She Smiles

There are these fleeting moments of happiness when she smiles. She thinks not of laugh lines nor wrinkles. She thinks not of what needs to be done. She simply smiles. The smile breaks through the weight of her heart. It radiates through serums of peptides to find itself settled on delight. Fleeting yet beautiful, in that one moment her head felt weightless. Her body felt joy. A tear falls recognizing the moment has passed.  It will carry her until the next moment finds her. In a song or on a whisper, in a thought or left inside a dream, in the sleeping sigh of a child, the smile will find her.

 Until she learns to find the smile.

My father did this amazing thing for me as a child. He kept a journal of my childhood, the early years in particular; a written record of the wonders I found in the everyday when all in the world was new. It is astonishing to revisit an experience through my own words and actions. Like a movie reel of memories, the scenes are played before my eyes, words lift from page to whisper misplaced moments in my ear. Expressions of delight buying my first new pair of shoes at the age of two; impromptu dances seized down aisles of movie theaters and rows of church pews.

Sadly I am not the memory keeper’s daughter, a written account of my more recent years is sporadic and infrequent at best; but it is moments such as tonight that I wish to one day recall: the joys and laughter amongst the company of sisters. Smiles allowed to crease the brow. Untethered words spoken. Tonight in my sisters’ presence their glow lit mine once more – a flower in my hair, a metaphor perhaps, for tonight I blossomed in their sun.

Brief moments in the car in song, my sister sings and I. An aide-mémoire for later years, to bask in love and song.


'It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them.' -Agatha Christie

("he" is not representational of any real persons or events)


he

he would stifle all her pleasure,
to never have her scream.
he would keep her clothed, for his embarrassment
and never have her feel the sun.

he would not hear her speak of happiness,
to never hear her speak of pain.

he would go without her song
he would go without her voice

he would not have her giggle, (had she even once knew how?)
or dance in rain
howl under moon
or sing to stars
of their delight
or stretch her toes in winter's sand, to save her from a chill

himself presented, self-preserved and self-reserved
not with her real self at his hem
her true self lost amongst his doubt
her thoughts away, away, away . . . away and then condemned

Hooray Emily is having a baby boy.

I have been re-reading Alice Walker's In Search Of Our Mother's Gardens, yes, I know, I should be reading my text Homogenous and Heterogenous Substrates of Behavior and brushing up on afferent and efferent neurons in the S-R System of synapse. However, the essentials of conditioning and learning feel misplaced in my head alongside the womanist prose of Walker.

I love the way Janie Crawford
left her husbands
the one who wanted to change her
into a mule
and the other who tried to interest her
in being a queen.
A woman, unless she submits,
is neither a mule
nor a queen
though like a mule she may suffer
and like a queen pace the floor.

Janie Crawford is a character out of Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. Alice Walker found in Janie a heroine that inspired the words above. I have found in Alice Walker Calliope, the muse of heroic poetry and mother of Orpheus. Calliope is Greek for beautifully voiced, of which Walker most certainly is.

odds and ends

It has been a while since I gave up television, longer than I'd thought. I'm not surprised that I haven't missed it, but I am surprised at how easy it has been to live without it. Perrie misses the news and the weather, for which we are thankfully able to stream to her live on the computer. I do not miss the noise or the necessant plea to find something engaging. The only channel I miss is OVATION, a channel dedicated to the arts - music, photography, fine and modern art, film, jazz . . . That I miss. But nothing else.

More time for sleep. More time to read. More time to live. More time for music in our home and dance in our feet. More time to discover what one does post hostage.

