An Insightful Train Ride

A few days ago I was riding the subway to meet Derek. It was right before the 5 o'clock rush so there were relatively few people on the train. An African American man who had been sitting across from me got up to exit the subway, but before he left he screamed as loud as he could, "I fu*#'n hate white people!" The incredibly loud declaration was filled with so much emotion, passion and force I took what he said at face value. As the doors closed I felt deep in my heart that he indeed did hate white people, maybe he even hated me.

I looked around at the other passengers. The vast majority, surprisingly, were white guys like me. With the exception of a few Latinos and two or three African Americans, we were all of Anglo-decent. No one else seemed phased by the hateful explosion (granted this is NYC and the masses don't get phased easily) but no one seemed the least bit upset by the event. Everyone went right back to their ipad, book, music or game after the shock of the man's explosive voice faded away.

I, on the other hand, felt my face grow red hot. I was surprised by my involuntary response, and because my initial shock was quickly morphing into embarrassment that border-lined on shame. I felt stripped of identity and arbitrarily reduced to nothing more than a meaningless social construct known as "skin color".

I looked at the African American man sitting across from me squarely in the face and wondered, "Do you hate me too because of the color of my skin? What about my son? Is someone so beautiful and innocent a symbol of disgust to you too?"  I quickly looked away and felt my face grow red hot again.

It's not just the hate that was so upsetting (although, as Derek knows, I have a very LOW tolerance for any kind of violence -- including hate. So yes, that's upsetting but that's not what shamed me). It was hating me -- or someone classified as being "like me" -- based on something I cannot control, something that is part of me but does no define me, my skin.

I thought about all the people who had been hated for the same stupid reason, and maybe I'm going too far here, but I honestly felt the tinniest  bit of understanding for some of the complexities and degrading properties of prejudice. I wasn't upset, rather I felt as though my eyes had been opened ever so slightly to a side of an issue that had been so unfamiliar to me before and for that I am grateful. I hope that particular encounter makes me a more loving, open and accepting member of society.

After I told Derek about the incident, he told me he wonders what someone has experienced in life to feel such a lack of acceptance for other members of the human race -- for people who are just like him. Indeed. I just hope for myself or anyone in my family, we will never be the means of propagating such intolerance and hate for the future generations.

Toilets, NYC and The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade

I have a very abnormal and very real hate for the constant and inconvenient bodily urge known as “peeing”. Yes, I agree. It’s weird. I’ve often wondered how it’s possible that after 27 years I haven’t acquired a certain level of acceptance or even appreciation for the necessary and, in some cases, enjoyable impulse. However, the truth is I find the ritual one great annoyance.

I remember as a kid playing in the forest that surrounded my house (literally. Our house was surrounded by a dense central-Florida brush, and it was the perfect place for an adventurous imagination like mine) and I was too busy building a tree-fort, fighting perilous intruders or scouting my magical kingdom to be bothered by such trivial things as a “potty break”. After years of watching my brother’s fine examples, I would often find a little girl tree – do the deed – and get right back to my very vital playtime. That was until my dad caught me using my little girl tree. In no uncertain terms he screamed everything any concerned father would say if they found their daughter’s fleshy bum exposed to the bright, clear afternoon sky. He also managed to remind me with a fatherly growl that we drank well water – water that was drawn straight from the very ground I was peeing in.  After that, I somehow managed to find time for the toilet.

In high school I gained the reputation as the girl who could hold her pee all day. I learned if you simply ignore the impulse long enough it eventually goes away…only to be replaced by the more brutally inconvenient bladder infection. Needless to say, after a few of those beauties I was quickly cured of my propensity for high school toilet aversion.

Yet, I can honestly say that in the last 10 years or so I've grown accustomed to and even made time for the necessary lavatory breaks. That was until I became pregnant. The sheer number of visits alone would drive any normal person absolutely crazy, much less someone like me. Personally I thought I was handling the change quite well until my bladder somehow shrunk to the size of a kumquat. I would pee before leaving the house only to find the urge coming back 5 minutes later. WHAT? WHY?

