Who's Afraid of a Midlife Crash?

This past month, I turned forty-seven. One hairstylist informed me that your body starts to fall apart during this infamous decade. Some people indulge in various forms of a midlife crisis. The teenage sons of one acquaintance decorated their front lawn with black balloons when she reached the Big 4-0.

Maybe there's a reason for mourning middle age. Yes, I need reading glasses. My dedication to step aerobics, running and uphill power walks resulted in achilles bursitis. The doctor said no more of that kind of exercise until until my aching heels heal. That was four months ago. I finally sneaked into JC Penney and bought a budget version of Spanx.

Still, I wouldn't trade middle-age angst for adolescence. My journal provides ample reasons for making peace with my current stage of life. At fourteen, I bemoaned the fact that I couldn't invite a gaggle of popular girls to celebrate my birthday. It just wasn't done. Unlike my attractive sister and studentbody-president brothers, I merely orbited the small-town cliques that were well-established in kindergarten. Sure, kids respected me for being artistic and smart. I edited the school newspaper, served as Junior class president and got an award for being Most Dependable Girl. These minor triumphs juxtaposed with emotional struggles that surpassed typical teenage insecurity.

Twenty years later, I turned to my journals in an effort to face the truth of my depression. This was exacerbated by a stressful pregnancy and the birth of our last child. The numbness, self-loathing and mental fog that had reached critical levels were articulated in meticulous penmanship from my past. It was almost exhausting to read how I busied myself with schoolwork, writing and extracurricular activities. Yet I had found plenty of ways to translate perfectionism to my present life as a stay-at-home mom. It was a twisted way of avoiding the tsunami of pain that eventually swept away all pretense and left me gasping for breath.

Since then I've confronted hard realities, accepting the fact that dealing with them is a lifelong quest. Some problems have no easy answers and I'm far from perfect. Yet my direction is true. I'm less inclined to judge, realizing that everyone carries unseen burdens. After years of losing the desire and energy to write, the process is a struggle but I'm trying to achieve more honesty and compassion in poetry and fiction. Most important, I no longer view life or raising a family as an Olympic competition. Success has many definitions and there's room in God's heart for all.

Edging closer to fifty, I feel the interplay of paradox. The delicate balance of confidence and humility is more apparent now; I'm learning to face difficulties that once seemed beyond my strength yet I'm more aware of my need for God's inspiration. I feel more vulnerable to tragedy and loss but I also feel a greater desire to love and to share.

I'll take these hard-won triumphs over a trim waist any day of the week.

Finding Cumorah

In the summer of 1983, I had the opportunity to be in the cast of The Hill Cumorah Pageant. I was a wicked Nephite woman who followed the crowd in condemning Abinadi and my "missionary companion" was one of Kind Noah's concubines. (That was my wild fling!) Incidentally, a few of the college-age girls harbored secret crushes on the ,single male actors. They were fairly evenly divided between Team Abinadi and Team Captain Moroni. :)

I kept a journal faithfully back then and enjoyed touring many historic sites in the area. Being in the pageant was a spiritual experience as well since it depicts many of the Book of Mormon prophets who testified of Christ and His appearance to the Nephites.

I hated to leave New York when it was time to return home, but I wrote a poem about the Hill Cumorah. A few years and many drafts later, the poem was published in a contest issue of The New Era.

When the LDS Church celebrated Joseph Smith's 200th birthday in 2005, I pulled out the magazine and read the poem again. It had a couple of good lines but most of it was too obscure. Also, my perspective on Joseph Smith and what had occurred at the Hill Cumorah had changed. My oldest son was close to the same age as Joseph Smith when he first saw the ancient record of the Nephite people. In fact, my son had just received his mission call and was preparing to testify of The Book of Mormon and other truths of the restored gospel.

I changed the title and decided to rewrite the poem; the result is more cohesive as it focuses on the seasons of Joseph Smith's burgeoning faith. As a mother, I was struck by how vulnerable he must have felt in his youth as he learned of his life's mission. I used many natural images to evoke those emotions, especially the in first stanzas. While reworking the poem, I also gained a greater appreciation of Joseph's courage in spite of adversity and his lack of education or experience. I hope the last stanza in this poem expresses my gratitude for all that he accomplished.



Finding Cumorah
Manchester County, New York, 1823

Late September
washes a season's green
beyond field and village
and age seventeen.
only leaves
rinsed in afterglow
stir at Joseph's homespun
passing.

He once knelt
in April grove,
drenched with that glory
of Father and Son.
Then summer wove roots
through his harrowed soul
as those parched by mockery
claimed the heavens
closed.

Autumn wind
shimmers into the trees,
quickening vision
of his pending task:
these hands will
lift voices
silenced by stone,
fullness like morning
tide gathering
home.



Since this ended up being a completely different poem, I submitted it to the Ensign and then to the New Era where it was published in the September 2009 issue. A pdf of it is available online.