Dear Texas

The trees are green and water falls in sheets. 
I'm minutes from everywhere.
But.
My feet are cold and my arms are empty. 
I miss you.

Who Says?

Women are so hard on themselves.  To be honest, others are hard on us too.

Time for positive reinforcement.  I give you: cheesy but true words, courtesy of Disney's and Justin Bieber's favorite, Selena Gomez!

Selena Gomez, "Who Says?"

Disregarding Miss Manners

If I were in a band, I would want to make a video just like this:

I love the disdainful grimacing.  I love the sea life in motion.  I love the bleached faux-hawk.  It makes me happy.

Anyone up for a dinner party?

The rising generation: pioneers in their own lands

I debated whether or not to share this here, because for reasons I can't entirely explain and despite my Utah background, discussing my religious beliefs in a public forum is difficult for me.  I just tend to keep those things private.  But I was so thrilled and moved by this video that I have to share it.  Besides, my religious views are probably not much of a mystery to the people who know about and might possibly still be checking this blog (which probably began to seem like a hopeless exercise long, long ago).

To preface: It has been nearly 10 years since I spent the summer in St. Petersburg, Russia.  I returned in August 2001, a mere month before the September 11 attacks.

There must have been a point when I was very young that I became aware of Russia and decided it was "my place," but I don't remember what or when that was.  It really has just always been.  I daydreamed, fantasized, prayed and hardly dared to hope that I would someday spend a significant amount of time there, speaking Russian with Russians.  That it actually happened is what made me believe in God, individual miracles and joy.

Now, it's difficult to believe it's been so long ago, but somehow it has.  Spring still reminds me of the time I spent preparing to go -- delivering checks to BYU and travel agents, getting electric converters and taking hilarious classes about how to say no to gypsies (yell "Nyet!" repeatedly and keep walking) and "roll" into a crowded subway train.  I was 22 then, and I felt so old.

I'll save most of my impressions of Russia for another day (or, perhaps, forever), but one thing I felt distinctly was concern for the church's growth in Russia.  I had several Russian and Ukrainian friends at BYU, and when I considered my interactions with them and with the young people I met in Russia, I wondered if any young adults who joined the church would remain in their homeland.  Despite family ties and national loyalty, most young church members seemed to want to attend BYU and explore the world. 

When I thought about this in conjunction with some very deeply-rooted cultural differences that would present obstacles to church standards adherence, I didn't feel very hopeful about the prospects of a large church presence in Russia.  I knew about the announcement of the Kiev, Ukraine, temple and became more hopeful after several talks were given by general authorities about being a missionary in one's own country. 

It took so long for the church to be allowed into the former Soviet Union -- what could be better than seeing it thrive? 

I should not have doubted.  The Kiev temple was dedicated in August of last year, and this clip is proof that the church is in good hands.  Enjoy.

Finishing an unfinished post about an unfinished life

I started a new post and realized that I began this one on November 18, 2009.  I suppose I meant to go into detail about the ceremony on the flight line, the massive groups of volunteers the Army sent and our own Airmen provided, and my thoughts on it all, but didn't have the strength.  Please indulge me: I wanted to finish it, even if it was only for my own benefit.

Those mornings at the flight line were short, but very emotional.  They are among the most special moments of my life.  Though I did nothing but stand and sniffle (I totally admit it), I felt like I was giving back something to families who had paid a very high price for something their loved ones believed in.  Watching them suffer, I found it necessary to believe, too.

Each time we met there and put out chairs and bottled waters to keep family members comfortable, every time we directed to their places service members who had volunteered to stand in formation in freezing cold or blistering heat (once it was so hot, an Airman actually fainted) to salute the casket, and every time we lined the streets, I thought about life's and love's preciousness.  I thought a lot about the poem "Dulce et Decorum est," by Wilford Owen and wondered what, exactly, we are fighting for in Afghanistan and Iraq.

