Distraction--The only Happy Place

I kept myself distracted today.  I left the house to take the kids to school and didn't come home until they did.  I didn't even have to psych myself up to visit my mother-in-law in the hospital, because at least I wouldn't be at home--alone.  That's the key to my existence.  Stay distracted.  Read, listen to the radio, watch TV (even if it's 'til 2 or 3 in the morning), go out to lunch, surf the web, and my personal favorite:  crossword  puzzles.

Crossword puzzles are the best because they are difficult enough that it takes my whole brain figure them out.  I can't think about anything else while I'm doing them.  That's great, plus they make my brain tired so I can fall asleep without thinking.  I guess it's a good thing too that I'm improving my vocabulary.  For example, I learned what hie means and it makes the hymn so much more meaningful to think of hastening to Kolob. 

Our trip to Hollywood for the Rose Parade was  a great distraction--new things and new places really stimulate the mind and there's no old memories to trip over.    My parents came out and 2 of my closest friends came out to stay with me.  They kept me occupied, both in time and thought.  All these distractions were great for me but they did have a downside.  The lead up was excruciatingly stressful.  "Can I do it?  Can I keep it together?  Should I be trying to feel good?  Am I pulling away from Ian, if I pull away for the pain, even for a short time?"  Then there is the crash and burn when the distraction is over--the void left by opening myself up to feel anything at all.

There's one more thing about keeping myself distracted.  I tune out the Spirit.  My spiritual radio dial is stuck on static--scratchy, white noise.  I've become an expert.  The things that were once the most spiritual and the happiest are now the most painful.  Duh!  The best source of my happiness--family is broken.  So to compensate, I now have a spiritual "personal space" and I don't really let much in.  I am starting to wonder though, if by shielding myself from that, I might be missing the sweet messages that Ian is happy, that he loves me and most of all, that it's not my fault.  Keith gave me a blessing last night and promised me I would receive those assurances and for now I'm going to hang on to his faith or knowledge of that, whichever.

Elephant

My friend Laura sent me a quote in an email and asked if it resonated with me.  It does.  I might have to read the book.

“He learned to live with the truth. Not to accept it, but to live with it. It was like living with an elephant. His room was tiny, and every morning he had to squeeze around the truth just to get to the bathroom. To reach the armoire to get a pair of underpants he had to crawl under the truth, praying it wouldn’t choose that moment to sit on his face. At night, when he closed his eyes, he felt it looming above him.”

The History of Love, Nicole Krauss

My Gift

I was thinking today while I was playing the piano in primary--not something I should ever do again if the kids want to be able to recognize the melody!  I was thinking about how my piano playing is a great metaphor for life.

When I was very young--7 to be exact--my grandmother bought me a piano and had it delivered on my birthday.  I didn't ask for it and was very surprised when it came.  I've said many times that they brought the bench in first and I was excited to have a fancy tea party table.  It was something that my grandmother thought I would love and excel at.  I started lessons right away.  It was really fun and I enjoyed it.  My aunt Jeanne was an accomplished pianist and taught me every week. 

I progressed, not as fast as I'm sure I could have.  I didn't practice the way I should have.  My parents didn't push as hard as they would have if they had been shelling out for the lessons.  That's pretty good.  In those three sentences I said, "coulda, shoulda, and woulda" without even meaning to.  Those three words sum it up pretty well.

In high school I got busy with many things.  Looking back, none of them were nearly as meaningful as music.  Every time my grandma came over though, I always played something for her.  I'm sure she realized I wasn't any better than I was the time before.  Then I left for college.  I got my first calling--pianist for relief society in a student ward.  I have to say I was teetering already, but that first week when somebody snickered at my playing, that was it.  I never went back.  I was inactive for nearly 2 years.

We've had the piano in our home almost our whole marriage.  Sometimes I played.  Sometimes I didn't.  When my grandma died, my dad asked me to play at her funeral.  That was terrifying, but I really thought I could hear her humming along that day as I played.

I had a pretty good run teaching Lucy the basics a couple years ago.  Then she got busy with softball...   We weren't paying someone for the lessons and it got away from me.  Now I play for primary.  Poorly.  I'm all the ward has.  I practice some days.  It's hard.  Ian's picture is on the piano and I refuse to move it.  He loved it when I practiced.  So, it's hard some days to practice.  Some days my vision isn't the best.  I can't wear my reading glasses to play because then when I look down at the keys, I get dizzy.  Some days my hands hurt or my two fingers are numb--residual from the freaky nerve damage in my twenties.  So, really it's a good thing I never mastered correct fingering, right, because some days only part of my fingers work.  But I play for the primary.  I play for the Lord.  I play because my husband asked me to.  It's a good place for me.

