At the Foot of the Stairs

I don't think I need to password protect my blog. The other night, I played around with new templates for awhile. If I am going to make a little home here again, I need to dress it up a bit. I really like CSS and blog design, but I don't want to get caught up in that right now. This is orange and swirly. That makes me happy. I really respond to bright colors. But after it was all dressed up, I felt sort of paralyzed. So, I wrote one of the most maudlin and whiny blog posts that has ever been written. And had the good sense to realize early into it that I did not have to push that orange button that says PUBLISH POST. I could hit the soothing blue SAVE NOW button. So, that is what I did. Yesterday morning, I decided to go on strike. "Against what?" Dereck asked me via IM. I thought I could detect a certain wariness in his tone (except that he was typing, so I was projecting). "Against the crazy," I told him. Not the crazy so much as the depression, the en

I don't want to think of this as a return to blogging. I don't know yet whether this is a solo post or a beginning-- I don't want to commit to it, because the commitment won't be genuine. I do need a platform that encourages daily writing, though. If I get warmed up by blogging, I'm hoping that will lead to more work on other writing projects I seem to have a hard time opening and working on. One of the bad things about blogging over a period of years is that you can see when you haven't made any real progress in your life. For example, I'm once again struggling with not having enough work to keep me really busy, and that leading to depression. I start to think, "If you were smarter/more creative/better at what you do, then you wouldn't be in this predicament. This is all within your control, and the fact that you are attempting to control it unsuccessfully means that you are simply not good enough. Your all is not good enough." Writing it

She is sleeping too much. When I was here three weeks ago, I noticed it and thought she was tired from the week. She gets out of bed and dresses. Then she nods off in the leather recliner, her head tipped back, mouth open, snoring, audible over the impossibly loud volume of the television. In the winter, it's basketball; in the summer: baseball. She rouses briefly to drink an ensure at lunch time, then sleeps away the afternoon. She falls asleep in the car on the way home from dinner. This does not keep her from sleeping at night. My dad and my brother silently pass sections of the paper back and forth. My brother points out a half-page spread advertising the book The Lonely Polygamist , featuring the author Brady Udall . I sneer. Brady and I were friends (?)/friendly our freshman year of college at Brigham Young University. He is part of the fabric of my memories from that time, that luminous time in my life . We went to a dance together ( Sadie Hopkins ), and sat on an outdoor

Several months ago, my friend John told me that he had a belated birthday present for me from last year's birthday: He had tickets to go see Avenue Q in Cedar Falls, Iowa. At the time, that seemed very far off. We had an entire winter to endure and survive first. John is the friend who turned me on to both Rent and Wicked . He had a long grudge against Avenue Q when it beat Wicked for the Tony. We stayed with John's parents. I felt like a kid again, because his mother made us dinner (bacon/shrimp quiche, strawberry pie!!!) and we went with them, in the back of their mini-van, to the show. His mother also baked us cookies to take home with us. But John stole my cookies. I had had reservations (no pun intended) about the show, which I shared with John ahead of time, because all I really knew was that there were muppets. I wasn't sure how much I'd enjoy it, because I don't like cartoons, generally (i.e., The Simpsons ). I needn't have worried-- I loved i

My six-year-old passes seasons by their bugs and tells us April is the time of roly polies. My three sons and I walk down to the lagoon, stop for newborn leaves curled around their branches like the inner petals of the artichoke heavy with butter we ate for supper last night. The two older boys run to hide til I burst after them, an elephant, clump through yellow grasses, boom and bellow, swipe with open hands. Overgrown bushes and clumps of young elms stand to watch around the dried and leafy oval. Across the clearing, the spot I just left, green and white cloth moves against the gray-barked trunks. Two-year-old Tommy, lonely with the sentry trees, strips his shirt sleeve, calls me back with one bare arm, pale as the artichoke cut at its alabaster heart.

Often you wake surrounded by sleeping forms husband, baby, child and it is dark. Wind is blowing from the back of the house, you hear bells on the front porch, windows shut, front door locked your bedroom door is closed. No one answers when you speak sees you sitting in darkness. What you hear is sleep breath and chimes sound the wind carries all the way over to the house to you.