Last week Perrie sang and danced in the Road Show. Her group sang a song by Taylor Swift called 'You Belong With Me'. Perrie was assigned to be a cheerleader, copying the theme from the music video. Before the road show I played the song over and over and over again (on the internet) so that she could sing along with it. This years theme for the Road Show was American Idol, with each group (12 total) comprising one act. Perrie was probably the only person in the auditorium to be completely unfamiliar with the concept of American Idol. All she knew was that she was going to be on stage singing with her ladies group, with a crowd cheering before her. I did a little hand sewing and created cheer bows for her hair and a felted pennant for her top with the words cheer cut out in felt, outlined in white, and then placed on the felt pennant. Her colors were red, of course, and she had red pom pom's to match. Being in her wheelchair did not phase her a bit, on stage she sang and moved and had her pom pom's waving! It really was a joy to watch her having so much fun. Last year their theme was a Time Machine that traveled to hear music performed in each decade, Perrie played the role of Joan Jett (her group represented the 80's). Thankfully we have thus far avoided any reference to Miley Cyrus, I am unsure why but the young women in her ladies group seem to be obsessed with Hannah Montana. Four of the twelve acts were Miley Cyrus songs!

Well I need to be off to bed, again; I awoke and came downstairs for a drink, but I thought I'd stop and pause and leave a few words. Tonight I watched "No Impact Man" on Netflix instant streaming, my sister-in-law Amanda recommended it. That along with a crisp Moscato wine ended a great evening. My sisters and I, along with my mother and sister-in-law(s) spend conference saturday having a girls night out. It was just what I needed.

Standing outside my back door a bit ago, with the glow from the kitchen illuminating the sky before me - I stopped - and I watched - as a winter snow embraced the ground and trees and filled the air with memories of winters night already come. It was beautiful to watch and taste and smell and feel.

What began as a simple winter project has turned into much much more. I am allergic to cats, and Perrie has four; a previous owner must have had a cat or two as well, because Perrie's cats would not leave the carpeted stairs alone. Everytime I walked up and down the stairs my eyes watered and I could not breathe. The carpet had to go. The rest of the house (except for one bedroom) has the original hardwood floors or tile (hate hate hate hate hate the tile) but the tile wasn't making me sick. So it was the carpet that had to go.



I envisioned removing the carpet from the staircase and finding materials underfoot that I could work with, either prime and paint (a stencil of two triangles on their sides, stenciled onto the risers, their points meeting in the middle) or wood found in good enough shape to strip and stain. Months later I now have a new staircase, risers, treads and all, as well as my new niece Khloe. My brother had spent several years working in kitchen cabinetry; and I had two decades of watching the household remodeling romanticisms of Norm Abram and Steve Thomas. Together we were more than qualified to build a new staircase right! Norm had long ago convinced this teenage girl that she would one day have her own salvage yard clawfoot tub, reglazed and gleaming bright! And although I still dream of red polished toes peeking through the bubbles of my own cast iron oasis, for now this girl is satisfied with stairs.



We were unable to salvage the risers and treads, and the existing floor on both landings had to go. I was determined that all floor moulding be carefully saved, as well as the banister, which I found to be oak under the previous owner's white paint. I chose VOC free "Distant Star" for the not-quite-white risers I envisioned; and a black walnut stain for the pine treads. My goal from day one was to waste as little as possible and to reuse all that I could. Trim pieces left from the new treads will serve as medicine cabinet shelves in a repurposed ironing board closet (I don't iron enough to warrant a built in ironing board cupboard, actually, I don't iron at all). The old risers and treads that were salvageable will be painted with gesso and used as alternatives to canvas. The 3" nails Jamie pulled out I can visualize in a collage, bent this way and that way - perhaps finding new life as the limbs of a tree. Ideally I would have wasted nothing, but this was not entirely possible, there were boards (very old and made of some type of mdf) in far too bad of shape to be reused for anything. When comparing the pros and cons of a remodel and its impact on the environment I think you have to ask yourself one thing, what will be harmed and how? I was being harmed by the carpet on a daily basis, my asthma and allergies to Perrie's cats ultimately became the priority.


