'Most people probably hope that winter is nearly over; before the season's change, I decided to share a simple description of sunset over a snow-covered landscape. "Late Winter" was one of the first poems I wrote in college. It was published years later in the December 2004 New Era.
Late Winter
Soft fire melts into blue embers
that speak of snow.
Winter breathes its dialogue
with latent earth, white phrases
contoured by prisoned shadow--
a slow sweep, a pulse
molding the rhythm of star and moon
as they spin towards dawn.
I'll never forget how my creative writing professor challenged students to look at the world with new eyes, to tune into our senses as we tried to create images that could evoke emotions. Life wasn't easy then, but I sometimes achieved greater awareness and recognized the beauty of familiar faces and the surroundings that I had often taken for granted.
Thinking about the past, I am reminded to slow down and pay more attention to unique people and simple things that shape my life now. It's vital to creativity which in turn yields joy and gratitude. It's vital to the life most of us hope for as we reach out with love.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Thoughts on Valentine's Eve
Older kids can complain all they want about how hard they had it compared to their younger siblings but I keep telling our young adult children that we used to have lots more fun on holidays.
It's true. When our kids were little, I decorated our kitchen/dining area with dozens of construction paper hearts before they woke up. (It was a fun spin on the term "heart attack".) We made pink heart-shaped pancakes for breakfast, even if Valentines fell on a school day and I created all manner of heart-themed dishes for dinner.
Things have changed.
Late Saturday night I realized that V-day is Monday. I forgot to send care packages to our college kids. I didn't buy a gift for my husband. I've got to show up for jury duty in a neighboring city by 8 a.m.; thank goodness there's plenty of leftover french toast for breakfast. Yesterday we were so rushed to make it to a niece's wedding festivities and to prepare for Sunday (including a sacrament meeting musical number) that I forgot to buy candy and valentines for our youngest son to distribute at school. Also, this IS the year that he didn't make a generic valentine box or bag in class. Instead, students were invited to participate in a best-decorated Valentine box contest. He had a major audition this past week and is preparing for another in a few days so today is his only chance to create a cardboard robot to receive valentines. It's covered with tinfoil and scotch tape. One arm keeps flopping down. I can only imagine the cute creations other kids are going to show off tomorrow but the boxes are supposed to be the kids' work, right? My husband and I were busy preparing dinner anyway and visiting his mother who isn't well.
So . . . I've spent a lot of time showing love in other ways. It's enough.
In the meantime, I'll stop writing and see what we can do about the Valentine robot's arm.
It's true. When our kids were little, I decorated our kitchen/dining area with dozens of construction paper hearts before they woke up. (It was a fun spin on the term "heart attack".) We made pink heart-shaped pancakes for breakfast, even if Valentines fell on a school day and I created all manner of heart-themed dishes for dinner.
Things have changed.
Late Saturday night I realized that V-day is Monday. I forgot to send care packages to our college kids. I didn't buy a gift for my husband. I've got to show up for jury duty in a neighboring city by 8 a.m.; thank goodness there's plenty of leftover french toast for breakfast. Yesterday we were so rushed to make it to a niece's wedding festivities and to prepare for Sunday (including a sacrament meeting musical number) that I forgot to buy candy and valentines for our youngest son to distribute at school. Also, this IS the year that he didn't make a generic valentine box or bag in class. Instead, students were invited to participate in a best-decorated Valentine box contest. He had a major audition this past week and is preparing for another in a few days so today is his only chance to create a cardboard robot to receive valentines. It's covered with tinfoil and scotch tape. One arm keeps flopping down. I can only imagine the cute creations other kids are going to show off tomorrow but the boxes are supposed to be the kids' work, right? My husband and I were busy preparing dinner anyway and visiting his mother who isn't well.
So . . . I've spent a lot of time showing love in other ways. It's enough.
In the meantime, I'll stop writing and see what we can do about the Valentine robot's arm.
Monday, February 7, 2011
To Anne Katrine, Ancestor
One of my sisters is just seventeen months older than I. We shared a bedroom, imaginative games, clothes and curling irons but, like most siblings, we also endured plenty of spats.
In an effort to help us learn the importance of getting along, our mom used to tell us about her grandmother who emigrated from Denmark to Utah when she was five years old with her eleven-year-old sister for company. Recently converted to the LDS church, their family was too poor to travel together to Zion. Instead, their parents sent the children one by one or in pairs, as finances permitted. An older sister had already settled in Ephraim, Utah and two sister missionaries agreed to watch over the little girls during the long journey. But they were often left to themselves on the ship and food was sometimes scanty. When the girls finally reached Utah, life with their sister and her family was sometimes less-than-ideal. My great-grandmother grew up, eventually married and moved to Emery, Utah. I'm grateful for her family's sacrifices that provided me with so many blessings.
As a parent, I find it hard to imagine the pain of sending such young daughters on an uncertain journey. But persecution of Danish converts was often severe, sometimes to the point where the safety of girls was threatened. I don't know if this was the case in my ancestors' family, but I tried to capture what my great-great-grandmother might have felt in the following poem, "To Anne Katrine, Ancestor". I first wrote it when our daughter was small. After a decade of receiving rejection slips and revising, I was happy when the poem finally appeared on the pages of Irreantum, a LDS literary journal. By that time, our daughter had graduated from high school. Cheers for the virtue of perserverence.
To Anne Katrine, Ancestor
Aarhus, Denmark
Perhaps you never remembered
slipping that last coin into
safe-keeping--
only an evening,
counting everything out,
when your husband whispered
"We'll send them now."
