One Word

The other day, I turned fifty. It was just another day, but I'm glad my two oldest children remembered to call. Maybe my husband and I will think of something fun to do this weekend. Instead of expecting birthday flowers or eating out, which I no longer enjoy, I told him I would like his help planting something permanent and attractive in an ugly area of our front yard. Last week, we chose some plants and estimated the cost. After we know about our financial situation, we'll decide whether or not to splurge a bit on the project.

During my last year in the forties decade, the pace of life took my breath away. Last April, our daughter returned from eighteen months of service on an L.D.S. mission. A week later, our third child left to serve a mission. Two months later, our oldest son married a wonderful girl. I didn't document any of these major events in words, except in my personal journal. The rest of the year? It's been loaded with church service and daily life with extended family, a husband, and our three children who remained at home. I also completed a freelance editing project (400-page novel) and wrote two Christmas novelettes that I submitted to publishers. (All of them rejected the manuscripts. Oh, well.)

I've outlined the big events, but not their emotional impact. But I felt that I finally progressed in the following ways:

•  Although we've lived in our town for decades and contributed to our church and schools, I learned that we are not very important after all. At first, it was a painful lesson as a rather small fraction of invited guests trickled into our son's wedding open house. But the happy couple didn't care. Why should I? Afterwards, I made a list of what we'll do differently next time one of our children gets married. I was glad we'd lived within our means, keeping this event a modest affair. I felt gratitude for those who helped. I also reassessed my negative emotions that were really hurt feelings left over from junior high. So what if we're not the "cool kids" in town? Social status doesn't matter. How liberating to renew that affirmation in a different stage of life.

• I'm beginning to believe in miracles again.  After years of trying to honestly deal with hard realities, I've often felt cynical and pessimistic. It's been hard to pray or muster enough faith to believe in divine help. It's taken some time to regain perspective, but I can't deny evidence of God's help through people who have touched my life and the lives of others in my family, especially one son. He wouldn't be where he is without it.

• The best way for me to confront writer's block is to . . . write! Just write through the fear of what others might think and the fear that what I produce isn't good enough. Write through the falsehood that words have to be polished perfection in the first draft. That's how I finally felt the joy of creating something again, even though it was difficult. Like giving birth, it's worth the pain of hard labor.

I've been blessed with physical health and am taking steps to optimize it so I can accomplish goals I've set for coming decades. But all of my goals depend on one word that I want to forge into a strength: mindfulness.

It's hard to achieve when so much has to be done. Too often it gets smothered by the details of life. Take this past year, for example. Good things happened, but I experienced them while on emotional autopilot. I know it's a hallmark of depression, but it's not how I want to live and I'm sure it's not what God intends for us. 

I didn't know what to do differently. Faced with the necessity of feeding crowds of people at our family events and cobbling together a wedding open house on a nonexistent budget (we had to pay hundreds in taxes instead of getting the refund I was counting on), I just shut down. Yes, I acted like biblical Martha's clone, but hiring a caterer was not an option. I didn't have a fairy godmother to wave food, formal clothing, or even minimal wedding decor into existence. So, with the help of family and friends, we "rolled up our sleeves" and did it ourselves.

I truly despise focusing on what I view as superficial aspects of my life that is now at least half-way over. I don't want to spend much time or thought on the practicalities or mere survival. I'm sure plenty of others feel the same. But, unlike Henry David Thoreau, most of us can't spend years in solitude. At this stage of life, a significant portion of my energy must be devoted to feeding, clothing, and caring for my family. God has been so good to me that I feel obligated to do my best serving the women in my ward (congregation) by planning social and service-oriented activities. As a compromise, I'll try to capture some moments of silence and wonder through the course of each day. Still, some extended time at Walden Pond sounds like the perfect birthday present in my book!

Night at the Library

She sprang to life as everything I wasn't in seventh grade: slender, vivacious, with delicate features, warm brown eyes, and abundant auburn curls. Gracefully drifting through aristocratic circles in nineteenth-century Austria, my fictional heroine wore lovely gowns, danced to Strauss waltzes, and won the heart of a handsome hero when they met on a dark and stormy night.

He had a thing for brunettes.

My first attempt at writing a novel was shamelessly melodramatic, but I'd just read Gone With the Wind in furtive solitude (mostly when my mom thought I was cleaning my room). I was hooked on historical fiction, which fueled my interest in writing and shaped some of my early notions about romantic love.

