Jessica L. Elliott's Blog, page 16
January 22, 2014
The Blur of a Good Book
This week's writing prompt was "bokeh". If you remember, these prompts came from a photography challenge and so I had to look up what bokeh was. Bokeh comes from the Japanese word meaning "blur" and in photography refers to the use of blurring parts of an image for aesthetic quality. At first I was stumped as to how I could spin this around into a writing challenge. Then I thought about how a good book can make your whole day disappear in a blur and that became the inspiration for this. I love reading, but one of my absolute favorite books is The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas. That inspired this "bokeh" piece. Come next Wednesday for a "natural light" story.
Oh, and I've finally finished writing "Prince Charming's Search", but I'll tell you more about that tomorrow.
Bokeh
The book was lying on a table when Allison found it. There was nothing overly remarkable about it, yet it caught her eye. She picked it up and looked more closely. The old, leather bound volume was soft from many readings and the pages yellowed with age. There was no title listed on the cover. Curious, she opened to the first page.
At first she read only one line. Then two. Then a paragraph and a page. Her world was forgotten as she became more and more mesmerized by the book in her hands. She forgot about her chores, forgot about her to-do list, forgot the endless obligations that make up our days. Entranced by this new story, she read on.
Without really looking where she was going, Allison wandered to the living room couch. As she continued to read the book, she hardly noticed the sunshine streaming through the open window, illuminating the pages and warming her skin. She did not hear the chirping of birds or buzzing of bees in the gardens outside. She did not feel the spring breeze which toyed with her hair nor smell the heady fragrance of new blooms.
Her reality melted away as her imagination carried her deeper into the story. She heard the clanging of swords and thundering of hooves. Cannons roared and muskets fired, filling her nostrils with smoke and gunpowder. She saw battlefields and fights before being transported to glittering ballrooms. Her ears were filled with music and laughter as the delicious aroma of the feast tickled her nose.
The story had captivated her. Hour after hour flew past as she continued to pore over the pages of the wondrous tale. The French countryside rolled before her in a time she had never known, but now looked upon with amazement. Romance and intrigue, adventure and exotic locations, dashing heroes and malevolent villains. This story had it all.
The sun began to dip below the horizon as Allison continued to read. Someone had turned the light on in the living room, though she hadn’t seen who it was. She hardly registered the sounds of someone in the kitchen making dinner, the aroma wafting towards her unnoticed. She didn’t even hear her name the first, second or third time it was called.
“Allison,” the voice interrupted as a hand appeared over the pages, pulling her unexpectedly from the tale.
She looked up, startled. “What?”
Her mother smiled down at her. “You’ve been reading all day. Wouldn’t you like to come have your supper?”
Though her stomach growled, Allison hesitated. The story called to her, begging her to stay and enjoy just a few more pages. “I guess so. Can I just finish this chapter first? I’m at the good part.”
“That whole book is the good part,” her mother laughed. “Come to dinner. I’ll let you finish reading afterwards.”
“But...”
“No buts. The book will still be here when you finish. You need to come and eat. I already let you miss lunch because I figured you’d come eat when you got hungry.”
Grudgingly Allison stood and stretched after setting the book down. Had she really been reading all day? The crick in her neck said yes, but she had a hard time believing it. She had never been one to spend the whole day reading. Yet there she was with the whole day gone and still more pages to go before she finished. She took one last look at the book lying on the sofa before following her mother to the table.
As soon as she had eaten and rinsed her plate, Allison returned to the book, the world fading as the story carried her away.
Oh, and I've finally finished writing "Prince Charming's Search", but I'll tell you more about that tomorrow.
Bokeh
The book was lying on a table when Allison found it. There was nothing overly remarkable about it, yet it caught her eye. She picked it up and looked more closely. The old, leather bound volume was soft from many readings and the pages yellowed with age. There was no title listed on the cover. Curious, she opened to the first page.
At first she read only one line. Then two. Then a paragraph and a page. Her world was forgotten as she became more and more mesmerized by the book in her hands. She forgot about her chores, forgot about her to-do list, forgot the endless obligations that make up our days. Entranced by this new story, she read on.
Without really looking where she was going, Allison wandered to the living room couch. As she continued to read the book, she hardly noticed the sunshine streaming through the open window, illuminating the pages and warming her skin. She did not hear the chirping of birds or buzzing of bees in the gardens outside. She did not feel the spring breeze which toyed with her hair nor smell the heady fragrance of new blooms.
Her reality melted away as her imagination carried her deeper into the story. She heard the clanging of swords and thundering of hooves. Cannons roared and muskets fired, filling her nostrils with smoke and gunpowder. She saw battlefields and fights before being transported to glittering ballrooms. Her ears were filled with music and laughter as the delicious aroma of the feast tickled her nose.
The story had captivated her. Hour after hour flew past as she continued to pore over the pages of the wondrous tale. The French countryside rolled before her in a time she had never known, but now looked upon with amazement. Romance and intrigue, adventure and exotic locations, dashing heroes and malevolent villains. This story had it all.
The sun began to dip below the horizon as Allison continued to read. Someone had turned the light on in the living room, though she hadn’t seen who it was. She hardly registered the sounds of someone in the kitchen making dinner, the aroma wafting towards her unnoticed. She didn’t even hear her name the first, second or third time it was called.
“Allison,” the voice interrupted as a hand appeared over the pages, pulling her unexpectedly from the tale.
She looked up, startled. “What?”
Her mother smiled down at her. “You’ve been reading all day. Wouldn’t you like to come have your supper?”
Though her stomach growled, Allison hesitated. The story called to her, begging her to stay and enjoy just a few more pages. “I guess so. Can I just finish this chapter first? I’m at the good part.”
“That whole book is the good part,” her mother laughed. “Come to dinner. I’ll let you finish reading afterwards.”
“But...”
“No buts. The book will still be here when you finish. You need to come and eat. I already let you miss lunch because I figured you’d come eat when you got hungry.”
Grudgingly Allison stood and stretched after setting the book down. Had she really been reading all day? The crick in her neck said yes, but she had a hard time believing it. She had never been one to spend the whole day reading. Yet there she was with the whole day gone and still more pages to go before she finished. She took one last look at the book lying on the sofa before following her mother to the table.
As soon as she had eaten and rinsed her plate, Allison returned to the book, the world fading as the story carried her away.
January 15, 2014
A Close Up
Last week I wrote a colorful story in an artist's studio. This week the prompt was "Close-Up." I won't reveal the inspiration for this story just yet, though if you're familiar with Greek mythology, you'll probably figure it out. :) On the 32nd week of this challenge, you'll get the rest of the story. This is just a small part. Next week I'll be writing a story based on the prompt "Bokeh." Don't know what that is? Me neither. I'll get to do some research between now and then.
Close-Up
A woman’s face comes into view. She is young and yet her face is ageless. Soft sunshine highlights her features amidst dark shadows. Her face shows a noble heritage. The straight nose and high cheekbones, smooth skin like alabaster touched by sunlight. Her almond eyes look behind her. Longing, wistfulness, sorrow, fear and pain swirl together in depths of honey brown. So many emotions for one so young. Her eyes seem to focus on where she has been for she fears to look where she is going. Shadow looms before her, pulling her closer while the sunlight behind her beckons her to stay. But she has no choice. She is compelled to continue away from the images she looks back on. A tear glistens on her cheek, trickling down flawless skin. Her lips are full and attempt a brave smile, but the warmth does not reach her eyes.
Despite her sorrow and pain, there is hope in her face and love shines in her eyes. Her journey is bittersweet, leaving behind one world for another. She knows that her departure is not permanent. There will be a time to return to the sunshine and beauty around her now. And her reason for leaving is not entirely painful. While she must journey alone for now, she won’t be alone when she reaches her destination. She has chosen this though it takes her from everything she enjoys, from everyone she loves. Well, perhaps not everyone.
A breeze whispers against her face, teasing her loose, chestnut curls. The sunshine glitters on a silver circlet bejeweled with precious stones. The breeze pushes her again, more insistent this time. It reminds her that time is short. He is waiting for her and she must obey. She gives one last look behind her towards the light. One last smile upon those she leaves behind. Then resolved to her fate and ready for her journey, she turns toward the darkness.