This became especially complicated by the simple fact that I live in NYC – the city with NO public restrooms. If I walked into a store I could only hope the manager was a woman who understood the pains of childbearing, and who might be willing to show mercy by way of a toilet. Otherwise (and sadly, this was more often the case) I would have to hold it in hopes of finding a McDonald's or Starbucks en route to my destination. And I won’t even begin to describe the anatomy of NYC public restrooms. Let’s just say I have arrived at many a home, business or appointment bouncing in desperate hope and sheer anticipation of a clean toilet seat. I even became so desperate as to seek out research. There had to be a way to ensure I was fully utilizing my precious bathroom time. The experts suggest if you bend forward, lift a leg, close an eye and do acrobatics while on the toilet you’re more likely to completely empty your bladder. I've tried. It’s a lie.

Which finally brings me to the climax of my story and the point of this blog post: For Thanksgiving my husband and I decided to join our friends at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in Manhattan. We were loaded with cinnamon rolls, hot cocoa, blankets, chairs and the customary parade surviving tactics. We had found the right spot, we had saved the right amount of space for our posse and now all we needed to do was wait for the glorious festivities to begin. Fully aware of the city I’m in and the pathetic size of my bladder, I cautiously drank 1 cup filled ¾ of the way with hot cocoa and a few desperate sips of water. That’s it. The irony of pregnancy is that you’re thirsty all the time and therefore you have to pee all the time.   Yet, I was willing to sacrifice my thirst on the altar of The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and to the city with no public restrooms. Then it hit me…the clear urge to find a toilet. I looked at my watch. The parade would begin in a half-hour. I rationalized that I would be too excited by the miraculous sights and sounds of the parade to be distracted by my bladder. I could wait. I looked at my watch. It was so close…I could definitely wait.     

I looked at my watch again. Oh no. It had only been 30 seconds! I thought I had been holding on for a solid 5 minutes. That’s when I knew I had to do something. I couldn't last a half-hour.

A friend nearby suggested I do the mother-tested towel tent trick. If you ever went to a swimming pool or beach as a child I guarantee you either did this or saw this being done. The towel tent trick involves 2 very trustworthy individuals who hold-up a towel (or in my bigger bum adult situation, a blanket) around another person while they change from their bathing suit to their street clothes. Unfortunately, I was not at a beach, I was not 4 years old and I had no clothes to change into – only a cup to try and pee in. I’ll save you the logistics of our tactics. Let’s just say it involved someone thrusting an iphone next to my ear with emitting water sounds; singing from nearby friends to cover up any sound me or my pee might make; and literally thousands of people walking or standing next to me as I tried to lower my trousers in order to pee – all while wrapped in a canopy of inconspicuous blankets held by my husband and a friend who couldn't look me in the eye.

Then I froze. My muscles wouldn't budge, nor would they listen to my brain’s silent command to work! I had extreme stage fright. I could not do it. I tired breathing deeply to relax: nothing. I tried focusing on the iphone’s water sounds: nothing. I could not do it! Giving up, I reasoned I simply didn't have to go bad enough. When I did, I would be able to go without a hiccup. I looked at my watch. The parade was about to begin in less than 15 minutes.

I stood around, chatted, laughed about my exploits and waited. When I realized I refused to move because of the pain I felt with a single step, I decided to try the blankets again. This time I told no one, except for my trusted tent-blanket holders. Assuming the additional privacy would help in the transaction, I lowered my pants, positioned the cup and got ready to let her flow. Then a young family stood, literally, right next to me. I couldn't believe my luck. I knew there was no chance of it happening now. Dejected and defeated, I called our mission quiets.

