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.

I am frequently overwhelmed when I think about my carbon footprint, our carbon footprint, the carbon footprint of our home, myself, Perrie, our animals. Every action I take causes a reaction, every action taken by Perrie and those taken on her behalf cause a reaction. There our consequences to our actions; consequences that I have ignored for far too long.

Yes, we recycle. Yes, we utilize the wonderful website freecycle.org, sharing our unused items and finding items we need (such as a composter and reelmower). Yes, we try to buy organic. Yes, we weakly attempt to buy items locally. Yes, I kept the same cell-phone for five years, resisting the temptation to upgrade until my phone finally went to its recycled grave. Yes, we take in grocery sacks to prevent bringing home more plastic bags. Yes, my bookbag is made of recycled plastic bottles . . . Yet these are merely weak attempts to help us feel better about our consumption, and its consequence.

What we need to do is address each consequence individually. By examining each consequence, and then working back to its origination, we can identify the source of each consequence and work towards eliminating it all together.

For example: the consequence of using furniture polish is an empty aerosole can that ends up in a landfill. The prevention: five lemons and olive oil, in a reusable spray bottle, which now serves as your household furniture polish and a simple salad dressing. Lemon peel composted, landfill avoided!

So this is my new years resolution - one by one I am listing a consequence to an action. As each action is identified I am going to retrace its steps backwards and discover a way to eliminate each consequence, one by one. I am realistic. I would like to say, "tomorrow I am going to go completely green" or "I am going to recycle everything from this point forward", these statements intimidate me, I feel helpless at the thought of trying to change everything all at once. So I am going to change one thing at a time, a gradual lifestyle change of learning to make new choices, better choices. Slowly changing our old ways of thinking. I hope to use my blog to track my progress.

She saw no light at the dawning of a new day. Nor did she see the noon day sun. She saw no glistened haze as the sun began to set. She saw no moonlit shadows fall upon her sleepless bed.

Darkness befell her, no longer saving itself for late night hours; the darkness now consumed her day. She breathed it in. She felt it on her skin. She felt it begin to fill her. Her body now full of darkness too.

All things end. A good book. A good dish. A good bottle of wine.
Some things end that should. Some things end that shouldn’t. Some things end that should have never started.
My search for motherhood has ended. An ending to what was never even a beginning. I was never going to get pregnant. I was never going to give birth. My DNA predestined me to a life of childlessness.
I have accepted this and I am moving forward.
I am now asking that others respect my privacy, respect my decision, and allow me the space to find peace and move on.

Lars and the Real Girl

Lars and the Real Girl was an amazing movie. A movie that reminded me of the reasons that I endure cinema. I love going to the movies, but so often I am left discouraged by countless movies bereft of true meaning and feeling, leaving me empty. I lied in bed that night pondering over the humanity and compassion felt through Lars story, the interconnectedness of his life, his family, his community, and his friends. I was reminded of the importance of kindness and understanding, for both myself and for others. I was reminded of the beauty of others. I was reminded of the human potential to create good. And for the first time, in a very long time, I felt hope for mankind.

She came up for air. It felt cool on her lungs as she gasped. Then she was slipping again. Back into the darkness, slower this time, she watched the light fade further and further . . . fight back, she thought, this time fight back! She reached upward, willing her body to thrust forward, she fought. She knew she should fight, she wanted to fight, out of the darkness she wished to appear, stronger, happier, lighter . . . but even as she willed herself to fight she felt defeated. Doubt resonated above all else inside her, it echoed in her mind again and again – she couldn’t afford to lose another battle, to lose herself all over again, to lose all hope. Yet she knew not how to win.

My sister is having her baby tomorrow. I can say with sincerity that I am truly happy for her. I am happy that she will have the love of another human being; I am happy that she will be able to experience the gift of life; I am happy that she is having a healthy baby.
My tears are for her happiness. Yet behind them there is pain. I am also jealous, an emotion I feel guilty of, I would like to only feel true happiness for her – making my feelings for her more ‘pure’ somehow, but I cannot avoid the guilt because I cannot ignore the jealousy. As much joy as I know she will feel tomorrow when her little baby is placed in her arms . . .
I am happy that she will be able to experience that joy. I am going to try, diligently, to only feel the warmth of her joy tomorrow.


But for now . . .