Close-Up
A woman’s face comes into view. She is young and yet her face is ageless. Soft sunshine highlights her features amidst dark shadows. Her face shows a noble heritage. The straight nose and high cheekbones, smooth skin like alabaster touched by sunlight. Her almond eyes look behind her. Longing, wistfulness, sorrow, fear and pain swirl together in depths of honey brown. So many emotions for one so young. Her eyes seem to focus on where she has been for she fears to look where she is going. Shadow looms before her, pulling her closer while the sunlight behind her beckons her to stay. But she has no choice. She is compelled to continue away from the images she looks back on. A tear glistens on her cheek, trickling down flawless skin. Her lips are full and attempt a brave smile, but the warmth does not reach her eyes.
Despite her sorrow and pain, there is hope in her face and love shines in her eyes. Her journey is bittersweet, leaving behind one world for another. She knows that her departure is not permanent. There will be a time to return to the sunshine and beauty around her now. And her reason for leaving is not entirely painful. While she must journey alone for now, she won’t be alone when she reaches her destination. She has chosen this though it takes her from everything she enjoys, from everyone she loves. Well, perhaps not everyone.
A breeze whispers against her face, teasing her loose, chestnut curls. The sunshine glitters on a silver circlet bejeweled with precious stones. The breeze pushes her again, more insistent this time. It reminds her that time is short. He is waiting for her and she must obey. She gives one last look behind her towards the light. One last smile upon those she leaves behind. Then resolved to her fate and ready for her journey, she turns toward the darkness.
January 8, 2014
Colorful Words
Last Wednesday I wrote a "Self-Portrait." This week the prompt was "Colorful." Since I have a bit of an artist's spirit, the inspiration for this short story came from my love of the Fantasia movies by Disney. What if with some music, a touch of magic and the light of a full moon a blank canvas could become something more? Enjoy this "Colorful" story and be sure to check in next Wednesday for a "Close-Up" story.
Colorful
Silence filled the darkened room. Silvery moonlight streamed through the windows, casting everything in a bluish glow. Half-finished paintings and sketches littered the studio, catching a few moonbeams. But only the blank canvas, a luminous square of white, was bathed fully in the milky glow of night.
From somewhere deep in the studio a violin began to play. The melody was quiet and timid as though unsure of itself. A single paintbrush rose from the artist’s work desk. It swirled through the air, dancing to the plaintive song of the violin. Upon reaching a tub of blue paint, it dipped its feathery brown bristles in and then twirled to the blank canvas. One stroke and then two, timid and slow like the violin. A dance of blue on a snowy background.
As though gaining strength from the single paintbrush, the violin’s magical melody grew brighter. Another paintbrush rose from the desk as a flute joined the violin. Dipping into a tub of emerald green, the paintbrush danced to the canvas leaping and twirling about the ribbons of sapphire. The two paintbrushes danced together about the canvas, their paths intertwining in turquoise, teal and sea foam. Jade here and aquamarine there, a blending of colors into something new.
The deep voice of a cello joined the song and woke a new paintbrush to life. Dipped in violet, the paintbrush joined the others. Amethyst ribbons waltzed across the canvas, every now and again twirling with the blue paintbrush creating the sleepy colors of twilight. Periwinkle and lavender, indigo and eggplant.
Tranquility washed over the room as the three paintbrushes continued their quiet dance on the canvas. Suddenly a light switched on in the studio bathing the canvas in warm, brilliant light. For a moment, there was silence as though the studio was holding its breath.
Then a guitar strummed and a paintbrush dipped in yellow tapped onto the canvas. Where it met with yellow, chartreuse and lime splashed onto the canvas. For a while the other paintbrushes stayed still, seeming to star at the flashy newcomer. Then slowly they joined it back on the canvas. The yellow paintbrush twirled in a sunny circle before moving back with the others, brightening the green ribbons of color and contrasting with the violet.
A trumpet blared and an orange tipped paintbrush flashed to the canvas. Staccato steps of orange mingled with yellow in a fiery dance of tangerine and gold, lemon and tulip. The pace quickened and the paintbrushes continued a frenzied dance together. The colors flashed more boldly a warm contrast against the cool backdrop of before. The once white canvas grew more colorful and bright with each passing moment.
Soon the rhythm of drums woke the final paintbrush. Dipped in ruby red paint, it swirled into action, making bold strokes on the canvas. Magenta, vermillion and crimson appeared as the paintbrush danced with first violet and the orange. Like a flamenco dancer it twirled and stepped, the rhythm of the drums keeping time with it.
Outside the window dawn was breaking. The darkness of night melted into a symphony of color mimicking the once blank canvas. The music slowed and then came to a sop as the paintbrushes swirled in a cup of water, removing the paint from their brown heads. They returned to the work desk, admiring their work as sleep took them. In brilliant hues a sunset over a field of wildflowers showed on the canvas. The steps and twirls, strokes and taps had become a magical dance of color.
As the sun climbed higher, the colors faded from the canvas, slowly dripping away until it was once again clean and white. Birds chirped as the artist opened the studio door. “I had the strangest dream last night,” she said aloud as she turned on some music. “I dreamed that all my brushes came to life to paint a magnificent sunrise with a flowery field. Now I finally know what is in this canvas.” She regarded the blank canvas for a moment before gathering her brushes and paints. “Now to make that vision a reality.”
As the gentle voice of a violin filled the studio, she dipped the feathery brown bristles of a paintbrush into the blue paint. With ribbons of sapphire the dance resumed on the milky white canvas.
Colorful
Silence filled the darkened room. Silvery moonlight streamed through the windows, casting everything in a bluish glow. Half-finished paintings and sketches littered the studio, catching a few moonbeams. But only the blank canvas, a luminous square of white, was bathed fully in the milky glow of night.
From somewhere deep in the studio a violin began to play. The melody was quiet and timid as though unsure of itself. A single paintbrush rose from the artist’s work desk. It swirled through the air, dancing to the plaintive song of the violin. Upon reaching a tub of blue paint, it dipped its feathery brown bristles in and then twirled to the blank canvas. One stroke and then two, timid and slow like the violin. A dance of blue on a snowy background.
As though gaining strength from the single paintbrush, the violin’s magical melody grew brighter. Another paintbrush rose from the desk as a flute joined the violin. Dipping into a tub of emerald green, the paintbrush danced to the canvas leaping and twirling about the ribbons of sapphire. The two paintbrushes danced together about the canvas, their paths intertwining in turquoise, teal and sea foam. Jade here and aquamarine there, a blending of colors into something new.
The deep voice of a cello joined the song and woke a new paintbrush to life. Dipped in violet, the paintbrush joined the others. Amethyst ribbons waltzed across the canvas, every now and again twirling with the blue paintbrush creating the sleepy colors of twilight. Periwinkle and lavender, indigo and eggplant.
Tranquility washed over the room as the three paintbrushes continued their quiet dance on the canvas. Suddenly a light switched on in the studio bathing the canvas in warm, brilliant light. For a moment, there was silence as though the studio was holding its breath.
Then a guitar strummed and a paintbrush dipped in yellow tapped onto the canvas. Where it met with yellow, chartreuse and lime splashed onto the canvas. For a while the other paintbrushes stayed still, seeming to star at the flashy newcomer. Then slowly they joined it back on the canvas. The yellow paintbrush twirled in a sunny circle before moving back with the others, brightening the green ribbons of color and contrasting with the violet.
A trumpet blared and an orange tipped paintbrush flashed to the canvas. Staccato steps of orange mingled with yellow in a fiery dance of tangerine and gold, lemon and tulip. The pace quickened and the paintbrushes continued a frenzied dance together. The colors flashed more boldly a warm contrast against the cool backdrop of before. The once white canvas grew more colorful and bright with each passing moment.
Soon the rhythm of drums woke the final paintbrush. Dipped in ruby red paint, it swirled into action, making bold strokes on the canvas. Magenta, vermillion and crimson appeared as the paintbrush danced with first violet and the orange. Like a flamenco dancer it twirled and stepped, the rhythm of the drums keeping time with it.
Outside the window dawn was breaking. The darkness of night melted into a symphony of color mimicking the once blank canvas. The music slowed and then came to a sop as the paintbrushes swirled in a cup of water, removing the paint from their brown heads. They returned to the work desk, admiring their work as sleep took them. In brilliant hues a sunset over a field of wildflowers showed on the canvas. The steps and twirls, strokes and taps had become a magical dance of color.