Thus far I had to purchase 14 pine treads at $11 a piece and various wood pieces for the risers. Birch was by far my favorite, but as the risers were being primed and painted we tried to use mis-cuts from the discount cart at home depot or other wood pieces in order to save money. We painted the ceiling (I already had ceiling paint) and the walls with VOC free Distant Star. Remaining Distant Star will be used to paint the moulding in the mud room as well. For staining I purchased tack cloth and an all natural lambswool pad, the tack cloth they sell at Home Depot for $3.99 is only 0.59 cents at Kwal. Lots and lots of tack cloth! I had primer left over from a 5 gallon bucket I purchased when we moved in, using primer that's sat for well over a year, along with other paints I've had for quite a while, led me to the decision to splurge and spend $16 to purchase a paint stirrer that attaches to my sad little 16V drill. I love this product! It easily came clean after each use, I won't paint again without it. There was a visible difference between the primer I stirred with various accoutrments and the primer stirred with the drill stick. When I stirred using the drill attachment the primer went on more evenly and faster, I used a considerable amount less, and when it dried it looked flawless.



On the risers I used my favorite wood putty to fill in the sunken screw holes (it's $4.95 but I keep it in the fridge so it will last forever). I then used 150 grit to sand them smooth, vacuumed, tack clothed, 2 coats of primer, 2 coats of Distant Star, and voila - risers so smooth you would never know where the screws went in (jamie and I are both just a little bit OCD).



My brother's old boss allowed us to come into his warehouse and take all the tools we needed, chop/mitre saw, table saw, air compressor, pinhead nailer, paper roller, you name it. He was very gracious, Jamie now owes him a favor, for which I feel responsible for, but I did wipe Jamie's little baby butt for years, so maybe we're even. Not having to purchase or rent any tools saved me a lot of money - hundreds of dollars I'm sure. A quart of stain and a gallon of poly (specifically for high traffic floors) set me back $60 (Sherwyn Williams). But I will use both the stain and poly once the outdoor dining table and chairs come out of the shed.

I have yet to poly the stairs. The stairs are beautiful, with the second coat of stain applied like a glaze we were able to achieve that hand rubbed look. But I'm not sold on the poly. Is there anything we could use that would be non-toxic, or less toxic, to seal and protect the stairs? I have yet to find such a product so we will probably have to poly. For now the stairs are covered in brown paper to protect them until a decision is made. The stairs endure the traffic of dogs and cats and people so I need something durable. My sister has graciously offered to let us stay in her home during the polyurethane process. I will have to seal the staircase, vacuum, tack cloth, poly, buff, and then repeat twice more.

Once the stairs are complete we will do something with the landing, but for right now I think an area rug will suffice.

My next project is to build a clothesline.

she looks back

She arrives as lifes road ends. Looking back she sees naught of herself. Looking back she sees nothing of her own dreams. Nothing of her self in her own days. Nothing of her self in her own life. Nothing of her self in the hours spent at morn; hours spent at noon; hours spent at moon.

looking back she is saddened

saddened that her days were not filled with her

saddened that her days were not her thoughts

not her words

not her dreams

not her passions

not her hours

not her minutes

not her days

days of other peoples dreams and other peoples passions and other peoples words

days that were never hers


our days our not ourselves she says

nor should they ever be

for life is made of more than I

not you nor me but we



she feels a slice of comfort

knowing days were never hers

to whom belong

maybe time

we cannot say for sure



wishing still an invitation

inside her own days more

proof of presence where she tread

what is left . . . . her lore

we give

we give of ourselves. without expectation we give. we give of our energy. we give of our time. we give of our talents. we give of our light.

we give not for salvation. we give not for fear of restitution.


we give because we love. we give because we want to share in the lives of those to whom we give. we give because in giving we learn to love ourselves.

we give of ourselves to learn understanding. we give of ourselves to learn patience.

when we allow ourselves to be open to the needs of others we learn that as we give we also receive.

we give of ourselves and lives are saved. we give of ourselves and hearts are healed. we give of ourselves and we are healed.

a handmade christmas

I find a lot of joy in the creative process, especially when I can incorporate re purposing an object with a previous life. This past Christmas many of the gifts I gave were handmade or re purposed items, an old ball jar filled with antique Christmas bulbs, a paper garland cut from the pages of an old book, an Ira glass finger puppet, felted wool pincushions, a bracelet of vintage images of snowmen, a diorama inside a tin hand. During our childhood my mother made everything from dresses and dolls to bonnets and teddy bears, she even knitted slippers (how she managed to sew pajamas for seven children is unfathomable to me); one of the gifts I made for her this year was a rooster decopauged with a vintage sewing pattern.