I surveyed the situation. We were right next to central park. The other side of the street might have a public restroom somewhere but I had no idea where that might be and we only had about 10 minutes until the start of the parade. Plus, if I crossed the street there was no guarantee I would make it back to my group of friends. The cops regulating the parade route where no joke, and if the parade had started before I got back there was NO way I could cross the street again. My only real option was central park. I could see the floats approaching, and I knew the parade was about to begin at any moment.

I grabbed a wet-wipe, my husband and a blanket. I was on a mission and this time I wasn't going to fail. Heading into central park we ventured off the beaten path toward a large bridge. I broke through the metal barricades and slid next to the wall in the center of the dome-shaped bridge.  I could see people on the other side of the bridge clear as day. My only hope was that the looming floats down the street would distract them and no one would be turning around to view me in all my glory. My husband stood to my left, the side of me facing central park – where a few stragglers were still walking in hopes of seeing the parade for themselves. Throwing a blanket around me, I lowered my pants and let it come. And it finally did! Hallelujah! Yet, my muscles had been so tight from before that the stream was agonizingly slow. No matter how much I tried to push, it stubbornly remained as slow as maple syrup on a cold winters morning. I asked my husband if anyone was coming. Patiently, yet strongly, he urged me to hurry. That was, however, the one thing I couldn’t do. I could not make it move any faster. What was worse was that it was still coming! There was so much that it seemed to have lasted an entire minute. I couldn't believe it! Suddenly, my husband with slightly less patience and more urgency told me to hurry up! I couldn't see but I could hear footsteps. Someone was definitely coming. I had barely enough time to seal the deal, pull up my pants and take a few steps before an entire family walked right past us.

To be completely honest, reader, I’m pretty sure they walked right through my little puddle of pee. Pretty gross, right? Well, if you've read this far than you deserve to hear the moral we walked away with on that Thanksgiving morning: don’t ever judge what a pregnant lady has to do to survive in NYC, and the shoes you wear in NYC should never, ever be worn inside your house. 

However, the parade was AMAZING and I would do it again in a heartbeat. Sure, I had to get up at the crack of dawn and fight the crowds, but I will never forget how I felt as I watched the parade or the way the city looked afterwards: I felt at home. It was truly a family-friendly, morally clean and uplifting event for which I was THANKFUL.  

A Note to Luca: Power of Names and Nicknames

Luca C. Hervey. That's your name little one. Sometimes I daydream of cute little nicknames we might call you: "Luca Bug!" or "Luca C. Bean" but maybe your nickname won't be remotely connected to Luca. None of mine are. To your Aunt Trina I'm Beebes 90% of the time and the other 10% of the time I'm Ashley (usually the given name is only used when she isn't to happy with me or in a formal setting like an introduction). To your Papa Williams I'm Muffaleupagus or Muff for short. I have no idea how he came up with that. My best guess is it's a derivative from the Sesame Street character, Snuffleupagus or "Snuffy". I do remember being an AVID Sesame Street fan as a child so the connection is possible. There is no sweeter sound than hearing him say "Hello Muff"or hearing Trina say "Hey Beebes". It's as comforting as a mouth full of macaroni and cheese, a blanket pulled up to your chin or someone you love holding your hand. I hope they never stop. 

Let's not forget your dad. Your dad's nickname from his mom is "Bucky" (not nearly as cool as Muff or Beebes, right? Kidding. None of these are very cool, but that's not the point. And yes, there is a point and yes, I'm getting there).  Apparently he loved to rock -- and still does -- in a rocking chair when he was younger. So much so, that she gave him the nickname. 

Names are incredibly powerful and meaningful. From nicknames that make us feel safe and loved, to Biblical stories of men and women receiving new names to reflect their new position with God and in society. Names have the power to change people and to incite in them a desire to be more than themselves -- to be worthy of the name they bear. (Alma 23:16 - 17). 

