My Words. My Story.

CrazyUs.3.16.17.1

Preface. I wrote this post last night.  I told Dave that I would not post it online, and would keep it with all my other working-out-my-religion posts.  Please know I never want to offend. That is why I try to leave my beliefs offline.  Also know that I am posting because this post is not about beliefs or doctrine. It is about community. Earlier today my friend, Amy in Texas, reminded me that maybe we can have a productive conversation about building community when she posted this Salt Lake Tribune article. It  was written two years ago. I think the author Paul Malan says it way better than I do:

Each time a non-traditional Mormon lets her neighbor see her unique beliefs, she makes it easier for everyone in the congregation to be true to themselves. One respectful voice at a time, the silent minority will begin to understand that they aren’t alone in their doubts and beliefs. Power will shift away from the monoculture and toward the productive edges  — to the ecotones where opportunity and challenges await, where ideas and opinions and personalities can blend together to create something like an ideological wetland: hard to define, hard to cling to, and infinitely more valuable to the world than anything Mormonism has been able to offer so far.”

My Words: I have been told that if I (a.) did not live in Utah, ground zero of Mormonism and (b.) had never been a Mormon that things would be different. I tend to agree. And in truth, this post is not about doctrinal discrepancies or our political differences. It is about community and my quest to find it here. And I know a big part of our community is measured (on both sides) then based on LDS church attendance and activity. Out of the gate, let me complicate that measurement. See, if I did not feel such a bizarre expectation when you see me at church, I would probably go. And in the interest of full transparency, yes, I would not attend full-time, but I would definitely go when I was feeling nostalgic, or wanted to connect with a very big part of who I am. Hold up. And to my non-Mormon, or former Mormon friends, you may ask,

“Beth, why are you bringing this up? This is not healthy. Draw a line. Make a boundary. Let it go and move on.”

To which I would respond, “You may be right, but why do you care?  This is my story and my experience. And I seem to recall that you were able to have your experience too.”

And to everyone on all sides: Obviously you may think I am crazy for feeling the way I do. Instead of crazy, I would suggest I am grey. Meaning I sit on fences, and fence-sitters are hard to measure or box in. I suffer way too much empathy (for all the sides). Mostly and for real, I love, respect and care deeply about my mom. I know how completely sad it makes her that I do not go. I take her seriously and reconciling her sorrow is hard. That is my uncomfortable truth.

Dave & I at the Natural History Museum, Salt Lake City, Utah
Dave & I at the Natural History Museum, Salt Lake City, Utah

I want all people to feel safe being their authentic selves. That is why I chose to be transparent. And the truth is, because I was raised LDS, and because I live in Utah, Mormonism is and will always be an inescapable part of my reality. I have very fond memories of the LDS community I was raised in. I met my best friend, Marianne, at church, and I met Dave at BYU. It was not all bad.  Eventually after fighting every single Sunday, Dave asked that we do something he wanted to do, which was to stop attending church.  I love him. I support him. I heard him and we stopped. At the time I wrote my local bishop a letter and asked him to include our family in activities. Then the Mormon bishop and I met in person. We had a friendly conversation and I never heard from him or really that ward again.  On a summer evening in a previous ward another Mormon bishop saw Dave and me out on a walk.  He hesitated. Then he stopped and approached. His words:

“I was told not to talk to your family. I was told that you did not want any contact.”

“I am glad you said something now.” I kindly responded as I held my ice tea by my side.

We assured him that he had been misinformed. I pushed further and reassured him that whether we went to church, sat in the halls at church (which we did a lot at that time), or did not go at all, we would would always be nice and open. I said,

“You are our neighbors. I do not think it needs to be so black and white. I hope we can all be friends.” To his credit, he and his wife have remained our friends.

Having a friendly conversation with these bishops are not isolated incidents. If I had a dollar for every Mormon church leader I have reached out to, I could buy a really nice outfit. It is awkward. Because I hope things can be different, every time we move into a new place, I (preemptively) reach out.

“No, we are not drug dealers or pedophiles. And sure, I only have 2 kids, but that was infertility not choice.”

They reach back in an an excessive flurry, usually offering to take our kids to church if we don’t want to take them ourselves.

“Beth, it takes a village. The whole neighborhood is raising my kids.” One man texted me.

I responded, “Hey, if my sons want to go to church, I am happy to take them.” I am certain his intentions were good. I am also certain he does not understand the divisive implications of what he is suggesting: Church is good, Inactive parents are bad (not worthy) = Mormon Ward Members (neighbors) will save Kyle and Eli.