Jealousy threatens to take my breath away. I am fighting back the tears because I refuse to let them flow. I refuse to feel their warmth upon my cheek. It may feel better to allow myself to cry, but I will not. I am not worthy of the release that crying may bring. Others would think it silly –tears for something I should have come to grips with, surely by now I should have made an attempt at acceptance – if only they understood the lengths I have gone to in order to make peace with it, even giving up God. At least I no longer question why. I want so badly not to feel. I want to slip into another body or another time, another place . . .

Recently I have found an escape. One I am embarrassed of. I have escaped into the thoughts of a tortured vampire, into a series of books by author Stephenie Meyer. A world so different from my own, a world where the pain of existence has purpose. When I began to read the first of the series I assumed that I would find some kind of solace and companionship with the main character, Bella. I never imagined that I would find myself in the stories monster. I should have known.

She

She had forgotten who she once was. She had forgotten who she once desired to become. She had forgotten her passions. She had forgotten her voice, forgotten how to sing. She had forgotten to see in color. She had forgotten how to live, and far worse, she had forgotten her reasons for wanting to live.
She first believed she had simply misplaced her voice, misplaced her passions and desires, misplaced her dreams .. . misplacement is far from loss and acceptance comes easier. And the loss had been gradual, unnoticeable at first. Days slid slowly into weeks, weeks turned into months, months turned into a year . . . the transformation now visible to others, for the loss had not been contained within, it spread like fire over her now, leaving only ash in the former place of all that once made her good.
Now numb, she had forgotten how to feel. Was this loss a chosen path? Was the change irreversible? These and others are questions she should have asked, yet these words were left unspoken in her mind, her own voice no longer heard. Her loss angered some and disappointed others. If only it angered her. No anger. No desire. No longing. No life. Just a bitter aftertaste of something now so removed it slowly slipped from memory. Forgotten, the feelings of the living. Forgotten, the notes of her song. Forgotten, the intonations of her voice. She would have forgotten to breathe if it had not come forced. She had forgotten to live. Time moved forward. Time and breathe became her world as all else darkened.
She lived in darkness. The absence of light her companionship. The voices heard now and then were not her own.

And then it was heard. One single note.

It's far too late for me to be blogging. I know this. I recognize that I become loose lipped as the night weans on. Yet lying in bed I had this stirring, to rise out of bed, to reach out through my blog. I feel my blog is healing in some sense, I've yet to fully understand the effects of placing ones words into the universe, ones thoughts, ones dreams, ones hopes, ones desires, ones failures, ones sadness, ones grief...placing these words, opening these words, sharing these words, in a way, letting go of these words and the pain behind them. Letting go of grief and dissapointment, letting go of pain and suffering, letting go of loss and sadness, letting go of anger and bitterness . . . my heart has been leasing space to bitterness and anger for far too long now, it's time a new tenant move in.

I miss Lilly.

I stood upon the second step of the Cosco kitchen ladder. This placed me in arms reach of the dough. My very own ball of dough. And my own miniature pans, awaiting the arrival of my misshapen loaves. I can still recall the scent of the rising bread mixed with the floral notes of my grandmother’s perfume.

My own parents have wanted grandchildren of their own for as long as I can remember. My mother began collecting baby things years ago, in anticipation of grandchildren she purchased baby clothes, baby blankets, miniature aprons and child sized rolling pins, a baby bassinet, baby shoes, soft animals, toddler toys . . . the list goes on and on. Years before my younger siblings were even of the age to date my mother was making plans to be a grandmother. Grandparents camp in the summer, special trips to grandma and grandpas house, trips to the zoo, to museums, explorations in the backyard. Her ideas are endless. I stood in her kitchen, now five years ago, and she commented to me on the age of the grandchildren she would have had, if I had given her grandchildren sometime during the first few years of my marriage. “I could have a grandchild turning eight this year” she said. Imagine me, a mother of an eight year old child. Imagine me a mother at all. Her remark was painful. Knowing of my infertility how could she even have the balls to say it?

My childlessness has placed a wedge between my parents and I. I have been deprived of the closeness one has between mother and daughter and grandchild. The forgiveness one receives upon betrothing their parents with grandchildren. The bond formed when a mother watches her own daughter receive her newborn babe into her daughter’s arms. The pride on my father’s face as he watches his grandsons first ballgame. I, alone, am not enough. Neither in their world nor mine.

