These Things I Know

This last Saturday we had our annual Deason Family Christmas Soirée. The family gathered at the home of Uncle Tim and Aunt Shannon for food and fun. Aunt Dawn plans this event. She makes food assignments, purchases door prizes, develops games and gets GIDDY with excitement in anticipation of the gathering.

This year we did a book exchange. At Thanksgiving we drew names to determine who we were to purchase the book for. Let me tell you this was SUCH a great idea. It was so fun to go to the book store and contemplate what book was a perfect fit.

My nephews girlfriend, Denise, was assigned the Linnette-book-buying-task. The book Denise chose for me was penned by Oprah Winfrey and titled "What I Know For Sure". The book is a quick read. What I love most about this book was the "presence" of it. It's really a pretty book - a book I plan to keep out for others to see.

I had a difficult time getting to sleep last night, so I read my book.

I've always been a fan of Oprah. I think she has worked very hard to get where she is. She's SO smart and I find her compassionate. I think she struggles like we all do. Because she is willing to talk openly about her demons, I find her very "real".

Oprah wrote her thoughts on subjects such as joy, possibility, power...  She shared stories filled with details of real life experience.

Of course it got me thinking about my life. With the BIG five-oh-my-gosh-am-I-really-that-old looming in February I wonder what (if anything) I have really learned. I wonder about being an impact on those who have crossed my path. I wonder about my inner compass and the times I am on track and the times I have wandered. Lost.

These things I know: 

Babies and children are a gift. They desire only to be loved and to love back. Unconditionally. 

Everyone has a story. Some stories are written in blood. Some are written in gold leaf. We don't get to choose the beginning but the ending is up to us. 

Everyone dies. Friends die. Pets die. Loved ones die. 

I don't like money. Not at all. 

It is important that good thoughts become good actions. It doesn't matter how good your heart is if your acts are selfish and unkind. And it is next to impossible to undo bad acts. 

Beauty surrounds us. Pay attention. 

The greatest gift you can receive is a hug intertwined with "I Love You." 

Bravery happens. Sometimes we don't even know we're being brave. Sometimes others' notice. Sometimes they don't. But it still happens. 

I don't believe in the word "forgiveness".  I simply believe that bad things happen to us. Sometimes we control the outcome and sometimes we don't.  It's up to us to determine if the "badness" takes over our lives and encompasses every thought and every action. 

Sometimes what you have to say isn't NEARLY as important as the person you are saying it to. 

Renewed life can be found in a book. It can lie in a movie, a song, a prayer or a kind word.  

Be kind. To EVERYONE. You never know when YOU are the link between happiness and sorrow.  

Journeys always begin with a step. Choose to take yours forward.

The People I'll Meet in Heaven

The night before Denise died, I spent the night with her at the hospice home. Denise was unable to swallow her own spit. Her whole body had shut down but one thing that remained intact was her ability to make saliva. She was terrified of choking, and to provide her some measure of comfort, it was necessary to suction her mouth every few minutes. Her dear family needed a small break, so I took a shift and had a sleep-over with my gal pal.

Mitch Albom had just published the novel "The Five People You Meet in Heaven". Wikipedia describes the book as:

The Five People You Meet in Heaven is a novel by Mitch Albom. It follows the life and death of a maintenance man named Eddie. In a heroic attempt to save a little girl from being killed by an amusement park ride that is about to fall, Eddie is killed and sent to heaven, where he encounters five people who significantly impacted him while he was alive.

Denise and I had been reading the book for a few weeks and were getting close to the end. I brought it along. I read aloud. Denise listened.

Periodically I think of this book. I wonder who will meet me at heavens gate. I'm not sure who I have impacted enough, but I know who has changed mine.

One of those who will greet me left today. My friend, Pat lost her fight with cancer. And I'm so sad. Incredibly sad.

Pat has been in the hospital for a few weeks now. Pneumonia. Blood sugars waaaay out of whack. You name it. She had it. She was in need of rest and care and the hospital made sure to see to that.

Some days I found myself at her bedside laughing and joking. Other times, the communication was via text.

Last night around 9:30 I received a text from her to tell me that she had just been told that her life expectancy was being reduced to about a week or two. I told my friend that I would be in tomorrow to see her. I told her I was scared. Her answer? "No. I am just...ready." As per my typical selfish needs, I responded "No. You're not."

She was.

I didn't sleep last night. I cried and worried and fretted. I thought I should go see her, but it was so late and she would be there tomorrow, right?

I returned from dropping Jaden at school this morning and flung myself on my bed. Exhausted. I was not ready at all to face my day. I pretended to sleep for a bit, sighed, and decided that I had better get my groove on and get moving.

When I got to the hospital, Pat had just passed. Alone. I AM SO ANGRY THAT I WASN'T THERE. There. I said it. I know all the right answers. "Don't say that." "You didn't know." "Don't go down that road." But, I am and NOTHING you say can make me feel differently.

Pat's oldest boy took Pat's hand and asked me to take the other. He said, "I came to sing to her."

God be with you till we meet again;
By His counsels guide, uphold you,
With His sheep securely fold you;
God be with you till we meet again.

God be with you till we meet again;
When life's perils thick confound you;
Put His arms unfailing round you;
God be with you till we meet again.

God be with you till we meet again;
Keep love’s banner floating o’er you,
Strike death’s threatening wave before you;
God be with you till we meet again.

Till we meet, till we meet,
Till we meet at Jesus' feet;
Till we meet, till we meet,
God be with you till we meet again.

By the end, I was singing along.
 
When the play Wicked became a hit, Pat would periodically email me the YouTube link to the song "For Good". When Wicked came to Salt Lake City? I bought us tickets and we attended the production. Pat and I held hands and wept while Glinda and Elphaba sang that their lives had been changed for the better because of their friendship.

That was the song that played over and over in my head today as I sat with my friend. My life HAS been changed for the better. Pat played a part in that. I'm lucky to know her and I'm BEYOND lucky to have called her my friend.

It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you.

You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend...

Like a ship blown from it's mooring
By a wind off the sea
Like a seed dropped by a skybird
In a distant wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you...

 Because I knew you

I have been changed for the good.

The Greatest Gift is Love

I've always believed that religion is a personal choice. I faithfully practice the rule that you don't talk about religion or politics to anyone.

A few months ago, Mark's cousin Sheri contacted us. She wanted to head up a charity golf tournament for me in California.

If you have read my blog, on Saturday, April 27, 2013 I wrote "I Knew It" about Aunt Joy passing away. Sheri is Aunt Joy's daughter. Sheri and I were pregnant together 25 years ago. I was going for number three (Tanna) and she was having her first baby (Brittney). We both lived in Ojai and it was HOT. One of my happiest memories with Sheri was on July 4th the year the girls were due. We had a barbecue, Mark set up his guitar/amp equipment and while the guys all fooled around on the guitar, Sheri and I sat in lawn chairs with our FAT feet in the kiddy-pool filled with cold water, eating hamburgers and listening to the guys sing and laugh.

Sunday, October 19, I found myself back in Ojai attending the golf tournament. After the tournament, we had a scrumpdillyicious barbecue and raffle. It was pretty dang cool. DANG cool.

