"Go Carol!" Moments

I love the movie JUNO. Makes me feel like I'm wrapped up in a warm, fuzzy blanket of crustiness. One of my favorite parts of said film is when Juno tells Bleeker that his shorts are extra yellow or something, and Bleeker replies that his mother uses color-safe bleach to keep them that way; to which Juno replies, "Go Carol." This simple and mundane phrase has come to mean so much to me, my mom, and my sisters. Anytime we're excited about something (usually when we're a little reluctant to toot our own horn, but sort of want to anyway), we tell what it is and end the story with a "Go Carol!" for emphasis--or just to fill in the gap between the implication that we are awesome and the actual statement of it. To be clear, this is not the same as boasting or bragging. But rather that we recognize we have done something quantitatively good by anyone's standards--this is fueled more by our feeling grateful to have been able to accomplish the task than our need to point out to everyone else that we feel we are IT.

Today I had a conversation with my mom, 75% of which was filled with "Go Carol" news. I had scored the most amazing deals at the grocery store (yes, in case you haven't heard, I bargained and couponed my way into getting $20 off my $42 grocery bill, an almost 50% savings; as my mother said, I'm taking this money-saving business to the next level). And she was excited about all her many and recent triumphs in the culinary program she is attending. She'd achieved new heights of amazingness with the tomato aspic she made with some fellow students, among some other fun accomplishments and news bits, etc. We were cheering each other on and it was so uplifting to be sharing good news.

Mark Twain, genius that he is, said the following: "Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great." Now, Jesus said to love everyone. But nowhere did he say we had to become best friends with everyone. I believe that there is nothing wrong with excluding negative and vexatious people from the happiest and most precious joys of our lives--these people are filled with competition and jealousy and will seek to bring you down as quickly as they can. They will help you, ever so subtly, to remember your flaws and limitations. But, as Brother Twain said, great people are the ones who make you believe in yourself. They're the ones who say, "You can." My mom is just such a person. So today and for as long as you can keep it up, be someone's cheerleader. The next time someone comes to you with good news, encourage their excitement. The next time someone comes to you wondering if they're capable of something, tell them you know they can do it. Who knows what amazing things people have not accomplished because they're too insecure to try? There are stores of untapped potential in every person you see. Here's to positivity, baby!

Austen v. Bronte (Reflections in Reading, part 2)

The next books to really rock my world after Anne were Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice. I'd tried reading P&P as a Junior in high school, but couldn't get into Austen's understated sarcasm. But only a year later while prepping for my AP English tests, I'd read both Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice and fall in love with them both.

Probably Jane Eyre came first; Bronte's language is so vivid and engaging I had a hard time putting this book down. I remember being impatient with the first third of the book, which deals with Jane's childhood, and while I appreciated the layered symbolism I kind of just wanted to get to the point. I remember a conversation with my mom, where I told her that I'd heard that there was some great mystery in the story of Jane Eyre and how something shocking happens at the end. I asked her to tell me what it was; good mother that she is, she refused, saying I'd better read the book and find out for myself. Boy, was I surprised! And, of course, by the end, I realized that all of the foundational work Bronte had put into the beginning of her novel became clearly relevant as Jane's character emerged from the pages. None of what happens at the end would have nearly as much meaning without the beginning. This taught me my second big lesson about writing: Character development is absolutely essential for a satisfying reader experience. Characters should live, breathe and develop just like their human counterparts. A good writer respects their characters by allowing them to make devastating errors along with their triumphs. And, of course, the girl who loved Anne and Gilbert also loved Jane and Rochester--perhaps the most romantic couple ever written.