During high school, I fell for a couple of boys but realized that I was no beau-catching Scarlett O'Hara. Quite the opposite, as Elizabeth Bennett once said. Instead of filling the role of wallflower at weekend dances, I made a conscious decision to focus on reading and writing.

The idyllic heroine stayed with me, finally "consenting" to climb down from her pedestal and get real. She evolved into a girl with emotional baggage who learned to love and trust over a long period of time. The premise of my masterpiece was hardly original and some scenes still oozed cheese, but I scribbled nearly three hundred pages before young adulthood changed my perspective again.

Two weeks after high school graduation, I left home to get a head start on college. The unfinished tale stayed behind in a series of spiral notebooks that I hid in a bedroom drawer.

A mostly studious English major, I tried to dissect sonnets and delve for deep interpretations of literary prose. Romance was relegated to the rare novel that I read over lunch when I needed a break from T.S. Eliot or John Donne (as in deceased poets, not prospective dates).

Just before spring break in 1984, I was studying for finals at the campus library. I'd noticed a tall dark stranger among the fourth floor regulars but when he stopped at my table that night, something clicked. We ended up discussing art history, our families, and milking cows until a pregnant lady from the front desk trekked upstairs to inform us that it was closing time.

Maybe I hadn't driven my car that night because it was low on gas. More likely, I'd left its headlights on and the battery had died. At any rate, the hour was late and March evenings still chilly. When this young man realized that I was shivering/bereft of transportation, he offered his jacket and joined me on the long walk to my apartment.

I could take the easy route and say that the rest of our story is ordinary, middle-class, peanut-butter-and-jam history. It's certainly not the stuff of a bestseller, destined for the big screen. But, unlike a formulaic romance, real-life narratives aren't peopled with Barbie-and-Ken characters who jump through predestined hoops to happy endings that hardly begin to explore the complexities of love.

(I'm not looking down my nose at those who decompress by reading fantasy or "literature lite". The Sound and the Fury when you're raising toddlers or teenagers? Ha.)

Sometimes my husband and I happen to be out walking when the spring sunset mellows to a pastel glow. I remember how it brightened new cottonwood leaves as we strolled across campus twenty-eight years ago. But I don't color that season with shades of nostalgic bliss. Astounding as it was to realize that someone loved me unconditionally, I shared some emotional baggage with my fictional heroine. It spilled into happy moments and deep-set fears, hindering my ability to reciprocate. To trust.

When we married, I was ready to embrace the peace I had felt after he proposed a full year before. It was a leap of faith made with incredible naivete and joy. Like most young couples, we couldn't feel the aching fatigue of prolonged responsibility. We didn't foresee challenges that stripped remaining pretense like lightning on living wood, exposing inner layers. Leaving us vulnerable. Raw.

At the same time, we couldn't fully comprehend the power of committing to promises made before God, family, and friends. Granted, there are times when it is necessary to leave an abusive or unfaithful spouse. But through conflicts, mistakes, and inevitable growing pains, neither of us is going anywhere. The intensity of early attraction was beautiful and valid. So is honest acceptance of a well-known human being in this complex, often frenetic phase of middle-aged love.

In Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote, "When you love someone you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity, when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity--in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern."

My fictional heroine still exists in spiral notebooks that now sit on an open shelf as reminders of how it felt to write with joyful abandon. If I ever revisit her story, it won't include duels and abductions. But there is a place for romance in the real world.

copyright March 30, 2012 by Nani Lii S. Furse

Forty-Eight Part Two

Are you still with me? I shared the first half of this post yesterday. Because I recently celebrated another birthday, here are more things that I'm thankful for at this moment (one for every year of my life):

25. The miracle of forgiveness. Forgetting isn't part of the equation. Releasing bitterness is.

26. A steaming bowl of soup for dinner on still-chilly evenings.

27. The process of baking bread, which synchronizes all of my senses.

28. Poetry. A short time ago, I nabbed a thick volume by Leslie Norris (another thrift store find). His work is a "concentration and distillation" of everyday experience. Thanks to the internet I'm discovering some more current poets as well.

29. Segullah literary journal. I love the honest-yet-faithful writings by L.D.S. women. One of my poems will appear in an issue which is coming out soon.