When your dad and I were newly married we talked about possible names we might like. Unlike most couples we had a relatively easy time coming up with something we felt would be unique, meaningful and worthy of a child of ours. :-) I told your dad I really liked Biblical names because they hold  special meaning to Christians everywhere and in the same breath I said and I really like Luke. Now your father, being the red-headed Italian that he is, instantly suggested the Italian form for Luke, Luca. I fell in love. It was unique but not weird. And you'd always know how important your dad's mission was to him and how much he loved the people he served. I thought it was a great first name. For the middle name I wanted a family name. If the first name was not to be a family name then the middle name MUST be. The C. comes from your great-grandfather Williams and your Papa Williams. Both of them are and were Godly men who have made this little world of ours a better place by their mere existence. I couldn't think of better men to have influence your life. A life I have loved, protected, fought for, waited for, hoped for and believed in -- even more than my own.  

So that's how you became Luca C. Hervey. We hope you love your name. We hope you find honor in it, and will allow yourself to feel the symbolism and deep meaning that is yours to carry. We love you. 

Memories

My excuse for neglecting my blog has been, "At work I write all day. The last thing I want to do is come home, stare at a computer screen and write some more." (Side note: I'm beginning to question the virtue that you should turn your hobby into a job.)

The truth, however, is that I do not write. I blog.

I use too many corny phrases (that my boss just eats up by the way), and post too many exclamation marks that even I'm beginning to cringe.

Usually I come home, numbingly exercise, talk about this and that, eat some kind of dinner and sleep.

Sadly, there's not enough quit and inactivity for blissful reflection. That is until tonight.

Right now I should be on mile 2 of my 3 mile run. Instead I took a bath and ate tortilla chips -- alone.

It was in my solitude and delinquent revelry that I began to think. It was rich, deep and comforting. At first it was superficial thoughts: what should I make for dinner? Is that another hang nail just waiting to happen? I should trim it, but instead I think I'm just going to bite it. Then my hands dropped into the water and I sat back. I closed my eyes, and broke the dam of pent up thoughts. I let them rush over me, cover me, warm me and then be acknowledge by me.

I picked one up. I wondered a little and dropped it. I picked up another thought. This time it stuck. I wondered, do people think of me as often as I do of them? Am I some freak? Some anomaly that hangs onto people, memories and feelings longer than others -- or perhaps longer than I should? Is it wrong to look back and think often on the men and women who I may never see again, but who are forever in my heart? Is it inappropriate to waste time wondering what they're doing, and if -- at that very moment, even -- they're wondering about me too?

Maybe.

But maybe not. Perhaps the people who have left a mark on me, also have a mark FROM me. And when they see an outrageously funny seinfield episode they'll think of me. Or when they drink herbal tea, they'll wonder what I'm up to. Or when they hear something about women's rights, they'll wish they could share their nugget of information with me. Better yet, when they decide to drop the tv remote and pick up a book, they'll wish I had seen the act of brilliance and that I could applaud them for it.

Hopefully I am right and that I'm not alone. I think we could all use a little more of our memory to actually REMEMBER the people, places and times that are bunched together in our hearts, brains, personality and experiences.

A shout out to my man, Oscar Wilde, seems appropriate, "Memory...is the diary that we all carry about with us." I am obsessed with books and addicted to reading. It's no wonder, therefore, that I love my memories too.

Thank you, Oscar.

Summers were made for love.

Reader,
Are you still there? Do you remember me - your once faithful friend and writer? I have not forgotten you. Tonight my head and hands itch for the keyboard, my blog and you.

It has been too long since I have sat down and forced my mind to mutate from private inner musings, to public utterances of sound and sentences. Forgive me for my hiatus. You see, I fell in love.

Is it cliche, dear reader, to tell you that my heart has finally and completely been captured in the most unlikely circumstances? Is it mere cheesiness to admit that in a matter of days I knew that I had met a man who had stirred my soul in a way that I had never known before? That in his eyes I saw simplicity and honesty, both keys perfectly formed to unlock my heart to once again hope, believe, trust and finally love again.