Sure, I wish I could say that my very assertive and sincere, we-can-still-be-friends public relations approach works. It sort of works. Like for a minute. Then when people do not see us at church, or because church responsibilities demand so much attention, we are forgotten, excluded, or awkwardly included. I left my anger and resentment behind years ago. Each time I sincerely thank them and ask them to include me in neighborhood texts, activities, or service. I usually do not hear back. Remember, I know the culture. They are busy.  They are insulated and eventually, they drop off.  So when we do see them, they usually overly share, look down or pretend they do not see us.  It does not matter how many times I reassure them we are more like them then we are not. It does not matter how much I promise not to talk about doctrine, nor does it matter how many times I say nice things about their beliefs.  We are never part of the community.

I am also human. So when we do get invited to a church activities, my memories of how Mormons feel about outsiders kicks in.  I let my anxiety and preconceived judgements get the best of me and I act a little shy. Truth be told, I also persevere and force myself to engage:

“Hi neighbor. I am Beth. Our kids go to school with each other. Both of my boys are on the cross country team.”

The conversation always falls flat when they realize who I am and then they stare blankly. That is when I sense they are simply fulfilling an awkward responsibility to engage with the “inactive” lady. Check. I think you know the difference between a sincere and insincere response. Just in case you don’t I will give you an example:  It is like when your mom forces you to talk to the dorky kid, that kid you would never invite to your party or a ski weekend. It feels just like that. Weird, not normal.

I also get it. I am sensitive to their position. And of course, I have many Mormon friends who accept me no matter what.  Unfortunately, here in Utah, there is no separation of church and state so their better-ness and exclusivity bleeds into the culture. Mormon moms make the best PTA presidents and organize the best running groups.  Again. I get it. To them, I am an unknown. Consequently, I am not safe. I am an outsider. They are human and maybe saying hi to a stranger is really hard.  I imagine they could be gun-shy, because when they do reach out, they are are met with confrontation and frustration. My whole point is I do not need to be a stranger. I literally know and understand your culture. We literally live next to each other. Our kids go to school with each other. I can help you with your PTA stuff.  I am probably more like you than I am like my non-Mormon friends. Don’t you see that? That is why I keep trying to connect. I realize that I may not fit the mold of someone who does not go to church. I am grey.  In truth, who really fits into that mold? I know many of my close LDS friends do not.  I think there are more grays. And #protip, grays usually exist on the fringes. And I would actually argue that the fringes are getting even bigger.  If it helps, do you realize one of the reasons people exist on the fringe is their desire to bridge differences? The grays, or people on the fringes, will always be the first line of people willing to consider other perspectives.

But because I am (peculiarly) determined in my belief that all bridges can be crossed, I keep trying. I am honest and I want to give people the benefit of the doubt. I ignore the truth adjustments, weird excuses, or blatant deflections. Nevertheless, being excluded or labeled, “outsider” sucks. It is no longer about religion, but about tribe and belonging. I think I need help or advice or understanding or to finally find some consistent healing. Does it really need to be black and white? Do I really need to pretend my Mormon neighbor is not there when she is standing right in front of me? I keep writing, talking, and yes, even praying and meditating, in hopes of figuring out and resolving my weird relationship with Mormonism and the Utah Mormon community. Sometimes I think I have figured it out.  In those moments, I feel relief. Something happens and another layer peels away. Then I am reminded about  the incongruities between the inclusive Mormon teachings and reality.

Rest assured. At times, I  too, think I am crazy, brainwashed, or super weird for trying to resolve these disconnects between myself and my faith. I was raised in Minnetonka, Minnesota, where the LDS members clung tightly together in a place where Mormonism was considered a curiosity, and Mormons were definitely held at arm’s length. After feeling the culture exclusion, I swore I would never exclude or do anything to make someone feel less than.  And as fate would have it, I now live in opposite land:  Salt Lake City, Utah, a place where the predominant culture is Mormonism.  And now in this bizarre twist of fate, because Dave, the boys and I do not go to church, we are the peculiarity. We are definitely held at arm’s length, especially in our Mormon neighborhood. The disconnect kind of drives me crazy.  