As the sun climbed higher, the colors faded from the canvas, slowly dripping away until it was once again clean and white. Birds chirped as the artist opened the studio door. “I had the strangest dream last night,” she said aloud as she turned on some music. “I dreamed that all my brushes came to life to paint a magnificent sunrise with a flowery field. Now I finally know what is in this canvas.” She regarded the blank canvas for a moment before gathering her brushes and paints. “Now to make that vision a reality.”
As the gentle voice of a violin filled the studio, she dipped the feathery brown bristles of a paintbrush into the blue paint. With ribbons of sapphire the dance resumed on the milky white canvas.
January 1, 2014
New Year, New Goals
It's a brand new year and like many of you I'm setting my New Year's Resolutions. I've got goals for my health, goals for my spirit and goals for my hobbies. This includes several writing goals. I intend to finish "Prince Charming's Search" in the next week if it kills me. I'll also be writing three new books including at least one more of the "Charming" books. But this post is the start of the other goal, the 52 Week Challenge. I'm actually taking these prompts from a photography challenge, so this will test my creativity as I try to figure out how to write a story in Low-Angle. But every Wednesday you can come here to my blog and expect to see a new short story based on these prompts. The remainder of this post is the first short story, a self-portrait. Come by next Wednesday to read a "colorful" short story.
Self-Portrait
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Does that mean that with a thousand words you can paint a picture? Perhaps not, but I’m going to try anyway.
I suppose I’m a rather ordinary person. However, the beauty of words is that something, or someone, ordinary can be turned into something extraordinary. My hair is dark with a suggestion of coppery red tones like mahogany. In the humidity of my native Kansas it becomes an unruly mess of tangled waves. It has the unique quality of being wiry and soft at the same time. At present it plays about my shoulders and at times tickles my chin. Strands of silver are slowly replacing the brighter color of my youth. But I allow it. Youth is not meant to last forever, and most people can’t tell anyway.
My face is cheerful and generally friendly. Large, golden green eyes sparkle with optimism and a zest for life behind impossibly long eyelashes, which caused me no end of trouble with the other girls my age. Often in my early teens I was asked if I wore contacts. No one believed that the bright green flecked with gold and rimmed with a deep blue ring could possibly be natural. I was actually quite excited to start wearing glasses in high school because I was sure the question would stop. It didn’t. Though, to be honest most people hesitated before they asked. Even in college I couldn’t escape it. While working on a self-portrait in an art class, my professor (who had an annoying habit of hovering over my shoulder) interrupted my work to say, “You’re exaggerating your eye color too much.”
This coming from a man who’d told us at the beginning of the project to be sure to use every color we saw in our face, I was understandably incensed. “Actually, that is my natural eye color. If anything I’ve downplayed it.”
“No one has eyes that color,” he scoffed.
“I do.”
He then got mere centimeters from my face and peered into my eyes. “Contacts?”
I rolled my eyes, not even attempting to resist the urge. “I wear glasses.”
He moved on to someone else and I finished my portrait. From my eyes I worked down to my nose, trying to show the gentle upward tip. I added pale freckles across the bridge and onto my cheeks. My freckles aren’t the obvious kind like Pippi Longstocking or the Weasleys. They’re very subtle, often not even visible unless you are very close. During the summer months they tend to darken a bit as I spend more time outside.
My mouth is usually smiling. Often it’s a slightly crooked smile I inherited from my father. The right corner is always the first to twitch when I’m amused or happy. The lips are full and my teeth are slightly crowded, thanks to large Danish teeth and a tiny English jaw. Not the best combination in my genetic make-up. But hey, it could have been much worse.
The rest of me is fairly average. I’m not overly tall, but I’m not short either. I’ve got a very full figure which I tried desperately in my teen years to hide. Baggy shirts and slouched shoulders didn’t help me as much as I had hoped and one day I complained to my dad about it, even going so far as to tell him that I was going to wear cardboard boxes. “Then the stupid boys at school won’t have anything to stare at,” I pouted.
My dad smiled, a twinkle in his blue eyes. He pulled me onto his lap and said, “Jessica, it doesn’t matter what you wear, boys will stare anyway. True beauty cannot be hidden.”
While I felt good that Daddy thought I was beautiful, his comment didn’t exactly help me with my problem. the boys continued to stare and I continued to wear baggy shirts that were much too big for me and slouch my shoulders, causing my doctor no end of lectures at my yearly physicals.
I’m not the strongest person around and I’m certainly no athlete, but a love for nature has kept me active as I’ve gone walking, hiking and exploring. I suppose I’m stocky in a curvy sort of way. (Is that even possible?) I’ve got ridiculously long legs for a person of my height and a high waist, which means that I never tuck in my shirt if I can help it. Doing so tends to add about twenty years to my age, and I’m happy where I’m at right now. My arms are flecked with freckles, earned from years spent climbing trees, hiking in the woods and the mountains (when I could get to them), playing tag and touch football with my siblings and working in my garden. I have large hands which I like to use to create things. My hands are almost always dirty with soil, ink, paint, chalk, or whatever else I’ve been playing with. I’ve got callouses on my fingers from holding pens too long and the side of my right pinky is almost completely smooth from dragging along pages of writing. My fingers are slightly long which comes in handy when I practice my piano. Thinking of which, I need to practice more.
Being a laid-back person, my wardrobe is also relaxed. Jeans and a tee-shirt are my go-to for everyday wear. Skirts and blouses are reserved in my closet for Sundays and date night, if we’re going somewhere nice. I only wear shoes when I have to and often take them off as soon as I can. I’m picky about my accessories, preferring the warmth of gold and rose-gold to the shimmer of silver. I’m not sure what it is about me, but silver always seems to look dull on me. It must just be me because it’s always dazzling on my sister. I love necklaces and enjoy wearing earrings, when there’s not the possibly of my children pulling them out. I always wear my engagement ring and wedding band. the former is gold with tiny diamonds in the front of the band and three small stones with the center being a ruby, my birthstone. The wedding band is a thin filigree band that compliments the other ring beautifully, though they didn’t come as a set. I like jewelry, though my hobbies often prevent me from wearing it often. However, I never wear anything on my wrists. No bracelets, watches, hairbands or anything else. I don’t even like the cuffs of sweatshirts! Having anything around my wrists just drives me bonkers. When I worked at a summer camp that required everyone to wear those popular rubber wristbands for easy identification of staff and scouts, I wore mine around the palm of my hand. Unfortunately, hospitals won’t let me cheat that way like the camp director did. Probably part of why I hate being in them so much.
Anyway, that’s pretty much me in a nutshell. Can you see me? Did I paint a picture with my words? Perhaps a thousand words aren’t quite the same as a picture. But they could be.
Self-Portrait
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Does that mean that with a thousand words you can paint a picture? Perhaps not, but I’m going to try anyway.
I suppose I’m a rather ordinary person. However, the beauty of words is that something, or someone, ordinary can be turned into something extraordinary. My hair is dark with a suggestion of coppery red tones like mahogany. In the humidity of my native Kansas it becomes an unruly mess of tangled waves. It has the unique quality of being wiry and soft at the same time. At present it plays about my shoulders and at times tickles my chin. Strands of silver are slowly replacing the brighter color of my youth. But I allow it. Youth is not meant to last forever, and most people can’t tell anyway.
My face is cheerful and generally friendly. Large, golden green eyes sparkle with optimism and a zest for life behind impossibly long eyelashes, which caused me no end of trouble with the other girls my age. Often in my early teens I was asked if I wore contacts. No one believed that the bright green flecked with gold and rimmed with a deep blue ring could possibly be natural. I was actually quite excited to start wearing glasses in high school because I was sure the question would stop. It didn’t. Though, to be honest most people hesitated before they asked. Even in college I couldn’t escape it. While working on a self-portrait in an art class, my professor (who had an annoying habit of hovering over my shoulder) interrupted my work to say, “You’re exaggerating your eye color too much.”
This coming from a man who’d told us at the beginning of the project to be sure to use every color we saw in our face, I was understandably incensed. “Actually, that is my natural eye color. If anything I’ve downplayed it.”
“No one has eyes that color,” he scoffed.
“I do.”
He then got mere centimeters from my face and peered into my eyes. “Contacts?”
I rolled my eyes, not even attempting to resist the urge. “I wear glasses.”
He moved on to someone else and I finished my portrait. From my eyes I worked down to my nose, trying to show the gentle upward tip. I added pale freckles across the bridge and onto my cheeks. My freckles aren’t the obvious kind like Pippi Longstocking or the Weasleys. They’re very subtle, often not even visible unless you are very close. During the summer months they tend to darken a bit as I spend more time outside.
