Detour

Last week I flew home on Columbus Day. The holiday sort of threw off my travel plans.

(Yes--I didn't know Columbus Day had the power to throw off travel plans. I didn't even know it was a holiday until I moved East. Don't get me wrong--I think Columbus and his travels are worth celebrating. Maybe not the manipulation of the native peoples and the beginnings of American imperialism, but the idea of exploration and expansion. You know.)

Luckily as I boarded the Marc train for BWI a couple of weeks ago, I saw a notice about no train service on Columbus Day. Phew. So glad I saw that and didn't get stuck with a hefty Amtrak ticket on my way home. There's more than one way to get home, right? I planned just to take the metro shuttle to Greenbelt and metro home. Plan B.

Luckily again, I checked the metro website the morning before my flight. Detoured again. The holiday weekend would see scheduled track work on the green and yellow lines, with complete closure from Gallery Place south. Phew again. I mean--that was my direct path. I juggled around the metro map and realized that I could transfer to the red line, then back to the blue line, then catch a bus at the Pentagon and make it home just fine.

Except. The red line is still slow from the horrible train wreck a few weeks ago. And I was tired and that bus would have tacked on another 30 minutes or so home. So I called sweet ME, who agreed to meet me at Farragut North on her way home from work. Perfect. Crisis averted.

My point is this: I think we often make great plans. Fantastic, perfect plans--to ride off into the sunset, or to achieve a certain goal, or to arrive at a certain destination at a specific time. Then something happens. Routes are closed. People fall through. Scheduled track work happens. Columbus arrives back in 1492 and the world celebrates for years after. You get the picture. The exciting, exhilarating part is this: figuring out where you go from here. Rerouting, as the GPS says. Examining your options and making a new plan. Finding a new course to the same destination.

That's it, my friends. Detours are GREAT.

Sing like your shoes are on fire!

Last Saturday evening I flew from Denver to Salt Lake City, where I hugged my cousin Barbara at the airport on her way back to California. Then Janiece picked me up and we headed down to UVU just in time for the Snow Patrol concert. It was fabulous. Great music. Good crowd. My favorite quote of the night was an encouragement to sing along: "Sing like your shoes are on fire!"

What does that mean? It must have something to do with urgency and passion--as if your life depended on it.

When was the last time you sang like your shoes were on fire?

I don't know.

But I do know what it's like to be in the hot seat. In fact, I've got a paper for a conference that I must turn in tomorrow. The great news is that I've found some incredible stuff that makes all the difference to prove my ideas. I'm so super delighted with some stuff that GoogleBooks turned up for me, and that I could interlibrary loan a very rare book from the Newberry Library in Chicago (it's the only extant book from the Salt Lake City Ladies' Literary Club's contribution to the 1893 Chicago World's Fair). I owe the interlibrary loan office some cookies for pulling that one off for me. Plus the archivist at BYU let me take digital pictures of the entire book, Songs and Flowers of the Wasatch. I have such perfect research for this paper.

But.

But I only have two days to get it all together.

Granted--it's only a paper, and this will actually be a chapter in my dissertation, so I have more time.

In the meanwhile, though, I'm singing as if my shoes were on fire. I'm so excited about what I'm doing and yet I've got to get this thing rolling!

Hide and Seek

I love playing hide and seek with a three-year-old. This is how Savannah wanted me to play with her last week:

"I'm going to hide in the cupboard. You go over there and say 'one and two and three; ready or not.' Ok?"

It was so easy that way. It didn't take long and it didn't last long. Only two hides.
If only all the other things that are hiding from me could appear at such command: my dissertation, my husband, a new spare tire that I don't seem to have the time to go find and buy. Sheesh, I'd even take a normal date and a chapter at this point!

But I guess there must be something in the seeking process. Something about recognizing needs and limitations, measuring distances and time and expectations, studying and working through options, testing out possibilities, researching and writing and editing, and asking for help. And sometimes, just waiting. And NOT counting. That's the hardest part for me.

Then again, maybe there are more lessons to be learned from those kids.

• After helping herself to a giant piece of birthday cake, then spilling it all over the floor, little Savvy immediately responded by singing, "I'll go to time out!" Maybe I need to sequester myself into my own time out and really separate myself when I recognize trouble.
• After putting Vicks vapor rub on poor Sierra, who was coughing up a lung (did you know they don't make kids' cough medicine anymore?), Savvy said, "I'm sick, too. I need medicine!" Maybe I need to recognize and ask for a healing balm--and believe mightily in it.
• When I sat Luke down on the gravel playground, he put his hands down to push himself up to his feet. He didn't really like the feel of the sharp little rocks, but he just kept trying. And he never got discouraged--he had the biggest smile on his face. He was so excited to be outside and he wasn't going to let some little rocks stop him from enjoying the playground with the big kids!

Man, I love those kids. I love how I can feel my heart expanding to love them.

The One Who Finishes... or Lessons Learned in St. George...

My quads have calmed down enough for me to tell you a little tale.

Once there was a crazy graduate student who thought it would be fun to train for and run the St. George marathon. She had never done that one before, and her sister and sister-in-law all registered together. What a time for some good old-fashioned family bonding.

Well, then the training part came. And it was very very hot and humid in Virginia. And then she rolled her ankle helping someone move and the swelling never really went down. And even she never seemed to get enough sleep and enough to eat (TRANSLATION: she had a ginormous appetite and ate everything in front of her but just didn't seem to be burning all those calories). She made it through the long runs, even though her running friend suffered a very serious injury and she found some great guys to run with (and they pushed her and pulled her and made her run much faster than she ever thought she could).