I have always been close to Mark's family. I adore his brothers. My favorite gal pals are my sisters-in-law. I have weaseled myself into the love of his Aunt's and Uncles and his cousins get to deal with me by default.  Family attended. Friends attended. We all had a good time golfing and chatting and laughing.

I love these people. I LOVE THESE PEOPLE. Tons.

It is humbling to be the focus of the kindness of friends, family and strangers. I find a measure of discomfort with these fund raisers that are set up for my benefit. The kindness is humbling, the support is amazing and the generosity is overwhelming. I do find myself lucky, too. I think I am EVER so lucky to be able to hear what I mean to those that I love so much.

Two pretty important events happened at the golf tournament. First, I need to say that I don't want to undo the meaning behind the event as a whole. MANY factors and sacrifices came in to play to put this event together for me. Sheri shopped and worked and fretted and coerced and cajoled friends and strangers and store owners and golfers. Flyers were hung and passed to anyone she came in contact with. Brittney helped. Gerald and Randi and Camryn and Cody pitched in. Dawn and Mike drove from Utah to offer support. Uncle Ron wasn't missing the event for ANY reason. Aunt Mel, her boys, their wives and kids drove two hours from Bakersfield in order to attend. Prizes were donated for the raffle. Pappi cooked our DANG good food. The list goes on and on and on. Just know that it was a ton of work and sacrifice and love. And I know it, too.

A personal experience happened while we were waiting for the golfers to finish up the tournament. I don't know if I want to get into too much detail. However, it plays into a later event, so I need to mention it.

I was asked to hop in a golf cart for some girl talk with a cousin/friend. I did. We chatted and laughed and shared and then she quietly asked if she could pray for me. She did. It was amazing. It came from her heart and it was beautiful.

The barbecue/raffle was winding up when Uncle Bobby walked up to me. He asked if I did much reading. I told him I am a ferocious reader. I love it and read every chance I get. He told me he had something for me. He walked over to his truck and brought me back a package. It contained a Bible. It's called "The Expositor's Study Bible" and it's really cool.

And that, my friends, was a gift that melted my heart.

I know the importance of family. I am consistently amazed at true love given in times of need. I am so grateful for the compassion and service provided to me. I am humbled that time and energy and finances are sacrificed in my behalf. I am so grateful to my family and to my friends for the charity they hold in their hearts.

But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13

Broken Straws

A few years ago my friend, Laurie, shared a theory with me. She said, "Pick up a straw and bend it. Let it straighten out and bend it again." It bent in the same spot. Over and over and over again. Her theory is that when we are forced to bend, we tend to bend at the exact spot where we were first hurt. We go to that place emotionally and that is how we behave.

As time has passed, I have explained that theory to my kids, my friends, my family and strangers. I find it spot on.

Time and time again I emotionally land right where I was broken. My problem? I'm not sure exactly where I became broken. As of late, I have spent many sleepless nights looking inward. I yearn for answers, yet I find muddy memories filled with confusion.

When Aunt Joanne coerced and threatened and inevitably scheduled a meeting for me to figure out all of the "how to's" on signing up for college, I decided to get my degree in graphic design. Of course (at the time) it was the most expensive degree that UVSC offered and my pell grant would not cover the supplies needed in the program. Beckie told me about Job Training Partnership of America (JTPA). If I could get the scholarship my books and supplies would be covered.

I tested. And tested. And tested. Out of 500 applicants, I was chosen for the scholarship. My books, supplies, parking pass, locker and all school necessities were paid for by this scholarship. In return, I had to meet with my assigned counselor every other week to talk about what I needed and HOPEFULLY sludge through some of the baggage I was toting around.

I joke that my Dr. Phil would need a Dr. Phil after finishing with me. He did. For two years, we spent every other week in his office talking and discussing. I don't think that he expected the bends and breaks in my straw and after a few sessions he said "PTSD is beyond my capabilities" and turned our time to school, leaving me to my own madness.

I loved school. I'll brag and let you know that I was on the Dean's list and a member of the Honor Society every term. I was a single mom and learned very quickly to take the kids to the playland at the local McDonald's. Playtime for them. Study time for me. Win-win situation for all parties involved.

However, my straw remains broken. If wishes were granted it would have never been broken. But it was. I am. And I want it fixed.

I have found the fight in me waning. I think that OPCA has played a factor. I wonder why I am fighting a freight train bearing down on me. It's going to hit, right? So why am I shucking and jiving?

I do know the answer. Because my family deserves to see me fight. They deserve a mother/wife that wants to be here and is happy. I desire to be happy. I yearn to be rid of the demons that have haunted me.

I will do it, you know. I will put a new bend in my straw.

My Red Shirt

I'm wearing a red flannel shirt today.

Last year a family member that I love was going through a pretty rough time. I wondered and pondered what I could do to help her realize that she wasn't to endure everything alone. As I was thinking, the thought struck me that everyone in my family would eventually be faced with problems that (at times) would leave them feeling alone and vulnerable.

My favorite television series of all time is Parenthood. I love Ron Howard and feel that everything he touches is golden. SO when I found out he was doing a television series? Yeah. I held my breath with anticipation and wasn't let down. Not one tiny bit. 

Season 4 rolled around and I watched as Kristina was diagnosed with breast cancer. When Kristina embarked on her chemotherapy journey, her mother-in-law, Camille, brought her a fuzzy red shirt to wear throughout her chemo sessions.

As the story progressed, we discovered that the red shirt had been passed along to offer comfort and warmth to several cancer patients and had landed with Kristina. At the end of the episode, we were prompted to go online and find out the story behind the shirt. I did.

I've looked and looked to find the story again, but I can't locate it. SO to make a long story short? Several members of the production crew had been touched by breast cancer, whether it be a loved one or themselves, so there REALLY was a shirt that had been passed around and that very shirt was the one used in the episode.

Thus began my own red shirt and the "Sisterhood of the Traveling Red Shirts" gang.

I liked the idea of something to wrap up in that reminded the wearer that they are not alone. Ever.

A meeting was held, the radically-awesome Deason gals met and were inducted into the sisterhood. I shall not give away our secrets. But the ever-so-covert meeting ends with a gift from each girl to the person in need and the shirt that is to be worn whenever love is needed.

Little did I know that I would eventually be the recipient of the shirt.

Last night I got a text from Pat. She is in the hospital. She has pneumonia and sepsis. The cancer has spread to her sternum, lungs, liver, skin and now to her brain. She is sick. Wow. That's such a small word for how horrible she feels. However, sick it is. AND sick she is.

I dropped Jaden at school this morning and went to the hospital to sit with my friend for a few hours.

When I got home, I took a hot bath and wrapped myself in my shirt.

I sit here trying to express my feelings in black and white. I'm angry. And afraid. And powerless. And afraid. And sad. And afraid. And afraid. And afraid.

And there isn't a dang thing I can do about it.

So I wear my shirt and feel the love of my family. My girls. And I'm stronger because of it.