My mouth is usually smiling. Often it’s a slightly crooked smile I inherited from my father. The right corner is always the first to twitch when I’m amused or happy. The lips are full and my teeth are slightly crowded, thanks to large Danish teeth and a tiny English jaw. Not the best combination in my genetic make-up. But hey, it could have been much worse.
The rest of me is fairly average. I’m not overly tall, but I’m not short either. I’ve got a very full figure which I tried desperately in my teen years to hide. Baggy shirts and slouched shoulders didn’t help me as much as I had hoped and one day I complained to my dad about it, even going so far as to tell him that I was going to wear cardboard boxes. “Then the stupid boys at school won’t have anything to stare at,” I pouted.
My dad smiled, a twinkle in his blue eyes. He pulled me onto his lap and said, “Jessica, it doesn’t matter what you wear, boys will stare anyway. True beauty cannot be hidden.”
While I felt good that Daddy thought I was beautiful, his comment didn’t exactly help me with my problem. the boys continued to stare and I continued to wear baggy shirts that were much too big for me and slouch my shoulders, causing my doctor no end of lectures at my yearly physicals.
I’m not the strongest person around and I’m certainly no athlete, but a love for nature has kept me active as I’ve gone walking, hiking and exploring. I suppose I’m stocky in a curvy sort of way. (Is that even possible?) I’ve got ridiculously long legs for a person of my height and a high waist, which means that I never tuck in my shirt if I can help it. Doing so tends to add about twenty years to my age, and I’m happy where I’m at right now. My arms are flecked with freckles, earned from years spent climbing trees, hiking in the woods and the mountains (when I could get to them), playing tag and touch football with my siblings and working in my garden. I have large hands which I like to use to create things. My hands are almost always dirty with soil, ink, paint, chalk, or whatever else I’ve been playing with. I’ve got callouses on my fingers from holding pens too long and the side of my right pinky is almost completely smooth from dragging along pages of writing. My fingers are slightly long which comes in handy when I practice my piano. Thinking of which, I need to practice more.
Being a laid-back person, my wardrobe is also relaxed. Jeans and a tee-shirt are my go-to for everyday wear. Skirts and blouses are reserved in my closet for Sundays and date night, if we’re going somewhere nice. I only wear shoes when I have to and often take them off as soon as I can. I’m picky about my accessories, preferring the warmth of gold and rose-gold to the shimmer of silver. I’m not sure what it is about me, but silver always seems to look dull on me. It must just be me because it’s always dazzling on my sister. I love necklaces and enjoy wearing earrings, when there’s not the possibly of my children pulling them out. I always wear my engagement ring and wedding band. the former is gold with tiny diamonds in the front of the band and three small stones with the center being a ruby, my birthstone. The wedding band is a thin filigree band that compliments the other ring beautifully, though they didn’t come as a set. I like jewelry, though my hobbies often prevent me from wearing it often. However, I never wear anything on my wrists. No bracelets, watches, hairbands or anything else. I don’t even like the cuffs of sweatshirts! Having anything around my wrists just drives me bonkers. When I worked at a summer camp that required everyone to wear those popular rubber wristbands for easy identification of staff and scouts, I wore mine around the palm of my hand. Unfortunately, hospitals won’t let me cheat that way like the camp director did. Probably part of why I hate being in them so much.
Anyway, that’s pretty much me in a nutshell. Can you see me? Did I paint a picture with my words? Perhaps a thousand words aren’t quite the same as a picture. But they could be.
December 25, 2013
Christmas Memories
It's quiet all around me. My children and husband are still sleeping peacefully and here I am wide awake. Truth be known, I've never been one to sleep in on Christmas morning. Growing up I was usually one of the first, if not the first, people awake. But like most parents, mine had certain rules about Christmas morning.
1) No one gets out of bed until everyone wakes up on their own. (Basically meaning I couldn't just shake everyone awake.)
2) No one sneaks downstairs.
And the third rule was usually some arbitrary time my dad set that would be ignored anyway.
Christmas. It's such a beautiful time of the year. Our hearts turn to family and giving and love. Our minds turn back the clocks to simpler times when we were young. Christmases with family and friends. This early morning, since I've little else to do, I'd like to share some of my Christmas memories with you.
As I stated, I was usually one of the first awake in my house. On Christmas Eve my siblings and I all slept together in my brothers' bedroom on the upstairs level of the house. Usually within about half-an-hour of my eyes opening I'd hear a voice whisper, "Hey, Jessica? Are you awake?"
"Yeah, James, I'm awake."
"Do you think anyone else is awake?"
"No, but we better stay quiet so they can sleep. Try to rest."
"I can't! I'm too excited."
A smile would spread on my face. "Me too."
James and I were always the early birds of Christmas morning. We would whisper and giggle back and forth until soon Eliza's voice would join. And then Steven's and, when he was old enough to talk, John's. The trick was getting Bekah to wake up. Bekah sleeps like the dead (love you, sis!) and isn't necessarily the pleasantest in the morning. Getting her to wake up took skill because if you went about it the wrong way, you could accidentally be the recipient of a black eye. (She honestly never meant to hit anyone, she just reacts violently to being touched while asleep.)
Thus the creative waking would begin. People would say her name over and over again until she would mumble something like, "Shut up an' lemme sleep."
"But Bekah, it's Christmas!" the youngest would say. Always use the baby for these assignments: they're cuter and less likely to be punished.
"Idoncare."
"But Santa brought us presents!"
Groan. Grumble. A rustling of blankets. "Fine. I'm up."
Now, it was time to get Mom and Dad up. We did this a few different ways. Sometimes we sent the baby in (yes, always the baby) to let Mom and Dad know that we had all woken up on our own and were ready for Christmas. One year we started singing Christmas carols until my dad came in and said, "It's five in the morning. Go back to sleep."
"But Daddy, it's Christmas and we're too excited to sleep anymore!"
"What was our rule last night?"
"Five?" James would usually ask.
"No."
"Five-thirty?"
"Seven. No one gets up until seven."
Several pairs of pleading eyes would look at him, and my dad is a bit of sucker for that. We knew it and we took advantage of it. Often. Poor dad would usually look around at us and we could see him starting to cave. Then he'd look at Bekah whose pleading eyes were usually saying, "Please tell these morons to go back to sleep so I can sleep!"
"Did you all wake up on your own?" he would ask suspiciously.
"Yes we did!" James would say.
"No," Bekah would grumble.
"Bekah says she didn't wake up on her own, so you have to wait another half hour. Then if you're still awake, we'll do Christmas. But there is no talking until Mom comes in, okay?"
"But Daddy..."
"No buts. Try to go back to sleep." And he'd close the door and go back to his room, probably to tell Mom that she'd best start waking up.
Most Christmas mornings went that way. Sometimes Mom and Dad got lucky and we'd fall asleep since we weren't allowed to talk. But other Christmases they weren't as fortunate and the half hour would pass and strains of children singing would waft into their room. Mom would then come, mostly because she doesn't fall for the pleading eyes as easily. "You children weren't supposed to talk until I got here."
"But, Mom, we didn't talk. We were singing," Eliza would point out. (Eliza always was one to get into a semantics battle with Mom, which wasn't necessarily the brightest idea in the world.)
"We're all still awake, Mommy," Steven would say. "Can we have Christmas now?"
A smile would twitch on the corners of Mom's lips. "Let me make sure that Christmas is ready for you." She would disappear to wake Dad and he would go downstairs to take pictures of the pre-opening magic. Soon we'd hear Mannheim Steamroller and that was a sure sign that Christmas had arrived. Mom would reappear and line us up in age order in front of the door. Then would the cameraman (Daddy) was set up at the bottom of the stairs, she would lead us down the stairs, one at a time until we were all standing on one. Dad would take some pictures and then the magic of Christmas began. You've been there before, opening presents, emptying stockings.
I hear a little voice now, so I best make that Christmas magic happen for my son. Merry Christmas to you all!
1) No one gets out of bed until everyone wakes up on their own. (Basically meaning I couldn't just shake everyone awake.)
2) No one sneaks downstairs.
And the third rule was usually some arbitrary time my dad set that would be ignored anyway.
Christmas. It's such a beautiful time of the year. Our hearts turn to family and giving and love. Our minds turn back the clocks to simpler times when we were young. Christmases with family and friends. This early morning, since I've little else to do, I'd like to share some of my Christmas memories with you.