My question: Why can’t people be normal (or in fairness, how normal like I see normal)? Why is it hard to embrace people on the fringes? Don’t they remember the persecution and rejection their religion suffered?  And really, why do they act so weird around me and my family once they realize we do not go to church?  It makes no sense. Wherever we live, the ward boundary dynamic is always the same. They are fine with us until they realize we are not exactly like them. And when a friend finally connects that we are different, they reflexively close the door (usually along with their friendship). It is so strange.  

Marianne and I, Red Iguana 2, Salt Lake City, Utah
Marianne and I, Red Iguana 2, Salt Lake City, Utah

Instead of the norm, I want things to be different. In some ways they are (actually). I want Kyle & Eli’s friends to consistently treat them equally, even though they do not attend Mormon seminary or attend Young Men’s activities. I want the neighbor ladies to include me in neighborhood text chats and group walks, even though I do not go to church. I want the dudes to include Dave on the fun stuff not just the awkward neighborhood football fellowshipping activity.  I want the dads to know that even though we do not go to church, and that my sons are not the LDS sons you want your daughters to date, my boys will always be respectful. I promise. Please know that we are strict. We talk to our boys about consent and we even follow Mormon cultural norms about dating and courtship.

Selfishly, I want to shake them and say,

“Come on. It is us, Beth, Dave, Kyle and Eli. We are respectful and we will not bite.We do not care that you go to church. Why do you care that we don’t?”

Am I asking too much? I do not expect perfection. How could I? We are not perfect. And really, I can be such a dork.  We know and understand you are super busy with all of your church commitments, obligations, and are most likely unaware of your commitment-based isolation (monoculture). Nevertheless it is clear you that unless we do it your way we will never fit in. We will remain the pariahs, which sucks,  by the way, because remember, we are nice. This could be an opportunity to heal or to bridge? And when you do connect, or when you do allow your children around Kyle and Eli, I do not understand why you get a pass and why we always feel like we have to present you with a personal worthiness resume, which includes, but is not limited to, a mention of our prominent LDS friends, our service experience, our Mormon history (yes, Dave & I went to BYU and all 4 years of seminary), and then why do we further need to assure you that we do not have amnesia regarding the Mormon church, its doctrine or values? And then there is this, why do we need to remain in compliance with Mormon dietary restrictions, especially when you are addicted to Diet Coke, secretly buying frappuccinos in the Starbuck’s drive-through line, binge eating desserts, hyper gossiping, Netflix binging, or drinking mass quantities of Red Bull? Finally, I want to shout (so it penetrates):

“None of this makes sense!”

Representing my people wearing my color: gray
Representing my people wearing my color: gray

In the end, I know the idea that we can all get along is my hope and really a fantasy. I know you have been taught a certain way and ultimately, I know I do not fit into any of those safe and acceptable boxes. Let me assure you again. I do not expect anyone to see the world like we do. I also know that our neighborhood is deeply rutted in cultural norms, traditions and expectations. From our perspective, you guys can seem a little cult-y and exclusive. We are willing to look beyond. We know we are the outsiders. Nevertheless, we are your neighbors. I walk the same sidewalks. Our kids go to the same schools. And sure, we may not be doing things the same as you anymore, but we are probably much more similar than you think. Bottom line is this:  You are a huge part of who we have always been.

An Ars Poetica to Travel Writing

Gothic Quarter, Barcelona, Spain, 2015
Gothic Quarter, Barcelona, Spain, 2015

As Eli and I sit in the huge hotel dining room amidst the new construction and amber-colored dangling glass pendant lights, I think about travel. I look around and listen to the sounds. People are traveling here from everywhere. There is the Brazilian family I see each day. This morning they are sitting near the coffee makers.  They are laughing as the father butters a toasted bagel.  I wonder what is so funny. Moments later I walk through the dining room with a banana-for-my-oatmeal in hand and hear the not-quite-German-sounding voices of three men, who I assume are Russian.  As I look at one of the men in particular I am drawn to his obnoxiously printed black and white v-neck tee. The words I hear in my brain are, “I want to go to Prague, (which yes, I know is actually in the Czech Republic, not Russia).” And that is how it always starts. I see or hear something, that gets me thinking and my conclusion is always, “I need to check that out.” This morning it was, “Could I take the boys to Prague the last two weeks of May? Prague is safe, right?” My brain immediately shifts to Miles and Points mode. I literally see the American Airlines online award screen in my head. And yes, it is American Airlines, because they have the most user friendly Awards Miles interface, and I think we have enough AA points saved up to get the three of us to Europe. I see the screen and I think, “How can I make this work?”

