Forty-Eight Part One

Feliz cumpleanos: that's how they say it in Spain.

Now that I serve the women in my ward (local congregation), the children didn't sing to me the Sunday before my birthday. It came anyway and I decided to list positive things that are part of my life right now--one for every year I've lived on this planet.

So, in no particular order, I'm thankful for:

1. Pain-free feet. After visiting a naturopath (for lack of a better term), my heels have healed to the point where I can hike scenic (steep) trails again. Maybe I'll work in some running.

2. Our oldest son who shows concern for others while putting himself through college the old-fashioned way. Crazy marathon runner, he teaches me what accomplishing a goal is all about.

3. A courageous, unselfish daughter who also inspires me. One more year to go on her mission. She's doing great.

4. Our second son who introduced me to live jazz and rock 'n roll. I didn't plan to have a kid who plays electric guitar but it can be fun. (He also turns down his amp when asked.) And how many teenage boys spend successive Saturdays helping a friend's family move and paint their new house?

5. Son number three who blew apart any remaining parental preconceptions. Thanks to him, I'm learning more about valuing people for who they are and I've let my hair down. Way down.

6. My youngest son who has a kind heart and never fails to give me hugs before he runs out the door to school.

7. Hot popcorn with melted butter/olive oil and a sprinkling of salt.

8. The prospect of coral-colored tulips in my backyard.

9. Peach blossoms

10. Stunning views from my front windows: sandstone cliffs dusted with snow and a mountain that looks like a suspended blue-white wave.

11. The fact that my middle-aged eyes can transfer this stunning image to my mostly functioning brain.

12. A selfless husband who is my antithesis. That's a very good thing.

13. Rhodiola rosea. I know from experience that alternative medicines don't work for everyone, but this herb is helping to lift my moods.

14, Peanut butter. I still have one child who would not survive without it.

15. The library. I would not survive without it.

16. German chocolate cake and oreo ice cream: my favorite birthday dessert

17. Benja Thai and Sushi, where my husband and I went for this year's birthday dinner. Two reasons: calm ambiance and curry. Maybe someday I'll choose sushi. Or not.

18. My parents, who celebrated fifty-nine years of marriage this week. They didn't make a reality show out of life with ten kids. They just lived reality with sacrifice and faith.

19. The prospect of buying and planting a peace rose bush

20. The prospect of peaches and cream with buttery whole wheat toast for a late-summer breakfast. (Our peach trees escaped damage from frost this week.)

21. Nonshopping sprees. As in avoiding malls for long periods of time.

22. On the other hand, I'm glad that getting an occasional thrift store fix is a harmless diversion. My husband was the one who refinished the $50.00 entertainment center that barely fit through our door. I merely pulled out a $5.00 bill and the attractive skirt that still sported a $99.00 price tag was mine.

23. I'm also thankful for the minimal effort I recently put into losing 10 pounds. More effort will be required to reach my goal, but I'll be able to wear that cute skirt again.

24. The wonderful women with whom I serve in my church. I think God is trying to nudge me out of an introverted state.

Thanks for reading! If you're still with me, look for part two tomorrow.

Landscape of Early Spring

I usually don't mind winter in our relatively mild climate. Snow is rare, a spun-sugar delicacy that softens cliffs and mesas for a few hours or days. Clouds on the northern mountain portend frigid winds, but they're also short-lived. Even on the coldest days, spring never seems far away.

Seasons of personal dormancy can linger much
longer, like arctic Decembers that smother the light of day. At such times it's hard to do anything that leads to a sense of progression and change. Instead, I tell myself that if I can't turn life into a perpetually flawless performance it's better to withdraw with a shred of dignity. Then I subconsciously stifle dreams and positive emotions until my inner landscape resembles Narnia under the White Witch's spell.

A few months ago I realized how much I needed to find every-day metaphors to banish mental fog, to spark compassion and creativity, to validate the recurring possibility of change. Maybe that is why I suddenly wanted to to see the first hint of green wash through weathered cottonwoods. The rush of river and waterfalls beckoned me to Zion National Park.

During Spring break my husband and I hiked in the canyon with our two youngest sons. Although I didn't expect to spend any time in blissful meditation, this family outing was surprisingly congenial. No one lagged too far behind and our teenager made sporadic efforts to curb his impatience so that he could drive home. Between fragments of conversation, I studied my surroundings with new eyes.

The cottonwoods seemed lifeless at first glance. Ghosts of last year's leaves had drifted over the sand bars near the river and I realized that millions of tight new buds wouldn't open for at least a week.

My disappointment turned to wonder as we started up the trail to the Emerald Pools. Here was a chance to fill my senses with the essence of things: an arabesque of branches, a pine-tinged breeze and the touch of rough sandstone that hoarded winter cold. Squishing through mud under shimmering falls at the lower pool, I caught a half-hidden grin on our older son's face as he secretly enjoyed this childlike pleasure. And if there was an image that could capture our youngest son's laughter, it would look something like this:

Climbing to an amphitheater carved from ancient sand dunes, we were surrounded by echoes of cascading water, an ovation to spring. Our youngest son clambered over the boulders, excited to explore before he paused for a photo near a tattered shroud of snow. When my daughter and I returned a few weeks later, it would be nothing but a memory of winter's last hold.

I could only imagine the moment when this waterfall burst over the cliff, shattering silence along with the ice that might have glazed the upper pool. In reality I felt cleansed by the fluid music that graced canyon walls as it stripped my illusions and resistance to hope. I needed to feel small in this immensity of stone. It was one way to sense my importance to God.

In a matter of weeks, the falls would diminish to half-hidden springs that feed lush ferns and columbine near the Emerald Pools. My husband and I would walk under a canopy of leaves that greet summer with an oasis from blistering heat.

But I'll always remember Zion Canyon that cool March morning. Stark and beautiful, it turned metaphors into a promise as it became my landscape of spring.

Where do you go to gain perspective or peace?
How do you find renewal and meaning in the tasks of daily life?

Copyright by Nani Lii S. Furse

I

Two poems for February (and they aren't about love)

Here are two more poems from college days. If anything, I hope they show that there is something interesting about the monochromatic high desert landscape. Both were published in contest issues of the New Era magazine in the 1980s.

The title of the first poem should be read as its first line. That was one way of dealing with the fact that I don't like coming up with titles. :)



In February

wind wears the ice
hoarded by hills and stone
spins sagebrush into gray phrases
thins like needles
of ponderosa shadow




February Solstice

Fog strays into predawn sage,
Stratum of night unshaping.

Crone-hands uncurl the revelation
of cottonwoods' naked grasp.

Her fingers thin into wind,
Groping for transparent spring.

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.