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"

My Deepest Fear

When Keith passed away I spoke at his funeral. I've always related to the movie Coach Carter. Every single time I watch it, I think of some of my boys' friends. You know. The ones that are superstars and they refuse to be that because life got in the way of their self esteem. I had an opportunity to tell these kids that they were "better than that". It just happened to come at a time that I was facing one of my greatest losses.

The funeral was planned, clothes were washed and readied and I needed to condense a lifetime of cherished memories and moments and put them on paper in just a few words. Throughout the "funeral planning" process, my thoughts had wandered to Coach Carter and the quote that he was determined to ingrain in a wayward boy. Throughout the movie, a young man became the focus of Coach Carters' question "Son, what is your deepest fear?" Timo would simply stare back while shaking his head in wonderment as if to say "this man is CRAZY. What the crap is he talking about?". As the crowning point of the movie approaches, the viewer witnesses the young man stand and say:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine just as children do. It's not just in some of us;  it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

This quote had turned over and over in my head throughout the week, so when the time came to write my tribute, I dug out the movie, found the quote, paused and typed, paused and typed until I had it exactly as it was said in the movie.

I don't know if what I said made any kind of an impact. I said what I wanted to say. And I'm glad I did.

I still think about this quote. I relate to the part that says "It is our light not our darkness, that most frightens us."

I think that I need to find my light. I need to shine through the darkest reaches of my life and enlighten them. I think that it is important that I bring my demons into light and never be afraid of them again.

According to the world dictionary, liberate is to set free, as from imprisonment or bondage. I am not sure I ever viewed the "getting in my own way" as bondage, but recent circumstances have shed a new light on that for me. And I find that word spot on. It IS bondage to be in your own way. I refuse to be in darkness any longer. I will purge myself of insecurity and insignificance. No boss, family member, "friend" or foe will be able to convince me ANY LONGER that I am inadequate.

The Writing On The Wall

This year Mark turns 50. He has never ever EVER talked about aging. I'm the one that complains about wrinkles and sagging and grey hair and "did I do it right" and "what will I do without my kids at home" and "I HATE the silence".  He comforts me with "I'm excited for the next part of our lives", or "Oh, Poop (yes, he calls me Poop) you're a Spring chicken" or "It's just a number".

Last night Mark was talking about turning 50. He loves to golf. Golfs every chance he can get. He enrolls in as many tournaments that I allow and works daily to get his handicap as low as possible. I will NEVER forget his first tournament. I don't know what his handicap was, but I know it was in the double digits. I couldn't believe that he had signed up for a tournament. He's always been fearless that way. He's a go-for-it kind of guy, whereas I'll plan and plan and plan and then not do a dang thing about it. All talk - no action. Yep. That's me.

The morning of the tournament arrived. Clubs were clean and organized in his golf bag. The bag was loaded with PLENTY of balls and tees to get him through the hazards. Mark showered and I set his clothes out. Mark is known to wear long johns, shorts, work boots and sweatshirt. It is MANDATORY that I monitor his "I'm-going-out-in-public" wardrobe. I kissed him for luck and sent him on his way.

He had the time of his life. Didn't win. Didn't place. Teed up on the first hole, waggled the club, swung a couple of practice swings, stepped up to the ball, swung with all his might...and whiffed it. Stepped up to the ball AGAIN and officially began his golf tournament. He enjoyed his golfing companions and loved the pristine condition of the course.

At the course yesterday, it was brought to Mark's attention that he will be golfing tournaments this year as a Senior. What? We aren't seniors. Did I say that loud enough? WE AREN'T SENIORS! Ugh. All the age, all the DENIAL of age hit him upside the head and landed him smack dab in the middle of reality. 

Years ago, I read Tuesdays With Morrie. Loved it. Morrie knew he was going to die from ALS and decided to hold a "living" funeral for himself. He felt it was "unfair" that we aren't around to hear what the people we love say about us.

Mitch Album wrote:
The New Year came and went. Although he never said it to anyone, Morrie knew this would be the last year of his life. He was using a wheelchair now, and he was fighting time to say all the things he wanted to say to all the people he loved. When a colleague at Brandeis died suddenly of a heart attack, Morrie went to his funeral. He came home depressed.
"What a waste," he said. "All those people saying all those wonderful things, and Irv never got to hear any of it."
Morrie had a better idea. He made some calls. He chose a date. And on a cold Sunday afternoon, he was joined in his home by a small group of friends and family for a "living funeral." Each of them spoke and paid tribute to my old professor. Some cried. Some laughed. One woman read a poem:
"My dear and loving cousin ...Your ageless heart as you move through time, layer on layer, tender sequoia ..."
Morrie cried and laughed with them. And all the heartfelt things we never get to say to those we love, Morrie said that day. His "living funeral" was a rousing success.
Only Morrie wasn't dead yet. In fact, the most unusual part of his life was about to unfold.

I think about this now. I think about age and the pros and cons that are attached to it. It's okay that Mark is turning 50. I suppose that it's okay that I'm right behind him in the age department. 

I think about Mark's first tournament. I laugh with him about whiffing the ball and how embarrassed he was and how he shook it off and told the guys in the group "Well, glad I got that out of the way" and continued to play the 18 holes and continued to laugh and joke with the group while simply being proud of himself for doing the "unheard of" for him.