And then the day came. All were settled snugly in their beds for the night at the Courtyard Marriott, when what to their sleeping ears should hear but a wake-up call at 3:30 instead of 4:30! Someone at the front desk made a little mistake (TRANSLATION: I don't know how to talk about that without some not very nice words except they gave us a nice credit on our bill).

Here are the highlights of the whole experience:

• There is a great sense of victory that comes with finishing. Sometimes it's not the finish you had imagined--there was no finish-line flourish here (TRANSLATION: The finish-line flourish is when you have this euphoric burst of energy that comes out of nowhere and suddenly your legs are pounding the pavement and you cross that line with this immense amount of energy and strength and pride). There was just the ability to cross the finish line. Period. It was crossed. And there was something both humbling and powerful about submitting to the idea of finishing. Not winning, not PRing, not breaking any record, not qualifying, but finishing. That's it. It's a beautiful concept, friends.
• There is a power in running with a sister. I thought I ran faster than Lisa, and she had really banged up her knee on her last long run. But I'll tell you what, more than I needed to run fast and strong like I did with my guys in training, I needed to run with my sister. I needed her. She needed me. We pushed each other and laughed and told each other stories and listened to our Ipods and danced and sang and waited for each other to go to the bathroom and get Icy Hot rub-downs at the aid stations. She walked with me when I didn't think I was going to make it up the Veyo hill at mile 7, and I kept her going. At the end, Lisa had a lot more energy than I did, and I wanted her to finish strong, so she went ahead. But then, right before the finish line, she turned around and waited for me so we could cross together. That meant the world to me.
• There is something about making something so huge and seemingly impossible into something more manageable. Lisa and I utilized the Galloway method this time, where you run a mile and walk a minute. Something like that. We learned to conserve our energy and rest our aching muscles. And even though near the end we took more frequent and longer walking breaks, and it was hard to push those aching quads back into running mode, it sustained us throughout the race. My favorite part, though, was the big, silver star balloons at ever mile marker. You could see them from far away--and we knew we just had to make it to that balloon and we could walk. I LOVED those balloons (TRANSLATION: I would have married one if I could).
  
• There is something about being surrounded by runners. A marathon becomes a group effort. My great bishop was running as was my cousin John and my sister-in-law Jill. There were signs along the route that made us laugh and keep going. And the crowds near the end were energizing. I loved it.

That's all. I don't know if there's anything left in me to do another one. I do want to beat my time, but my body feels old and tired. And I've got to take good care of it. I've got miles to go and this body needs to see me through, because I'm a finisher.

Home

Last Wednesday I came home. My Utah home, that is. I haven't been home since Christmas last year. That's a long time. What can I say? I've been busy. And living on an ever-decreasing poor student budget.

I've decided I have a couple of homes. I love love love the rolling green hills of Virginia, the thick trees, the brilliant greens and fall and spring colors, the rivers and the history and the age. I love the East Coast culture and I love the incredible people here. This, to me, fuels me and gives me direction and compels me to action. Oh I love that I have found a place to call home that quickens my inner being.

But there was something in the air when I got off that plane at Salt Lake International Airport that I hadn't felt in a long time. A sense of familiarity and deep, long personal history. My history. And the history of the people that I love and that I have made my study and passion. This, too, is home.

I woke up on Thursday to the sprinkling of snow on Timpanogos with the dusting of fall color creeping down the mountain. Oh I love the majestic rocky peaks. I did some research at the new Church History museum in Salt Lake City--looking at old, familiar records in a beautiful new location. That new library is breathtaking--from the bronze friezes to the rich carpet to the warm afternoon sun. I have loved catching up with dear old friends, spending time with family, and even catching a General Conference session Sunday afternoon.And yet... after a couple of days here (well and a sojourn in St. George, details pending the healing of my throbbing quads), I find myself anxious. I feel in-between. I have papers to grade, a paper to write, more research to do, planes to catch, a conference to attend in Denver.
Basically, I've come to the conclusion that time marches on. I remember on my mission after five long, hard, rewarding months in Bari, I was inevitably transferred to Foggia. As I rode the train and looked out the window at the fleeting city scenes that had become my own through a lot of pavement pounding and hard work, I felt like Bari had become a part of me--a part of my very being. I had laughed and cried and withered of exhaustion and thrived with love there. I had give myself to Bari and I took that city into my own self. And I was leaving it behind. But I was also taking a part of it with me. Bari had enveloped itself into my soul.

Before Italy and since then, I've added a lot of homes to my soul: magical London with its enchantment and European delights at every turn, sunny Arizona with its delightful orange blossoms and breathtaking sunsets, dynamic New York City with its mad craziness and breathtaking life all rolled up together, and of course, Washington DC and Utah.

We create homes and we take them with us. They blend together to make us who we are. And we carry them with us everywhere. And we can find home all over again.

In a Good Place

A couple of weeks ago on a 20-mile run, a friend and I chatted about what it meant to be "in a good place."

What does that mean to you?

One definition says: "a state of well-being in which the individual reaches his or her own abilities, can cope with the normal stresses of life, can work productively and fruitfully, and is able to make a contribution to his or her community."

Today, I'm in a good place. I love the subtle changes in seasons--the way the sun shines at a slant now, the breeze and threat of rain, the fresh intermittent quiet pop of leaves here and there. I have some great new music on my Ipod; I have an awesome pair of red heels and some new lip gloss. I'm in a good place.