As I stated, I was usually one of the first awake in my house. On Christmas Eve my siblings and I all slept together in my brothers' bedroom on the upstairs level of the house. Usually within about half-an-hour of my eyes opening I'd hear a voice whisper, "Hey, Jessica? Are you awake?"
"Yeah, James, I'm awake."
"Do you think anyone else is awake?"
"No, but we better stay quiet so they can sleep. Try to rest."
"I can't! I'm too excited."
A smile would spread on my face. "Me too."
James and I were always the early birds of Christmas morning. We would whisper and giggle back and forth until soon Eliza's voice would join. And then Steven's and, when he was old enough to talk, John's. The trick was getting Bekah to wake up. Bekah sleeps like the dead (love you, sis!) and isn't necessarily the pleasantest in the morning. Getting her to wake up took skill because if you went about it the wrong way, you could accidentally be the recipient of a black eye. (She honestly never meant to hit anyone, she just reacts violently to being touched while asleep.)
Thus the creative waking would begin. People would say her name over and over again until she would mumble something like, "Shut up an' lemme sleep."
"But Bekah, it's Christmas!" the youngest would say. Always use the baby for these assignments: they're cuter and less likely to be punished.
"Idoncare."
"But Santa brought us presents!"
Groan. Grumble. A rustling of blankets. "Fine. I'm up."
Now, it was time to get Mom and Dad up. We did this a few different ways. Sometimes we sent the baby in (yes, always the baby) to let Mom and Dad know that we had all woken up on our own and were ready for Christmas. One year we started singing Christmas carols until my dad came in and said, "It's five in the morning. Go back to sleep."
"But Daddy, it's Christmas and we're too excited to sleep anymore!"
"What was our rule last night?"
"Five?" James would usually ask.
"No."
"Five-thirty?"
"Seven. No one gets up until seven."
Several pairs of pleading eyes would look at him, and my dad is a bit of sucker for that. We knew it and we took advantage of it. Often. Poor dad would usually look around at us and we could see him starting to cave. Then he'd look at Bekah whose pleading eyes were usually saying, "Please tell these morons to go back to sleep so I can sleep!"
"Did you all wake up on your own?" he would ask suspiciously.
"Yes we did!" James would say.
"No," Bekah would grumble.
"Bekah says she didn't wake up on her own, so you have to wait another half hour. Then if you're still awake, we'll do Christmas. But there is no talking until Mom comes in, okay?"
"But Daddy..."
"No buts. Try to go back to sleep." And he'd close the door and go back to his room, probably to tell Mom that she'd best start waking up.
Most Christmas mornings went that way. Sometimes Mom and Dad got lucky and we'd fall asleep since we weren't allowed to talk. But other Christmases they weren't as fortunate and the half hour would pass and strains of children singing would waft into their room. Mom would then come, mostly because she doesn't fall for the pleading eyes as easily. "You children weren't supposed to talk until I got here."
"But, Mom, we didn't talk. We were singing," Eliza would point out. (Eliza always was one to get into a semantics battle with Mom, which wasn't necessarily the brightest idea in the world.)
"We're all still awake, Mommy," Steven would say. "Can we have Christmas now?"
A smile would twitch on the corners of Mom's lips. "Let me make sure that Christmas is ready for you." She would disappear to wake Dad and he would go downstairs to take pictures of the pre-opening magic. Soon we'd hear Mannheim Steamroller and that was a sure sign that Christmas had arrived. Mom would reappear and line us up in age order in front of the door. Then would the cameraman (Daddy) was set up at the bottom of the stairs, she would lead us down the stairs, one at a time until we were all standing on one. Dad would take some pictures and then the magic of Christmas began. You've been there before, opening presents, emptying stockings.
I hear a little voice now, so I best make that Christmas magic happen for my son. Merry Christmas to you all!
December 21, 2013
Not a Cookie Cutter
My mother used to say that when something bothers me, I’m like a dog with an old bone. I gnaw on it and gnaw on it and chew it up until there’s nothing left and then suddenly I come out of the blue with a proclamation. My impossibly patient mother would have to wait for me to do this anytime something upset or bothered me. She knew I was festering at something but when she’d ask, “Is something bothering you?” I’d usually respond, “No,” with a distracted frown and far away look. Then a week or two later (sometimes a month if it was something really bad) I’d suddenly spout off on whatever it was I’d been working at and I’d feel better and she’d patiently listen and then advise from there. Perhaps it is because I’m a writer that I do this. I want my argument to be convincing and articulate, so I have to think on and worry at it until it sounds the way I want it to. So I’m going to warn you now: this is a proclamation. There’s nothing in here about my books, what life has been like the last few weeks, or anything at all that I normally write about. Here goes:
I am NOT a cookie cutter Mormon.
Now, let me backtrack and explain what that means. As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints I often hear about how our lifestyle is too hard, there are too many expectations, etc. I’ve heard it from people I talked to, in the media and really, I’ve grown up hearing those kinds of things. But there’s been a recent trend that concerns me. Amongst those not of our faith, new converts and even some life-long members there’s this new (or perhaps just new to me) idea that Mormons are cookie cutters. You become a member and then poof! You’re suddenly expected to become a certain type of person who does certain things. Your whole life is planned out for you and you just willy-nilly fill in the blanks.
This is NOT true. No one expects you to become a “cookie cutter Mormon” after you’re baptized. In fact, such a thing doesn’t exist. And when you say things like that, you alienate those of us who conform to your idea of what a “cookie cutter Mormon” is.
Let me use myself as an example. I fit a lot of the “cookie cutter” descriptions. I was raised in the church and have never left it. I can sew (though not perfectly) and I love to quilt. I do! I have a garden with plans of adding to the one I have as well as starting another garden come spring. I can my own jams, jellies and other foods and I love to cook. And since my husband hasn’t lost weight since we married, I’m going to assume that I’m good at it. My husband and I have been starting our food storage and we’re working on a financial reserve. I got married at 24 and had my first child a year and a half later. Now I have two beautiful children and we plan on adding to our family as the good Lord sees fit. I have a firm testimony of God and our Savior, Jesus Christ. When the opportunity arises, I like to share that with people.
As you can tell, I fit a lot of the stereotypes of what a Mormon woman should be. Now let me tell you why I do those things. And very few of those are “because I’m Mormon.” First, I can sew and quilt. Did you know I also draw, paint, throw clay (when I can), write, wood burn and a multitude of other hobbies? I like to work with my hands. I am very much my father’s daughter. I can’t sit still with my hands doing nothing or I start to fidget. You’ve heard the phrase “idle hands are the devil’s playground.” Well, these are two playgrounds that he’s not welcome at. I sew and quilt not because it’s expected of me but because it’s what I enjoy doing. And to be perfectly honest, I’m not very good at either. I’m pretty good on straight seams, but get much more complicated than that and I start having problems. Yes, if you’re friends with me on Facebook you’ve seen that I made a teddy bear for my son last Christmas and this past summer I made a hat for my daughter since we’d be outside often and we discovered that she reacts badly to sunscreen. I could tell you how many times I had to rip seams and redo, but that’s really not important. The important part of this is I do sew and quilt because I love to, not because I’m expected to.
Second, I have a garden. This is because I love being outside and I love to garden. I would make a great hobbit because I love good food and there is just something heavenly about working the ground and watching new life grow. I don’t necessarily have the greenest of thumbs; some of my plants do die. But I love to try. And I love to grow things. Yes, it is true that Church leadership has encouraged us to have gardens where we can so that we can be self-reliant. And that I suppose is a small part of why I garden. But in all honesty, even if that counsel wasn’t given I would still garden. Being out in nature is one of my favorite things and the satisfaction of knowing that I raised it myself is just that much better.
Third, I can my own food and I cook. Both of these are purely and completely selfish of me. Growing up in my house from May until October my mother’s kitchen became a canner’s paradise. Jelly, jam, fruit butter, pickles, pie fillings, the list is almost endless. My mother spent days and days canning. And the thing of it is, my mother has food sensitivities. She can’t have fruit, especially not cooked fruit. Have you ever been in a house while someone was canning? The aroma is unbelievable and near indescribable. When we do strawberries, it’s like walking into a warm strawberry field. Just sweet and gooey and beautiful. My wonderful mother would spend an entire day canning, smelling this wonderful aroma and not be able to take even a nibble of what she had made. Secretly I was grateful, because I got to be the taste-tester. But the love with which she did that always impressed me. I don’t know my mother’s reasons for canning, and it isn’t important. She did it out of love. And because I grew up on homemade jams and applesauce, I can’t stand the stuff at the store. Perhaps it’s missing the love, maybe it’s just not the right texture, but I can’t eat it. It’s just not the same. And so I now can because my mom can’t always come to do it for me. She taught me to do it myself and when my kiddos are old enough, you better believe they’ll learn too. It’s not a Mormon thing. It’s a love thing. The kitchen is my favorite place to be, aside from maybe my writing desk. I love to cook and I love to be able to share that with others. And yeah, I’ll admit it, I’m a good cook.