Pride and Prejudice (and all of Austen's works, for that matter) is an entirely different reading experience. Austen's language is restrained, and her tone sometimes difficult to pick up. Where we think she might just be taking a clever jab at one of her characters, we find upon further examination that her assessment is a scathing condemnation. She is not just being prim and polite; her words are drawn swords, as King David might say. Understatement is Austen's greatest tool; she makes her readers work for the truest and deepest layers of meaning. Reading Pride and Prejudice for the first time is still one of the most delightful reading experiences of my life. Her tone, though sarcastic and shrewd, is lighthearted, funny and makes me feel positive and hopeful. One feels in reading her works that we are not out to solve the world's problems; rather that we are privy to detailed gossip by a humorous, fair and unforgiving friend. Elizabeth Bennet was something of a mystery to me--and still is, really. While she is easy to relate to, her ability to defend herself against intimidation is completely foreign to me, as is her willingness/confidence to so quickly judge a person's character. I related much more easily to Mr. Darcy and had guessed from the beginning what Eliza should have known all along (read the text more carefully next time you peruse this novel; she really should have known, but then she would have been absent of both pride and prejudice, and then we wouldn't have a novel, would we?)--his behavior in social and private situations more closely matched my own.

For a long time, I have debated on whose writing I prefer. Where Austen's characters gasp, blush, and hold their breaths, Bronte's fling themselves wildly into one another's arms with weeping proclamations of love and passion. Austen's language is riddled with layers of tones and connotations, while Bronte is more likely to use powerful symbolism. Austen does have one undeniable leg up on Bronte at this stage in my life, which is that I have been able to read all her works and LOVED three of them (P&P, Persuasion, Sense and Sensibility). I haven't so far been able to force myself through Bronte's other writings. And I think I relate better to Austen's restrained, understated and formal language. Of course, the next time I rediscover Jane Eyre, I'm bound to fall in love with Jane and Rochester all over again and proclaim Bronte the clear winner. Perhaps the jury will always be out.

The Anne-Girl (reflections in reading part 1)

Reading has been a huge part of my life for almost as long as I can remember. I first started reading to fit in with my family. I noticed that both of my parents as well as my older brother, Rob, spent a lot of their free time reading, and often they'd all be reading the same thing and they'd sit around and talk about it. This was around the time we moved to Uintah, so I was about 11; Rob was 13. I wanted to join in on the conversation, so I started reading too. I started out with books typical of a girl that age, like Anne of Green Gables. She was my first and longest-running literary infatuation. She was a redhead and enjoyed reading herself. She was more into poetry and imagination than I was, but she definitely influenced the way I perceived the world for many years after. Like Anne, I always wanted to see the world through my romantic rose-colored glasses. The more I've grown, however, the more I find myself logical and practical--more like Marilla than Anne; less interested in fancy and more interested in simplicity.

I reread Green Gables frequently until probably the age of 14 or 15 when I decided to branch out and try some of the other books in the series. I've read Anne of Avonlea only once. I thought it was boring because there was less of the Anne-Gilbert relationship and it focused more on Anne's academic and career achievements and her relationship with the grumpy man next door (Mr. Harrison???) because her cows kept getting into his pasture. So I quickly moved on to the next in the series, Anne of the Island, my hands-down favorite. I liked it so much that I've been afraid to read any of the others in the series because I'm afraid they'll just pale in comparison. Anne of the Island is her college years; Anne herself is grown up, still romantic, but more refined and slightly more sensible. And the struggle of her independence was very exciting to me at such a young age. Anne is probably the number one influence in my decision early on to go to college. And she was absolutely the number one influence on my desire to write.

The Anne books were more important to me for other reasons, too. It was the first time I realized that one mark of a great writer is a sort of omniscience which allows them to creep into others' brains and subtly give words to what they're feeling and experiencing. The first time I read Anne of Green Gables, I remember about a third of the way through the book, I got up from my bed where I was reading, and looked outside the window, because I was just sure someone was spying on me and using my life to write a story. Then I checked the title page and realized that it had been published decades before. I knew that somehow this story had been written just for me. It would be a few more years until I discovered that there were "kindred spirits" all around me, members of the Anne fan club, who felt the story had been written just for them, too. And this gradually began to open up my world view, convincing me that there are a lot of feelings and truths that are universally felt, regardless of religious background, ethnicity, socio-economic status, etc. This was when the real reading magic began. I became addicted to reading the way a lot of my peers became addicted to reading books of scripture: I was addicted to seeking truth. I soon found that almost all books that were considered classics fit this description, and that almost all of these classics taught life lessons that were in line with Gospel principles. I saw the truthfulness of my religion being preached by many different people who had no idea about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, because they lived well before the church was established--or too far away to be within grasp of the missionaries. It was a support to my testimony that the Holy Ghost would speak the truth to any people who would listen from the foundation of the earth up to the present.