The Day of Stomach Aches

Today is nearly over. I think I'm glad for that. It's September 11 and we ALL know what that means. It's a day of sadness and grief and mourning and fear and shock with absolutely, positively no relief or comfort to be found.

I hate this day.

I drove Jaden to school today. I don't usually have the radio playing when he is in the jeep. He's a horrible, no-good, rotten teen and I listen to music that has RHYTHM and LYRICS that you can sing along with and it's bad enough that he has to endure the ride with his MOTHER of all people, let alone have his fellow classmates hear my music. Duh.

After I dropped him off and told him "Have a great day. I love you." and he muttered something foreign and slammed my door, I sighed HEAVILY and turned on my radio just in time to hear a tribute to 9/11. Suck. Gave me a gut ache.

In July, my fellow "chicks" and I visited New York. We were SO excited to see the 9/11 Memorial Museum. Actually, the official name is The National September 11 Memorial Museum. The desription on the website says:

The National September 11 Memorial Museum serves as the country’s principal institution for examining the implications of the events of 9/11, documenting the impact of those events and exploring the continuing significance of September 11, 2001.

The Museum’s 110,000 square feet of exhibition space is located within the archaeological heart of the World Trade Center site—telling the story of 9/11 through multimedia displays, archives, narratives and a collection of monumental and authentic artifacts. The lives of every victim of the 2001 and 1993 attacks will be commemorated as visitors have the opportunity to learn about the men, women, and children who died. 

The monumental artifacts of the Museum provide a link to the events of 9/11, while presenting intimate stories of loss, compassion, reckoning, and recovery that are central to telling the story of the attacks and the aftermath.

I don't know what I was expecting. I don't know why it didn't EVER cross my scrawny self-absorbed brain that it would be emotionally draining to see the pictures of the human beings lost or to view the remnants of the precious belongings of the fallen.

We had decided that it was on "the list" to visit the Holocaust Museum. One of my all-time favorite movies is Freedom Writers. In the movie, super cool teacher gal took her students to the Holocaust Museum and I was instantly captivated by the horrors that were experienced by the innocent.

However, the horrors weren't personal.

Does that sound crass? Hollow? Unsympathetic? I don't mean it that way. I can't stand what the Jews endured. I have read The Diary of Anne Frank. I own Night by Elie Wiesel. I am ashamed that the human species can be so cruel to another human being. However, it was a part of history that I have heard about and read about but not that I had experienced.

After leaving the Holocaust Museum, we were close to the 9/11 Memorial Museum and decided to see if they were still selling tickets for the day. They were. We went.

Once again, ignorant me, I don't know what the crap I thought I would see? Did I not know that it would be FILLED with artifacts from that horrible day? It was. 

At once, it was sobering and horrifying and humbling and haunting and surreal and gut wrenching and yet...honorable. We saw fire engines, wallets, uniforms, iron beams. As we walked down a set of stairs, a set of stairs from one of the towers ran along directly to the side. There was a plaque with the staircase. It told us how many people that set of stairs had SAVED. 

I remember leaving and thinking that I would find no comfort in that building if I had a loved one that had lost their life in 9/11. Yet, I am so grateful that the museum was built to bear witness to the horrific events of that day. 

There will come a time that those that go through the museum will be innocent to the pain and fear that filled our country. As the decades pass, these objects will be all that remain of the horror...and the humanity of that day.

The Impossible Dream

I grew up with a love for music. I began plunking on the piano at a young age. I remember listening to my mom play - NOT plunk (trust me). My love of music began with vinyl records on our console stereo, 8 track tapes in the camper and when technology REALLY moved along we owned handy-dandy cassette tapes that you had to eject and turn over in order to hear side B. If a song you were belting along with was playing on side A and the tape ran out? You had to flip the cassette over to continue the remainder of the song.

I remember when we lived in California and Dawn and Mike got a new car. It had a cassette player that played BOTH A and B sides WITHOUT HAVING TO TURN IT YOURSELF. Wow. I was soooooooo jealous!

Mom and Dad had an 8 track of Andy Williams. I LOVED it. I listened to it over and over and over. Rewinding to hear your favorite song was no easy task. It was hit and miss. However, it was PURE JOY when fate stepped in and you landed right at the perfect spot to hear the melody just one more time. Ahhhhhhhh.

Andy Williams crooned "To dreeeeeeeeeam the im-poss-ible dreeeeeam".  And I swooned.

Mark has a favorite mountain. Who has a favorite mountain? Oh yeah. That would be Mark. It's Mount Nebo and it's right here in Utah.

According to Wikipedia:

Mount Nebo is the southernmost and highest mountain in the Wasatch Range of Utah, in the United States. Named after the biblical Mount Nebo overlooking Israel, which is said to be the place of Moses' death, it is the centerpiece of the Mount Nebo Wilderness, inside the Uinta National Forest. 

Mount Nebo is crowned by three peaks, with the northern peak reaching 11,928 ft (3,636m). Original surveys placed the southern peak as the highest at 11,877 ft (3,620m). When the mountain was resurveyed in the 1970s and the northern peak was found to be the highest, two substantial trails already led to the south summit. Parts of the mountain are covered in snow from mid-October until July. It is a popular destination for hikers from the nearby towns of Nephi and Provo, Utah. 

Mark passed his love for that mountain on to Goose. Hence, my grand puppy is named? Yep. You guessed it. Nebo.

Now the story begins. 

Mark has climbed Nebo. Several times. Goose has hiked Nebo. Several times. I had never hiked Nebo. Oh sure. I TALKED about it. I would set a time to do it. (The first weekend in July that Goose is home from firefighting.) Once again. Classic Linnette. ALL talk. NO action. Plan and plan and plan and then? Not go. 

Problem is, I wanted the WHOLE family to go. I wanted ALL my kids there. Schedules rarely collide as I would like them to, time passed and I found myself listening to stories about Mount Nebo and not knowing what the heck they were really talking about.

A couple of Sundays ago that changed. I have become an official memeber of the "I Hiked Nebo" club and I couldn't be happier.

I REALLY wanted my family to go. I especially wanted Goose to witness my epic moment, however, I knew that if I waited for Goose to make it home, I probably wouldn't make it this year and the way my walking is changing, I was unsure that there would be a "next year" for hiking. Therefore, Sunday morning found Mark, myself, Aunt Shannon and my nephew Devin embarking on our journey to the top of Mount Nebo.

I wasn't being totally honest. I acted like I could do it. I told everyone that would listen that I was doing it. BUT I kinda-sorta didn't think I could do it. Yeah, I talked the smack and planned like a champ but when "things" got in the way, I wasn't fighting to go. Not at all.

I worried that I would embarrass Mark. I played over and over and OVER in my head Gooses disappointment while saying "It's okay that you didn't make it too far Mom. You did good. It's a tough hike."

Oh man! Had I gotten in over my head?

All worries were in vain. I did it. I hiked and stumbled and swore and fretted and then...  I bawled. Sobbed is more like it.

We crossed landmarks that been described to me over and over through the years. It was NEARLY like "Oh! I know this place." But it was better. MUCH better.

I now understand why this mountain is Mark's favorite.

