http://wilderness.motleyvision.org/

This is the link for two of my poems, titled "Spring Outing" and "At the Enterprise Reservoir Dam" that have been posted on Wilderness Interface Zone as part of the Spring Runoff Poetry Contest. Read and enjoy, but if you want to share them please remember to include my name with each one and give credit where it's due.

R and R

I'm writing this post from a sunny beach in Hawaii where hula dancers sway to the music of ukuleles and turquoise waves lap the shimmering sand. Ahhhh . . . the South Pacific. Let all worries dissolve in paradise.

April Fools!

So I'm fantasizing about an exotic escape at 3:00 a.m. March has passed in flurries of wind, rain and snow, with only a few intervals of balmy days. Few desert dwellers complain about storms but I have felt as volatile as the weather. Change is in the air and family challenges left me feeling too unsettled to write. Life is never perfect, however, and vacations are out of the question so I must find other ways to resurrect my muse.

One solution came unexpectedly this week. I decided to enter an online poetry contest and consequently revised some old nature poems from college days that described spring. Reading faded words on yellowing paper could have been depressing. (Yes, it's been twenty-six years since I tapped out what seemed to be final drafts of those poems on an ancient manual typewriter. Yes, I've allowed several things to derail writing since then.) Instead, I found myself enjoying the process of playing with line breaks and rhythms and weeding extraneous words. I even came up with some new images which surprised me, considering the initial apathy I'd felt towards these poems. I look forward to receiving some feedback when they are posted on Wilderness Interface Zone.


It's been years since I revisited old poems and memories of a time when writing came easily. As a student in creative writing, I wasn't worried about producing something that would sell. I just tuned in to my senses, looked at the world with new eyes, and then relaxed as I wrote about whatever brought me joy. Here's an example of a college poem (published long ago) that I didn't change or include in my contest entries. Don't ask me why I called it February Solstice (I hate thinking up titles) but I still think it evokes early spring in the high desert.

February Solstice

Fog strays into predawn sage,
Stratum of night unshaping.

Crone hands uncurl the revelation
Cottonwoods' naked grasp.

Her fingers thin into wind,
Groping for transparent spring.

I no longer have much time to sit and contemplate nature; my interests now include people and their interactions. But recreating my early poems left me feeling exhilerated and enthused about returning to the first draft of my novel. It's haphazard and huge, a conglomoration of prose in which I'm trying to find a few gems of truth. Next time I'm tired or stymied by the "critical crazies" I'll pull some yellowed pages from my writing files and try a little R and R: relax and revise.

In the meantime, it's gray and gloomy outside. A luau in a coconut grove sounds great.

Olympic Inspiration

I'm a very selective sports fan, but have spent a couple of hours most evenings watching the Winter Olympics. My favorite events are figure skating and ice dancing but, because the guys in my family have catered to my obsession, I've also sat in on some skiing and bobsledding races. From the comfort of home, I've experienced the excitement of witnessing athletes achieve excellence after years of disciplined training. Their stories carry common themes of struggle against adversity and the tantalizing question of whether or not they will succeed in this ultimate test.

Sometimes the strongest contenders deliver a flawless performance. Sometimes a less-favored athlete takes an event by storm. The thrill of suspense, the juxtaposition of prediction and possibility keep me glued to the screen. No matter what country the winners call home, I love to see their huge smiles of triumph, their fists thrust into the air, and frequent tears when they stand on the podium to receive their medals.

But I'm most inspired by the athletes' drive to put themselves on the line, risking failure and flukes of nature for a chance to achieve their dreams. And the failures are painfully real. Skiers crash and skaters stumble; the commentators are quick to note any mistakes as the judges subtract points. Barring injury or disqualification, the athletes pick themselves up from the ice or snow, continuing their race or program , or standing at another starting line the next day.

This past week, the Winter Olympics became a metaphor for me as a writer. I received two rejections which means that none of the work I submitted last year garnered acceptance or publication. Oh, well. If a skater can survive the humiliation of falling in front of millions of spectators, I can take a couple of rejections in stride and keep typing. And revising. And risking failure again.

Seeing carefully-crafted words in print or even just feeling a quiet stroke of inspiration is my private gold-medal moment.