Okay, so, the metaphor.  I was given a gift.  I was excited about it, used it, built on it--a little.  Then, I wasted it, turned away from it, even resented it--a little.  Mostly I ignored it.   Isn't that just like life?  The forks in the road really do take us all over the place.  Decisions really do matter.  I don't think we are punished for ignoring and wasting our gifts from God, (any of the myriad He can give) we just don't get the enjoyment and blessings that could be coming our way regularly.  He still loves us and tries to help us see the beauty of those gifts.   He never gives up on us getting to the full potential of our gifts, but often we make it so hard on ourselves, even impossible sometimes.

I've wondered a few times if he wants me playing the piano now to help my hands, to keep them limber and free from pain.  That sounds like God doesn't it?

Father

In my reading tonight, I came across something I've been pondering a long time.  I have to be careful how I a address it, because my reading also included "Judge Not."

Here goes.  When I hear other people pray I always wonder why they use so many words which I consider to be superfluous.  I'm really bad.  Sometimes I count how many adjectives they put before Father in the opening.  That's bad, right?  I know He's eternal and loving and kind and all those other things.  I guess for me it's kind of a toss-up.  Am I talking to God--the omnipotent ruler of the universe or my dad.  I choose dad.  Who knows?

In Matthew 6:7-9 it says:  But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions as the heathen do:  for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.  Be not ye therefore like unto them;  for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.  After this manner therefore pray ye: Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.

I think the name Father is the most hallowed thing we can use to address God.  I want my communication with him to be personal.  It's not that I think others are heathen or hypocrits.  I don't.  I concede that I should spend my energy and pondering time on doctrine and not wondering about motives in prayers.  It doesn't matter what I think about how others pray.  It's wrong to care how others pray.  It matters how I pray. 

My Father and I both know I could be doing it more often and with more conviction.  I hope the love I feel for Him comes through no matter how I say it or how often I say it.

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan:

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And the children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,

Onwards through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought!

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

I heard this poem read in church a few weeks ago and it really stuck with me.  I think there are some great lessons to be learned from this man.  Stay busy is probably the best one for me.  It sounds to me like he earned all the good nights of sleep he got while he was thinking about his wife in paradise.  He kept his faith;  He stayed out of debt; He continued to live a good life. 

I used to love to write poetry.  I remember filling notebooks of it when I was a kid.  It was one of my favorite classes in college.  I haven't done it for years.  Keith used to write a lot too.  I guess we just got too busy with life to give the time and effort it takes to write poetry.  I certainly have the deep well of churning emotions now.  Maybe I'll give it a try.

I Don't Love Roller Coasters

I've stopped at the computer 4 or 5 times in the last 2 days.  I don't have anything to say.  Yesterday was one of the worst days in a while.  It's all relative.  All days are bad, so to be one of the worst is pathetic.

My roller coaster is at the bottom of the hill.  It would be great if the days that it's headed upward and the brief second where the view is good wasn't always followed by the dive that takes my breath completely away.

Don't Let Me Pick the Movie

We've been getting movie channels for free the past several weeks and I've taken more than my share of advantage of them.  They are a good escape.  Last night I started "The Last Song" which I thought was going to be pretty benign.  It's starring Miley Cyrus.  It can't be too deep right?

It's another death movie.  Keith and I have a joke about never letting me pick a movie because it will always be about death.  I remember when we went to "City of Angels" starring Nicolas Cage.  I cried all the way home because he finally found someone to love and gave up everything and then she died.  Keith ended up really angry with me for being so emotional and ruining the night.

I've always been afraid he would die--ever since we got married.  I was so sure that I would never find someone to love and when I did and he was so great I was just sure it couldn't last.  I think I even tested him for a long time to see if he would leave if I pushed hard enough.  I couldn't believe he wanted to be with me forever.  Then I got to a point where I trusted he wouldn't leave me and  I was sure he would be taken.  It is so dark in New Hampshire so early in the day in the winter and every time it was horrible weather and he was late, I could imagine the highway patrolmen at my door.  I've been so afraid for years that he would die and I would be alone and have to take care of the kids myself--on my own, because I couldn't move back to Utah close to my family.  Ian couldn't live in that altitude.  How would I find a job and have insurance good enough to take care of him?  I've been so afraid for so long.

It is so irrational.  I've  pushed it out of my mind thousands of times.  Now I'm worried about his health.  I can't make it stop and now It's worse because I know what's it's like to lose a piece of myself.  My mother-in-law's husband took it upon himself to tell me how much worse it is to lose a spouse than to lose a child.  What the hell does he know?

I don't want to know!  The title of my blog really scares me sometimes!