I don't know what to write about. I realize I haven't been here for awhile. I could write about the day I spent 6 hours cleaning my house. Or the great dinner party we had that night. Or I could write about the grant I'm writing, and how intimidated I am by budgets. Or, I could write about the contract that is ending in May, and how my nonchalance about it borders on irresponsibility. I finished The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo . I read a crap book during the time it took Amazon to send me the next book in the series, and then, last night, began reading The Girl Who Played With Fire . I am obsessed with Lisbeth Salander , even though the only person I discuss her with is my father. He recommended the books. I want to go to Sweden and be a writer now. Salander is NOT, by the way, a writer in Sweden. She is a goth computer hacker with a harrowing past. But if living in Sweden (and smoking 60 cigarettes a day, by the way, which killed him before he could write all ten book

Bah. I'm tired today and a little emotional-- probably hormonal. I can tell I'm starting to make mountains out of molehills, so I am trying to nip these little thought loops in the bud. Sometimes I am a big fan of being a masochist, and making myself upset by the little stories I tell myself. Stories that either used to be true, and now aren't; aren't a big deal; or just are not true at all. There is a group run (for Kirksville Multisport) this evening at 5:30. I know Carol would like to do it, but she was also looking last night for people who run at her pace-- which is significantly faster during races than mine. So, that means I'm looking at a 6.5 mile run by myself-- or alone in a crowd of people who run faster than I do. I think I'm going to give her a call, but I'll probably run earlier today by myself just so I can clear some cobwebs. I am feeling a little twitchy, like I should get outside and move my body before I can concentrate on thinking work.

Where I left off... I was so angry about my keyboard last night that I just got off the Internets and went to bed to read. Today, I tried to re-install my keyboard drivers. Fail. Then, I discovered that Dell customer support is via chat-- if you want to have it via phone, you have to pay for the privilege. So, I opted for chat. The representative took temporary control over my computer, and downloaded a new touchpad driver (after uninstalling the old one), and that seems to have fixed the problem. Of course, with my bad luck with laptops, I immediately assumed that I was at fault for the keyboard's wacky behavior. Fortunately, I was not. Still, as Dereck said, you shouldn't have faulty drivers on a brand new computer. I don't care though. The problem is fixed. And it is turning out that using a PC is sort of like riding a bike. I am remembering how to do this. Though for some reason, I was just typing in Facebook in response to a message, and my keyboard is starting to

Nope, haven't quit the Internets. Haven't quit blogging either. When I slow down in content here, it's a safe bet that my writing energies are focused elsewhere. They have been last week, so I have found that writing to be engaging enough that I haven't really needed another forum or outlet for it-- sorry! I have been having some interesting conversations about truth and honesty lately, also happiness and intelligence. I imagine that some people would argue that if you are truly intelligent, you would find the answer to happiness. But the only people I can really imagine saying that are sage, white-haired movie protagonists. Most of the people I know struggle with it. We compare anti-depressant prescriptions. We speak rather matter-of-factly about our depression and the ongoing role it plays in our lives. We wonder whether happiness itself is possible or over rated or why it remains so elusive to *us.* One concept I have been introduced to recently comes from Brad Bl

You can try to hold it stand in the rain all day hands cupped, head up, mouth open you can even see sun standing in that rain and the drops will hit your face arms and slide down til they fall to the ground The rain in your mouth sinks in. You taste before you can swallow. It sinks into your tongue, becomes part of you or part of waters your body can make.

One of my college buddies is breaking up with the Internets. He writes about it here . I'm sorely tempted to do the same thing. I did stop blogging for a long time, and I was fine with that. However, I have discovered that when I don't blog, I do not write. I admire his chutzpah. He notes, significantly, that he is getting a divorce from the online world. The thing that holds me back from the same thing is that I think it might actually be as painful as getting a divorce. And I am grieving enough these days. But perhaps not if I kept the email door open...

The tears surprise her when she pours her coffee, fills the tub. Twice she presses hands against salted sea-blue eyes: once for her grief, then once more for his. *Diana, this is the last. 