If it is all "hosh posh" to you then I say do not read on. For my head and heart are full tonight with the beauty that so many ignorantly shy away from, or foolishly take for granted: that beauty is love - the deep, lasting sort that changes a person from mediocre to the extraordinary as life encompasses more than a "me" but rather a "we".

But before I begin, let me describe the very object of my affection. I read once that the reason books are so meaningful and powerful is that they resemble real people, real events and real life more accurately than any other medium. In short, we see ourselves and those around us in literature. I agree with this principle whole heartedly, and as I began to match my friends and family with the names of so many characters dearly loved the thought popped into my head, " Derek is just like Mr. Bingly! Post needing the approval of Mr. Darcy and his sisters." You know, the Mr. Bingly who decides for himself that Jane is the only woman he wants, despite her low position in society and the scoffs of nay-sayers. Mr. Bingly, so kind, optimistic, good natured, generous, and happy finally grows up to be a man. This is my Derek. Only add a few more important virtues: charity, a testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ, integrity, gentleness, a deep spirit of service, hard-working, great communicator, spontaneous, intelligent and aware of the important things in life -- all of that and still it is a mere fleeting glance into the heart and soul of Derek. He is deeper and more beautiful than my flimsy words have power to express.

I feel already that Derek's influence has softened my edges and created a more beautiful and complete me. He is my match. Together, we form a more perfect phase of being and living. We transcend the earthly and touch the eternal as we commit, covenant, sacrifice, serve, cherish and love one another. My connection to Derek is far beyond anything I have ever shared with anyone before. He is the first person who actually SEES me. He sees and understands all of me, and he loves me for it. Despite my shortcomings, he sees vast potential in the person I am and will eventually become. In his love, I will become more than I have ever imagined.

God has offered me a gift and a miracle.

I have no more fears, only dreams.

Audaces fortuna iuvat

I’ve tried writing one poem and three blog posts to you. I write a line or two and scrap it, knowing you would laugh at my foolish attempts. I feel completely inadequate to address you in verse, preferring instead a long drive where words fill the space between lost glances and undiscovered feelings. Yet the beautiful person you are and hide is blooming and alive in the words on your pages. So I’m trying something new; communicating with you in your medium. I only ask for your patients as I try to navigate my feelings to the page.

You were the perfect person to join me and Jane Eyre. I could spend days, weeks, or months in a bookstore with you as my teacher. I love that you find beauty and magic in a town that stands as the epitome of American embarrassment, and remind me all over again that I know nothing about the world I’m living in. Thank you for helping me let go and say goodbye to the JSFB along with the fully stocked fending machine muffins, costing exactly $1.20. I pull out my cell phone a million times a day wanting to send you a message just so I can get my fill of your witty humor. Inevitably, however, I talk myself out of the idea until the next impulse comes, and I know before my hands reaches inside my pocket I’m giving in this time.

5.2.11

"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy." -Martin Luther King, Jr.

We look just like the terrorists: rejoicing in death and murder. I don't mean to say I'm not glad he's dead.

But, I had hoped we were better than this...

Day 1: South Carolina, Honda, Wyoming, and America

I graduated from the university. While many of my fellow graduates posted facebook messages of excitement upon leaving school, I did not join them. I mourn my lost desk space in the classroom's of my professors.

I am, therefore, determined to turn my time in South Carolina into a literary experience. Photographs, stories, writing exercises, nature, and working out (not very literary, but none the less important) will fill my time. At least, these are my goals.

I miss school. Or the idea of school. I miss the potential for knowledge and self-expansion more than I can say. Thus, my literary pursuit is accompanied by my extreme desire and sincere hope that my education will not subside now that I am lacking a classroom. And formal teachers. Although, I know I will soon encounter new teachers: nature, experience, along with the triumphs and follies of man will be my new mentors. I welcome them with open arms and a warm heart.