Many old or used objects found new homes, for one brother a cribbage board, for another a pewter log cabin of lincoln logs (a monopoly game piece), a porcelain bell with a Norman Rockwell image, a vintage cake carrier, an NC Wyeth map out of a 1926 issue of National Geograpic, family photos placed in second hand frames, a candle poured into an old teacup, a blue pyrex bowl. When I re purpose an item there is often meaning behind it, my mother loves roosters, one of my sisters collects secondhand pyrex, my youngest sister is planning a career as a pastry chef and often bakes cakes for family celebrations and holidays which makes the cake carrier ideal; I have memories of sitting on the floor and playing lincoln logs with my brother; and the Norman Rockwell image is of a family joined in prayer; family prayer was a daily part of my childhood and adolescence and is very important to my dad. From Thanksgiving to New Year's Day we sang a Christmas carol before family prayer every evening, each night we took a turn choosing which song to sing, a tradition I loved.

There are still many projects unfinished as the holiday season is never long enough to get everything done. Perhaps I'll have them completed by next year! A couple of years ago my mother gave me a doll for Christmas wearing a deep navy dress of crushed velvet covered in tiny pink roses. A dress she'd cut out and pieced some thirty plus years ago, a dress intended for me to wear as a baby!

Today is my 27th birthday. I sat early this morning reading, from a book called Jewish Grandmothers. I came across a passage that I would like to share.

...I had dreamed of free schools, free colleges, where I could learn to give out my innermost thoughts and feelings to the world. But no sooner did I come off the ship than hunger drove me to the sweat-shop, to become a "hand" - not a brain - not a soul - not a spirit - but just a "hand" - cramped, deadened into a part of a machine. A hand fit only to grasp, not to give.

-Anzia Yezierska, Children of Loneliness

Where The Wild Things Are

One of my favorite children's books is coming to the big screen! Where The Wild Things Are is that rarest of books that has managed to capture the essence of childhood, the art of make believe. I hope the magic is not lost in transalation to screenplay. You can see two trailers for the film at http://wherethewildthingsare.warnerbros.com/, I also suggest watching the featurette with author Maurice Sendak.

Inside all of us is
Everything you've ever seen
Everything you've ever done
Everyone you've ever loved

Inside all of us is hope
Inside all of us is fear
Inside all of us is adventure
Inside all of us is a wild thing

The Anthropology of Turquoise

I have had little time to read for pleasure as of late. I took two classes over the summer, an environmental geology class and a sociology class, neither of which provided me with enjoyable reading material. I have sprinkled in some Sylvia Plath, of which I was surprised to find myself unimpressed, and a handful of other reads not worth mentioning. That was until I picked up a book in Moab that has effortlessly drifted me into the dichotomy of the southwest. The Anthropology of Turquoise, by Ellen Meloy, has the most beautiful imagery of color and landscape. I do not typically employ words such as stunning and vibrant to literature, but this is perhaps the only way I know to best describe Meloy's use of language.

Last month I spent a day on the Colorado River. It was my first time in a kayak and the first time in almost two decades since I have been on a raft. The scenery was breathtaking, but the water, the water was resplendent. I slipped off the raft and into the water for a reprieve from the heat where I was enveloped in the cool waters of the Colorado. It felt astonishing on my skin. I have loved the water my entire life, but a new appreciation comes from being carried across its surface.