I have read almost 200 other books since the time I first discovered Anne Shirley, but few characters stand up to her enchantments. So today I am blessed that Lucy Maud Montgomery ever lived in this world and decided to pick up her pen and write.

Ms. Jane Austen

Tonight I am grateful to one Jane Austen for writing smart, biting comedy. It's easy for a modern reader with too much experience at the movie theater to think Jane Austen wrote just silly romances. Really, her works are wonderful, satirical pieces offering invaluable social insights. As I was reading Pride and Prejudice this afternoon, I was thinking about the way Elizabeth Bennet tends to be portrayed in film adaptations of that novel. Too often she's put out there as a confident, mouthy young woman who's not about to be put down by a man who thinks he's better than her. We need to remember that much of her motivation throughout the novel is her wounded pride, not her confidence. And she's not sassy--she's logical and honest. But I don't really want to get on my soap box about the watered-down sappy Hollywood-ized versions of this writer's awesome body of work.

When I read Jane Austen, I realize why the scriptures say to read the "best books." Her writing is uplifting and stimulating and makes me want to be a better writer, a better person. She reminds me that most heroes and heroines are profoundly flawed (such as Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy); but that's WHY they're heroic--they rose above themselves, and that inspires the likewise flawed reader to do the same.

Being Nice

As it is Father's Day, I figured I ought to write something about my fantastic dad. I sat down to brainstorm about what I should focus on and quickly came up with a list of great topics, but the one that really struck a creative chord in me tonight was the lesson my father has taught me about being nice.

In elementary school, my family moved to the Ogden, UT area and I got to enjoy the prospect of making friends at the awkward age of 11. This wasn't as easy for me as it had been in previous moves. We were moving into a community who knew my dad and as it turns out, some people seemed to have some pretty distinct expectations of who I was based on what he did for a living. Anyway, none of this is directly to the point. One day my classmates had turned on one of our other classmates: a girl who'd previously been very well accepted and was now moving to Phoenix if memory serves. For some reason they were teasing her about this move, as if my fellow 11-year-old classmates knew enough about the world to deem Phoenix as an inferior place. It's just that it was different so that made her an easy target. I was so relieved that I wasn't the one targeted as the outsider that I thought all of this was pretty funny. I went home and told my dad about all the clever taunts my peers had come up with. To my surprised, he was not amused and told me he hoped I hadn't joined in the teasing because picking on people wasn't nice. I remember thinking to myself, "Who cares about nice? It was funny!" I didn't understand why I should be nice when others weren't being nice to me.

The point of this entry is not to throw stones at the people in my past; what's done is done and I'm over it so I'll quickly relate that my confusion about being nice in elementary school in junior high morphed into feelings of being hurt myself by others' rejections at my attempts at being nice and making friends. The two girls I had been closest to since elementary school were, by the 9th grade, choosing values that didn't mesh with mine (which is not to say these girls were in any way morally deviant; we just placed differing emphasis on various social activities and behaviors). By high school I was pretty much friendless by my unwillingness to yield to the social movements of "the crowd." My hurt feelings turned to complete apathy in my treatment of other people. I never really went out of my way to be mean to people, but I also didn't care if my words/actions hurt anyone else or interfered with their agendas. And all through this, my father was persistently trying to teach me to be nice to other people, a lesson I'm sorry to say didn't begin sinking in well into my college years--and by then I was unfortunately filled with a bitterness that blunted my compassion.