Fourth, food storage and financial reserve. This is probably the only one that is mostly because it’s expected of me. Church leaders have consistently talked to us about being self-reliant. Having these reserves gives us peace in knowing that when the unexpected happens, because it will, we’ll be prepared. Our family hasn’t gotten to a full year’s supply and the supply we did have has dwindled because we lived off that storage while waiting for my husband’s job to start. But what a blessing it was to know that even though our budget between graduation and career was tight, there would still be food on the table. The blessings of following the commandments far outweigh the inconveniences.
Finally, family has always been important to me. I felt old when I got married because many of my friends had already married. When my husband and I were dating, I told him that I wanted a large family. My siblings and I are like a basket full of puppies. We played together, fought, pulled on each other’s ears and all those other things. But I was never lonely. I always had someone to turn to, whether my parents or one of my siblings. There was always someone I could talk to, even if I was mad at one of them or even half of them. I want the same for my children. I want them to always have someone to turn to. And it would be far too quiet with only one or two.
Even with all these things, I don’t consider myself to be a “cookie cutter Mormon.” I’ve made my own decisions in life. I’ve followed my own path. That path has kept me close to the Church. I’ve relied heavily on my faith in my Heavenly Father as I’ve come to crossroads and determined which road to take. Yes, there are things that are expected of me. And I try my best to live up to those expectations. But I do not feel that I am limited in what I can do. I don’t come to a crossroads and see a big sign saying, “If you’re a good Mormon you HAVE to go this way!!!” If anything, my faith, my decision to live up to what my Heavenly Father expects of me has given me more options and freed me to do much more than I ever thought I was capable of.
There are times in all our lives when we may feel out of place, or like we somehow don’t fit in. If you’re feeling that way now, whether in your church, your school, or your home, I would hope that you wouldn’t decide that it’s because you don’t fit a pretended mold. There is no one way to be a “good Mormon” or even to be a “good person.” We each must find our own path and follow it. But our path doesn’t have to be totally and completely different than anyone else’s. After all, there are over 6 billion people in the world. Do you really think everything you do is going to be unique to you? In some ways, it will be. There’s only one you. While you and I may make the same choices, may take the same path at that crossroads, how we travel it will be different. How we see it will be different. But the things that we choose to do and choose to be may be more similar than you realize. It doesn’t mean we’re identical, it means we get to share the road for a ways. So don’t be afraid to follow your path. Don’t be afraid to walk with others. But if you are on a lonely stretch, please don’t decide the rest of us are just on a certain path because we “have” to be. What may be an easy road for me may be rocky and difficult for someone else. And there have been paths that have been rocky for me where others have seemed to breeze through. The roads of life are many and varied, but they don’t have to be considered only for certain types of people. One day, our paths will meet and I’ll enjoy walking that trail with you if you like. In the meantime, remember that no one expects you to be a “cookie cutter.” Not all Mormons are the same any more than any other group is all the same. We’re all different, just the way our loving Heavenly Father planned for us to be. Embrace our differences. But also embrace our similarities.
I am NOT a cookie cutter Mormon.
Now, let me backtrack and explain what that means. As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints I often hear about how our lifestyle is too hard, there are too many expectations, etc. I’ve heard it from people I talked to, in the media and really, I’ve grown up hearing those kinds of things. But there’s been a recent trend that concerns me. Amongst those not of our faith, new converts and even some life-long members there’s this new (or perhaps just new to me) idea that Mormons are cookie cutters. You become a member and then poof! You’re suddenly expected to become a certain type of person who does certain things. Your whole life is planned out for you and you just willy-nilly fill in the blanks.
This is NOT true. No one expects you to become a “cookie cutter Mormon” after you’re baptized. In fact, such a thing doesn’t exist. And when you say things like that, you alienate those of us who conform to your idea of what a “cookie cutter Mormon” is.
Let me use myself as an example. I fit a lot of the “cookie cutter” descriptions. I was raised in the church and have never left it. I can sew (though not perfectly) and I love to quilt. I do! I have a garden with plans of adding to the one I have as well as starting another garden come spring. I can my own jams, jellies and other foods and I love to cook. And since my husband hasn’t lost weight since we married, I’m going to assume that I’m good at it. My husband and I have been starting our food storage and we’re working on a financial reserve. I got married at 24 and had my first child a year and a half later. Now I have two beautiful children and we plan on adding to our family as the good Lord sees fit. I have a firm testimony of God and our Savior, Jesus Christ. When the opportunity arises, I like to share that with people.
As you can tell, I fit a lot of the stereotypes of what a Mormon woman should be. Now let me tell you why I do those things. And very few of those are “because I’m Mormon.” First, I can sew and quilt. Did you know I also draw, paint, throw clay (when I can), write, wood burn and a multitude of other hobbies? I like to work with my hands. I am very much my father’s daughter. I can’t sit still with my hands doing nothing or I start to fidget. You’ve heard the phrase “idle hands are the devil’s playground.” Well, these are two playgrounds that he’s not welcome at. I sew and quilt not because it’s expected of me but because it’s what I enjoy doing. And to be perfectly honest, I’m not very good at either. I’m pretty good on straight seams, but get much more complicated than that and I start having problems. Yes, if you’re friends with me on Facebook you’ve seen that I made a teddy bear for my son last Christmas and this past summer I made a hat for my daughter since we’d be outside often and we discovered that she reacts badly to sunscreen. I could tell you how many times I had to rip seams and redo, but that’s really not important. The important part of this is I do sew and quilt because I love to, not because I’m expected to.
Second, I have a garden. This is because I love being outside and I love to garden. I would make a great hobbit because I love good food and there is just something heavenly about working the ground and watching new life grow. I don’t necessarily have the greenest of thumbs; some of my plants do die. But I love to try. And I love to grow things. Yes, it is true that Church leadership has encouraged us to have gardens where we can so that we can be self-reliant. And that I suppose is a small part of why I garden. But in all honesty, even if that counsel wasn’t given I would still garden. Being out in nature is one of my favorite things and the satisfaction of knowing that I raised it myself is just that much better.
Third, I can my own food and I cook. Both of these are purely and completely selfish of me. Growing up in my house from May until October my mother’s kitchen became a canner’s paradise. Jelly, jam, fruit butter, pickles, pie fillings, the list is almost endless. My mother spent days and days canning. And the thing of it is, my mother has food sensitivities. She can’t have fruit, especially not cooked fruit. Have you ever been in a house while someone was canning? The aroma is unbelievable and near indescribable. When we do strawberries, it’s like walking into a warm strawberry field. Just sweet and gooey and beautiful. My wonderful mother would spend an entire day canning, smelling this wonderful aroma and not be able to take even a nibble of what she had made. Secretly I was grateful, because I got to be the taste-tester. But the love with which she did that always impressed me. I don’t know my mother’s reasons for canning, and it isn’t important. She did it out of love. And because I grew up on homemade jams and applesauce, I can’t stand the stuff at the store. Perhaps it’s missing the love, maybe it’s just not the right texture, but I can’t eat it. It’s just not the same. And so I now can because my mom can’t always come to do it for me. She taught me to do it myself and when my kiddos are old enough, you better believe they’ll learn too. It’s not a Mormon thing. It’s a love thing. The kitchen is my favorite place to be, aside from maybe my writing desk. I love to cook and I love to be able to share that with others. And yeah, I’ll admit it, I’m a good cook.
Fourth, food storage and financial reserve. This is probably the only one that is mostly because it’s expected of me. Church leaders have consistently talked to us about being self-reliant. Having these reserves gives us peace in knowing that when the unexpected happens, because it will, we’ll be prepared. Our family hasn’t gotten to a full year’s supply and the supply we did have has dwindled because we lived off that storage while waiting for my husband’s job to start. But what a blessing it was to know that even though our budget between graduation and career was tight, there would still be food on the table. The blessings of following the commandments far outweigh the inconveniences.