But to me, being in a good place is not just a matter of new possessions. It's a matter of being comfortable in my skin. It means feeling confident--not necessarily that my situation has changed, but that I feel the ability--the capability--to handle it. And not just to handle it, but to thrive.

Yesterday at church we talked about what it means to blossom in the desert, to build up our waste places. I've been feeling pretty barren lately. My flowers haven't bloomed this summer--but that's probably because I didn't plant as well as I did last year, nor did I water them as carefully. I love what Kate said yesterday--that sometimes we don't immediately see the blossoms of our planting. Sometimes they come years later. But--and here's the important thing--they come. They do.

The other thing about being in a good place is that it sometimes takes a lot of effort. Sometimes it's a fight to be in a good place. Sometimes it means recognizing multiple ways to blossom and bloom. It means finding contentment with an allotted acreage. It means working hard and thinking big and finding a way. And finding some light and color and hope in the process.

And that's why I'm in a good place.

Oh dear, leave it!

When my nephew Grant was little, he came up with this phrase, "Oh dear, leave it!" We figure out that he heard us say, "I can't believe it!" and sort of made it his own. So we say it all the time. I can't believe it! Oh dear, leave it!

I had one of those experiences last Friday. Oh dear, leave it! I was pulling out of the parking garage at Mason and I heard a strange pop, but didn't think much of it. I was mostly just excited that it wasn't raining anymore and I was planning a little weekend get-away to Tappahannock, Virginia (LONG story that I'm still trying to figure out). I popped open my sunroof and drove along Braddock Road.

Suddenly, my super-sensitive nose smelled something burning. I looked around but didn't see anything, until i noticed smoke pouring in through my sunroof. Um, weird.

So I pulled over. I found smoke coming out of the bottom back of my car, and I popped the trunk, with smoke billowing out of my trunk. I was just about to call Triple A (um, hello... wouldn't 911 have been more apropos?), when a car pulled up and asked if I needed help. Um, yes.

The guy popped out--turns out he's an Alexandria fireman (wearing his fire station polo shirt), and he pulled out my spare tire, which was on fire.... he quickly stomped on it and put it out with a canvas bag I had in the trunk. Then he figured out the cause: live speaker wires. Apparently the previous owners of my car had installed a sound system, then removed it before selling the car to me. Only they left the live wires there carefully tucked away under the spare tire. We even found some duct tape in my fancy Eddie Bauer Car Emergency Care Kit (yes, I bought it 2 1/2 years ago on sale for $20, regularly $75, and I've never opened it). The fireman was impressed that I had tape. And he kept repeating, over and over again, "You are so lucky."

Thank goodness for no more rain... so I could open my sunroof.

Thank goodness for my sensitive nose, sniffing out smoke before the flames reached my gas tank. My car reeks like burned rubber, but I have a car!

Thank goodness that the man who stopped was a fireman. And the same thing had happened to him on the New Jersey Turnpike. WHO DOES THIS HAPPEN TO?

Thank goodness that all I need to do is replace my spare tire and remove the wires. Yes there is a small hole in the panel under my spare tire, but I think it should be ok.

Oh dear, leave it!

Familiar

Grammy and Savvy on the Stewart Falls trail. Wish I could have been there...

I was on call yesterday. My friend Catherine was scheduled to be induced, but it had been a busy labor night and all beds were full. But after little Andrew went down for his nap, a bed opened up and I was over in a flash while excited parents bustled off to the hospital.

I worked away for a few hours, and then Andrew woke up. The little guy was quite disoriented... his mother was always there, every time he woke up, and now there was this strange woman he'd only seen at the swimming pool or at church. What up? He cried dramatically, with big crocodile tears. And who can blame him?

I tried my best to comfort him but quickly realized a bigger distraction was needed. So we headed outside to look for Mama. Then I mentioned that Grandpa and Grandma were on their way, that they were at the airport. Andrew said, in his little 2-year-old way, "Grandpa. Airplane. Thursday." I said, "Yes! Today is Thursday! Grandpa is coming today!"

We rode his scooter down to the corner and waited, checking out every single car that passed to see if it was Grandpa, and noticing all the buses and dogs and trees. Soon he was chattering away, until Aunt Susan's car turned the corner. And there, in the front seat, was Grandpa! with Grandma tucked safely away in the back.

Andrew exploded with joy. This kid. Even though he had found comfort and ease with me, he found a very welcome, familiar face. Family. Familiar. I love how they come from the same root. I love how good it feels to put on a familiar pair of old jeans, or to walk a familiar route in a chaotic scene, or to create a home. But there's nothing like family. Familiar family.

Sometime today Andrew will probably find the familiar face of his mom at the hospital. And he'll meet his new little brother, and that probably won't feel so familiar at first. But it will. Oh it will.

Starting Right

You know it's going to be a good one when you start out at a 6 am body pump class at the gym (after a very late night of great food and conversation), and you come straight home and make a Texas Sheet Cake for a funeral luncheon at church. There is nothing like the early morning light filtering in through the window, wearing slightly sweaty workout clothes with your grandmother's apron, stirring up some Ghiradelli cocoa frosting and crushing pecans. And then swooping up the leftover frosting on some french bread for breakfast.

It's got to be a good day.

What to Do at the Beach in the Rain...