Even now- as I sit in the back of a tightly packed Honda Civic with a computer that intermittently falls on my leg which I prop up with a quick kick-I look out my window and into the dead space of Wyoming and feel the fluttering of butterflies deep in my belly. I cannot help but think back on the person I was last time I drove across the country like this: I think I was 7 or 8 and I remember the cans of apple juice lovingly purchased by my mother for the long trip ahead. As though the juice was the liquid of calm and patience that helped us along our journey. I remember the ever present ejaculations of "are we there yet?" or "stop touching me" and "did you just fart?" between me, my brothers, and a male cousin. I also remember the last time I left home: my mission. I was a child-naive, scared, immature, and as most children are: overly confident. I had little experience for what lay ahead. I remember being shocked by how much I missed the bubble of Provo, Ut and the unwavering support of my family.

Today, however, is different from all those other times.

Like the layers in the beautiful rock formations of the west, I have layers of my own: intellect, experience, and a truly tested soul. I am more and bigger than before. I may be in the same space-leaving home and cramped in a tiny spot carefully arranged for my "comfort"-but I am different, and I am excited to see how my newest layers will fare in this latest trip. I suppose that's why I love to travel; it affords one the opportunity to see the culmination of who they've become while catching a glimpse of their own potential. I am, dear reader, ready to see my own.

I am also excited to see America through my new lens of belief, doubt, analysis, and education all of which I have carefully crafted for myself.

In Wyoming there was a hotel called "Little America". The natural setting of Wyoming is brown, grey, and green.Yet, the hotel clashed with the terrain as it stood proudly with bright-red walls and stark-white moldings. Even the design was off; too eastern for a state so far west. I couldn't help but ask myself, what is more American? The sloping hills of brown, grey, and green or the bright-red and stark-white of the Little America?

Perhaps America lies in the clash between bright-red and brown.

Thresholds

Sometimes I have to look at my hands to remind myself I’m 82. I feel older, much older. It hasn’t always been like this. I’ve only felt this way since April.

I remember it was early April, because my daffodils were just beginning to bloom. I had worked so hard to get them ready in order to welcome spring properly. My mind was alive with images of the summer garden – of lawn chairs, lemonade, picnics, and ring-around the rosies with the great grandchildren. Our garden, his and mine, was a source of hard work and joy. The constant digging, picking, and watering offered physical exercise while allowing time for psychological restoration. In short, it was our fountain of youth; it kept us young and healthy. More importantly, however, it was our planned, peaceful utopia wherein we would spend our days elbow deep in tranquility and tulips.

My hands haven’t touched the garden since April. I look at my hands and hate how clean they are. How clean they have to be. I can’t come in his room unless I’m sterilized. As though my hands are extensions of the monitors and wires that line his bedroom – our bedroom. Don’t they know it had been growing in him for months while I touched him, unsterilized, ungloved? My hands were stained with dirt and still I touched him. If my hands, our garden’s dirt, could kill it I would burn the imprint of my hand across his neck. I would reach inside and sprinkle the soil from my hands and the dirt from my nails all around his lymph nodes. I could test the PH of his blood and fertilize him until he was strong again. I would prune again and again. If only these hands, these old, wrinkled hands, could bring him nourishment like they can my garden – our garden.

Thank goodness the alarm is going off. It’s time for his meds. These hands can work and in turn, offer my mind silence and rest. To be honest, I dread going into his room. He looks so pale and thin. A mere shadow of the man I have known for 62 years. As is our routine, when I pass him the pills he’ll smile and say “down the hatch.” I’ll ask him how he’s feeling, and he’ll respond with his painfully optimistic, “much better today.” I’ll want to scream NO YOU’RE NOT. STOP LYING TO YOURSELF, TO ME. YOU’RE DYING. Instead, I’ll just smile and nod. Then I’ll hold his hand and finish reading until he gratefully falls asleep, escaping the pain. These are my days. These are his days.