Breakfast now finished. I grabbed some mint herbal tea for the road. Hotels always seem to have some brand of mint tea. Today it is Tazo, one of my favorites. As we leave, I stop and tell the lovely Polynesian girl with her big, long ponytail that, “Yes, there is no more Zen Tea. I know. I am always the one who tells you.” She stopped wiping the table and looked up and in her super easy-going-friendly voice said, “thank you.”

“It is our last day.” I said.

“It is?”

“You will not have to hear about the Zen tea anymore.” I laughed.

“Oh no. You are always so nice. We will miss you.” She responded.

“You are sweet.” I said.

“Not everyone is like that.”

“Well thank you.”

She told us to enjoy our trip home as I thought, “she has no idea that we do not have one.”

Here is where I need to stop, and here is where today’s issue lies. Yes, it is no secret that I love travel. I basically told you as much in my fist paragraph.  My issue here is that so much of my (past) writing has been solely based solely on working out issues, whether they be fertility issues, mean girl issues, or parenting woes.  I feel bad and wonder. Because I have used an online platform to ruminate out loud, has my real passion (travel) been missed? See, I am even doing it now. I am trying to work through how my travel love is watered down when I write.

Don’t get me wrong. Feelings talk is good. And when I talk about my feelings, I process. There is a place for feelings talk when it comes to travel. That being said, I have spent many years writing out the feelings, and what I see is that as much feelings writing I do, I will never have control over how someone else feels about. And what I see and felt in the hotel hallway this morning is that unlike feelings talk, travel does not keep repeating itself. It gets better and it moves forward. It really is an adventure. Ultimately, travel makes me feel possible. I can plan a trip and then I can go. The end.

Eli and I walk in the elevator. “There were more people than usual at breakfast today.” I say.  He pushes the elevator button. “I think it is because it is the weekend.” He answers. The elevator stops. The doors open, we exit, and head back to our room.  Somewhere between the elevator and our room I think it again. “I love to travel and I love to write.” I think more about writing. Wait. Wait. Hold up. Ok, so before you fall asleep reading this and while I fight the urge to go back to bed myself, can I tell you something? You see, I think I had an epiphany. And in the upheaval of vagabond-living a.k.a. homelessness, an epiphany is something I need. The epiphany happened while I was both rounding the corner and scolding myself.  Eli, of course, had no idea I was scolding myself, because the scolding was all in my head.

Ok. Maybe I did not scold. I admonished. I told myself this, “Beth, maybe if you write out all the whiny stuff, you will write about what you really love – travel. And that whole ruminating thing you do, well, that can simply be an entertaining (or not) aspect of your adventure.”

Maybe it was simply something I saw, like a loud black and white v-neck T, or maybe all of this is on my brain because I am helping read essays for a scholarship in his name. Or possibly it is because I thought of him after my friend Jody, emailed pictures of my poems from his Creative Writing and Poetry class. And then there is the whole truth that National Poetry Month ended yesterday. Whatever it was, my very favorite creative writing teacher’s loud German-accented words entered my brain. “Write the garbage out and then you will find the beauty.”  Once again I was having my own little Archibald-Machleish’s-Ars -Poetica moment right in our hotel hallway, “A poem should not mean/But be.”

We were almost to our room.  As I reached for my key card, Eli grabbed his and said, “I’ve got it.”

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The Space In Between The Spaces

Liminal Us
Liminal Us

We, the Adams Family, are living in a hotel. Yes, you read that correctly. For thirty-one days, Dave, Kyle, Eli and I have been sharing approximately 463 Square feet of space.  Each night the boys trade between a comfy foam floor bed and a sleeper sofa. As long-term guests our room is cleaned twice a week, and we call often for more toilet paper, bath towels, and clean sheets (clean sheets because the sleeper sofa is often skipped on cleaning day).  We are grateful we have a nice place to rest our heads, and have only suffered one casualty – a broken car window and stolen laundry supplies via a smash and grab (soap, stain remover, and color safe bleach – may your clothes be very clean, and you not bleach your colors, you most irritating thieves).

We checked in to our hotel Sunday evening, March 08, 2015. And for the first time, we are not just visiting the Bay Area, we are trying to live.