But this blog isn't about Mark. It isn't about Goose. It really isn't about Mount Nebo. OF COURSE it's about me.

I turned 49 this year. I can count on ONE hand how many times I have been genuinely proud of something I have accomplished. Few times have I felt the wonder of pushing myself beyond my capabilities. I hiked and hiked and tried to be brave. Shannon found me a hiking stick and that helped tremendously. I found a loop on Mark's backpack. When the going got rough or steep or the terrain got too rugged, I grabbed hold of the loop and held on while he maneuvered me through the obstacles.

And the words to the song "To dream, the impossible dream" played over and over in my head.

We were climbing the very last leg of the journey. For some reason Shannon and Devin had dropped behind for a second. Mark asked me how I was doing and I began bawling. You know. The racking, trembling sobs. I got out, in my broken voice "You tell Goose I did good. I mean it. You tell him."

Later that evening we were talking about the hike. I finally told Mark that I hadn't been so sure that I was capable of the hike any longer, but I was SO determined not to let him or Goose down. He quietly admitted that he didn't think I could make it either. I not only did something that I thought I couldn't do, but something that Mark doubted in me as well.

I will carry that experience with me for as long as I live.

I did it. I made Goose proud. Mark was proud. Most of all? I made myself proud.

I'm a lucky girl, right?

My Extraordinary Ordinary Life

Without a doubt, one of my most favorite things to do in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD is to go to the movies. It used to be that I went to the movie EVERY SINGLE Friday night. I saw good movies and I watched REALLY BAD movies. It didn't seem to matter. I enjoyed the LARGE tub of popcorn and the company of my gal pals. My movie attending extravaganza went on for years, however, time took it's toll. Friends moved or lost interest and I have found myself wishing every Friday night that I was at the local Cinemark but I'm usually at home in my jammies watching television.

Yesterday Mark took me to the theater and when we got home (not about to let go of our time together) I rummaged through my vast collection of DVD's and pulled out About Time starring Rachel McAdams and Domhnall Gleeson. 

I saw this movie in 2013 in the theaters. I don't know exactly what I expected when I went. I do like Rachel McAdams. I had geared up for a sappy, predictable love story that would be "good" but would leave no impression on me.

Wrong.

Again.

This movie has crept into my TOP-VERY-MOST-FAVORITE-MOVIES-IN-THE-HISTORY-OF-EVER list. I mean EVER.

We were watching this witty, heart-warming story last night. I went to bed thinking about it. I had dreams about it. Woke up this morning and decided to write about it.

The storyline is about time travel. When Tim (Domhnall Gleeson) turns 21 his father sits him down and informs him that the men in his family have the gift of time travel. His father, played REALLY WELL by Bill Nighy, asks him what he thinks he wants to accomplish with this gift. Tim throws out that he would probably want more money. After being told that money isn't the answer to life or happiness, Tim decides that he wants to use his gift to find love. REAL love.

Tim sets off on his adventure to find the love of his life (and does so brilliantly). Along the way he learns that his special ability can't shield him and those he loves from the problems of ordinary life.

Tim's dad watches from the sidelines as Tim repeats different scenarios to "better his position" in awkward moments. However, there comes a time when father sits son down to tell him the important stuff he has learned through a lifetime of time travel.

"And so he told me his secret formula for happiness. Part one of the two part plan was that I should just get on with ordinary life, living it day by day, like anyone else. 

But then came part two of Dad's plan. 

He told me to live every day again almost exactly the same. The first time with all the tensions and worries that stop us noticing how sweet the world can be, but the second time noticing."

And he did.

One of the songs playing in the background of the movies is Gold in Them Hills by Ron Sexsmith:

I know it doesn't seem that way
But maybe it's the perfect day
Even though the bills are piling
And maybe Lady Luck ain't smiling
But if we'd only open our eyes
We'd see the blessings in disguise
That all the rain clouds are fountains
Though our troubles seem like mountains

Every now and then life saysWhere do you think you're going so fast
We're apt to think it cruel but sometimes
It's a case of cruel to be kind
And if we'd get up off our knees
Why then we'd see the forest for the trees
And we'd see the new sun rising
Over the hills on the horizon

There's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills
So don't lose faith
Give the world a chance to say
A word or two, my friend
There's no telling how the day might end

What would I change if I could travel in time? What life event would never happen and what would be the cost?

I'm glad I did it the way I did. Nope. Hasn't been perfect. I have dodged dirt and mud. I have ripped and torn the hearts of those I love. I'm still learning and trying and at times - failing.

"And in the end I think I've learned the final lesson from my travels in time; and I've even gone one step further than my father did: The truth is now I don't travel back at all, not even for the day. I just try to live every day as if I've deliberately come back to this one day, to enjoy it, as if it was the full final day of my extraordinary, ordinary life."

The Most Biggest Day

I've had many, many, MANY days in my lifetime that have meant the world to me. Saturday the 16th of August became the biggest day of my life. Period.

A few months ago, Mark came to me and said that he wanted to put together "THE FIRST ANNUAL POOPY-SQUAWK-NO-JOCK-SLOP CHARITY MOTORCYCLE RIDE".  I've established that Mark calls me "Poop". I HAVEN'T clarified that Poop is short for "Poopy-Squawk-No-Jock-Slop". Don't ask me what that means. He just called me that one day and it stuck. Yeah. I'll thank him later.

So. We put together a charity ride in honor of me. Because I know many people that don't have motorcycles, I thought it might be good to do something that they could attend as well, so we put together a small lunch and gathered some DANG GOOD raffle prizes. The event planning began. Posters were made, a facebook page created, chili dogs ordered and raffle prizes gathered. I made really awesome t-shirts to represent the "First Annual OPCA Charity Ride".

I wish I could describe the experience. Provo bakery donated donuts, Fresh Market and Macey's helped with Orange Juice and t-shirts were at the ready for those that came to offer support. I wandered around my front yard. It was so important to me that I speak to every single person that showed.  Around 17 motorcycles gathered at my house. My cooler-than-ever cousin Lee drove his car with the bikes and one of my favorite people in the whole wide world, Brit, put her kids in her vehicle and brought up the rear of the pack.

I thought I was handling everything like a champ. I didn't bawl or weep. I felt a thrill every time a heard a bike coming down the road and shed some tears as people showed to offer support. But all in all I think I kept my emotions in check. Until...

10:30 arrived and it was time for the ride to start. Everyone was going around the Nebo Loop then gathering with the bike-less supporters at the East Bay Golf Course for chili dogs and the raffle. I had decided to stay behind and do some last minute setting up and to greet those that showed up to the luncheon before the bikes made it back. I stood in the driveway while the bikers loaded up, Lee got in his WOW car (and I do mean WOW) and Brit loaded the kids in her jeep.

Suddenly bikes roared to life. The rumble filled the streets and I lost it. I mean LOST it. I cried like a little school girl. I watched as motorcycles loaded with do-rag wearing, sunglass sporting friends and family rolled out of my yard wearing a t-shirt to represent ME. Yep. Me.