Another pome: This one has two versions: Valentine no apples fall from these fallow trees, my branches ache in their empty poses reaching upward, frozen I have no honey words to drip into ears plugged from years spent in closed underwater spaces winter briskness slows life to cold isolation silent stillness puffs of white air we breathe in, out In February moonlight I can give you this: one hand on your face, one at your waist, your shaven neck my frosty mouth ____________________________________________________________ Valentine In February moonlight I can give you this: one hand on your face, one at your waist, my frosty mouth, your shaven neck I have no melted whispers to drip into ears plugged from years spent in closed underwater spaces winter briskness slows life to silent stillness puffs of white air smoke we breathe in

Earlier today, I got an email from a friend that made me realize that I'm writing this blog in shorthand sometimes. I [ erroneous monkly ] think that everyone has not only read Jenorama, but that you also realize when I am referencing things from 2008 . Oops. I do this with Dereck frequently, and I often find myself saying, "Oh, you mean you can't read my mind?" I find that inconvenient. However, I am willing to admit it is not his failing. I often also find myself saying, "For someone who earns a living communicating, how do I manage to do this so badly ?" Obviously, I need an editor. But I would rather have a housekeeper. I also expect you  as, y'all or you all, not only to understand that the word erroneous above reminded me of Thelonius Monk , because the words rhyme (except for the "r" and the "l" of course, unless you are my friend John, in which case, they *do* rhyme perfectly), but I further expect you to then make the j

I am half-way through working on a manuscript, and I am literally nodding off, drooping over my computer. I went to bed at a reasonable hour last night. I got up around 7 a.m. because Christian spent the night with his father last night-- so no insulin or finger pricks this morning. However, I am dismally tired. I've been a little headachy the past couple of days (and today) and sluggish, very tired, so I haven't been running. I would really like to run today, but I think I am going to have to take a nap this morning just to get through the rest of my day. I think I am fighting off a little bug. I know there is one going around (when isn't there?). It could also just be exhaustion from an emotionally draining weekend. Even though I run and I'm feeling a lot better these days, I am still not very resilient. Don't have what my ex used to call that "hearty peasant stock" constitution. I am a delicate flower. (That is an inside joke: My father always used to t

on occasion it has come to me you know me well enough some have traveled far to get here all I do who have always been here is stand it is hard to count the matches on the shore I know they are there because I am looking for all my pretended wisdom I am not calm it does not then become easy to mold myself to the present is astonishing

This weekend was so brutal that I felt fairly crushed under the weight of it. I can tell when depression is settling in for a visit when I stop feeling that I have anything to look forward to. So, when I was on the plane today, I decided to figure out what I still need to do with my life. I have to admit, I do feel better now. Here is my Bucket List, which I hope is a work in progress: Maintain my close relationship with my kids. Give them whatever support for their growth and endeavors I can, while being able to be true to myself and what I would like to do with the next stage of my life. Be good to my husband and help us both continue to grow and develop in the ways we seek. Get my PhD in Creative Writing. I want the body of work I will have at the end of it. Go to Alaska and see glaciers and bears. Seriously. I need to see a bear. And hopefully survive it. Go camping in the wilderness there, spend some time. Go white water rafting again Go skiing again Go snow-shoeing and

Just as no one can prepare you for the complexities of bringing a child into this world, no one and nothing can prepare you for the utter suckitude of ushering your parents out.

Ran 4.85 miles today. It was a slow, really nice run, because I took a ton of pictures and amused myself vastly in the process of seeing how many LDS Churches I could find during one 5-mile loop.

Just now, I was looking through my mother's desk drawers for a tape measure, so we could take her measurements for clothes shopping. In the bottom drawer, I came across about 5 old cassette tapes from my BYU days that almost made me cry with surprise. Most salient: Les Miserables and 10,000 Maniacs, In My Tribe. p.s. The birthday party was really fun. I couldn't have been more wrong or twit-minded.

My training suggests that tomorrow, I should run 7 miles. The long, Saturday run, after all. I just mapped out what 3.5 miles from my parents' house is, and it turns out it is almost exactly where I lived my Freshman year of college. Hee, I should map the distance to where I lived Sophomore year. So, run down, turn around, run back. Right? I keep thinking about how long it took me last week to recover from 6.5 miles. I'm only here til Monday. This may sound like a huge cop out, but is it really fair to my parents to a) spend two hours running (oh yes, oh definitely, because there will also be walking) and then the rest of my stay here recovering from said experience. The half-marathon is in July. I think I can have a shorter run tomorrow.