I have stepped up to my own ball a few times. I have whiffed it more than once. In fact, I continue to do so at times. I'm frustrated with my inability to learn from some of my mistakes and create a better game for myself. I'll take the lessons that Mark has taught me and I'll put the mistakes behind me. I'll enjoy the sun on my shoulders and the camaraderie of those around me. I long to live my life so that those standing at my funeral have good things to say about me. 

"Everyone knows they're going to die, but nobody believes it.... So we kid ourselves about death.... But there's a better approach. To know you're going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time....Do what the Buddhists do...ask, Is today the day? Am I ready? Am I doing all I need to do? Am I being the person I want to be?”  

I think Morrie had it right.

Conversation Hearts

When I was a kid, I absolutely-positively-without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt LOVED conversation hearts. I would wait patiently while my mom or dad would place them on the counter at the checkout register and then would run to the car so I could eagerly open them on my way home. There was a method to eating the flavored chalky goodness that I adored. The orange ones were my favorite, so they were saved for last. The white hearts were boring so they went first, followed by pink, yellow, green and purple. One at a time, after the message was scrutinized, I would pop them in my mouth and savor each and every one.

I still buy them. I don't like the flavor as much. But I buy them because for some reason they make me feel good. Those stupid hearts send me back to a time that I like to remember. Therefore, once a year I grab a box of conversation hearts, read each one and sort through the ickiness in my past to land in a time where I was special. I must have been cool, awesome and rad. Those hearts told me so.

I'm not a huge fan of Valentines Day. I'm not the girl that needs to be pampered and spoiled because some person decided that it was necessary to commercialize love. We typically stay home and cook dinner here. I am perfectly fine with that.

This year for Valentines, I made Mark a picture to hang in his bike shop. A few years back, Tyson and Goose both drew out for their muzzle loader BIG Elk tags. This was a big deal in the Deason home. Many hours (and dollars) were spent planning and preparing for this hunt. Although it was exciting and cool for the boys, I think Mark was the most affected. He was giddy with excitement. 

Tyson ended up shooting his elk. From all stories, it was an amazing shot. Everyone was high-fiving and laughing and posing for the photos shot by Uncle Mike. I got hold of the pictures and made a movie/slideshow of their experience set to "Wild Eyed Southern Boys" by .38 Special. To this day it's one of Mark's happiest memories. He'll watch the movie and say EVERY SINGLE TIME "that was one of my happiest memories". And he means it.

At the end of a movie, I put a quote by William Shakespeare:

When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.

That ending screen from the movie is what I made into a picture for Mark to hang in his shop.

I think about how simple love really is. The unedited-easy-to-read version fits on a tiny, heart shaped candy. 

I probably will never be a huge fan of Valentines Day. I don't need the flowers and gifts showered upon me. I will grab my box of conversation hearts and read each individual one and remember why I love and am loved. I will remember that there isn't an item in the world that will top pure happiness and unfettered love. The love that a father feels for his son is a good place to start.

Forever 17

Yesterday was my birthday. I received a HUGE bonus birthday because I LOVE the Super Bowl and it was on my birthday this year. Yay me!  We have a huge shindig. Lots and lots and LOTS of people come to watch the game and I get to pretend that it's a birthday party for me! haha  Win! win!

As I was doing party preparations (I don't know why I clean the house before everyone comes, but I do) I had my IPod cranked and "Forever 17" by Tim McGraw came on.  I was belting the lyrics and thinking about "life". I just turned 49. That's a bit of a jump from 17 but man! I remember being 17.

I do enjoy the freedom that comes with age. I have my own style. I'm not tied in to trends that I can't afford. I know the importance of being kind, yet I know when it's time to stand up for myself or someone around me. And I am not afraid to do so.  I love MY music. I listen to country, 80's rock, pop, classical, any genre I am feeling when I am feeling it. Yeah, growing up has it's advantages.

However, there is nothing better than reminiscing. Mark was (and still is) my boyfriend. I named each stuffed animal on my bed. I enjoyed school and the friends and activities that went along with attending high school. I spent hours trying to figure out the Rubiks cube. How about parachute pants? LOVED them! I would set my tape recorder up by my radio and wait and wait and wait for my favorite song to start. Hear it. Tape it. Then I would play it over and over and over until I had every word down so I could sing along. Watched Diff' rent Strokes (What you talking about Willis?) Fantasy Island (Da plane, da plane!), and wished I could be Vicki on the Love Boat. I had a poster of E.T. in my room and I thought John Stamos was pretty hot.

More of the "real" stuff that happened. According to liketotally80s.com:

The advances in technology that began in previous years continue to gain speed in 1982 with the release of the Commodore 64 computer and the first CD player by Sony. The shift is so significant that Time Magazine names The Computer as the person of year in 1982. Other big news items include the opening of Epcot Center, the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Tylenol scare, the death of John Belushi, and the birth of Prince William. It was a great year in movies with ET, Fast Times, the Wall all at the box office. Olivia Newton John had us getting physical and Joan Jett had us loving rock n roll. But, Michael Jackson ruled the music scene and the airwaves with Thriller, which became the best selling album of all in time. 1982 . . . we embrace you with Open Arms.

Ahhhhhhhhh...1982.