1:30 rolled around and those that were gathering at the course began strolling in. We filled the "party room" with laughter and talk. The raffle began and we all cheered loudly at the prize-winning. My gaze fell on each table and I witnessed the smiles and the laughter. I was watching the festivities when it hit me. Hard.

A chill started in the top of my head, traveled along my spine and landed in my feet. I began trembling with emotion. That room was filled to the brim with people who love me. ME.

A few days before the ride, I was sitting at the golf course chatting with Mark. He had asked me if I was ready for the ride. I have been overwhelmed with the support offered to me and (as usual) I became emotional and with tears streaming down my face I said "Maybe I'm the lucky one." MAYBE instead of feeling bad about this stupid disease I need to turn it around and be grateful. How many of you are able to witness love and support in such a personalized setting? I did. So many people went out of their way to share a story with me about how I have touched their lives. I groaned when they opened the conversation with "Do you know my first memory of you?" I've been known to smack some of the kids upside the head (especially friends of my boys when they were younger). I'm always caught off guard with that opening statement. We laughed and talked and shared and cried and remembered.

And I was grateful for the stories.

I think about my future. I used to believe that I will eventually be able to repay human kindness and generosity shown for my benefit.

This last week has taught me that I probably won't.

I ran across a quote from Elizabeth Gilbert. She said:

"In the end, though, maybe we must all give up trying to pay back the people in the world who sustain our lives. In the end, maybe it's wiser to surrender before the miraculous scope of human generosity and to just keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for as long as we have voices."

So....

THANK YOU.

Where The Streets Have No Name

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to go to New York. I love people. Love cities. Love noise. Love art. What a perfect place to visit. Right?

Christmas this year brought a huge surprise. Daulton and Goose sent me to New York. My expenses were paid. I stayed out of the planning. I simply packed my bags and left with Daulton, Shelby, Diana, and Aunt Shannon for eight wonderfully-fabulous-once in a lifetime-event planned days.

We left Friday on the Red Eye flight. What the heck were those girls thinking? Don't they know I NEED my beauty sleep? Daulton was quick to say "You can sleep on the plane." Let me clarify. DAULTON can sleep on the plane. In fact, that girl can sleep anywhere. Anytime. Any place.

We had a small layover in North Carolina and when we lifted off on the second flight, I did sleep. Hard. Drool spilling out of my mouth hard.

Can I simply say that I LOVED New York? Loved it.

We did all the tourist-y stuff. Statue of Liberty. Ellis Island. Rockefeller Plaza. Empire State Building. Metropolitan Museum of Art. Madison Square Garden. (To name a few.) We even napped in Central Park! The icing on the cake? I went to Wicked. On Broadway. Second row. I don't know why I wore make-up. Tears dripped from my cheeks the entire production. The poor guy sitting next to me probably wanted to strangle me. I didn't care. I was so overwhelmed with emotion that couldn't be controlled. So I cried.

Thursday morning found us on the Amtrak headed to Washington D.C. where we completed the last leg of our journey. Arlington cemetery. Washington Memorial. Lincoln Memorial. Korean War Memorial. Vietnam Memorial. (To name a few.)

The sites were overwhelming and humbling and inspiring and honorable and beautiful.

A few months back, my hot water heater blew. Water everywhere. Flood and destruction and a HUGE mess. Mark and I needed help and Daulton was able to come to our rescue. She hauled things out of the basement and helped me de-waterize the mess like a champ.

While we were headed to pick up a new water heater, Mark (ever a gamer) said "Let's play a game. What are the top five moments of your life?" We each pondered, then stated the perfect moments that have been alloted to us.

This trip is now one of mine.

I like to say "You don't truly love someone until you serve them." This is something I wholeheartedly believe and try to emulate.

This disease has put me on the receiving end of service. And it's difficult. Extremely difficult. I need help walking. If something important needs to be said, I rely on other voices to do the talking.

I worried and fretted about how my walking would be on this trip. I hate being the one to slow things down. I meander around here at my house but the last thing I wanted to do was slow the momentum of the touring Deason-Chick clan.

I don't know why I fretted. There was not a single moment that somebody in the group didn't offer their arm for me to hold. I figured out real quick that if I had arms to hold to keep me steady that I could keep my head to the ground and go.

We averaged eight miles a day. We mastered the subway in New York and D.C. All this I accomplished through the help of my girls.

No. I didn't see the city buildings or skyline. I wasn't able to view street names or do any window shopping.  I kept my eyes to the ground and held on for dear life. But I did it. And I loved it.

Martin Luther King, Jr. said:

“Everybody can be great...because anybody can serve. You don't have to have a college degree to serve. You don't have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.”

I was graced. Love was generated to provide this experience to little ol' me and grace was given in the form of helping hands reaching to provide support.

I'll say it again. I'm a lucky girl.

Old Shoes

I own a pair of Converse tennis shoes that I ABSOLUTELY-WITHOUT-A-DOUBT-LOVE-EVER-SO-MUCH. I got them in 2006. I know this because the heel of one of the shoes Maui chewed up right after I bought them. Tanna got Maui in 2006.

I have worn these shoes EVERYWHERE. They fit so good. They are comfortable beyond words. LOVE THEM. I have other Converse tennies, however, no pair provide the comfort that these specific shoes have given. Time has taken it's course and they are DESTROYED. I still have them. Can't bear to part with them. My birthday rolled around this year and I was given some money. I bought new Converse. I love them, but they aren't quite the same. So I keep my old ones and still wear them periodically.

In the Movie "All about Steve", Sandra Bullock wears a pair of red boots ALLTHETIME. Of course people give her grief about her boots. She sunnily ignores them. At one point, Sandra's character says:

"They make my toes feel like ten friends on a camping trip"

Describes my converse to a tee.

In April, I received a Facebook message from my friend Sunnie. She was coming to Utah in June for a conference and I would get to see her. Sunnie lives in Vermont. I haven't seen her in 28 years.

I was 18 years old. I was newly married to a Navy man. And found myself in Norfolk, Virginia. You have to know that I came from a TINY town in Utah with NO stop lights and not many people. To move to a city filled with stoplights and teeming with people was (needless to say) a bit of a culture shock.

Oh! the stories I could share. I went through TWO hurricanes. Trust me, we didn't have those in Utah!  A pimp lived in the apartment above me. (I don't think we had pimps) and his prostitute wore her red dress EVERY SINGLE DAY and stood on the corner out my front door. (I'm PRETTY sure we didn't have that in Orangeville). Definitely an eye opener for a small town Utah girl.

Mark and I were the only white people in the apartment complex. One day, my neighbor gal came beating on my door. As soon as I opened it, she placed her hands on her wide hips and demanded to know if I was racist. I paused a moment then answered as honestly as I knew how. "I don't think so."  That was the beginning of a good friendship. However, "good" is an interesting choice of words. I don't recall her name.  I don't even know if she still remembers me. The Navy is transient. People come and go as husbands were drawn back to "normal" life and away from military enrollment. Our friendship fell victim to the "normal" world.

I had only been in Virginia a few weeks when Mark was called out on a cruise and would be gone for three months. Dirt poor is a way of life for beginning military families. We didn't own a phone, a car, or even a television. I spent endless time reading and walking the beach across the street from my house and MUCH time was spent smashing the cock roaches living in my home. Yeah. Gross.