Here is what happened. Or better, here is what made my brain wheels spin, and my center of gravity consider a reconfiguration.  It was early in our hazy-lovely-dream-scary-nightmare-of-constant-around-the-clock-power-drill-construction-work-and-one-bedroom-hotel living.  Dave updated his “where I live” Facebook Status from Park City, Utah to Emeryville, California. And before I could object, (because this hotel is temporary, damn it), one of our well-meaning friends replied, “Emeryville?” And whether true or not, I sensed her Emeryville was also followed by a very loud and of course all-powerful, “ew.”  Her words continued, “I thought you were going to live in San Francisco. What happened?”

Yes, What happened?

I wanted to respond, “No, Facebook Friend. See, Dave was downplaying things a bit. We actually bought a 6.5 million dollar Pacific Heights three story, which is of course within the actual San Francisco city limits.  He only said Emeryville because we did not want to sound pretentious.” And maybe for a moment I wanted it to be true.  I wanted Pacific Heights to be our space.

Our Emeryville Hotel
Our Emeryville Hotel

Alas, we did not purchase a Pacific Heights three story. We are not living within the San Francisco city limits. Dave does not have a hipster beard-grooming budget and my heart did not grow three sizes this past month or even today. That is not our journey.

We are living in a hotel.

The bedroom in our Emeryville Hotel
The bedroom in our Emeryville Hotel

With my defenses heightened, instead of reading her words as a sincere question, I admittedly interpreted her Emeryville comment as public condemnation. Judgment, and the words I heard were a sneering, “You said you were going to live in San Francisco, not the crappy little industrial town that sits on the east side of the Bay Bridge –E M E R Y V I L L E! Ew!

Before I said something I would have to delete, I asked Dave why. “Why did you say Emeryville? We aren’t living anywhere. We do not know where we are going to be or even when we are going to be there?”  With that, he deleted his “where I live” status update, but as I found today, his “where I live” page still says, Emeryville. “Hey Baby (of course I am referring to Dave), we do not live in Emeryville!”

The space between the spaces is where we live and where we continue to be.  Until now, during a time when I am acutely jammed between one situation and the next, I have not been able to articulate my space. How do I make people understand that Dave does not work a traditional brick and mortar job? Does it matter?  We simply do not move to San Francisco, buy a house, the end. We have been in this space before we arrived in Emeryville, and will be in this space once we leave. Because my husband is a high tech entrepreneur, we tend to live on the fence of life.  Until now, our in-between-the-spaces living has been fine. It was the road we traveled. And because I tend to be a person who likes to keep all options open, in truth, I think I am well suited for this road.

Then we arrived in Emeryville.  After thirty-one days of hotel living, (not traveling living), I realize that I need more. (And maybe finally, because finally something is actually pushing me out of the in between).

The Toaster Oven we bought online and had delivered to our hotel
The Toaster Oven we bought online and had delivered to our hotel

As I reach for my own solid place to land, I started thinking about the word “liminal.” It is a word I was introduced to last year. And according to the OED, it means “occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.”

I learned about the spaces in between the space in my American Literature class. I was up to my eyeballs in literary theory and analysis, and my professor happened to have a keen appreciation for literary spatial theory. In that world, liminal space refers to the space in between; whether it is the actual space, or say the space between words. As prophetic as this concept seems now, I can tell you that Literary Spatial Theory made absolutely no sense to me. None. I could talk about it. I thought it made sense. That was, until the words left my mouth. I was often met by glazed confusion or utter dismay. “The space between the spaces? That is nonsense!” I wrote papers about space. I wrote about Silas Lapham, a man whose unending struggle was his difficulty moving from one social class to the next. He never fit into either. Ah-ha! He was stuck in the space between the spaces.

How the boys put the towels away. Muwahahaha!
How the boys put the towels away. Muwahahaha!

I get you, Silas Lapham. I am trying to find my place. In my case it is actually a literal space.  I do not like living in no man’s land. And really, liminal seems a term best suited for college papers, not my real life. Another definition of liminal is the state between rituals. I like this definition, and promise to cite it here – if I remember. The OED goes on to suggest that during a ritual’s liminal stage, participants  “stand at the threshold between their previous ways of structuring their identity, time, or community.” And our threshold apparently is a hotel room in Emeryville, CA.  Emeryville is not a shitty East Bay town set at the end of the Bay Bridge. Well, it is a town set at the end of the Bay Bridge. And these days it is actually pretty nice with its fancy outdoor malls, overpriced condos, and Ikea down the street.  Emeryville is our space. And right not, it is the place between the spaces, a place where we are trying to figure things out. And it is a place where our new ritual begins – wherever that happens to be.