29. Facebook. Laugh in my face or strike me with lightning but I'm thankful for this connection with friends, relatives, and adult children who live far from home.

30. A new journal. It was a thoughtful birthday gift from a new friend; I see it as a reminder that I still have something to say.

31. Old notebooks. I used to carry them with me everywhere because I couldn't wait to write, Now they're a concrete reminder that I can feel that way again.

32. Blogs. I'm fairly new to this world but it's opened up some possibilities to share and read others' thoughts.

33. A comfortable home. That's the thing about middle age. I'm learning to be more content.

34. Sibling harmony. It's what I most enjoy when my brothers and sisters get together and what I hope for with my children. My in-laws treat me like family too.

35. Secure employment. We've been less-affected by economic woes; living modestly is nothing new.

36. Caring teachers. I'm overwhelmed by the impact of dedicated coaches, church leaders, and educators in my children's lives. I still remember teachers who mentored and encouraged me.

37. Books. This differs from #15 because I'm talking about the volumes I've collected over the years. They're faithful friends.

38. Music. Technology allows us to enjoy music with the click of a button although my waistline would be slimmer if I had to walk long distances to a live concert (a la Bach).

39. Memories of a few trips we've taken. I loved the Oregon coast, live oaks in Louisiana, and sampling Texas barbecue.

40. A caring community. We have different views but there is always an outpouring of love when someone experiences tragedy or an urgent need.

41. Unfinished projects. Admittedly, boxes of fabric and decor fill my closet and clutter our room. It's been months since I sent anything to publishers as well. But the potential to improve my life, our home, and my wardrobe is there. I have plenty reasons to get up each day.

42. Scriptures. Reading daily is hard right now but I remember times when I've been filled with peace and insight. I'll keep trying and trust that I'll regain that feeling again.

43. The chartreuse green of new leaves. Right now the willows add a blaze of color to our stark desert landscape.

44. Joseph Smith. He was human and never claimed to be perfect. But he was also a courageous witness of Christ. I'm grateful that he restored the church that is my spiritual anchor here on earth.

45. Visual art. We recently enjoyed a free exhibit at a nearby college. There's nothing like seeing skillfully-rendered paintings or sculptures up close. It's food for the soul.

47. Prayer. Like scripture study, this habit has sometimes been hard for me to maintain. Remembering times when I've felt close to God helps me feel like He's still there.

48. My Savior, Jesus Christ. I love the Easter season and can't deny the power of His atonement. He lived and died for us individually. I hope my life this coming year will more clearly reflect this truth.

Thanks for enduring to the end of this post!

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.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

When I was a girl, church Christmas parties were carefully choreographed events. Leaders of the Primary (our church's organization for children) spent weeks helping active youngsters rehearse the Nativity story. The chorister coached us until we sang "sleep in heavenly pe-eace" without sliding into the high note. One year I was thrilled when the Primary president asked me to be Mary, until the honor caused a rift with my best friend who coveted the role. My co-star proved to be a very reluctant Joseph.

The night of our performance was the highlight of December. I loved dressing up in a red velvet dress, brushing my waist-length curls, then squeezing into our old Pontiac with my parents and seven siblings. People in our small town did not bother with elaborate yard displays, but strings of old-fashioned colored lights along a few porches created a magic glow on snow drifts as we drove to the church.

Upon arrival, we weren't served sliced ham with the proverbial Mormon "funeral potatoes". The children's re-enactment of Luke II was the reason that our local congregation gathered and watched patiently from rows of cold metal chairs. Behind the heavy brown curtains, I waited with a coil of nervous anticipation in my stomach until it was my turn to emerge onto the old wooden stage that smelled faintly of lemon oil.

This year, my husband and I took turns driving twenty miles twice a week so that our youngest son could experience the same thrill in a Dickens Festival theater production. There were plenty of ups and downs during three months of rehearsals for "A Christmas Carol" and "Oliver". At first he was a little disappointed about being given the lead role of the innocent-yet-spunky orphan boy. But as the show progressed he admitted that it was fun. When the cast did the final dress rehearsals in a convention center that had been transformed into Victorian London, our son was hooked.

He's come so far from the shy boy who sang an inhibited rendition of "Consider Yourself" at a vocal recital less than three years ago. Last week his confidence and enthusiasm as an actor were a delight to see.