We had one glorious day of pure sun. Well plus the half-travel day on Friday and the somewhat overcast day on Sunday. And boy oh boy was that a glorious day--all day long on the beach, soaking in the sun, soaking in every drop, storing up for darker days. Oh my. I love the Outer Banks. I also love the friends and the food, the games and the hours of laughing and chatting and playing. I love it.

So when Monday rolled around with pouring rain and wind, we knew we were in for adventure. First we ventured out on the tandem bike. My favorite part was waving at everyone we saw--they must have thought we were nuts but they all (mostly) smiled and waved back and honked. We drove straight through every puddle head on, and veered around corners and under those dune bushes. When we got back and I climbed off the bike, I started to say something about not getting as wet as I thought we would when I saw Gregory's completely soaked t-shirt. He certainly took the brunt of it!

Then we headed to the beach. I'm waiting for Jen to send her pictures to prove our strategic moves with an air mattress and the angry waves. We boogie boarded and jumped and dove and played to our hearts' content. The water was warm and we forgot it was raining. The last wave ride was the best--with the four of us anchored on that air mattress, we really caught air and wave and we almost died in the process, but the exhilaration was well worth it.

There were like 20 more people, but we were the last ones left...

Then we stomped off the sand and climbed in the hot tub under the protection of the back porch. And we talked and laughed and ate orange bell peppers and the more daring jumped into the pool while the chickens (yes that's me) climbed into a warm shower.

And home again home again jiggety jig. Only with some great beach memories and sunshine AND rain.

Mine Arm is Lengthened Out All the Day Long

An odd title, but it pretty much describes an idea that I really like.

It's been a week of bad health news. My dear grandmother's doctor discovered gout in her thumb and after an emergency surgery, she's still waiting to know how much of her thumb was removed and if the infection has spread anywhere else. A friend--my age--just found out she has MS. I attended a funeral on Monday for a woman from church who died of surgery complications. And I rolled my measly ankle a couple of weeks ago smack dab in the middle of marathon training. I feel like a total whiner.

There's so much I wish I could do. But with GranNomi in Missouri and my friend in Utah, and my ankle wrapped and iced and elevated, there's not much I can do. Besides pray.

Except.

Except, you see, there is a woman from church here who is dying of cancer. She has no family. She is in her last weeks. And she needs people to stop by. Yesterday Julie and I dropped off her kids at a friend's and headed to McDonalds for some milkshakes. After all, they are the medicine my Grandad always brought me. I also towed along a bag full of tricks--dominoes, crossword & sudoku, some random DVDs, and my new Eliza R. Snow book. Just in case.

Holly didn't answer the door. Julie and I freaked out--we could just imagine her, unconscious, on the floor, unable to answer the phone. We knocked and tried talking to her through the door with no answer. We tried to look into the windows, but they were like seven feet above the ground. We chatted it up with her Latin neighbors, who didn't even know she lived there. We called everyone we could think of--friends in Utah, a co-worker at the Smithsonian who was out in the field that day, people from Church. Finally, after hearing baby Bronco crying on the phone, we took our dripping milkshakes and left.

Of course we got a text that Holly was out on some errands with a kind friend. When we returned, she was just getting out of the car and needed help unlocking the door. Confused and hot, sweaty, tired, she was grateful for the melting strawberry milkshake-turned-milk. I gave her a hug and we left.

There was so much I wish I could have done. I wish I could have comforted her and taken away her pain and frustration. I wish I could have given her a foot rub or helped clean up or made her laugh. I wish I could have heard stories about her childhood or about her career or her conversion. Instead I felt her sharp shoulder bones in her grateful hug and left her sugar. I wish I could visit with my grandmother and tell her stories about Eliza R. Snow and play dominoes (she seems to always win).

Holly is now in the hospital, unconscious, her body fighting infection and pnemonia. At least she has no pain.
And at least I know that I do the best I can to help my family by helping the people around me. And I see in the process that in a strange way, there is an arm lengthened out all the day. And beyond.

Bookends to a Week (literally)

It's been an exam week. Hopefully my last one. Oh I hope.

And it's been a week bookended (literally) with two pretty incredible tender mercies. Like some of the biggest I've ever seen. The kind that get me through these kinds of exams.

Last Saturday, after one of my worst runs ever (oh! the humidity! the August heat! the miles!), as I was eating my well-deserved breakfast, Fed Ex knocked at my door with a giant 70-lb. box from a woman for whom I do contract work. Bless her heart. She sent me her collection of the Woman's Exponent, from when she wrote her own dissertation on Utah women's suffrage. She said this collection saw here through her dissertation and she hoped it would see me through mine.
Now let me tell you about this gem. I discovered the Exponent when I worked as a research assistant at BYU. Published between 1872 to 1914 by Utah women, the newspaper covered everything from Relief Society minutes to correspondence with national suffrage leaders to fiction and poetry and biographies and editorials. Very progressive editorials, I might add. And oh! My favorite women! Emmeline B. Wells, Eliza R. Snow, the list goes on and on.