“Wake up Ben. It’s time for your medicine, love. ” It’s seems to be getting harder to wake him these days. I reach down and touch his cheek, “wake up sweetheart.”

“Huh? Wha…oh Winnie…” He clears his throat.

“Here Ben. Take your medicine, sweetheart.”

I lower my hand. The 2 pills gleam bright blue and green against my pale palm.

His hand remains motionless as his eyes travel upward. They stop on the pills. His gaze then shifts to my hands. When we met back in college, I loved how his deep brown eyes seemed to swallow the world in one gaze. They were so alive. They would look at you with a probing acuteness. As though he could size you up with one glance. He spoke little, and consequently his eyes never missed a thing. But since his illness, his eyes had faded. He would look at me and only me. His eyes stopped swallowing the room: the filtered sunlight through the window, the family photos that lined the opposite wall, his favorite and “lucky” baseball cap beside his bed – it was as though it took all the effort he had to look at one of anything. And now he was using that effort to look at my hands.

“What?” I whispered.

“I miss seeing dirt under your nails.”

I chuckled. “What do you mean?”

“From our garden. I loved seeing you fuss over your dirty nails. Even more, though, I loved how they stayed dirty. Winnie, I fell in love with you again and again over our 62 years together because you were never afraid of getting dirty – you chose to work alongside me.”

I smiled, forcing back the tears. I was about to give him one of the many clichéd expressions about how when he gets better we’ll work together again, but he interrupted me instead.

“Plant the tomatoes, Winnie. They’ll be late if you don’t get them started.”

“What are you talking about, Ben? I don’t care about the tomato plants. Let’s get you better first.”

“Plant the tomatoes, Winnie. I know how much you love cheese and tomato sandwiches. What will you do if you don’t have any from the garden?”

“You mean what will WE do…”

“Stop.” It was barely a whisper.

So this was it. My God…the charade of a miraculous cure had crumbled. I let my hand drop. The pills slipped through my fingers and fell to the floor. This time I let the tears come. No smiles. No masks. I let him see it all – the pain, the fear, and the crushing debilitation of powerlessness. I lowered myself to the chair and his hand reached up to touch my cheek. His hand burned hot against my wet flesh. His dry eyes were once again alive, and they swallowed me whole. He saw and understood everything.

He just let me cry. He shed no tears himself. Instead, he let me have my moment of pain without having to share his.

Finally he spoke up, “We sure did create a beautiful garden together Winnie. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that I shared it with you.”

“Me too, Ben.”

I knew this was goodbye. I had rehearsed this moment a million times in my head. I had thought about what I would say, and what I would ask forgiveness for. Yet, words and language seemed to have failed. Nothing could express what our eyes and fingers intertwined could communicate. I watched him until he fell asleep and then peacefully died.

I let myself have a good month of mourning. You know, not wash anything – including myself – and only eating what was brought over by concerned neighbors. Today, however, I awoke to the feeling of spring in the air. The sun was bright and inviting. The air seemed lighter somehow. It’s not spring, of course, but I guess “the feeling of spring” is simply that sense of hope and belief that after death, something more is coming. It’s different, to be sure, but still something to find joy in.

I was hesitant to be out gardening again – especially without Ben. His goofy, oversized, garden hat would always bounce along the hedge rows as he worked. I was alone. No hat. No soft whistle to keep me company. For 62 years I had never gardened without Ben. I felt as though I were betraying him as I lugged the hoe across the yard and picked up my spade. Death was everywhere. My beautiful peonies bushes were bone dry. The roses too were barely salvageable. My once straight rows of vegetables were crooked and picked over with weeds.