An excerpt from The Anthropology of Turquoise,

In ancient Rome women were inclined to wear nothing but pearls when they swam in the sea. Non recte recipit haec nos rerum natura nisi nudos, worte Pliny, the Roman naturalist. The sea receives us in a proper way only when we are naked. Water on the skin surrounding unclad limbs, urges forth some forgotten impluse toward bliss.

I shall have pearls in hand the next time I head towards the river, or perhaps the bathtub.

At my age, my mother had been a mother for ten plus years. Imagine me, the mother of a twelve year old – the mistakes I have made in the last decade; the disappointments I have faced, the struggle to find myself and be true to her, the difficulty in facing what I have become, the sadness in the acceptance of what I am not. Imagine all of this, accompanying the trial of motherhood.

Without the transparency of my own shortcomings I judged her, not as a woman who gave the best of herself, I judged her as one looks upon the stone of Rodin, not as the flesh and blood that she is.

With age comes clarity and gratitude, perhaps its greatest gift.

I see her now, my mother, as I should have looked upon her long ago. Without the intolerance of her imperfections I see her, as a woman once a child. Without the misgivings of her intentions I see her, as a woman who loved her own child.

And I, the child, blessed to know that she was loved.

understandings

As a child I saw my parents as infallible. They were all I knew of what was good and what was right with the world, they appeared flawless; my father could do no wrong for I knew of no wrong to be done. I assumingly saw their role as that of protector, of mentor; I viewed their knowledge of the world as unadulterated. I heard and trusted their word as truth, not yet aware that I would one day find my own truths for which to live by.
Childhood is the blissfulness of not yet being fully aware. A view of the world still untarnished, unblemished . . . untainted with the understanding of loss, of hate, of ignorance, of disappointment and of fear. Childhood is unsoiled with the blood of war, or at least it should be.
So imagine my disillusionment to discover that my parents were not the superheroes I once supposed them to be; coming to the self-realization that they have the same capacity for mistakes as I.

Flawed.

Imperfect.

Human.

And I, in this body once child, no longer unmindful of all that is ugly in this world.

The Hours

I watched the movie “The Hours” several weeks ago, its characters have been lingering alongside me since. One of my favorite movies, it is an adaptation of the Pullitzer Prize winning novel of the same name. Written by Michael Cunningham, the story chronicles the life of Virginia Woolf (played by Nicole Kidman) with a modern day Mrs. Dalloway (played by Meryl Streep) as their lives are interconnected through Laura (played by Julianne Moore). The film begins with a depiction of Virginia Woolf’s suicide in the River Ouse in 1941. The film is deeply moving. The first time I saw the film I softly cried. All three women must confront suicide: one is fighting madness, one is fighting for her life, and one is fighting someone else’s fight.

Some see Woolf’s suicide as an act of cowardice. I see Virginia as courageous. She was falling into madness again, having been there many times before she recognized within herself the strength to not allow her mind to fall once more– she recognized that when she slipped back into the abyss she took those she loved with her. She acted with fortitude and gallantry, saving both herself and those she loved.

my nephews

Here are two of the new little men in our lives!

She

She sees. She sees death and she sees ignorance. She sees darkness and she sees intolerance. She sees anguish and she sees mistreatment. She sees egregious acts against humanity. She sees ineffable acts of depravity. She sees. What she sees with her eyes is heard with her ears. What she sees with her eyes is heard by her heart. What she sees with her eyes is a poison. A poison to her mind. A poison to her spirit. A poison to her body. What she sees with her eyes often stops her breath. An awareness of feeling, a slow strangulation. For what she sees is felt.

A New Nephew

We have a new member to welcome to the Vallen family. Emily and Michael have recently welcomed a six week old baby boy into their home. We are excited to watch him grow and learn and take wonder in the world around him. Perrie has especially loved having another little one to hold in her arms. Living only two miles from Emily, we have been able to spend a lot of time with Collin. We also see Tatum several times a week. I think Perrie is happiest when both babies are in the house!!! Tatum is turning three months old next week, how quickly they grow! Our friend Abby is having a baby boy the first week of June, they have named him Alexander. And my sister-in-law is having a baby boy in August. So many boys in such a short period of time! Next summer our yard shall be filled with a circus of nephews and dogs enjoying the fleeting days of youth! Mud pies for everyone!!!