I love these women. I love feeling the raised print on the pages. I love the handwritten names at the tops of the papers--who they belonged to. I love them because I know them. I love Jane Snyder Richards, who was the Relief Society president in Ogden. It was her idea to create stake Relief Society organizations, and under the direction of Brigham Young, right before he died, she was the first. Her husband, Franklin, gave the most beautiful lecture on women and marriage and the sharing of priesthood that I've ever read. And now I've got them here with me. Their words will provide fodder for my research, and their spirits will accompany me on this process.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. After another horrible run (oh! the humidity! the August heat! the miles!), I found another package on my doorstep. This one was from another woman for whom I worked before I started graduate school. I was her research assistant on several projects--namely early Relief Society documents and Eliza R. Snow poetry. Well the poetry book just came out. And I'm happy to present it to you here:

Over 500 poems, each of them carefully annotated and introduced, present snapshots of a beautiful early Mormon trajectory, filled with personal relationships, development, editorials, theology, history, and faith. They are the stories of an amazing journey. I loved getting to know Eliza on a very personal level--pouring over her journals and letters, tracking down her speeches, experiencing her travels and newspaper publications. I loved researching and writing, organizing and formating, discovering the mysteries of people referred to only by their initials based on clues in the poems, understanding the social, cultural, political, economic, literary, and religious implications of her references. I loved it all.

And I loved working with two master historians and writers. I loved our day-long writing sessions, get-aways at Karen's cabin or Jill's cabin. I loved laughing our heads off at the antics we imagined in this nineteenth-century life. I loved pulling together the threads and now, finally, seeing the finished product.
Two bookends. Some of Eliza's poems even appear in those Woman's Exponent copies. From primary sources to adept analysis and interpretation... these two packages have reminded me why I'm here in the Washington DC summer dog days, why I'm plugging through minor fields. I need to gain the tools, to learn the trade, to sharpen my ability.

But I also need to remember and to fuel myself and to refreshen my passion. And these two packages have done just that.

2 More City Blocks, or A-Treking We Go, or Pioneer Children Sang as They Walked and Walked and Walked

When I was a young girls' camper, Ray Baird would take us on hikes throughout the mountains of Camp Shalom and the Uintahs. As young girls are wont to do, we would complain and ask how much longer. "Two more city blocks!" Ray would always reply. Every time it was the same answer. It always baffled us how those two city blocks stretched into many, many more miles.

Last night I was asked to speak at our stake youth conference pioneer trek. I even made my own little pioneer skirt and apron to really get into the theme of things. I studied up on my pioneer stories. I worried, because I was scheduled to take my second minor field exam this week, plus a myriad of other responsibilities falling into my lap made for a very full plate. One thing at a time, I thought. Two more city blocks.

Well things fell into place, as they always do. My exam was pushed back to next week, and I was able to concentrate on the task at hand. Virginia and I drove down through the rolling hills of Virginia, had dinner at a greasy little diner in Marshall, Virginia, then pranced into camp just as the sun was setting, where the kids were constructing makeshift tents and regaling stories of thier long trek pushing and pulling, fording streams and making jokes, sweating and falling and getting back up again.
It was a delightful evening. Only dinner wasn't cooking very quickly in the Dutch ovens (darn thick potatoes). Dan and Virginia and I started the group off, singing some old Eliza R. Snow trail hymns, but we didn't know the tune too well. It fizzled out. And dinner still wasn't ready yet. Kids were starving and tired. But I started telling them stories around the campfire under a full moon. I love how Eliza wrote about it:

“Many, yes many were the star and moonlight evenings, when, as we circled around the blazing fire and sang our hymns of devotion and songs of praise to Him who knows the secrets of all hearts—when with sublime union of hearts, the sound of united voices reverberated from hill to hill; and echoing through the silent expanse, apparently filled the vast concave above, while the glory of God seemed to rest on all around us."

And pretty soon everyone was listening. Intrigued. Enraptured by the stories of yesteryear. Interested because they'd just walked a bunch of miles in their shoes. They loved hearing how Margaret McNeil Ballard was too short to cross the rivers, so she held on to her cow's tail and made it. Or John Stucki, whose father put a piece of buffalo meat in the back of the handcart for safekeeping for Sunday's meal, but as John pushed that cart, hungry, he would cut off a sliver every day. When his father found the evidence, instead of punishing him, he put his arm around his son and cried, grateful that he could somehow provide for his growing boy. Or little Agnes Caldwell, who ran alongside the rescue wagon in the snow, wondering why they wouldn't pick her up, later to discover that her running kept her blood circulating and saved her legs from frostbite and possible amputation like those lying in the wagon.

Two more city blocks, guys. Keep going.

My favorite story, though, was this:

“I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hillslope, and I have said, ‘I can go only that far and there I must give up for I cannot pull the load through it.’ … I have gone on to that sand and when I reached it, the cart began pushing me. I have looked back many times to see who was pushing my cart, but my eyes saw no one. I knew then that the angels of God were there.”


If I can just make it to that hill, or that spot ahead on the horizon. If I can just get through this one more exam, and then that dissertation. If I can make it through this week. The thing is, there's always another two more city blocks--another hill, another valley, another item on my list. But that's what keeps me moving. It keeps my blood circulating and prevents my own frostbite. And I look back at where I've been,and I realize the hands that have pushed and pulled, the energy that has come in such small, beautiful ways.

Two more city blocks.

R.I.P. Ray Baird. We still love you and think of you and sing your praises. And Oh! Pioneers! You, too.

Catching Up is Hard to Do

Sometimes I just have nothing to post. Other times I have too much to post. And then most of the time I just have too darn much to do and the thought of posting sends me over the top. That's the truth, friends.