We have said for years that these vibrant men and women are fighting and dying for our freedoms, but with each flag-draped casket, I couldn't help thinking that this person could have lived to get married or to see their first-born child, and I could probably still be free.  The sacrifices being made by our service members mean everything to me; I don't know if I would be strong enough to make them.  But I have to be honest -- every time I saw a mother's, father's, spouse's, sibling's or grandparent's face, I would not have been able to tell them why this separation was necessary.  However, I miss being able to support them during these heartbreaking reunions.  Even now, I'm conflicted.

Anyway, what I began to say in November 2009, but never finished, was this:

I spent my morning honoring a fallen Army paratrooper.  He was Specialist Benjamin Sherman.  He was 21 years old, and he was married to the woman he fell in love with in 8th grade.  Their first child will be born in March.

Watching Spc. Sherman's pregnant widow, I thought of my maternal grandparents, who also fell in love in 8th grade, married and were separated for a time during war. But my grandpa returned. They had 4 children and were married more than 50 years before death parted them. If only I could rewrite history, give the Shermans a similar ending.

There have been nearly 20 mornings like this since early 2007, when the fallen began returning to their loved ones in Massachusetts through our care.  They are the most uplifting and most heartbreaking mornings of my life.

Gratitude journal 1: power realized

As I've grown older, I've learned that victories need not be grand. Sometimes victories are small-scale and personal, yet notable to a loyal few -- perhaps more suited to quietly blogging than shouting from the rooftops about. Though I can't take the credit for it, I enjoyed one of those victories today, and I wanted to express gratitude.

Today I'm grateful for:
inspiration
assurance
conviction
courage
resolve
guidelines
indignation
advice
understanding
support
family
friends
familiarity
wistfulness
daydreams and hope
struggle and triumph
self confidence
faith
realization

Sometimes when I feel most insignificant, I am able to reflect upon my life experience and reference all of these elements throughout -- and I see only the power pain tries to mask.

I am claiming another victory because today I was powerful and tonight I am grateful.

I can't make you love me if you don't

For me, the most painful thing in the world is allowing other people and their lives to matter to me and then learning that I don't matter back. Ask me what the past nine months has been like for me, and that is my answer.

I've been told to expect less from others than I'm willing to give. If anyone has learned how to lower their expectations, I'm all ears. This pattern must be broken.

Hee.

As a history major and grammar punk, I had to post this little gem.

A patriotic grievance

I need to get something off my chest. Someday I promise to write something funny and winning, but today is not the day. Today, I am truly angry and deeply disappointed.

So, on Friday that horrible Westboro Baptist Church -- the one that sends both adults and small children to protest at military funerals -- will be protesting outside one of our gates. I just read an intelligence briefing encouraging Hanscom people to stay away from the protest due to the emotionally-charged and offensive nature of their protests (apparently they tape protests in case someone becomes violent, then they prosecute to earn funds for more protests -- sick). The protests include desecration of the flag and offensive slogans, both shouted and written on signs. I just read some sample slogans, and my eyes are literally stinging in revulsion.

My great wish is that those with base-related duties, as well as everyone else, will stay far away from that gate and refuse to give these people what they most want -- attention -- but I know already that the press has been alerted to the event. We have received calls from media outlets requesting comment; obviously we do not have one we deem appropriate to share.

I dislike these people far more than I dislike the protesters who hang out at Temple Square. No matter what one's religion, race, gender, sexual-orientation, or creed, the U.S. military should be a uniting entity for Americans. Whether or not we agree on the missions they are commanded to carry out, whether or not every individual who wears the uniform acts in a way that is worthy of it, our troops are who keep us and many others safe and free. I realize the military is not perfect; the mission certainly is not perfect. My eyes are wide open to historical and present controversies and I have my reservations about many things, as those who have talked to me well know.

If one does not agree with the mission, however, the appropriate action to take should be to inform their Congress-person or protest in a federal arena, such as on Capitol Hill, not near the homes of those who serve dutifully to make sure our borders are secure, our people safe and our interests protected.

Whatever the extravagances, arrogance and failures of this nation, its leaders past and present and our military campaigns, I truly believe that our service members are some of the very best of the best. I know the service members that I work with every day are. When I think of the grieving families I see on an all too frequent basis, piled in cars following their loved ones' hearses, and then of these protesters whose insolent slogans have to be drowned out of the cemeteries by the Patriot Riders' revving Harleys, I can't even describe the disgust that floods my soul.