It happened like this: Slowly I made friends with a really awesome group of girls from my student ward; girls who showed me that friendships with other girls didn't have to be about competition. These girls all shared some common interests and beliefs and I began to see how bitter I'd become from my experiences. As I struggled to get to know them better, my dad's repeated lessons came back to me. "Hey," I thought, "maybe I should try being nice." I began doing this and I realized that if I wanted to move on from that time of my life, I needed to accept it, forgive, and simply move on. I prayed and prayed that my heart would be softened and finally, miraculously, it was (another post for another time). A long story short, I learned that wishing harm and "justice" on my enemies only made ME miserable, not them. And an even longer story short, I learned from what I myself was experiencing, that people change themselves for the better when they are motivated by wholesome, good, healthy, heart-softening experiences. If I wanted my enemies to no longer be enemies and target me, I needed for them to be genuinely happy in spite of the way they treated me. People who are manipulative and mean don't learn to be nice by going through hardship--that just fuels their own feelings of inadequacy which is what makes them so poisonous in the first place. These people need to experience real, true goodness and happiness so powerful it has the ability to penetrate their hearts. That's what opens people's eyes and hearts to the fact that they need to change, and gives them an example to follow in order to do that. I know this because I went through the same process myself.

Now I understand that being nice is a basic key to healing some of the fundamental ills in society. You never know when your friendship or kindness will change someone's day or life, inspiring change in them that they will in turn pass on to someone else. If I can show acceptance rather than judgment then I begin to feel the pure love of Christ for the people around me. I am so grateful that the scriptures teach us that God will forgive whom he'll forgive but that for us it is required to forgive everyone. On the surface this sounds pretty unjust, but it's actually one of the most liberating blessings I've experienced in my life. I meet people with different backgrounds and beliefs from mine, and I am SO grateful that it's my job to be kind to them rather than figure out how to judge/categorize them in the grand moral scheme of things. I can recognize I don't agree with them, but thank goodness I'm allowed to love them and make friends with them anyway. I've tried judging people; all that does is make me unhappy. Being nice is a vital part of my own happiness, and I learned it most strongly from my dad.

My dad not only has encouraged me to be kind throughout my life, he's provided an admirable example. He is able to make friends with everyone he meets, and you can see the way he makes people feel good about themselves from the way he talks to them and tries to get to know them. I've never seen him be uncivil to anyone (except maybe Delta baggage claim, but come on, there's no excuse for that kind of crap). No wonder people, especially children, are attracted to his friendly, fun-appreciating manner. I hope my own son grows up and chooses to adopt these qualities as well. I love you, Dad. You're the best.

So, I guess my pen hasn't been so 'restless' lately, has it? Mostly, this is due to the fact that this is supposed to be a blog dedicated to counting my blessings, and I am tired pretty much all the time. I feel grateful and hope I express it well to those who deserve it. But writing about it takes a certain amount of energy I'm finding difficult to muster. As a matter of fact, there are many things I am deeply grateful for, and that's why it's difficult to write about them. It would take a few hours apiece to write blogs worthy of the gratitude I feel for my Savior, my Father in Heaven, the promptings of the Spirit, as well as my amazing husband and mother and the other members of my family. When I sat down to write this, I was thinking that maybe a better way to manage this blog would be to dedicate it to the simple, small things in my life. But it just occurred to me that perhaps I ought to just break down those intimidating categories into smaller chunks.

So tonight I want to tell you about an image I have in my head that has kept me grounded for years and reminds me of what is truly important. The image is a memory. I am somewhere between the ages of five and eight years old. My family is living in Baldwinsville, New York, a smallish town outside of Syracuse. I think it was summer. In any case, I came running into the house one afternoon, needing my mom for one thing or another. In true self-absorbed childish fashion, I was running around the house yelling, "Mom! Mom!" in that way I dread to hear from Will one day. My mom doesn't respond, so of course I just yell louder. "Mom! Mom!" I run upstairs and finally find my mother. She's kneeling by her bedside, praying. This was so unexpected (not because I wasn't used to my mother praying, but because I'd stumbled onto such a deeply personal moment) I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at her just long enough for the image to seal itself in my memory. This experience really taught me a lesson about prayer, though I may not have understood it in so many words as a child. But the important thing is that that was the moment the spell for me was broken. That was the moment I first began to realize that my life wasn't my mother's entire life. 

Here she was, down on her knees in the middle of what was certainly a busy day (5 children under the age of 10, and a husband in medical residency=every day is a busy day). She had to have heard me yelling for her, and yet her prayer was more important. She must heard me run up the stairs and stop shy of a few feet from her, and still she did not stir.