A few random thoughts to tide you over:

• This morning I saw a couple sitting at the bus stop outside my home. I've seen them once before on an early morning run. They are probably in their mid-50s. She is obviously ready for the work day; he, on the other hand, is there, straight out of bed, with a cup of coffee. And they are holding hands. And deep in conversation. I love it.
• Last weekend we had a big barbecue for a dear friend who is moving to England. She up and sold her house and most of her possessions, and gave the rest away (I ended up with a delightful cake stand and cover and a lot of cool fabric). What better way to celebrate her than to make her an apron? Even better: I made her an apron out of her old curtains. I felt just like Maria on Sound of Music. Only I added jumbo ric-rac. She wore the apron all throughout the party. That's true friendship.
• On Monday I went to help this friend load up her moving truck, and while carrying a big box down the stairs, I rolled my ankle. That's right, folks--I totally fell. (My mom would have laughed. She did when I told her about it on the phone. She has a disease--she laughs when she carries large items like a mattress because she will ALWAYS wet her pants, and she laughs when people fall. It's a serious problem). Not good to have a rolled ankle when training for a marathon. HOWEVER, I have tried oh so hard to take good care of it--RICE--Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. So yesterday I actually ran on the treadmill at the gym because I didn't want to get stuck somewhere far away with an injured ankle. It felt fine, until I stopped. Then it HURT. My question is, how do you know how to deal through pain and how to rest? Just a question. It can go much deeper...
• A little compliment goes a long way. As you may know, I've sort of been struggling with school and feeling a bit anxious. The other day, one of my advisers pulled me aside and told me that another adviser told her that my oral exams were the best she'd ever seen. The BEST. Why she couldn't tell me this bit of information we'll never know. But knowing that has made a HUGE difference in my pressing forward. HUGE. Like Marjorie Hinkley once said, never suppress a compliment.

There. Now onward.

That Which I Lack

A curious thing happened this morning on my run.

First, I ran past a man riding a bike. The curious thing: the man had one arm.

Second, I ran past a dog with 3 legs.

It was a morning of curious missing parts.

Then the sweat started pouring into my eyes--partly because it was really hot and really humid, but also because I went to bed at 2 am and got up at 7 to submit my exam revisions. I'm more tired than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest.

You see, I've been reminded lately of all the things I lack. But like the one-armed man and the three-legged dog, and the butt-kicker, I've tried to do everything I can to make up for my missing parts. I've studied and poured over notes and books. I've written and revised. I've crossed out and reformatted and thought a whole lot.

And somehow those missing parts have appeared in really strange ways. I've had some dear friends help read my stuff and make sure my written words really express my brilliant ideas (or at least coherent ideas). I've had some great time at the pool as I've revised (hey--might as well make use of the sun). And last night, a dear friend brought by some leftover soup. Right when I was gorging on grapes and trail mix trying to get through the last stages of revision. It was dee-licious. So my point is that things work out--especially when we work them out for each other and make up for our lacking parts. As Grandad said, we're all in this together.
And now it's 10:00 am and I'm going to go take a nap.

Oh How We Need Each Other

A story:

Back in the fall of 1993, I with 40 of my classmates participated in BYU's London Study Abroad program (one of the best decisions I ever made as an undergrad). We had a less-favorite professor, She-who-will-not-be-named, who didn't particularly like us. As a group. I don't know if it was a tough semester for her (we all have them, right? But do you have to have one in LONDON, one of the greatest cities on earth?). After a particularly difficult midterm, she returned to class, having graded our journals, and said, "If I didn't know you all better, I'd think you all cheated, because you all got the same wrong answers." We were a bit confused. Yes, we had studied together. Yes, we had poured through our notes from her lectures on contemporary British and Irish literature (begone with you, James Joyce! you mock our pain!). Yes, we had tried to write about what she had actually taught us.And afterwords we all promptly jumped in piles of leaves in Kensington Garden. Take that, you mean professor, you!No--I didn't want to post a picture of my ornery professor, mostly because they're all packed away at my mom's house...

But mind you, we did it together. Passed. Not cheated.

As I've tried to make sense of not having passed my most recent minor field exam (I like to look at it that way rather than FAILING), I've talked to several people, both in doctoral programs and in other situations in life. And oh, I cannot tell you how grateful I am for the friends who just give me a hug or scratch my back or express their love and support in a myriad of ways.

But I'm mostly grateful for my friends who have failed. For Lola, who confessed that she actually walked out of her comprehensive exam because she couldn't handle it. She went and took it later, but she actually failed the first time! For Mark, who also had to do some major revisions. For Dick who took 2 years to get his minor field statement up to par for his readers.

So I'm not the first to fail. And I know I won't be the last. In fact, I am grateful for the community of failures.

And: a bonus: a couple of lessons I've learned. I've had this almost overwhelming desire, after walking out of my professor's office this morning, to be a professor. I want to sit in that chair and to work with that student--but I want to pull out the very best in her. I want to focus on her strengths and help her then see how to work through her weaknesses. I want to be a teacher. And I make this pact, now, here, with you, dear readers, that I will never fail a student without first commending. I will always provide positive feedback.

In fact, I think I may start with my professor. I want to tell her how brilliant she is and how much I gain from her critical analysis. I want to thank her for asking questions that will help me better formulate my dissertation. And I want to tell her how much I need positive feedback and hope.

I'll Show Them

This was the ONLY picture I could find of her... it's TEENSY...

I love the story of Louisa Barnes Pratt. Born in 1802 in Warwick, Massachusetts, she was educated as a school teacher. She and her husband, Addison Pratt, joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and lived for a time in Nauvoo.