I met Janine Powers. We became FRIENDS. Janine came from Tennessee and had the COOLEST accent. We spent many hours together swapping life stories and enjoying the company of one another. Janine taught me to make fried chicken. Southern style. To this day, my family is grateful for THAT lesson. AND Janine had a television. A COLOR television.

Janine and Sunnie were friends. That's how I met Sunnie.

The three of us did everything together. When we were evacuated for one of the hurricanes, Janine, Sunnie, her son Crory (no, that's not a typo. His name is Crory), myself and Tyson went together to the shelter. We went shopping together on the Navy base. We watched the Miss America pageant together on Janines COLOR television. We mourned the leaving of our men to the sea and anticipated their homecoming. "Back then" there was a ship return phone number you could call. When the men pulled out of port, it wasn't as if we knew the exact date and time the ships would arrive back into dock, so we called and called and waited to hear the ships name. The dates and times were subject to change, so as their arrival date approached, we phoned more frequently for fear that we would miss the arrival. I remember walking to the pay phone by my house and calling the number just to hear the name of Mark's ship. "The U.S.S. Canisteo AO-99 will be arriving on this date at this time and docking on this pier" brought comfort beyond measure.

When Sunnie told me she was coming to visit, I was thrown into these memories. 

Wednesday evening, Sunnie took the Frontrunner from Salt Lake to my home in Provo. We sat outside and talked and talked and talked. We laughed and laughed and laughed. I miss her SOVERYMUCH!  I didn't realize the depths of the missing stuff until I saw her again.

It was as though the past 28 years hadn't happened. We told stories of our new children and filled in the gap of the ages of time that had passed. But it was like picking up right where we left off. 

Sunnie knits. She brought me a prayer shawl she had made. She had written some of the prayers that she had said while she knitted me the shawl. I can't describe the beauty of these prayers or of this woman. 

Thursday found me in Salt Lake where I took her to Temple Square and to the Arts Festival downtown. More time for talking and laughing and comfort.

As with any hello, there comes a goodbye. Ours came following dinner Thursday evening.

Janine and Sunnie are my old shoe friends. There might be a day when the three of us can reunite. Maybe not. It would sure be nice, but it really doesn't matter. My friends shared a past with me that is confusing and weird to some. THEY know the stories that I know. They shared the pride, the joy, the loneliness, the despair, the excitement, the highs and the lows...all the wonder of being a Navy wife.

Introducing:

Sunnie Joy and Janine...

The Weight Of My Mistakes

At times I am haunted. I'm not necessarily proud of every single decision that I have made in my youth, teen years and now adulthood.

Am I to be pitied? Is my soul black? In my quiet times, these are things that run through my mind.

I spend mounds of time and oodles of energy searching within myself to discover if I am a liar. Is the "face" that the world sees the true me? Or is the image I see in the mirror a better reflection?

When I was young, I spent countless hours watching families and people and kids and parents and random strangers. I took note on what I liked and what I didn't think was too cool. I was determined to be the "good" that I saw. Does that mean that inside I am foul?

When I was young (I don't remember how old, or what grade, but I had to be in elementary school because this story involves recess) there was a boy. I don't remember his name. I remember him having dark hair and being a large-er boy.

Each recess we went to the playground and along with my friends, I would spend the 15 minutes kicking him. And laughing. Granted, he came on out and took it like a champ. He would laugh with us. This empowered us more, so, we would kick him harder.

Then we would walk in the school and move on to math, science or reading as if we hadn't just bullied some poor kid and justified it because he was a willing participant.

I want you to know I felt NO remorse. None.

One day, after recess, (I wish I could remember his name) came to me. He was crying. He told me he didn't like us to kick him and that it hurt his feelings. It hurt his legs. He wanted me to stop it.

I was mortified. For some stupid reason, it didn't gel in my thick skull that I was HURTING him. It was all fun and games. Right?

I am relieved to say that it stopped that day. We remained friends. I moved. I lost contact. However, I'm ashamed to say that it took him pointing out my bad behavior before I even attempted to make a change.

Was I instrumental in forming a sad, lonely life for this boy? Does he understand that I am appalled that I did this? Does he know that if I saw that behavior now, I would come UNGLUED and stop it INSTANTLY?

Sometimes, I think it doesn't matter that I changed my ways. It matters most that I hurt him.

Bad decisions and mistakes gather on our shoulders and we stoop and sag from the weight.

I want to hold my head high. I long to look in the mirror and view the reflection with pride.

Where the sidewalk ends

Summer has taken it's hold on me.  Because I can't hardly stand to sit at the computer when the sun is out, I've slacked on my blog. This is a really cool story, though, so I thought I'd sit down and get it out.

As with every story, there are many facets. This is my version. It goes like this:

A couple Friday nights ago, Mark and I were sitting in the family room when Jaden came up the stairs to tell me to call Tanna at work. It drives my family bonkers that I never have my phone on me. I hate hauling it around and I swear that if I'm upstairs? My phone is down. If I'm downstairs? It's up. This time, it was charging in my room.

I grabbed my phone and called Tanna to see what-the-heck was going on.  Tanna answered and immediately said, "Before you say anything, hear me out."  Not a good sign. This means "I found a kitten and can I have it?" or some sort of I-don't-want-to-deal-with-it  question. Instantly I had "No. Absolutely NOT" on the tip of my tongue.

Tanna said:

"There's an old man here. He's lost. His family is coming to get him but he needs a place to stay the night. Can he stay with you?"

What?

"He's harmless, mom."

"I'm okay with it, I guess, but you better talk to your dad and see what he says."

Thomas was our guest that night.

Thomas has Alzheimer's. He walked into Tanna's store and said "Have you seen my wife?" Tanna told him that there was nobody in the store and let him know that an older lady hadn't been there. She could tell that Thomas was confused and asked him if he had a phone. He did.

This is where I stray in knowing EXACTLY what happened. Somehow, Tanna got hold of Linda. This is Thomas' daughter. Are you ready for this? Thomas had been missing for a couple of days from COLORADO. Yep. You heard me correctly. Northglenn, Colorado.

The police got involved and told Tanna that they could:
A.) Put him in a hotel until the family came. But there would be nobody with him to guarantee that he would stay.
B.) Put him in the Psych Ward at the hospital.

Nuh uh. No way. "Mom! Can he come to our house?"

Thomas and Mark swapped Navy stories until late that night. I rested on the couch while they talked and laughed like old friends.

Morning came. Tanna jetted to Salt Lake to grab Linda from the airport. While she was gone, we took Thomas around Provo. We showed him the LDS temple being built blocks from our home. We took him around BYU. The entire time he regaled us with both humorous and heartbreaking stories.

Soon enough, Linda and her husband arrived at our doorstep. They were jumping in the car with Thomas to take him home.

Linda shared that Thomas had told them that he was on University Avenue right by Deseret Bookstore. It just so happens that in Northglenn there is a Deseret Bookstore on University Avenue. For Thomas to describe his location as such, it raised no warning flags.  Linda told him to go to the nearest gas station and she would come pick him up. That's how he arrived at Tanna's work. She was the nearest gas station.