How many of us can say with certainty that we know people who would give their lives for us, if necessary? Every American who knows a member of the military, because our service members have pledged to defend us from "all enemies, foreign and domestic." There should not be domestic enemies.

It does no one any good to upset and hurt people who spend their lives sacrificing their safety, comfort, and family lives to help and protect others. I will never understand people who enjoy doing so, or who imagine God would encourage such behavior.

Shame on this protest, and on the Westboro Baptist Church.*

*I want to clarify that I do NOT associate this particular congregation with any other of the Baptist faith, or with any other faith, for that matter.

Drawing inspiration, seeking clarity

My dear friend, Frank, performed this poem at a poetry reading in a small, quasi-seedy club in Cambridge that we frequented together. I've been drawing inspiration from it lately, though I'm still trudging through the "wild night" at this point. I wish you could hear him perform it, but posting the text will have to do until he gets back to Boston and I can get him to recite it on camera.

The Journey
by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

I Want to Win! Do You?

I am shameless. I will admit it freely. I am posting this entirely so I can comment on Jana's blog and win something that she has made (she is outrageously creative and talented, you know). However, I will make good on the promise to follow. Here goes:

I am unlucky when it comes to winning contests...How lucky are you? I double dare you to accept this challenge.This game involves a few of my favorite things: handmade goods, creativity, and gift-giving.

Here are the tagging instructions: The first five people to respond to this post will get something made by me! My choice. For you. This offer does have some restrictions and limitations:

1- I make no guarantees that you will like what I make!

2- What I create will be just for you.

3- It'll be done this year. (might be a little while)

4- You have no clue what it's going to be. It may be a story. It may be poetry or an article on properly cleaning your face before a masque. I may draw or paint something. I may bake you something and mail it to you. Who knows? Not you, that's for sure!

5- I reserve the right to do something extremely strange.

The catch?

Oh, the catch is that you must re-post this on your blog and offer the same to the first 5 people who do the same on your blog. The first 5 people to do so and leave a comment telling me they did win a FAB-U-LOUS homemade gift by me! Oh, and be sure to post a picture of what you win when you get it!

Sound good? Good.

On Tom Hanks

Perhaps you have heard about Tom Hanks' recent remark about his perception that Mormons' support of Proposition 8 was un-American. Perhaps you have not. Much ado was NOT made about Mr. Hanks' statement or eventual "apology," and that is wrong.

Had he offended any other religion or race, we would have had an international event on our hands. Regardless of how I feel about the Mormon faith, homosexuality or Proposition 8, I'm pretty bugged.

It is interesting to me how people justify themselves. I’m irritated that Mr. Hanks finds it reprehensible to discriminate against homosexuals, yet feels fine about discriminating against Mormons. If one is truly against discrimination, one should be against discrimination of ALL peoples -- else would one not be, in fact, discriminating?

I appreciate his clarification, yet he is not apologizing for and reconsidering his generalization of and negative feelings toward Mormons, as is what one should do when he realizes he has judged an entire people and ventured into hypocrisy. His statement seemed calculated to take the offensive edge off his heartfelt remark and nip any residual chatter in the bud.

If one shouldn't say something about people of a specific race or religious affiliation or sexual persuasion lest it cause offense, one should not say it about Mormons either. The Mormons' right to be treated and spoken to and about with respect is as sacred and Constitutional as any other group's.

(I will not go into the vast amounts of Catholic, Methodist, Evangelical, and minority cash and votes which assisted those of California's Mormons who truly voted for Prop 8, in passing it. Alternately, I know many Mormons who voted against it. Mormons make up less than two percent of California's population, yet they alone -- minus a large chunk of their ranks -- got a law passed? That would be a feat indeed!)

Comment for my thoughts?

Well, someone finally said it. "Uh, hello! It's time for a new post!" Honestly, I was hoping no one would notice how long it has been. And yet, in addition to feeling a teensy bit of shame, I'm also flattered that I have readers who care.