My dad went to the doctor today to have some stitches taken out of his finger. He said this morning that it was bothering him more than it had been. He has a melanoma on the tip of his finger. The lymph nodes in his right arm look okay, but now they need not only to look more closely at the finger, but also to make sure there isn't cancer anywhere else. He is going to have to have about an inch removed from his right ring finger. We are feeling pretty somber about it. Today my mother (who has chronic pain) noted, "Dad doesn't have any pain, but when he gets sick, it's serious." [See: Triple heart bypass in August.] After we found out, I showered, and was checking in on my computer, and my mother remarked, "You don't seem very upset about Dad's finger. I'm very upset. Are you upset?" I glanced at her and pulled a Spock *: "What would you like me to do? Would you like me to lie on the floor weeping? Yes, I am upset. But there is no

Driving down to the mall for a burger Sitting in the backseat 40-year-old teenager my parents sit in front , my mother talks about neighbors Connie doesn’t like the word dementia So many variables I stare out the window at the mountains How beautiful the light is, hitting Trees, brick buildings, windows. Well, then what word should we use? The sun lights up the bottom of the mountains, Craggy brown rocks seep through snow. There are just so many variables . Bickering Breaking through All that light

I am in Utah, otherwise known as the land of a thousand sticks of gum. Or maybe that's just my parents' house. It hit 50 degrees in the car on the way to Provo from the airport. It was sunny and the skies were blue. So, even though I just got there, having sat a lot in the past two days, I immediately changed into my running gear and headed out. I didn't want to take the time to map out a course before going today, so I decided to run out 20 minutes and then turn around and head back. I started by running half-way up Foothills Drive. I'll take pics tomorrow. I need to work on hills for the 1/2 marathon, but I didn't try to do the entire hill today. Before I had gotten half-way in my run, I came across a small dog in the road. So, I paused my music and crouched down and tried to get the dog to come to me, so I could look at his tag and maybe return him. He growled and barked, so I sat down on some steps near the sidewalk, leading up to one of the many LDS churc

I have one foot in Missouri, and one out West. Whenever I have a trip, the days leading up to it are sort of dreamlike: I still have things to do: Feed the children. Pack. Pick up minivan from the mechanic. Drop off a contract on campus. Laundry, errands, packing. I have a list. I can't find my sunglasses. My belt is too big. My glasses are resting oddly on my face and leaving a bright red mark by my nose that alarms my youngest child, but I can't be bothered to stop and have them adjusted. I wear contacts. I can't find my sunglasses. I am reminded of a poem that I wrote twenty years ago-- is that meta, or just narcissistic? Or just evidence that the more things change, the more they stay the same. It's the last stanza that I am reminded of. I actually say these lines to myself often: (will post the entire poem separately another time). 3 these are my concerns     oil on the piano       cats who keep their claws perfectly out stretched matchbox, fractured durab

For once in their stupid little lives, the weather forecasters were right. 

His death was not air held and let go: gurgling, rise in the chest head up, fighting for breath. Years later nights are no easier. Hospital rooms, long corridors, dark curtains drawn.    She draws her body up night after night going deeper. Each morning awake she is startled she is here she has found her way back.

It's snowing. I've heard we should get ten inches. We already have... 3 or 4? Big fat flakes. The kids have been invited to go to a movie this afternoon, and I need want to get to the store. Of course, with a diabetic kid, there are things you *should* have around like milk, orange juice, fresh fruit, and carbohydrate snacks. We can get through today and possibly tomorrow without a run to the store, but I don't like to cut things that close. My van is still in the shop, so we'll see how the car does in the snow. I doubt the kids will have school tomorrow. I mean, it's possible, but MODOT is not the quickest at clearing the roads. I understand that the school district hesitates to cancel school because of financial and other bureaucratic reasons, but if I [still] lived in the country, there are days this winter that I would have openly flipped off in the general direction of the superintendent and kept my kids home anyway. As it stands now, we can walk it, so we h