Finally, family has always been important to me. I felt old when I got married because many of my friends had already married. When my husband and I were dating, I told him that I wanted a large family. My siblings and I are like a basket full of puppies. We played together, fought, pulled on each other’s ears and all those other things. But I was never lonely. I always had someone to turn to, whether my parents or one of my siblings. There was always someone I could talk to, even if I was mad at one of them or even half of them. I want the same for my children. I want them to always have someone to turn to. And it would be far too quiet with only one or two.
Even with all these things, I don’t consider myself to be a “cookie cutter Mormon.” I’ve made my own decisions in life. I’ve followed my own path. That path has kept me close to the Church. I’ve relied heavily on my faith in my Heavenly Father as I’ve come to crossroads and determined which road to take. Yes, there are things that are expected of me. And I try my best to live up to those expectations. But I do not feel that I am limited in what I can do. I don’t come to a crossroads and see a big sign saying, “If you’re a good Mormon you HAVE to go this way!!!” If anything, my faith, my decision to live up to what my Heavenly Father expects of me has given me more options and freed me to do much more than I ever thought I was capable of.
There are times in all our lives when we may feel out of place, or like we somehow don’t fit in. If you’re feeling that way now, whether in your church, your school, or your home, I would hope that you wouldn’t decide that it’s because you don’t fit a pretended mold. There is no one way to be a “good Mormon” or even to be a “good person.” We each must find our own path and follow it. But our path doesn’t have to be totally and completely different than anyone else’s. After all, there are over 6 billion people in the world. Do you really think everything you do is going to be unique to you? In some ways, it will be. There’s only one you. While you and I may make the same choices, may take the same path at that crossroads, how we travel it will be different. How we see it will be different. But the things that we choose to do and choose to be may be more similar than you realize. It doesn’t mean we’re identical, it means we get to share the road for a ways. So don’t be afraid to follow your path. Don’t be afraid to walk with others. But if you are on a lonely stretch, please don’t decide the rest of us are just on a certain path because we “have” to be. What may be an easy road for me may be rocky and difficult for someone else. And there have been paths that have been rocky for me where others have seemed to breeze through. The roads of life are many and varied, but they don’t have to be considered only for certain types of people. One day, our paths will meet and I’ll enjoy walking that trail with you if you like. In the meantime, remember that no one expects you to be a “cookie cutter.” Not all Mormons are the same any more than any other group is all the same. We’re all different, just the way our loving Heavenly Father planned for us to be. Embrace our differences. But also embrace our similarities.
November 14, 2013
Here a Temple , There a Temple
This is overdue, but I've started another fitness journey having made it to Salt Lake. I so enjoyed that trek and got so much support that I've started a new one! My group is now doing a virtual temple hop. We started in Kirtland, the first LDS temple. Now We've stopped in Nauvoo.
So a few facts:
Kirtland-
~This was the first temple built by the Latter-day Saints.
~Construction began June 6, 1833
~It was dedicated on March 27, 1836 by Joseph Smith Jr.
~Many ladies donated their families' china and glassware to be crushed into the plaster for the exterior of the temple.
Nauvoo-
~Construction began in the spring of 1841.
~It was dedicated April 30,1846 by Joseph Young.
~Specific portions of this temple were dedicated before construction was complete so the saints could begin ordinance work.
~The original temple was destroyed by fire and later by a tornado.
Now we are on our way to St. George Utah. Join us in this adventure! Hopefully I'll have a working keyboard. The hunt and peck of the on-screen keyboard is very slow. But, I'm grateful for it since without it I would be unable to type at all!
Have a great day and take a moment to check out my books!
So a few facts:
Kirtland-
~This was the first temple built by the Latter-day Saints.
~Construction began June 6, 1833
~It was dedicated on March 27, 1836 by Joseph Smith Jr.
~Many ladies donated their families' china and glassware to be crushed into the plaster for the exterior of the temple.
Nauvoo-
~Construction began in the spring of 1841.
~It was dedicated April 30,1846 by Joseph Young.
~Specific portions of this temple were dedicated before construction was complete so the saints could begin ordinance work.
~The original temple was destroyed by fire and later by a tornado.
Now we are on our way to St. George Utah. Join us in this adventure! Hopefully I'll have a working keyboard. The hunt and peck of the on-screen keyboard is very slow. But, I'm grateful for it since without it I would be unable to type at all!
Have a great day and take a moment to check out my books!
November 4, 2013
Back to NaNoLand!
That's right, it's November and I'm jumping into the swing of writing with one great big, 50,000 word free-write. I'm still in need of some good writing prompts to keep this thing going, so if you've got ideas please share!
My picture book How Many Snowflakes Until Christmas? is now available through CreateSpace and is probably up on Amazon now too. You can check out my website for more details on ordering this fun little story.
But mostly it's just writing time for me. Time to sit at the computer with a huge mug of hot cocoa to get the creative juices flowing. It's also time that the holidays started creeping into our subconscious. Or if you've been to a store they're being slammed in to you like a sledgehammer. Time to start thinking of wrapping presents and decorating and parties and all those other fun and time-consuming things that come about this time of the year. And this year, I have a little gift for you!
On my website, on the "Special Sales" page you will find links for purchasing each of my books. What makes this special is that these are signed copies. They are books that you can have signed and personalized for that special someone in your life who just needs to read a good fairy-tale. Or the mischievous one. Or the littlest ones with too many questions. This is the first time that I've had each of my books available in this way. You can have a signed copy even if you don't live nearby. It's also good to note that if your order total is more than $30, you'll get free shipping on these wonderful stocking stuffers.
It's my little way of saying thank you for reading my posts, for listening to my rants and encouraging me to keep at it. You're all awesome and I appreciate what you've done for this small-town author. I'm not famous or best-selling, But my stories are being read and they're bringing a little joy into people's lives. That's what means the most to me.
So, I've now procrastinated enough. My word-count is behind and I have lots of ground to cover before tonight. If you want, jump over to my profile and read an excerpt from my NaNo Novel. You'll notice there are some names needed. Why don't you suggest one for me?
And a writing prompt would be lovely. :) Back to NaNoLand I go. Tata!
My picture book How Many Snowflakes Until Christmas? is now available through CreateSpace and is probably up on Amazon now too. You can check out my website for more details on ordering this fun little story.
But mostly it's just writing time for me. Time to sit at the computer with a huge mug of hot cocoa to get the creative juices flowing. It's also time that the holidays started creeping into our subconscious. Or if you've been to a store they're being slammed in to you like a sledgehammer. Time to start thinking of wrapping presents and decorating and parties and all those other fun and time-consuming things that come about this time of the year. And this year, I have a little gift for you!
On my website, on the "Special Sales" page you will find links for purchasing each of my books. What makes this special is that these are signed copies. They are books that you can have signed and personalized for that special someone in your life who just needs to read a good fairy-tale. Or the mischievous one. Or the littlest ones with too many questions. This is the first time that I've had each of my books available in this way. You can have a signed copy even if you don't live nearby. It's also good to note that if your order total is more than $30, you'll get free shipping on these wonderful stocking stuffers.
It's my little way of saying thank you for reading my posts, for listening to my rants and encouraging me to keep at it. You're all awesome and I appreciate what you've done for this small-town author. I'm not famous or best-selling, But my stories are being read and they're bringing a little joy into people's lives. That's what means the most to me.
So, I've now procrastinated enough. My word-count is behind and I have lots of ground to cover before tonight. If you want, jump over to my profile and read an excerpt from my NaNo Novel. You'll notice there are some names needed. Why don't you suggest one for me?
And a writing prompt would be lovely. :) Back to NaNoLand I go. Tata!
October 25, 2013
Oops.
So it's been an entire month and I haven't posted anything. Oops! :)
I promise that I'm still alive and well. I've just been crazy busy lately. Let me tell you what I've been doing!
~~In my trek we've gone from Winter Quarters to Fort Kearney, Chimney Rock, Fort Laramie, Independence Rock and Martin's Cove.