 

 

 

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Through My Fingers


We just finished listening to Lois Lowry’s, The Messenger, the third novel in her loosely woven book series. Many of you might know her as the author of The Giver, a brilliant, bleak, and hopeful dystopian novel, which explores the familiar oppressive, what-happens-after-societies-collapse themes of that genre.   I love thinker books like these. Eli’s class is currently reading it, and he is proudly one of four kids who has already read the book. “Mom, it is still interesting the second time around.” He tells me as we drive the long, straight road between his and Kyle’s schools. “I bet it is.” I say.

And as I think about it now and thought about it then, my guess is that by the time your son or daughter reaches Middle School they have probably read The Giver too.  Kyle read it first, then Dave, followed by Eli with me picking it up and handing it over every time someone else wanted to read. I love this speculative story of a juxtaposed world where there is complete, controlled harmony, you do the specific job you were born to do, yet no one can see color, that is, until Jonas, the protagonist, sees the red of an apple. Eventually I finished, and the book left me wanting more.  For a few days I Googled and Wikipedia’d everything I could find.  I was obsessed. I was grateful Jonas was free of the oppression, and needed to know,  “where did Jonas go?”

Actually, we all loved The Giver, and as time passes, comparing our day-to-day to its worlds-forever-changed themes brings us back, deconstructing all of its creepy little bits. Ok. I swear I am not trying to write a book review, or better, a book report here.  And because The Giver is universally loved in this Adams Family, when we were at the library the other day, and because I knew we were hitting the road, I decided to check out another something I hoped we would all enjoy. Banking on our Dune-meets-Fablehaven love, I checked out the next two Lois Lowry books on c.d. Gathering Blue was almost as good, and The Messenger was way too short, seemed to be the darkest of the three, and made my throat swell with achy sadness as it ended. Spoiler Alert: Yes, someone dies at the end, and yes, we are all completely annoyed.

Ok so why am I mentioning this book today? It actually connects to an interview I was listening to on NPR this morning. Diane Rehm was interviewing the author of, The Great Santini, Pat Conroy.  His book (which was made into a movie starring Robert Duvall) is loosely based on Pat Conroy’s can’t-help-loving, successful, yet extremely strict and abusive Marine father. As I listened to him tell Diane Rehm about his flight into Washington DC that day, he said, “Diane, I remember it all. I remember where I was standing and how I protected my family from our father. As we flew over Alexandria, Fairfax, and all the places we lived, I remember exactly where I was.”

“I don’t.”

That is what I thought. I do not remember. I cannot see where I was standing. Sure, I can see very distinct bits and pieces.  Like me standing there,  freezing on a cold morning. I was standing outside my grandfather’s car, parked alongside Lake Mil Lacs in Northern Minnesota. I stood there firmly yelling at my grandpa, watching him move his little black and white television with a metal coat hanger shoved into the antenna spot from the back to the front seat.  Next I can see myself unwillingly hidden in a sea of hanging Persian Rugs. Why did I go with my stepsisters to the Minnesota Museum of Art? Why did I go with those crazy old people, strangers my sisters called their grandparents? I was lost and I wanted to go home.  I can see the nurse tell Dave, “You have to decide which of her organs to donate.” To her I was invisible. She did not know I could hear her every word.  I have blocked out a lot. That is what I do. What I haven’t blocked out I have been asked not to say. I totally get it.  I know my childhood was intense. I know my life has been nuts, and as Dave often says, “You do not have to make things up. You do not need to borrow, steal, misappropriate, or even exaggerate your own story. Your life is crazy, full of tragedy and heartache, interesting, and stands all by itself.” And then I think, “thank God I am still here. I am happy to be here. I kept getting back up.  How did I get back up?”  And I think, “Thank God my insides are filled with these truths and I do not have to reach outside, stealing or better, justifying, my use of “Creative License” to make you think more.”  I do not have to cheat my life to make you read, and for that, I am grateful!

As I pulled into our driveway, I continued to listen. I listened as Pat Conroy told the lovely and distinctive-voiced Diane Rehm how he was able to heal his relationship with his own father.  It took years, and it took telling his story out loud. He kept talking about his mom and how they had a plan. “We had shifts. We were always on the look out for my dad, protecting each other and my younger brothers and sisters.” He talked about the ability to tell his story.  I love the lack of shame in his words. This was simply his life. I thought about his freedom to tell the truth. And with my hands tied and PTSD-induced memory blocked, I thought, maybe I am more like Lois Lowry than Pat Conroy.  Meaning maybe I need to go more with obscure tales of distant worlds, painting scenes filled with obscure characters, characters created with fragments of my haunted and tender past.  Wait. I just do not buy it. Sure, Dystopian themes can safely teach us all to reflect and do better, and I actually think it would be easier and much less pain inflicting to write my own end-of-the-world tale rather than trying to un-puzzle this puzzle.