Perrie and I, along with my sisters, are having a baby shower for Emily on April 25th. We are having a baby shower for Abby on May 11th, and a wedding shower for Maggie in June. Our family is growing by leaps and bounds!!! It is wonderful to see the joy in Perrie's eyes as her family grows. She is always asking my sisters for opportunities to babysit!

I will get pictures posted of Perrie with her new nephews, as well as pictures of Perrie's performance as Joan Jett singing "I love rock and roll..." in the Special Needs Mutual Roadshow.

In other news, my biological dad, James, moved to Salt Lake City for the summer. We are enjoying sightseeing and family dinners together, all the while getting to know each other.

New home

I am so grateful for my new home.

I used to live in Eagle Mountain, a small city of only 10,000 residents. I enjoyed the quietness. I enjoyed the expansive darkness from above; glittered in starlight I would sit outside at night, paint outside at night . . . it was a beautiful home, a large home, with a magazine worthy kitchen. However, idyllic it may have appeared; it had a plethora of drawbacks – most of which left their impact on the environment. The homes three bathrooms required thrice the amount of cleaning products; the large open spaces wasted valuable resources required to heat and cool the home.

Eagle Mountain is set 9 miles from town, 9 miles through Lehi and Saratoga Springs on a heavily congested two lane road. A trip to town took a minimum of 20 minutes, which stretched to 45 minutes during rush hour. Fuel consumption to and from town, to and from Perrie’s activities and friends, to and from our activities and friends, transportation that is ruining the streets of Lehi with congestion and poor air quality.

The entrance to our subdivision in Eagle Mountain was flanked by two massive stone walls with waterfalls flowing from each.

Our home was modest in comparison to the size of many of the homes that lined our streets.

Embedded in our subdivision and winding its’ way through our neighborhood was The Ranches Golf Club.

The city could be defined in two words – CONSUMPTION and WASTE. In fact, consumption could be the anthem of the neighborhood. Hummers and SUV’s lined the driveways of our streets. ATV vehicles parked in third car garages. Boats parked on concrete slabs. I initially thought my disgust was jealousy; thankfully it was not; as I examined my feelings towards my neighbors and my neighborhood I recognized that I detested everything Eagle Mountain stood for. Under the guise of “progress” Eagle Mountain promises its’ residents “a master-planned community that captures the small-town feel in the midst of Utah’s urban corridor. “ (emcity.org) Eagle Mountain is 40 miles Southwest of Salt Lake and thirty miles Northwest of Provo, with no bus route this means that the majority of its’ residents are commuting in their oversized land-eating vehicles of destruction. (One day I hope we are able to hold car manufacturers responsible for poor air quality as we have held cigarette companies responsible in the past.) Green lawns were required. As was the only fence allotted by the HOA, with a specific height, color and style of wood. The color of which had to be applied within so many days of the fences install to avoid a fine. I had a single strand of Christmas lights in the one and only tree on our property, a tree not much taller than myself and certainly no wider. I left my lights on the tree after Christmas last year, prompting a letter from the HOA which threatened a fine if my lights were not promptly removed; they were kind enough to enclose a photograph of this atrocity in my front yard. Perhaps concentration camp would be a more appropriate title than neighborhood.

I felt as though I were living inside the movie “Stepford Wives”. With neighbors that grinned and waved from their driveways as mechanically as Jim Carrey’s in “The Truman Show”, authenticity was nowhere to be found.

The decision to downsize was easy to make, yet hard to live with at first. Nevertheless, my only regret is that I once believed that living in Eagle Mountain was a good decision, placing my own desires above the needs of our planet – the only true place we can all call home.