I love having kids involved in theater and witnessing what the experience can do for everyone involved in a show. But on a ward level I wonder if it's becoming a lost art.

Don't get me wrong. After trying to pull off a party for the Relief Society (my church's women's organization), I'm the first to express appreciation for those who accomplish such a feat year after year. Even a short play is labor-intensive while a white-elephant gift exchange is simple and fun. But if the reason for ward activities is to build friendships, why not put a little extra effort into an occasional production? If all goes well (even with imperfections), some hidden talents might come to light and the rapport between cast members makes it all worthwhile.

I'll never forget the fall of 2003 when I was struggling with a sense of isolation. My prayers were answered when the woman in charge of the Relief Society Christmas program asked me to write a readers' theater about Mary the mother of Jesus.

The project was hard; I hadn't written a play since fifth or sixth grade when I naively assumed the entire school would be entertained by my short holiday dramas. But in a few weeks, I churned out a thirty-page script while immersing myself in the minds of those who lived the real Christmas story. It was an intense process.

Sharing my work with the cast and then the women of the ward was even harder. It's one thing to send manuscripts to editors in distant cities and quite another to expose some of your deepest thoughts to people you see every Sunday at church.

The performance wasn't Broadway-brilliant; since then I've improved the script. But the response from ordinary women like me was overwhelming. I'll never forget when the woman who played Elisabeth confided that she too had been struggling, but was uplifted by her participation in the program.

I felt honored by her trust and willingness to step out of her comfort zone and into the character of a woman who also faced great challenges. Our friendship would have never deepened if we had merely exchanged smiles in the foyer of our chapel.

I remembered this while writing the script for this year's program which centered on Christmas in 19th-century Nauvoo, Illinois--a place and time significant to our church's history. After a non-productive summer, I struggled to create a script will all the elements that first gave me a spark of inspiration. I know it still needs improvement and a better presentation. But there were moments when words and ideas flowed, which hasn't happened for a long time. My research on the lives of women who lived in Nauvoo nourished my soul and helped to dispel doubts that I could make time to write historical fiction. I really need to work on that lifelong dream. Just not 24/7!

Was the extra effort worth it? Even though there were last-minute changes in the program that left me paranoid about answering another phone call, I have to say yes. In spite of busy schedules, so many women graciously donated time and various talents to make Christmas in Nauvoo come to life for a couple of hours. The entire process of everyone working together and becoming better friends still leaves me feeling humbled and awed.

Given a little time to recuperate and regroup, I could do this again.

Of Marathons and NaNoWriMo

He'd posted an enthusiastic status on Facebook about running the St. George Marathon. We knew he'd trained hard. His goal: cross the finish line in 2 1/2 hours or less.

Our oldest son, Joe, is great at meeting goals. I learned that years before he attempted his first marathon on this course in 2008. When he first joined the high school track team, he seemed to have average ability. But he worked hard, won the region championship in cross country his senior year, and continues to progress.

Fast forward six years.

October 1, 2011 dawned with perfect marathon conditions: mild temperatures and a wide arc of calm blue sky. We arrived at Vernon Worthen Park by 8:30 a.m., a good half-hour before we expected to see Joe pouring his heart and soul into the home stretch. I felt a little concerned about his lack of rest (he'd arrived home late the night before after a stressful 9-hour drive), but he'd pushed through fatigue before.

We cheered wildly for the winner as he sprinted by. Then I started counting the next few runners, keeping an eye on their respective times. At 2:27, we leaned forward, peering down the street, trying to distinguish an athlete wearing bright red racing shoes. The tenth competitor finished to more wild applause.

Still no sign of Joe.

As the clock sped past 2:38, we wondered if Joe had experienced some kind of setback. That was his record time at the Top of Utah Marathon last year.

The runners passed the bleachers in irregular clusters, some stronger than others. I watched for Joe among the top twenty, then the top twenty-five. Huge speakers blared "We are the Champions" and we were swept into another wave of cheers.

His red shoes pounding the pavement, Joe was struggling but he maintained a steady pace. His face wore an expression of pure determination as he finished in 2 hours 43 minutes. He placed twenty-ninth overall and second in his division: quite respectable, since the race now attracts over 7,000 runners.