Clearly I can see the painted brown left side garage frame and the bright orange and yellow autumn leaves wrapped around the bushes.  This is where I was as I drove the car mid way between the driveway and  inside the garage. This is what I thought, “maybe the Dystopian Societies we think are bleak, scary, prophetic, safe to write about, and far in the future are actually my now.”

That is why I thought of Gathering Blue. See, in Gathering Blue and The Messenger there was a character named, Kira.  She was born with a deformed leg. Her father (supposedly) died and was then left in the field, a place where Kira’s society leaves the weak, disabled, and where the beasts will get you. Because of her mother’s strength, Kira was allowed to stay in the community. Sadly, however, when Kira was still quite young, her mother died of a sudden, terrible illness.  When Kira’s mother died, women of her community burned down her home, stole her belongings (I know. How crappy!) and wanted Kira sent to the field. Instead, and because of her gift, Kira was allowed to stay.

It may or may not help to know that all the main characters in the Lois Lowry books appear to have special gifts. Jonas, in The Giver, is able to see beyond, and Kira’s gift allows her to see the past and future through the weaving (needlepoint). Through her fingers, she is able to weave the future. She is allowed to stay in her community because the leaders of the society need her to mend and update the robe that shows the history and future of the society. Nearly done with this post I keep thinking that maybe these kinds of books are not your cup of tea. Bear with me. I promise a connection.  As a mother of two boys and a Post-Apocalyptic-Novel loving husband, however, these are the books we read. My hope is that somehow it is all making sense.  With my mouth protective and taped shut, like Kira, my memories also come through my fingers. Crazy and coincidentally-dramatic as it may sound, I swear it is true. I wonder if it is the same for Lois Lowry.

For a non-Dystopian-teenage-novel example, I will tell you that right this moment you could be sitting next to me at Starbucks. And as I type this post you could ask me, “Hey, Beth, what was the craziest thing that happened to you as a kid?” You could ask me, “Tell me about Kyle’s illness.” I promise you I would hesitate, I would falter. My face would read blank.  I would give you short answers like, “It sucked,” or, “there was the time my sister and brother let us melt color crayons onto glass pop bottles over the stove when my parents were gone. Guess what?  We almost burned the house down! You should have seen the flames coming off of the stove!” I promise I would tell you what may sound crazy, but was definitely safe.  As I tried to articulate Kyle’s story, I promise I would not want to impose the fear I felt as I watched him face death. It’s not that I am afraid of my words. I love my stories. I struggle to know how to write them without hurt or imposition. When you ask, it may seem weird, yet I really cannot speak them. I can ask you about yours. I love to hear yours.

And as I learned about Kira and her weaving gift, I did think of myself, every single time I sit myself in front of this computer screen, write down every deep, dark, hard and painful word. The words flow, bleeding out. They come as along as my fingers tap away on the keys. Moments forgotten catch their breath and leap through my hands. I often go back and read so I can remember too.  I am grateful. Seriously, I am grateful, I think my gift or my defect lets all of this stuff find its way out, especially when I do not feel like I have permission to say them out loud.
—-
After writing this post Dave and I talked. Then I cried. I cried so hard my tears took my breath away.  He reminded me of something one of our favorite writers, Anne Lamott, once said. I looked it up, and here it is:

“You can’t find your true voice and peer behind the door and report honestly and clearly to us if your parents are reading over your shoulder. They are probably the ones who told you not to open that door in the first place. You can tell if you they’re there because a small voice will say, ‘Oh, whoops, don’t say that, that’s a secret,’ or ‘That’s a bad work,’ or ‘Don’t tell anyone you jack off. They’ll all start doing it.’ So you have to breathe or pray or do therapy to send them away. Write as if your parents are dead.”

–Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

 

 

Breakfast with the Boys

The Boys

“Has anyone seen my pile of credit cards?” Dave says
as Justin asks, “Do you want an egg?”
I respond, “”no.”
To which Justin responds, “I’ll scramble it.”