I very slowly dropped to my knees. The old familiar cracking and moaning of my protesting knees seemed to christen the affair. Even the humming birds seemed to have stopped by to act as witnesses for my communion with dirt, plant, and earth. I worked my spade, but I soon I dropped it; preferring instead the hot soil on my hands. The dirt slipping through my fingers felt as though an old friend had stopped by to lovingly shake my hand. I stabbed the earth again with my hands. I felt the dirt lodge into my nails. I smiled as I dropped the first tomato plant firmly in the earth.

the red plate

Growing up, my family’s kitchen cupboard was a cacophony of cups, plates, and silverware – all miss-matched, nothing a perfect set. We liked it better that way – each plate had a memory attached to it and the bowls’ barely visible print meant that it had been a favorite for cereal. Every mug was mysteriously acquired through a unique process of time – for example, everyone had a favorite cup that had been around for years, yet no one knew just how it had gotten there. All of which added to the charm of the kitchen cupboards, and our unique set of dinner wear.

At the bottom of the piled plates, faithfully lay the red plate. It was chipped, and completely alone – a one of a kind. Sometimes special, but most of the time ignored. It was never used unless it was somebody’s birthday. It was tradition in the William’s home to have your favorite meal cooked to celebrate your big day. More importantly, however, you were given the red plate. Only on such occasions, did the red plate mean much. But when the plate was removed from the cupboard, it was wondrous how beautiful the plate could become when placed on the table. It would lie full of bright pride as though eager to indicate the coveted spot of the birthday boy or girl.

As a kid, I never realized how different I was. Not different in the sense that I couldn’t tie my shoe, or I had a hard time reading, but different in my family. I never realized that my ideas, my likes, my passions were any different. Yet, over the years I came to realize that my family is as diverse as the plates we ate upon. Sporty, woodsy, redneck, strict, hippy: all miss-matched, nothing a perfect set. Me? I feel sometimes special, but most of the time ignored. Not on purpose mind you, but like the red plate, I only look good on special occasions. So I stay in the cupboard, on the bottom of the stack, waiting to be taken out and looked upon.

Note: this isn't necessarily autobiographical. as a writer, i have taken a few liberties. but that's not really the point. instead, i want you to focus on the FEELINGS the piece elicits and then, if you wouldn't mind, tell me what you felt when you finished reading the entry. i am trying to craft essays that create very precise emotions. thank you reader!

contradiction

i wrote this for a class:

Mormon Feminist – 2 words that describe me, and yet feels disproportionate on my tongue. How can I, after all, support Betty Friedan and Joseph Smith? Somehow I think it’s possible. I find my soul is big enough to accommodate contradiction. On my book shelf, for example, the Feminist Mystique sits squarely next to my Book of Mormon and other standard works – each book embodying belief, faith, and truth while admittedly incongruent in tradition. Yet, it’s within the areas of grey – the overlap of opposing ideals – that I find potential for possible expansion. It’s as though my sense of self is enlarged when I discover my personality can be a mixture of contradiction. I can choose what I will believe and find a place for it in my sense of self. In other words, the more I have studied the gospel and feminism I have found completeness in opposition. The yin is not whole without the yang, so too Mormonism is not complete without feminism. The gospel of Jesus Christ is based on equality. All covenants and ordinances are entered into individually. Salvation is obtained only through an equal dependence of man and women to each other. Betty Friedan’s conclusion of Feminist Mystique calls for all women to educate themselves before moving on to marriage and family. She asserts that women must choose for themselves to be stay-at-home moms instead of society (religious society too) pressuring them into such careers. I hold these ideals to be true with all my heart. I spout similar ideology to friends and family. I will teach my daughters the same principles. In short, Betty’s words have seared my heart and become a large part of who I am. To some, this may be a contradiction to Mormonism – you tell me reader, is it?

in short, this piece is meant to prove that we are all walking contradictions. what are YOUR contradictions reader? hate violence, but never back down from a fight? love nature, but never go outside? love your friends, but never talk to them? if you feel up to it, tell me about your own divergent parts of self. or at the very least, admit them to yourself - and then smile, because only in the parts are you truly whole.