You knew to not
watch by your little girls' bed
as he smoothed their curls
away from closed eyes.
A window must be latched
against the dark rain,
another satchel packed
for their passage
to Zion.
At the harbor,
he stepped aside
to buy a gift of oranges
while you wondered if
the salty wind
would wear into hunger
that could not let
these children sleep.
Sails and a mist
drew them from view:
your last-born
almost mindful
of oceans and years,
her sister solemnly bearing
their untasted fruit.
In an effort to help us learn the importance of getting along, our mom used to tell us about her grandmother who emigrated from Denmark to Utah when she was five years old with her eleven-year-old sister for company. Recently converted to the LDS church, their family was too poor to travel together to Zion. Instead, their parents sent the children one by one or in pairs, as finances permitted. An older sister had already settled in Ephraim, Utah and two sister missionaries agreed to watch over the little girls during the long journey. But they were often left to themselves on the ship and food was sometimes scanty. When the girls finally reached Utah, life with their sister and her family was sometimes less-than-ideal. My great-grandmother grew up, eventually married and moved to Emery, Utah. I'm grateful for her family's sacrifices that provided me with so many blessings.
As a parent, I find it hard to imagine the pain of sending such young daughters on an uncertain journey. But persecution of Danish converts was often severe, sometimes to the point where the safety of girls was threatened. I don't know if this was the case in my ancestors' family, but I tried to capture what my great-great-grandmother might have felt in the following poem, "To Anne Katrine, Ancestor". I first wrote it when our daughter was small. After a decade of receiving rejection slips and revising, I was happy when the poem finally appeared on the pages of Irreantum, a LDS literary journal. By that time, our daughter had graduated from high school. Cheers for the virtue of perserverence.
To Anne Katrine, Ancestor
Aarhus, Denmark
Perhaps you never remembered
slipping that last coin into
safe-keeping--
only an evening,
counting everything out,
when your husband whispered
"We'll send them now."
You knew to not
watch by your little girls' bed
as he smoothed their curls
away from closed eyes.
A window must be latched
against the dark rain,
another satchel packed
for their passage
to Zion.
At the harbor,
he stepped aside
to buy a gift of oranges
while you wondered if
the salty wind
would wear into hunger
that could not let
these children sleep.
Sails and a mist
drew them from view:
your last-born
almost mindful
of oceans and years,
her sister solemnly bearing
their untasted fruit.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Likening the Miracle
I read "Likening the Miracle" at the annual LDS church cultural arts presentation. This rare opportunity to mingle with other poets, composers and musicians left me feeling energized and motivated to keep writing. Best of all, I felt connected to them with a common purpose: to create something that is "lovely, praiseworthy and of good report".
This poem resulted from some personal struggles. One particularly difficult Sunday, I listened to an inspired Gospel Doctrine teacher discuss the story of the woman who exercised faith to be healed by touching Christ's garment. The teacher shared several historical details: how the woman might have been shunned because her illness made her "unclean", how she had most likely never married or even felt the comfort of human touch for twelve years. After living so long with shame, the woman could have been reluctant to ask the Savior to bless her with the laying on of hands. But she found enough faith to reach out and touch the fringe of his garment.
I'd heard the story countless times but was stunned by how it became a metaphor for what I was experiencing. After being unable to write poetry, I was happy to feel motivated again and a theme about the atonement gradually emerged.
Most people experience a kind of Gethsemane at least once in their lives. I hope those who read this poem come away with a reverence for the reality of the atonement--how our Savior's willingness to endure excruciating spiritual pain enabled Him to understand and heal our "unseen wounds".
Likening the Miracle
"For she said within herself,
if I may but touch his garment,
I shall be whole." Matthew 9:21
I never hovered
outside village crowds--
unclean in my bleeding,
banned from even a dream
of touch
or embrace.
My hand never drew healing
through rough-woven folds
that clothed the Messiah
as carpenter's son.
Yet my living is spent
in search
of prescription;
wearing the dust
of windburned journey,
I finally kneel
then reach
for a reddened robe.
And He who bore
Gethsemane's unseen wounds
will yet pronounce me
whole.
This poem resulted from some personal struggles. One particularly difficult Sunday, I listened to an inspired Gospel Doctrine teacher discuss the story of the woman who exercised faith to be healed by touching Christ's garment. The teacher shared several historical details: how the woman might have been shunned because her illness made her "unclean", how she had most likely never married or even felt the comfort of human touch for twelve years. After living so long with shame, the woman could have been reluctant to ask the Savior to bless her with the laying on of hands. But she found enough faith to reach out and touch the fringe of his garment.
I'd heard the story countless times but was stunned by how it became a metaphor for what I was experiencing. After being unable to write poetry, I was happy to feel motivated again and a theme about the atonement gradually emerged.
Most people experience a kind of Gethsemane at least once in their lives. I hope those who read this poem come away with a reverence for the reality of the atonement--how our Savior's willingness to endure excruciating spiritual pain enabled Him to understand and heal our "unseen wounds".
Likening the Miracle
"For she said within herself,
if I may but touch his garment,
I shall be whole." Matthew 9:21
I never hovered
outside village crowds--
unclean in my bleeding,
banned from even a dream
of touch
or embrace.
My hand never drew healing
through rough-woven folds
that clothed the Messiah
as carpenter's son.
Yet my living is spent
in search
of prescription;
wearing the dust
of windburned journey,
I finally kneel
then reach
for a reddened robe.
And He who bore
Gethsemane's unseen wounds
will yet pronounce me
whole.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
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 . . .
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 . . .
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