Kevin sits quietly reading, Outside Magazine, as Dave frantically weaves in out and out of the kitchen. Justin just burned his croisant and I ask him, “are you making a Croissan’wich?”

The Original Burger King Croissan’wich
Justin’s Croissan-wich 2012

“Yes. The Croissan’wich was popularized in the mid 1980s.” He inserts as he shakes a little salt and and pepper onto to his eggy creation.”

The I ask Justin, “What did I just ask you?”
Justin laughs, “Is this Cheese and sausage?” He laughs. “Really the question is, is it is cheese or a sausage blog?”

Now that is a good question and instead of answering that question I continue to type and wonder what Kevin is reading about so I will ask. As I start to ask, Justin comes and sits next to me. I am transfixed with his Croissan’wich and I forget to ask. Kevin gets up and asks with Croisant in hand, “How long do I toast this thing without burning it?”

Justin gives him some advice and before Justin can take a bite I ask him to model his sandwich for me. From somewhere outside of the kitchen I here Dave say to the lady on the phone, “I will hand the phone to my wife and she will give you the information you need.” As he enters the kitchen he then hands me the phone and tells me that I need to talk to the lady and I do.

As I continue typing, Lisa at the Credit card company is explaining to me that over the next sixteen billing cycles I can earn earn 750 airline miles blah blah blah because I am listening to Dave explain to Justin what I am doing.

And this is a tiny glimpse into Guy’s Weekend. Every Mid-January a different variety of dudes show up at our house to play board games and ski. Every year Dave has a new board game, I get the rooms ready, pull out the guest coffee maker (I drink Green Tea). And the one constant is that every year you know Justin (Dave’s lifelong BFF) will be here and because you know Justin will be here, everyone is happy.

Justin making his Croissan’wich

The Summary: I am NOT AN IDIOT!

. . . So now here I sit in one of the many Salt Lake City Starbucks. My boys are down in Salt Lake City attending an afternoon art class. By the way, they LOVE it! Eli is making his very own two-sided ugly doll and Kyle is making a leather snake in honor of one very special baby Copperhead. Because this post has taken months to write, here I really sit at my kitchen island. Both boys are in bed asleep, Dave is at the computer slurping down a bowl of cereal, booking flights to Mexico. Ok, here is where I really sit. I am upstairs in my office. The sun is shining on my laptop and I am laughing out loud because Busy Mom found her debit card and finding her debit card is a call for treats. All I can think about is walking to the kitchen and slicing myself a giant piece of Gluten Free Cake. It is taking every ounce of self-control to remain at the keyboard.

For the past year in fits, starts and good intentions, I have been trying to re-launch my blog. Probably the biggest set back was Kyle’s long battle with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome. I have mentioned that we almost lost Kyle and that Kyle almost lost his eyesight. His eyes still give him trouble and his immune system is still not great. Just last week he had Strep Throat, Hand Foot & Mouth and an ugly Staph Infection on his upper thigh. Our journey is not over. And today, because Kyle was in the hospital exactly one year ago, this is a very tender time for us. In the coming weeks I will share our journey. While Kyle was sick we also learned very quickly that there just is not enough information out there about Stevens Johnson’s Syndrome and its lingering effects. I hope to change that, even a little.

In June when we started to accept that Kyle was going to be ok, my body decided to crash. One day I had a sinus infection. Two weeks later I had a miserable case of Pneumonia. I have never been that afraid for my own health. When your breathing is compromised, that is so freaking scary. I decided once again that crazyus.com could wait and that I needed to get myself well.
I spent the summer doing just that.

Stevens Johnsons Syndrome
Stevens Johnsons Syndrome
Kyle's Stevens Johnson Syndrome
Kyle’s Stevens Johnson Syndrome
Stevens Johnson Syndrome
Stevens Johnson Syndrome

Look at it this way. This is my story to tell.

So of course, I am grateful. I am for those people who will always hold a big space in my heart, like my lifers like Marianne and Melanie, like my Park City bestie, Beth, and my flip-flop wearing pal, MB. Thank you!  I have learned a lot. I am light. I am dark. I am not perfect. I am grateful and happy to be at it again.

We are good, not Facebook-Status-Picture-Perfect good, but really behind-the-scenes, good. The boys are well into the school year and I am ready to rumble. For now I will leave you with a quote my friend Stacey told me earlier today after discussing how we can help our boys navigate this crazy world. It’s a little sappy and I love it! Thank you Dr. Seuss!:

“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

― Dr. Seuss

 

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