Just as important, though, I learned a lot about how my mother felt about prayer and her Father in Heaven. I don't know what concerns brought her to her knees that day, but the fact that prayer was not to be interrupted even by a demanding child taught me about how sacred and personal prayer is. Also, that my mother believed in it, had faith in it. 

The point is, this one act of self-respect and faith on her part has given me a memory to carry the rest of my life. When times get really tough, I know I can get on my knees and pray amid whatever else might be surrounding me. I can touch base with my Father in Heaven at any time and under any circumstances. 

I'm so grateful for my mother's countless examples of doing good and grateful for prayer. In times when there is absolutely nothing else to hold on to, there is always prayer. I guess it's kind of a depressing note to end on, but I don't mean it in a dreary way exclusively. I've also learned that when I'm super excited about something and I'm looking around for someone to share the moment with, I can always pray and give thanks and be excited.

A Whole Bunch of Pictures!

I just uploaded a bunch of pictures from our camera to the computer and realized there are a bunch I haven't posted. So I guess this post is more of a photo gallery than a story or anecdote, but that's ok. Let's be honest: You all just want to hear about the little guy anyway, right? So here we go...

Will at his first doc appt; a couple days old. His jaundice level was high enough we needed to go to the doc a few days after we left the hospital. At birth, he weighed 6 lbs, 14 oz. Here he's 6 lbs 3 oz. He hates being naked. Poor kid.

Waiting for Dr. Bentley. We had to undress him down to his diaper so I kept him warm in one of the blankets I made for him!

I believe this was how we had him dressed for his first outing. It was cold and blustery so we bundled him up.

Grandma Higgs dressing Will after his first bath at home.

With his Grandpa Higgs, who just can't get enough of his newest grandson. I think this is my favorite swaddling blanket.

He's just so precious...

His first experience with his bouncer...

Taking a nap with his Grandma Higgs. I can't believe how long and skinny he is! I like this little shirt we have him in. Not only is it attractive but I got it for about two bucks at an Old Navy sale. Woohoo! I guess it's a little big, but he's pretty studly in it anyway.

So this and the next pic are pretty much the same, but... I'm being self-indulgent, so... deal it with.

Hanging out with Chris. Will can be pretty squirmy sometimes... like at this time.

Both Chris and I love it when he's alert and active like he is here. He's looking a bit cross-eyed here. And yet he's STILL the cutest baby ever!

Seriously. One of my favorite pictures ever.

I think Will has Chris's lips.

Will's sad face. Well, his almost sad face. His saddest face has yet to be caught on camera.

Kind of an awkward angle, but this is one of may favorite Will expressions, when he purses his lips like this.

And again here... It's expressions like this that make me think he looks like a Quentin Blake illustration (the artist who drew for Roald Dahl's children's books). There's something awkward and spindly and cute about Will that I find entirely endearing.

Extreme close-up... Whoa!!!!!

Will rocking his Dharma Initiative onesie, courtesy of Kate Nally! This onesie was definitely one of the hits of the baby shower. Kate made it herself and we LOVE it! Will wore it for tonight's episode. :) Thanks, Kate!

A quick update since this post is already super long: We're all doing really well. I'm tired from getting up to feed him in the middle of the night, but he's actually a pretty good sleeper so I'm not complaining. Today it was 80 degrees out so we took a family trip to Costco to see what was going on (because, you know, Costco is the place where things happen... I'm kind of cheeky today, aren't I? Feeling sort of sassy and crusty, I guess). In addition to scoring an awesome deal on soap, I also spotted Yentl on dvd for 10 bucks, so we've got that going for us. Will's jaundice has gone down, so we don't need to worry about that. Had our 2 week appt with Dr. Bentley on Monday; he says Will's looking great so we're all excited about that. People here at Terrace Falls can't get enough of Will. They're all excited to meet him and we have visitors from one of our neighbors almost everyday. I'm loving my glider and getting the hang of nursing. Chris is really getting into his fantasy baseball league, which has been a lot of fun for him. Days go by super quickly and sort of blend together. Already I feel like time is passing too quickly and I am just trying to keep up--I want to just savor every second with Will. Consequently, I spend a lot of time at home just holding him and staring at him. I'm lucky if I get much else done. :)