Camara-ready, we hurried to find Joe. He was in no mood for photos. "That wasn't a good race," he groaned as he leaned on the fence that separated marathoners from non-masochists. He mumbled something about nausea and losing the ability to breathe adequately at mile 18. Then he limped off to commiserate with a friend and fellow runner who'd had to drop out altogether.

Years ago, Joe would have brooded about his performance. I'm sure he felt more disappointment than he expressed as we talked it over that weekend. Still, he's grateful for the ability to run and he'll soon be hitting the trails and/or pavement. I know he'll try again.

I thought about Joe as I read a recent blog post about National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. During November, writers can participate in the grand-daddy of cerebral marathons, trying to crank out an entire novel (50,000-word minimum) in one month. Participants can find writing buddies online, in libraries or bookstores. It's a global phenomenon for anyone possessed with writing ambition.

I'm not up to a marathon at the keyboard or otherwise. Yes, the hype is heady ("Accept the challenge! You CAN do this!!"). I'd love to find some "pacers" to cheer me on. People succeed in NaNoWriMo every November, although I sometimes wonder if they resemble Scrooge or someone who gleefully posts Facebook stati about finishing Christmas shopping in September.

Who decided that November is National Novel Writing Month anyway? January, the month of optimism and lofty resolutions, would suit me just fine. Of course, sitting at a computer with a stack of Oreos to stave off writer's block is not conducive to losing post-holiday poundage. The health-and-fitness folks might protest. They've got way too much at stake.

So things aren't likely to change and this isn't the time to pump myself up for a writing marathon. Between my daughter's missionary call, new church responsibilities, continued family needs and a forced remodeling of our home (who knew that a broken water pipe could wreak such havok?) I'll be satisfied with meeting attainable writing goals, one step at a time.

I've been writing long enough to experience rejection and frustration. But people like Joe continually inspire me to press on.

So bah, humbug to early Christmas shopping. I've got a short story to polish and submit for publication.

It's kind of like running a 5k. I can do this.

September Metaphor

My favorite season is barely apparent, but I relish my early-morning walks when it's possible to feel a subtle change in the air. Summer finally relented to cooler temperatures and this past week we received rain nearly every day. It won't be long before the mellowing light transforms our back yard into a shrine of gold-green splendor .

Whenever possible, I'll enjoy the desert's slow-moving shift to autumn. It's been a difficult summer, full of emotionally-charged change. My daughter will soon be leaving to serve an eighteen-month mission for our church. Life with children who have ADD and Asperger syndrome continues to present new parental challenges. A close relative endured another bout of depression and anxiety, requiring us to balance her needs with those of our family.

Such conditions force me to peel away more layers of pretense and denial about the effects of my past. It's necessary but often painful to discover the raw truth of who I really am. For months I've neglected this blog and other writing projects, feeling overwhelmed by relationship issues and failure to deal with them in an appropriate manner. Too often I've felt resentful about the emotional toll, then so guilty about the resentment that creative impulses shut down. More often, I've given in to apathy as stifling as August heat. Breaking free of self-defeating behavior seemed impossible. I told myself I no longer cared.

Somehow I need to commit to writing regardless of personal circumstances. To close the door on memories of past mistakes or concerns about the future for a designated time each day. To allow a degree of artistic playfulness into my life. To realize the possibilities inherent in imperfection.

Someone once said that she writes to identify her deepest thoughts; even when I'm working on something unrelated to my experience, I've found this to be true. Writing is one vital key to understanding my emotions, relationships and, ultimately, to gain a degree of healing.

In that respect, September is the perfect metaphor for embracing change and moving to another phase of life. With thoughtful work and the grace of God, I can turn it into something beautiful.

The Closet Effect

When discouragement stymies my efforts to write, I usually gain a surge of motivation from The Closet Effect. Maybe it's like The Bureau Effect on Emily Dickinsen's poems. Or The Wardrobe Effect on four children in The Chronicles of Narnia.

Here's how the magic works: if no deadline is pending, I set aside a rough draft or even a polished project in the file that sits on the floor of my walk-in closet. (Yes, I believe the process works better if a story or poem is printed on paper.  I came of age when a self-correcting typewriter was The Mother of All Inventions.)

But I digress.