But anyway . . . I would love to oblige you. It's just . . . well, there is naught to do but admit to horrible writer's block. I honestly don't know what to say.

Perhaps it is a work-related hazard? For a living, I DO stare daily at blank and horribly disfigured Word documents -- hoping to somehow infuse them with life and push them to reach their potential. But that's no excuse for abandoning a perfectly decent blog and faithful readers.

How's this: I'll make this a little more interactive. I'm no autocrat! I'll take suggestions. What would YOU like me to write about? Anything come to mind? Anything?

Majorly Spiralling (Oooh!)

A year and a half ago, I fell hard for these broody Brits who clothed their sexy disillusionment in bouncy, anthemic orchestrations. I mean, really, what red-blooded, tragic young woman could resist such sensitive, arty babes -- uh, boys -- compelling her to head-bob along with them as, over and over, their hearts all broke together in perfect harmony?

(Not to mention those white belts and that hair tossing . . . )

Not this one. No, sir-ee.

So, since the moment they announced they were working on a new album, that things were better than ever between them and they were having the time of their lives, I have dreaded the release of their third album, "Perfect Symmetry." Not that I don't want them to be happy without me -- I absolutely do! But couldn't their music stay miserable?

Well, you can imagine my horrified delight when I got a load of the first track on P.S., which all the reviews are calling "sassy," "disco-rockin'" and "Bowie-esque."

AND I LOVED IT! I loved every "Ooooh!"

So, enjoy. If you find yourself downloading and listening to it to the exclusion of all other worthy tunes, let's chat.

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

~By Stevie Smith~

We'll Be Loving You (Forever), NKOTB

That was then . . .

This is now . . . (!!!)

Some of you are familiar with my penchant for fandemonium in general, which is why I wanted to share an email I sent last week to some good friends who knew me at the height of a particularly intense period of fandom. (Does anyone else remember the poster, featuring my dreamboats posed atop a ladder, which spanned the entire length and width of my bedroom door?) Good times.

Dear (picture your name here),

I was belly laughing this morning on my way to work. Two radio stations I switch back and forth between during my morning drive were taking calls about the two New Kids on the Block concerts that took place here this weekend (you know the Kids are Boston natives, right?).

It was hilarious. All these women around my age (20s to early 40s) were calling in absolutely GUSHING about how great it was.

"Oh, my God! It was the BEST night of my life!"

"I sat in the __ row, and when they came into the audience, I could practically TOUCH them! EEEEEE! I almost fainted!"

"It was definitely the BEST concert I've EVER been to! They were absolutely a-MAZE-ing!!! I couldn't stop screaming and crying!"

"I love them so much!!!!! They're so hot!!!!!!"

"You should have seen the pregnant women trying to squeeze into their teenage New Kids T-shirts!"

"I wore a jean jacket COVERED with the pins I collected in the 90s!"

"All of the sudden I was 12 again!"

"I only have their cassettes, but I am going out TODAY to buy ALL of their music and an iPod!"

So many exclamation points. I kind of wish I had shelled out the cash to go. Apparently they sang ALL of the classics. Aaahhh, the memories.

One station even decided to play, "You Got It (the Right Stuff)," and all these women called in to thank them.

"Just hearing their songs makes my heart pound!"

"That's just what I needed to get me out of bed and excited about the day!"

Ah, je regret! I guess it might have been worth $60 to be that ridiculous again. (And to see other adult women--some much older and there with their DAUGHTERS--do the same.) Next time for SURE. But I won't be calling in to any radio stations--before or after.

--Mere

Happy Birthday, Baby

Dear Maddie,

I can't believe I met you six years ago today. It's cliche, but true. At the same time it seems like I've always known you and that you've been around such a short time. How is that possible?

I met you the day you were born. I didn't realize on the drive to the hospital how that would boggle my mind forever after, and feel so significant. But as I looked at you, this tiny, tiny little bedroll in a pink and blue hospital cap, I couldn't wrap my head around the idea that only the day before--even a few hours earlier, actually--you were this bump in your mom's tummy that caused heartburn and backaches, and now you were this miniature, pink, sleeping person, with perfect little person parts. It was amazing. I wondered how well you might already know us, and what your late night and early morning had been like before you came. I still marvel that we've been acquainted since the very beginning of your journey.