In the fall of 1845, following the martyrdom of Joseph Smith and following some intense persecution, Church leaders announced their decision to vacate the city. For Louisa, the news fell on her ear "like the funeral knell of all departed joys." Her husband was halfway around the world preaching the gospel in Society Islands. While Louisa was committed to the gospel and the cause, she wasn't quite sure of the reality of her situation--how to leave behind everything and go to Zion in the West with her four young daughters.

"What could I do with my little means and my helpless family, in launching out into the wilderness. I had no male relative to take charge of my affairs."

When no immediate help was proffered, she met the challenge with her usual display of spirit.

"I will show them what I can do."

And she did. They made it to the Salt Lake Vally in 1848, she and her four girls.

But that's not the end of the story. In 1850 she joined her husband on another of his missions to Tahiti, being set apart to aid him in teaching the gospel. She may very well be the first sister missionary in this dispensation. She lived on the island of Tobuai, where she taught English to the people there until 1852. She returned to San Bernadino, California, in May 1852 and in 1858 headed back to Utah, settling first in Cedar City and then in Beaver, where she helped organize the Relief Society in 1873, serving as secretary and counselor.

I love Louisa. I love her tenacity and her feistiness. It wasn't a rebellious "I'll show you." Well, maybe in the moment it was. Most importantly, it was an "I'll show you my commitment. Try me. Prove me now herewith" sort of proof.

I'm sort of in Louisa's shoes these days. I'm really getting discouraged with school. I feel like I've come up against every single deterrant: fellowship, lack of communication and support from professors, and the latest from yesterday--a very disappointing email about not passing an important exam. Luckily, I can revise. But oh, I'm tired.

I feel alone in this little journey--alone in the sense that my little head is crowded over with feelings of failure and insecurity--was I cut out for this? can I do it? do I bow out gracefully?

But I'm not. Last night I came home to a beautiful little bouquet of bright orange gerber daisies and a sweet note from Diedra. The other night Mauri came over and scrubbed my kitchen sink and played Skipbo with me. Rebecca lets me cry on our long runs, even if I wheeze. And Lindi keeps offering ice cream (I'm totally going to take you up on that, my friend!). So I know I'm not alone.

When Louisa was on her mission in the Society Islands, she brought seeds. The soil and climate were favorable and she introduced many new flowers and vegetables to the island. Not only did she figure out how make it across the plains with her daughters, but she lived a full life. She closed her journal with these words:

"Ah: but the Lord rules.... Let the faithful women trust in Him He will ere long adjust their cause, and help them to fulfill their destiny."

So be it.

Stay Tuned...

The past few weeks at work on the Papers of the War Department, I've been providing metadata for the Samuel Hodgdon letterbook from 1798-1800. I've sort of stumbled upon a mystery. Apparently, Colonel Ebenezer Stevens is a little bit upset about his salary. I only read Hodgdon's letters out to various people, but from what I've read, I've pieced together the idea that Stevens has requested a higher salary, commensurate with his abilities and his responsibilities, or he elects to retire.

Hodgdon's letters follow all sorts of things--public store deliveries to Fort Detroit, the barracks in Newport, Rhode Island, and damaged cartouche boxes and gun stocks. He is confident in Stevens's fine work and in the system to reward merit and to honor our fledgling nation's patriots. As of 16 August 1799, the matter still isn't resolved. But stay tuned... speaking from 2009, I know it all works out somehow.
A long time ago, in a place far, far away, I worked as a research assistant. At one point, early in my Mormon women's history career, I was asked to track down correspondence between Susa Young Gates, pictured above, and Emmeline B. Wells, pictured below. Living in New York City at the time, Susa was appointed the Utah representative to the National Council of Women. She was then asked to represent the American National Council of Women by president May Wright Sewall at the International Council of Women conference in Denmark. The letters I read reported her participation to Emmeline Wells in Salt Lake City, who waited with baited breath for her reports to the homeland.


Susa wanted so badly to do well, to play with the big dogs, to represent the Relief Society and to make important international connections. Unfortunately, many of the women there looked down upon her for her religious affiliation, and this was the cause of a lot of unhappy words and mixed emotions as Susa sorted out her feelings and sought for approval and support from Emmeline.

It was a beautiful relationship. Even more insightful, though, was my 2001 perspective. I knew it all worked out, simply because I knew about Susa's later service and participation and prominence. And yet each page of each letter that I wrote spelled out the details, the progress, the concerns of the present. I followed their unfolding, drawn to her fears and concerns. And I reveled in Emmeline's constant support and unwavering faith.

I don't know yet what happens to Ebenezer Stevens, if he gets his raise or not. And I don't know what will unfold in my own life. But I am sure staying tuned. It's bound to make a good story!

Why Did You Change the Sign?!?

I'm embarrassed. Ashamed. Mortified. At myself. Now it's kind of funny. In a ridiculous way.

I hit my last straw tonight at the deli counter of my local grocery store. I ordered some provolone cheese--partly because I love provolone, but mostly because it was the cheapest cheese there. Then when the guy rang it up on the computer, it came to $1 more a pound than the sign said. I asked him about it, but he didn't speak much English and I couldn't really explain the problem. I figured I would just ask the cashier. Well the cashier tried calling the deli, but they never answered, and then she turned off her lane, walked back to the deli, and brought me back the sign, which had been changed in my absence to match the computer.

What was I to do? I paid for the cheese, and then, feeling a bit "taken" and having had a most frustrating day and week, I went back to the deli counter and actually asked the guy why he changed the sign. I felt like in all the uncontrollable problems rolling around in my life, this was something I could stand up for--that I could fix. He, unfortunately--or rather, maybe fortunately, now that I think about it, had no answer. I walked home with my tail between my legs, knowing full well how completely ridiculous I looked. And sounded. Even to myself.