While writing, I often feel that my work is cheesy/dull/uninspired. Pick your adjective. Then a miracle occurs within the depths of my closet. The longer a project vegetates, the better. Maybe it has something to do with mystic dust bunny rituals.

This would be a good place to insert a photo of vintage typewritten pages because this is a tutorial of sorts, right? And I'm a blogger who's been writing long enough to have her share of yellowed pages. The real deal.

At any rate, when I revisit a writing project that's survived the test of time, at least one of the following things has occurred:

• It still seems cheesy/dull/uninspired. Time to salvage a good line or scene and move on to something else.
• I suddenly see what needs revision and have a better idea of how to proceed.
• The words flow a little better than I remember, giving me the courage to share my work with someone else.

The result sometimes includes two or more of the above points but it never fails to help me progress as a writer.

Now if only The Closet Effect would work a transformation when I attempt to zip up a dress that I haven't worn for a while.

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.

Late Winter

'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.

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.

Going Rogue--I'm with Sarah Palin

I have obviously not been very consistent with blogging. Daily life steals time and thought with concerns that range from our children to my latest writing project and the national political scene. Most of all, it's been hard for me think of something to post online that would interest anyone who cares to look me up.

But this week I experienced a catharsis. I'm declaring my independence from debilitating worry about what literary highbrows might think or say if my work-in-progress novel ever makes it into print.

It all started when I discovered blogs--specifically writing blogs full of tips and reviews and commentary on the L.D.S. culture and arts scene. It's been a blessing for me to feel a sense of connection even though I haven't found a local writing group that meets my present needs. I also enjoyed learning about the newest novels, the Whitney Awards, and an annual writers' conference that I enjoyed attending.

Then I started pondering some of the academics' opinions about the present state of L.D.S. fiction which basically exists in two camps: the popular romances, thrillers, and other genre titles and the literary novels usually penned by college professors who question and explore the nuances of L.D.S. life. I initially felt intimidated by their intellectual musings and wondered if I should abandon my novel altogether since the characters are born-in-the-covenant faithful Mormons who live in a small southern Utah town. Apparently some literary types frown upon rural Utah/Idaho settings.

I finally realized that I don't belong in the literary camp.

Yes, I've had aspirations of writing well enough to possibly win the Marilyn Brown award for the best novel of the year. I've prided myself on my B.A. in English and was taught to write literary fiction. I've turned up my nose at anything else.

After reading an interview with a best-selling author in which he blasts literary fiction with its existentialism and elitism, I was a bit shocked. Was it possible that well-written genre novels could be considered "legitimate" fiction? I was especially intrigued by his challenge to write like Shakespeare who created fascinating characters and many levels of meaning, but didn't neglect to tell a dang good story.

People from all social classes flocked to see his plays. And the stories had to be good or else the peasant "groundlings" who crowded in front of the stage would pelt the actors with rotten tomatoes or worse. Little did they know they had the best seats in the house which now sell for the highest prices at the Shakespearean festival!

Back to my original thought: I've decided that I'm going rogue as a writer. Who says there has to be only two camps in the world of L.D.S. fiction? As a writer, I'm somewhere in between. In this particular novel, I want to explore the drama of daily life with its juxtapositions of the bitter and the sweet, goodness and evil. I believe that characters in a rural setting can still develop widespread appeal in our modern, urbanized world. (Heaven knows we can relate to the tragic results of Hamlet's indecisiveness even though he was a prince in medieval Denmark.) A middle-brow audience of ordinary people is out there, their taste is valid, and their challenges and triumphs can be addressed in a dang good story.

You betcha.

What's in a Name?

I've been thinking about setting up a blog for a few weeks now. The deed is finally done--far more easily than I anticipated. It's another step forward in my goal to become more comfortable with technology.

My biggest challenge was thinking of a title for my blog, which reminded me of the struggle I usually experience when naming a song, short story, or poem. I happened to be reading a compilation of Robert Frost's poems this afternoon so I turned to it again, hoping for inspiration. "Mountain Interval", the title of Frost's third book, caught my attention. My home is the polar opposite of his New England but I, too, am a writer who draws from a distinctive culture and landscape in my attempt to define an ordinary existence. I don't pretend to be anywhere near Robert Frost's level of artistry, but "Desert Interval" seems a fitting description of readers may find here: a chance to step back and share my thoughts on writing and other things that shape my world.