I've never seen your parents so exhausted, but so happy. When I pronounced you perfect, they smiled graciously--modestly trying to hide the fact that they were already well aware. I appreciated their pretending I had said something totally new and original. But I could tell they had already had the very same thought at least a million times before I arrived.

When your mom asked if I wanted to hold you, I could not contain myself. I don't know if I actually shouted in the maternity ward full of sleeping babies and exhausted mothers, but it felt like I did. While scrubbing my hands and arms with antibacterial gel, my own mother was giving me one of her looks.

I'm still not sure if that look meant that I should know the offer was merely a polite gesture or that I should have refused because I could cause you harm, but it was clear my mom was annoyed that I hadn't declined.

Now, Maddie, it's very important to do what your mother says. I've learned that 99.95 percent of the time we should believe and obey our mothers. However, in this case, I was completely, 100 percent in the right when I smiled and deliberately ignored the look, and took you in my arms.

You were so light! I was afraid I would fumble you, trying to make sense of how tiny you were. When you nestled in the crook of my arm, sleeping peacefully and looking impossibly like a tiny copy of both of your parents, I fell madly in love for the first time.

Standing in your mom's hospital room and holding you when you were brand new gave me insight I hadn't gained in multitudes of conferences, devotionals, meetings and firesides. Instantly, seeing you wearing baby-sized copies of your mommy's nose and upper lip, I knew that you are what our lives are all about.

Little, innocent baby Maddies and Ians and Jacobs and Nicholases are why we value God, love and family, friends, honesty, integrity, health and strength, hard work, education, and all other forms of purity. We keep our bodies and minds clean and pure, so when the time comes, nothing in our power will interfere with our babies being as perfect and healthy as you were that day. We live the way we know we should, educate ourselves, and take care of our bodies and our reputations, so we have the tools we need to educate you, take care of you, and give you a name you can be proud of.

Holding you, I thought of a line from a movie that has always struck me, and I felt deep inside how true it really was. Of his ancestors, a man said, "Now, I am the only reason they ever existed." I knew that now you are the reason many incredible human beings--some whose names we don't even know--existed.

So, even though you're so grown up now and we've played Polly Pockets and Barbies and dress ups and hairdresser, I realize that you taught me more in your first day than I will ever teach you, and I'm so grateful for what I've learned from you.

I love you so much. I'm very excited to see you next week.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MADDIE-CAKE!!!

Karma is indeed a boomerang

Certain individuals in my office are known for having fun with Photoshop. I will cop to being the mastermind in this instance, but I will not claim the dirty work -- i.e. making light of our fearless commander's judging position by assembling faux Mrs. Massachusetts contestant dossiers -- complete with profile photos featuring high-ranking wing officials' heads on Patriots cheerleaders' bodies.

Lest you fear for my job, I will report that the joke went over famously. Our fearless commander-turned-pageant-judge gave us all high marks and the game officials' biggest concern was who had the best legs, tush, and other salient female parts.

It was almost the perfect prank. Almost.

So, I have been tasked with getting the word out about the annual Military Retiree Day events on base, which I am thrilled about. I'm the proud granddaughter of a World War II veteran, so every elderly retiree is an adopted grandparent. Unless he laps me on the track, in which case he is no family of mine.

A dear, grandfatherly retired master sergeant interrupted my online New York Times perusal this afternoon (hey, a fulfilled employee is a productive employee!) to give me updated information for an event press release. He was very sorry, but I would have to photocopy of one of the forms. I assured him this would be easy as pie--happily pointing out that with my scanner, I could accomplish that task without even leaving my desk.

As Mr. Master Sergeant stood at my elbow, I opened the scanner lid to find . . .

This . . .

staring up at us!