Why did you change the sign?

It's been one of those days--where I found out I may not have a fellowship in the fall, which means I do not have any idea where or how I will provide for myself, or how I'll fund my dissertation until I can get a dissertation fellowship, which I can't do until I advance to candidacy, which I can't do until I finish my last minor field exam, which I can't do until I take another week off work to take it.

Which contributes to my very very very low last paycheck, which contributes to my minor melt down at the deli counter. Why did you change the sign, I ask?

Let me make this clear. I know everything will work out. It always does. I know that. I'm 100% sure of it. But add this onto some family stress and some social meltdowns at the midsingles conference this weekend, and having put all of my energy into last week's minor field exam, and being very very tired, and it's all sort of a chain reaction. I don't remember signing up for this? WHY DID YOU CHANGE THE SIGN?!?

And now is where I wait. Patiently. Humbly. Because every time the sign gets changed, something else turns up. Something happens. It always does. Where a door closes, a window opens. A new, unheard-of opportunity. A different intersection. A previously unavailable possibility. Who knows what lies ahead? I can think of a couple of different directions I wish that would be, but somehow I'm reminded that there is a grand plan, much higher and grander than a silly little graduate fellowship or the comfortable little life I've created for myself. Who knows?!?

And I'll tell you what. That slice of provolone cheese tasted mighty fine on my turkey burger. Even if it did cost a little bit more than I anticipated.

Lessons from my Garden

GranNomi, trying to figure out what each herb was used for in Jamestown.

I made an interesting observation on my little family history trip a couple of weeks ago. My grandmother stops at every flower and tree and tries to figure out what it is. At first I was a bit impatient--she was slowing down our busy itinerary to see every site in southern Virginia in five days. But then I realized that I had gained a love of flowers and plants from her.

Barbara admiring the herb garden at Jamestown.

My sister and her family are in Utah this week (of all weeks! I love the the 4th of July in Provo!). They hiked Stewart Falls yesterday and Lisa posted on facebook about how Mom stopped at every wildflower and named each one. Totally nerdy, but totally my mom. Now I don't know even the beginning of the names of wild flowers, but I sure do appreciate them.

I love to grow flowers on my back patio. I usually buy flowers from Home Depot, but this year I decided to be adventurous and go with a free can of wild flower seed from a garage sale (ok, and my funds are a little low this time around. More minor field exams, conferences, and famikly vacations = less work hours). I also planted my grandmother's bean hyacinth seeds. I love watching them wind around the fence posts of my patio, yielding purple blossoms that brighten up the wood wall in dynamic ways.

For the record, my back patio does NOT look like Jefferson's garden at Monticello. But his garden is a worthy example for me.

I must say my yield has been low this season. Nothing much is happening. The bean hyacinchs were even very slow to start. A couple of weeks later, I tried again, being much more liberal with my scattering of seeds. One flower box took off with some wild-looking spurts and a few purple blossoms, and I've got a few hyacinths poking out. I even planted a beautiful gerbera daisy a friend gave me for my birthday, hoping that would coax out the blooms.
The other day, as I became frustrated with the lack of movement on several areas in my life, I came out to eat breakfast on my patio. To my surprise, there were some pink miniature rose buds. I hadn't even seen them coming! I found a few other little strokes of green.

I quickly grabbed my can of wildflower seed and liberally spread more seed everywhere. I went a little overboard, but I just became so anxious for some seed to take root and grow. I felt this overwhelming need to produce seed. To grow.

Last week my friend Lauren asked me to pick up their mail and water for them if it didn't rain while they were out of town. I didn't think much of it--on Wednesday their expected boxes arrived and I headed out back to water the flowers and vegetables. I noticed 3 bonsai trees sitting on a table, one of them looking pretty dry. I wasn't quite sure how to water them--something told me that their fragile nature required special care. Because Lauren hadn't mentioned anything, I hosed them down and didn't think much of it. It rained a bit the next two days and I considered my neighborly job done.

Sunday morning, though, I received an email from a sad Lauren, whose even sadder husband had found his beloved bonsai trees mostly dead. I say mostly, because I don't know anything about bonsai trees and because I consider myself partly responsible, although I had no idea how to properly care for them. And because I like the idea in The Princess Bride about how true love can save something that is mostly dead. Oh, I felt horrible. My ignorance--as well as the lack of communication and proper training--had not produced a fruitful labor.

This morning when I went out for my run, I saw the flower box out front. My gangly tiger lilies have flourished this year, and their blossoms have fallen. The box, though, was filled with grass. I stooped over to pull one, then realized that each blade seemed to be connected. It wasn't just grass growing, but this long, mass 0f weed and root taking over my flowers. I looked around at the neighbors' flower boxes, and realized what a mess mine had become. In all my desire to grow seeds out back, I have neglected my flowers in front. I became engrosed in the project and quickly spent 30 minutes pulling up long lengths of grassy weed.

Every morning now I can't wait to go out to my little garden patio and see what has happened overnight. I search for new blades and I cheer them on. I watch carefully, hoping to discern the weed from the flower, so I can protect the flower and stop the weed in its course.

And I hope, oh I hope, for those dormant seeds. They can come back to life if given the proper amount of time and water and light. Mostly dead, after all, is partly alive. And to blave means to bluff. Or True Love. Thank you, Miracle Max.