The police in Colorado ran a search for Thomas' phone. Imagine Linda's surprise when she found out that Thomas was indeed on University Avenue by Deseret Book...in UTAH.

I did ask Thomas where he was heading. He told me: "I was going for a drive. I followed the road and this is where it ended."

Simply because my beautiful, kind-hearted daughter refused to let this sweet little old man be alone for one more minute, we added new branches to our family tree.

Promise Me

Through the years we have had different kids live with us. My boys had many friends that simply needed a safe place to land "for a minute." Interestingly, the boys I MOST worried about came through with flying colors. One moved on to ROCK college and continue on to Graduate School. The other has a family and works hard to provide a stable home environment. They have grown into respectable young men heading down paths that will lead to success. I'm proud of who they are and what they have accomplished.  Whew! Load off my shoulders.

The other day I pulled up Facebook and read the following post:

If I can live a junkie life, I can live the homeless life. Did it at age 14, so i can do this again

I have had this stupid post on my mind. Not just a little bit. A whole bunch. I worked in the yard all weekend and my thoughts kept drifting to my friend and this post.

Tiny lived with us for a small stretch. You would have to look him in the eyes to see what I see. BUT I see him. I do. He is such a good kid. The world is simply waiting for him to take hold and become the hero in his own story.

There was a small stretch of time when my boys lost friends to drugs, alcohol, even suicide. They have been pall bearers and were forced to say goodbye and place their friends in the ground. Heartbreaking is not nearly a strong enough word. But it WAS heartbreaking.

When I went to Jordan's funeral, Tiny was there. After the services, he walked up to give me a hug. Imagine his surprise when instead of wrapping my arms around him, I kicked him. Hard. In the shins. 

I told him I wasn't doing this again. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not. I won't watch him destroy himself. I won't attend another funeral. I won't bury him. Ain't gonna happen.

So, Tiny, knock it off. I'm serious. See what I see. Believe in yourself like my family believes in you. 

Christopher Robin said to Pooh:

“Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."

Tiny. If you are reading this...I believe in you.

Timing is Everything

I got an email from Pat last week. She said:

A little background here. I have been feeling a tightness and pain around my ribs. I’ve complained about it to my drs.
The plastic surgeon sent me for an xray. Nothing there. 
So, I’ve suffered through for a month or so, Still not going away so I call my gp and ask for any other thing that will help. He sends me in for a ct scan on Mon. Uvrmc.No call on Tues. Then his nurse finally calls me back. Blake wants to see you in the office - yesterday.That was around 3.  I finally buzz up there around 4ish.Blake reports that there is something on my sternam. The tech writes ‘mass indicated on sternum. Metastasization conducive to breast cancer.So, Blake says not to panic or think the worst, we will not know for sure until they do some testing/biopsy. However, he gives me a hug when I’m leaving and says don’t worry too much about it. It’ll get all ironed out. After several tries got a hold of the oncologist’s office. Spoke to the dr. he says he has looked at the scans. They see two lesions on the lung and one on the sternum. I have an appt later today to talk to him about the CT scan and scheduling a biopsy.

I haven't seen Pat in a while. Life gets in the way and my days slip into weeks which slip into months and I find that I haven't done a single thing that I vow to do. Ugh.

Saturday, I made time and went to a matinee with Pat.

She's sick.

Yesterday I asked her what her oncologist said. She told me that the focus will be to keep her as comfortable as possible. Radiation to see if they can get her pain level down. Then chemo to see if any of the tumors can be kept at bay for a time. 

I'm pissed. Okay, I'm sad but most mostly I'm mad. Beyond words. 

In 2011 the movie Country Strong hit the theaters. Because I love movies, popcorn, and Tim McGraw, (not necessarily in that order) I headed to the local Cinemark a couple of weeks after it was released. I VERY MUCH liked the movie and when it was released to DVD, I promptly bought it. 

In the beginning of the movie, Beau and Kelly (Garrett Hedlund and Gwyneth Paltrow) are writing/singing a song about timing. 

Makes me think. What if I hadn't moved into those apartments? Many stars aligned to place me there. Mark and I divorced. I moved to Montana. I decided to go to school and I moved back. I landed in those apartments. 

I was sad to be divorced. I was scared to go to school. I was busy with little kids. I needed a good friend.

I met Babbette. We became friends. Good friends. I met Calleen. We became friends. Good friends. I met Donna. We became friends. Good friends. And I met Pat. We became friends. Good friends. 

Makes me think that there really is a purpose to the little things. Through heartache and sadness, I met some of the most wonderful people. Pat is one of them. 

I have dear friends. I have been blessed with wonderful relationships that transcend time. Timing is everything.

Well, you can call it fate

or destiny.

Sometimes it really seems like

it's a mystery.

Cause you can be hurt by love 

or healed by the same.

Timing is everything.

Diviine Intervention

Nope. I didn't spell it wrong. I spelled it Diviine because, quite simply, that's how you spell it.

I have had a client for many years now. She owns a company that creates and sells modest clothing in Utah. Trust me. It's a BIG DEAL in Utah. The majority is LDS and it is extremely difficult for the members of the church to find clothing that is modest as well as stylish and fashinable. Diviine Modestee has done that. Brilliantly. You can check out her stuff at diviinemodestee.com.

Tiring of the search for modest swim wear, Chantelle developed a line called Divinita Sole and I get to design the fabric for the suits. I love, love, LOVE it. It's fun to go to the pool and see a swimsuit and think "Oh! I designed that!" In fact, when Dawn took me on my "Get-away Extravaganza" to California last year, we were basking on the beach in Catalina and a suit passed that I recognized. When I asked the wearer of that suit where she got her swimsuit, she gushed on and on about this wonderful company that creates these amazing clothes and it was SO FUN to say "I designed that fabric." Made my day!

I imagine that you know this blog isn't about clothing. It's about me. Duh.

When I was fired from Studies Weekly, I lost all of my benefits. Suck. The timing of it all has been immensely stressful and I have spent many, MANY hours wrapped in fret and worry about my inability to help financially. The interesting sidekick of this disease is that the symptoms worsen when compounded by stress. My doc has explained that my brain can't exactly multi-task any longer. I concentrate on the simple things that YOU PEOPLE do without thinking. You know. Stuff like walking, and talking, and sitting, and standing. Therefore, when stress enters into the picture and my brain wants to process it, my walking and talking and sitting and standing pay the price. I don't exactly know how to prevent this. Stress surrounds us. All of us. So I'll wobble and stumble and stress. And maybe, somehow, it will work out perfectly fine.

My doctor has pushed and pushed for me to attend physical therapy and speech therapy. The last time I saw her, she asked if I had been going and I had to tell her about losing my job and my benefits and that I would not be able to attend any therapy. To say she was dismayed is an understatement. Therapy is very important in keeping some of these symptoms at bay for a longer period of time. Too bad for me. Can't afford it. Not going. Period.