"Oooh myyyy . . . " Mr. M. S. breathed, a mite disapprovingly, I felt.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Um . . . oh. Those are, um, the Patriots cheerleaders!" That explained why it was tucked away in my scanner, right? My arched-to-the-ceiling eyebrows and strangely pitchy voice had me feeling a bit like a cheerleader myself. "They always come to Heroes' Homecoming events," I said, my head bouncing in staccato nods. Suddenly the room was stuffy and I felt moisture spring up along my hairline.

"It's not mine!" I blurted.

He mumbled something, fixed his gaze on the cube diagonal to mine as I hurriedly scanned the document, and didn't linger after I'd finished.

Whoops.

You call me crazy; I call me a music connoisseur

The men I love are recording their third album. I've already begun saving so I can join the insane -- or enthusiastic, rather -- women who remain perfectly above board (read: are not groupies in that sense) while indulging themselves in mini-tours. What's a mini-tour? It's when one attends several (often, but not always, consecutive) concert dates by the same band during the same tour. It's especially fun when one goes to several concerts within a four-to-six state radius and continually bumps into other mini-tourists. Not that I would know anything about this. True, I did go to two Keane concerts in as many days, but I WON tickets to one of them. That pretty much obligated me to go, I felt. You know, gift horse and mouth and all of that.

Anyway, here is a comical little update regarding Tom's, Tim's, and Richard's current creative progress. For fun, watch for my favorite part -- where Tom's lovely eyebrows make a special guest appearance. I take small comfort in knowing he'll never be mine by imagining the plucking and waxing we would be subjecting innocent offspring to.

Non-Commital Goal-Making

So, I've had very little willpower this weekend. I'm pretty sure that in the last three to four days I've put away a good two or more 8.5 oz. bags of those devilishly delicious Cadbury Mini Eggs. Actually, my bet is on the "or more." And I won't go into the other sweet and savory delights I've been cramming into my aptly-named cakehole.

Sadly, the discipline drought doesn't merely extend to food. Although I'd hoped to be in bed by 10 -- one might even have called it a goal or aspiration -- I ridiculously started another episode of Grey's Anatomy, assuring myself I would only watch until my horrifically boring story was finished. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? Story finished, seventeen minutes into the episode and 20 minutes into the 10 o' clock hour, I'm thinking I've made a mistake. But will I turn McDreamy and Co. off anytime soon? Not bloody likely.

My point -- assuming I have one besides hoping that confessing my sins will shame me into shunning them forevermore -- is that I need to regain some control. The mere thought of which makes me start wondering what I've got in the fridge, freezer, and my cupboard that just might hit the spot. . .

But anyway -- CONTROL. That's the ticket, unless I fancy wedging myself into size ginormous jeans while trying to see over the dufflebags that are my under-eyes. How is it regained? I'm open to suggestions. By all means, flood the comment section with suggestions. Please.

The only solution I can think of is to list some goals I've been considering today. They're not set in stone, which is to say I'm definitely not ready to commit (oh boy -- another topic for another day!), but I'm thinking about them. Again, (kind and constructive) comments and concerns are welcome. Oooh . . . alliteration.

For the Body

1. Low carbs for the foreseeable future. No bagels, grilled cheese sandwiches, or corn chips at work anymore. Veggie omelets with no cheese and salads with feta crumbles from now on. This should be easier with the ruggedly attractive IMA coming back into the office for a couple of weeks. Maybe pretending to love rabbit food for two weeks will break me of my bad habits. Fingers crossed.

2. Bedtime at 10:30 at the very latest -- with solid efforts aiming more toward 10. No computer after 9. Unless I get home late. This one is negotiable? Maybe 9:30?

For the Soul

1. Pursue voice lessons with Mary. Sing again. Maybe others will hear and enjoy, but that doesn't really matter. Perfection would not be the object; music -- whether rough or refined -- would be the object.

2. Ever-so-slightly related to #1: Sing in ward choir. Not necessarily for the vocal advancement, but for the spiritual involvement, the opportunity to enjoy the company of friends who also love to sing, and the impetus to arrive at church early and adjust to the spirit there rather than skid in at the last moment, hoping to find an empty seat in the chapel.

3. Stop comparing myself to others. Stop hurting myself and holding myself back by comparing myself with others. 'Nuff said.