My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

Emily Dickinson

Birth. the emergence of a new individual from the body of its parent. the act or process of bringing forth young from the womb. beginning , start. lineage , extraction. to bring forth or be brought forth as a child or young.
to bring forth : bear. the point at which something begins. origination, rise; bearing, childbearing, labor, parturition; begetting, breeding, fathering, generation, mothering, reproduction, siring, spawning; fatherhood, maternity, motherhood, parenthood, paternity.

Birth. Elusive. Unempowering. Loss. Defeat. Pain. Singularity. Fugitive. Unobtainable. Evasive. Removed. Apart. Isolated. Unapproachable. unreachable, untouchable. Withdraw. deprivation, dispossession, penalty; sacrifice; bereavement, agony, distress, pain, suffering, torment; dejection, depression, desolateness, desolation, despondency, disconsolateness, dispiritedness, distress, doldrums, downheartedness, dreariness, forlornness, gloom, heartsickness, joylessness, melancholy, misery, oppression, sadness, unhappiness, wretchedness; regret, remorse, rue, affliction, anguish, dolefulness, dolor, grief, heartache, heartbreak, woe.

I will graduate in May. Five words that I recognize should elicit some sense of joy and relief. Yet in place of feeling joyful I feel panicked. My heart begins to race as my mind sputters one thought upon another . . . I feel it even now, my heartbeat increasing as I think about this semester and the next. Latin, statistics, anthropology, geology, senior thesis, my current schedule is in order, yet it looks and feels foreign to me. What destiny have I put in place? Latin? Why am I learning Latin when I want to speak Italian? This question is easy, the school does not offer Italian, as an aspiring writer Latin is a logical choice. Aspiring writer? When did I become an aspiring writer? It's always been teaching. And I have not taken one single writing class, and when would I write? I hardly have time to place a few words on a blog every now and then. My degree has no room for writing classes, for pots of paint and empty canvas, for literature to inspire or enrage. How did I get to here? Academically speaking I have arrived at a juncture that has me questioning my academic career and the choices I have made.

New arrivals

My sister Heather is having a baby boy in January. My sister Emily is adopting, probably around the same time. We are very excited to have two new members of our family on their way. Perrie is alight with anticipitation, looking forward to baby showers and trips to the hospital, Perrie has also offered her babysitting services!

I neglected to add one very important point about swimming, or perhaps this will be two. First, I have been taking myself to swim alone, without Perrie, this provides a completely new dynamic to being in the pool. And second, swimming in the nude is by far superior to the only other option - the swimsuit. I first swam nude years ago with my sisters, I had taken Perrie to Florida on my family vacation; after tucking her in at night my sisters and I would head to the backyard and swim in all our glory under the stars. I loved it! In fact, it is one of the few moments in my life when I have felt completely uninhibited. Few things in life are better! I would love to find a nude beach.

I have begun to swim again. It feels wonderful, water rushing over skin, the dive into a calm pool of water . . . I had allowed myself to forget how light my body feels in the pool, how calm my senses become, how flexible my body feels, head arched back, stretched in the water I feel weightless . . . euphoric.



I end each night in the hot tub, steam rising in the dark . . . looking up at the moon, water slowly dripping off my body, the experience is one of reverence, one of calm.

I just came home from the country. When I say “country” I am speaking of Southern Utah, Toquerville to be exact, a small town that lies on Zion’s horizon. Through the kitchen window you can watch the sun rise over Zion’s peaks.
Toquerville is a four hour drive south on I-15. A town of folk and farm that evokes images one might call “Rockwell-esque”. It is easy for me to relax there, easy to sleep late and retire early. It feels good to be under the sun and in the gardens. One afternoon picking strawberries, the next making jam. I came home with a bounty, fresh picked corn and carrots, zucchini and squash, tomatillos and Serrano’s, leeks and kohl rabi. Fresh herbs and homemade breads. The afternoon spent making strawberry and blackberry jams and syrups was my favorite.
Perrie loves being in Toquerville, we went to the Tuacahn outdoor theater while we were there. An hour’s drive from Toquerville the Tuacahn sits among a backdrop of red rock, the location sets a stunning stage. Perrie also loves going to the theater, especially musicals, at Tuacahn we saw the musical Les Miserable. We hope to drive down in September and see the Secret Garden, (if I can break away from school for a few days). It felt wonderful to get away from the house and the move and even the dogs. I felt rested.