A few weeks later, Chantelle called to schedule a meeting about some graphics. Since I am unable to hide some of my symptoms any longer, when we met, I told her what was going on. She sat right here at my desk. Right beside me. And cried.

Two weeks later, my Diviine Intervention came in the form of an email. Chantelle wrote:

...I have not gotten you off my mind since we saw each other and constant urge has come to help you.  I talked to my accountant and I have the approval to go ahead.  I will need to pay the therapist directly but all bills can be paid...

Could this REALLY be true?  Do I really get to go to speech and physical therapy? In one word...YUP! I have gone to one session and will going to my second today.

We're all learning together right now. This disease (although rampant in my biological family) is very rare. My therapists have been doing research to find what I'll be needing and how best to help me. They are kind and helpful and easy to talk to. I'm excited to see if this old dog can learn new tricks. 

It seems that I am destined to be the beneficiary of some pretty amazing gifts. I dream of being the benefactor and hope to pay each act forward some day. Sigh. I am grateful beyond words. My family is excited and hopeful and ohsovery grateful for the love and kindness offered to us.

Just when you think the world is black...

Who knew? Right?

The Native Way

Diana is Navajo. Pretty cool, huh? I've always thought that Diana is one of the most beautiful people I know. Tall, thin, dark skin, straight hair, beautiful smile. Sigh. Imagine my happiness when Tyson picked her to be his companion for life. Happy, happy, happy!

There was a pow wow at BYU last week end. I have known about the pow wows. Apparantly they travel around and a couple times a year they land at BYU. When Tyson and Goose were young, they used to attend the pow wow with the Nakai family. However, the pow wow remained something that the kids did and I have never attended one.

When Diana mentioned that she was making jingle dresses for Hailey and Madison (Haileys cousin from Diana's sister) to wear to the pow wow, I told her this was the year that I wanted to go. Diana always gracefully and enthusiastically says "okay" but I don't know if she is really thinking "Oh crap." Regardless, I went and I am OHSOGLAD that I went. Wow.

I don't know what I expected. There were natives dressed in the most elaborate costumes I have ever seen. It was the most amazingly, beautiful thing. For being a gal so full of words to say, I find myself at a loss to truly describe the enormity of my emotion I felt upon seeing the beauty and honor in our native family.

According to powwow.com:

Pow Wows are the Native American people’s way of meeting together, to join in dancing, singing, visiting, renewing old friendships, and making new ones.  This is a time method to renew Native American culture and preserve the rich heritage of American Indians.

I witnessed 9 singing groups. Okay, I'll be honest here. It sounded a bit like hollering in the beginning, but as the day wore on, I was able to recognize the different languages within the hollering. During one of the songs, Donna (Diana's mom) mentioned that she loved when the women joined in the song. Because I was so riveted by the dancing, I hadn't noticed. The next time women joined the singing group, I paid attention. It WAS beautiful.

So much of what our native ancestors did held deep meaning and purpose. Donna pointed a variety of tradition within the dances.

What really struck me, aside from the beauty of the costumes, the dancing, the singing, was the solemn honor each member felt for each other and the traditions that were being celebrated. A dance was performed for friendship. At one point, there was a ceremony to honor those that were graduating from college. They presented each student a gift. A line of graduates was formed and anyone who wished to offer their congratulations could do so. The line of well-wishers was enormous.

I admire the honor within our native american culture. I love the reverence held for our earth and the animals and plants that reside here. I don't think they had it wrong. I think we "white men" do. I believe that if we truly honored where we come from, our respect for ourselves and others would grow.  A native proverb states:

"Treat the earth well: it was not given to you by your parents, it was loaned to you by your children. We do not inherit the Earth from our Ancestors, we borrow it from our Children."

I love that Diana is in our family. I love that she is teaching her kids the native way. I love that her family honors the native tradition. I love that I will have the opportunity to learn from that honor.

Crowfoot, a warrior and orator said:

"What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset."

Yep. Beautiful.

The Business of Strangers

During one of my visits to the doctor, I was awarded with the paperwork to get a handicap placard for my jeep.  Because I was having a hard time wrapping my brain around ME needing that stupid handicap sign, I hung on to the paperwork and didn't do a dang thing about it.

The snow came and brought different challenges. I decided that I had better get the placard and keep it on hand in case I needed it. I had ABSOLUTELY NO intention of hanging it in my jeep. No way. No way. NO WAY.

I hung it up in my jeep.

I use it when only absolutely necessary. On sunny days, I park as far from the door as possible. I'm terrified of the day when I can't walk, so of course I over compensate and walk as long and far as I can. However, I find it difficult to maneuver in the rain and snow. Those are the days that I dig into my console (and my pride) and hang the placard on my mirror for the world to see.

The other day I went to grab some groceries. I try really hard to keep the staples of the Deason kitchen stocked because I HATE grocery shopping and avoid it until there is absolutely NOTHING in the house to eat.

One of our local grocery stores had a case lot sale, so off I went to get veggies and soup to put in the storage room.

Since I knew I would be wrangling a cart with a few cases of food and I had a vision of the cart getting away from me and zooming toward a small child and onlookers screaming at me to "RUN, GET THE CART" and me moving as fast as my wobbly legs will go and yelling back "I AM running",  I decided to park in the handicap parking.

This is where this story begins.

I made it through the grocery store without incident and was heading back to my jeep when I spotted a couple standing right beside my door.  I didn't recognize them, so I didn't give it much thought. I was making mental preparations to load the groceries when the woman began yelling. At first, I was taken aback and glanced around to see who she was hollering at when the realization hit that she was railing at ME. I began to hear bits and pieces about "parking in the handicap parking when I don't need it". She let me have her mind and wasn't too nice about it. I heard something to the effect of "lazy" and "stealing my poor mothers handicap sticker" and "Look at me. I'm old and I park WAY back there to keep the spaces open for people that REALLY need it" and blah, blah, blah.

I unloaded the groceries from my cart without saying a word. Trust me. I had visions of tackling her and punching her square in her mouth and messing up her perfectly coiffed hair and pulling her perfectly manicured fingernails out with pliers and gluing her fake eyelashes closed with super glue. I didn't. I simply said "For some reason, my doctor thinks that having a brain disease constitutes owning a handicap placard. I will be glad to give you her number if you would like to talk to her about it." She looked at me blankly. Her mouth was still flapping but no words were coming out.

I excused myself, got in the jeep and drove away.

I made it to the edge of the parking lot and called Mark. Sobbing.

I was and still AM disgusted about the entire situation.

A few years back I read or heard a story about a man and his children in a restaurant having a bite to eat. I don't remember if the kids were disorderly or disruptive or if a fellow diner was simply bratty.  However it came to be, the man was confronted about his children.

His response? "I'm so sorry. The kids were just at the hospital and had to say goodbye to their mother. She just died today, and I'm a bit distracted."

I learned a LONG TIME ago that everyone has a story. We are all going through some kind of muck.  I get aggravated to hear the words "I wouldn't do that" or "She should..." or "I would..."  or "Why didn't they..." Whatever. Maybe we're all just doing the best we can with the tools that we have.

"Walk a mile in my moccasins and 

you will know my journey"