~~I've had mywonderful and tech-savvy husband update my website and there's now a brand new page. Many of you. Okay, like all of you, live too far away to buy books directly from me to have them signed. And so there were several that didn't have the option of having a signed copy of any of my books. Well, that is no more! There is now, on the special sales page shopping cart buttons to purchase any of my available books which will be signed and sent to you! Nifty, huh? And just in time for the holidays too! To make things a little easier, orders over $30 will receive free shipping. So go check it out and cross off some of those holiday boxes. :)
~~My sweetheart and I wrote a little Christmas children's book together. I had many wonderful friends submit photos of their own children for me to use as reference in creating the illustrations. This book, How Many Snowflakes Until Christmas?, will come available within the next week. I'm currently just waiting to receive the proof copy to ensure that everything looks as I want it to. As soon as it is available I will let you know! If you want to catch a preview of the cover, check out my Facebook page to see the cover reveal.
~~I've been working on "Prince Charming's Search". It's been very slow going and I apologize. I know there are many of you anxiously waiting to see what will happen with Jacobi and Clarissa. And as disappointing as it may seem, I can safely say that it should be ready right around the New Year. I'm out of my bout of writer's block and I think the little break working on my Christmas book was just what I needed. I'll keep you posted on what's happening with this story too!
~~NaNoWriMo is swiftly approaching and I've been trying to prepare for that too! I'm planning on splitting my time between a new story idea and finishing "Prince Charming's Search". My priority will be finishing that book, so my NaNo novel may end up fizzling. But I'd like to see what I can do with both. The NaNo novel will be a humorous look into what it's like being a writer. It will go through the anguish of writer's block, the frenzy of inspiration, the hounding of the inner editor and the crooning of the muse. (So my muse tends to sound like Nat King Cole, don't judge!) :) This is really meant to just be a fun and really big free write. I'll need your help. I need some writing prompts that I can use each day. NaNoWriMo lasts the month of November and since I do not write on Sundays, that gives you 26 days to think of fun prompts for. Keep in mind that my writing is generally geared towards a younger audience and I would appreciate family friendly prompts. :) Other than that little caution, run wild with it!
Well, I think that's a pretty good recap of the past month. Thanks for reading and thanks for being patient with me. You're the best readers a girl could ask for! :)
Hugs!
I promise that I'm still alive and well. I've just been crazy busy lately. Let me tell you what I've been doing!
~~In my trek we've gone from Winter Quarters to Fort Kearney, Chimney Rock, Fort Laramie, Independence Rock and Martin's Cove.
~~I've had mywonderful and tech-savvy husband update my website and there's now a brand new page. Many of you. Okay, like all of you, live too far away to buy books directly from me to have them signed. And so there were several that didn't have the option of having a signed copy of any of my books. Well, that is no more! There is now, on the special sales page shopping cart buttons to purchase any of my available books which will be signed and sent to you! Nifty, huh? And just in time for the holidays too! To make things a little easier, orders over $30 will receive free shipping. So go check it out and cross off some of those holiday boxes. :)
~~My sweetheart and I wrote a little Christmas children's book together. I had many wonderful friends submit photos of their own children for me to use as reference in creating the illustrations. This book, How Many Snowflakes Until Christmas?, will come available within the next week. I'm currently just waiting to receive the proof copy to ensure that everything looks as I want it to. As soon as it is available I will let you know! If you want to catch a preview of the cover, check out my Facebook page to see the cover reveal.
~~I've been working on "Prince Charming's Search". It's been very slow going and I apologize. I know there are many of you anxiously waiting to see what will happen with Jacobi and Clarissa. And as disappointing as it may seem, I can safely say that it should be ready right around the New Year. I'm out of my bout of writer's block and I think the little break working on my Christmas book was just what I needed. I'll keep you posted on what's happening with this story too!
~~NaNoWriMo is swiftly approaching and I've been trying to prepare for that too! I'm planning on splitting my time between a new story idea and finishing "Prince Charming's Search". My priority will be finishing that book, so my NaNo novel may end up fizzling. But I'd like to see what I can do with both. The NaNo novel will be a humorous look into what it's like being a writer. It will go through the anguish of writer's block, the frenzy of inspiration, the hounding of the inner editor and the crooning of the muse. (So my muse tends to sound like Nat King Cole, don't judge!) :) This is really meant to just be a fun and really big free write. I'll need your help. I need some writing prompts that I can use each day. NaNoWriMo lasts the month of November and since I do not write on Sundays, that gives you 26 days to think of fun prompts for. Keep in mind that my writing is generally geared towards a younger audience and I would appreciate family friendly prompts. :) Other than that little caution, run wild with it!
Well, I think that's a pretty good recap of the past month. Thanks for reading and thanks for being patient with me. You're the best readers a girl could ask for! :)
Hugs!
September 24, 2013
Empowerment: A Two-Way Street
Okay, today was supposed to be a post about Fort Kearney since my trek made it there this weekend. But I saw something on Facebook that changed my mind.
A friend had shared a picture of what appeared to be a new dress with earrings and necklace to match it and a note. She had written "I wish." Curious, I clicked on the picture and saw that it was indeed a new dress with matching accessories and a nicely-written note that read "Dinner at 7! Put this on and be ready by 6:30. I love you. James" Like my friend, I found myself wistfully saying, "I wish that would happen to me." I love my husband, but he's not exactly the hopeless romantic I envisioned myself marrying while in my teens. Don't get me wrong; he shows his love and affection for me, just not in those cute, romantic ways that girls gush over. If I want something I pretty much have to write it on a figurative sledge hammer and bash him in the head with it a few times. Then once more, just to be sure the hint sunk in. And even then I'm not guaranteed success. (I do love you, sweetie!) It's just not in his nature.
Then, as often happens when we look at Facebook posts, my eyes drifted to the comments. I was disheartened to see comments such as "There are no men like that in the world.", "Anyone else notice that's girly handwriting?" and "Men like that don't exist because any guy who could pick something that cute in the right size and accessorize it has to be gay." There were also several wistful, "Why don't more guys do things like this?"
Okay, ladies, we're constantly screaming that we want to be empowered to do anything. Why are we denying men the same opportunity? If we want to be considered "equal" than we need to extend that same right to the men in our lives. I would submit to you that the reason men are less romantic now than in years gone by is not because they've lost that side of them. I would submit that it is because we as women are degrading them when they do show that tender, romantic nature. While we shove down our daughters' throats that they can be anything, do anything and have any life they want, in general we are telling our sons that they have to be tough. They have to be strong. We say things like, "Real men don't cry.", "Chivalry is dead.", and "Only gay guys do/like fill-in-the-blank."
How hypocritical can we be? To my wonderful husband, to my brothers, to my father, to my son and to all the other men in my life I have a few things to say. I want you to feel empowered too. I want you to know that it is not weakness to cry. It is a physical expression of a deep, internal emotion. It is not "gay" to have a good fashion sense. Nor is it "gay" to know what would look good on a young lady. (Really, that gets to me since why would a gay guy care what a girl looked like?) It shows taste. It is not sissy to have good handwriting. It shows that you are willing to take the time to write beautifully and eloquently. It is not unmanly to show romance and affection to the special girl in your life. To my son if you want to brush your mommy's hair and play with it, please do! I love that time with you. It doesn't make you girly. It helps us to build a relationship. I miss the days of sitting in my daddy's lap while he brushed my hair and braided it. If you want to work in the garden, grow flowers and smell the roses, do it! It is not girly to love God's creations. It shows gratitude and appreciation for the beauty we have been given. When the time comes that some special young lady steals your heart, shower her in affection and romance. Do write her love letters. Do get her little trinkets to show your love for her. Don't let anyone tell you that it is "gay" or "unmanly" to appreciate the finer things in life. You show her love in what way comes most naturally to you. If that is taking the time to write her a beautiful letter, or buy her an accessorized outfit for a special date, or simply get her a bouquet of flowers, you do it. A real man is not just a football-watching, tough-guy 24/7 workaholic. A real man isn't afraid to be sensitive and to show affection in whatever way is most natural to him.
Empowerment is a two-way street. Not only should our young women feel empowered to be their own kind of beautiful, but our young men need to be empowered to be gentlemen. Let us stop being offended when a man opens the door and be grateful that his parents took the time to teach him to be a gentleman. Let us stop being cynical when a man shows a romantic nature and be appreciative of his sensitivity. Let us stop empowering only the girls and start empowering the boys and men too. So many of the world's troubles would dissolve if the men in our lives felt they could show their sensitive side without being judged.
So to you, James, whoever you are and wherever you may be, thank you for showing your significant other what a "real" man does. I hope you had a great dinner date.
A friend had shared a picture of what appeared to be a new dress with earrings and necklace to match it and a note. She had written "I wish." Curious, I clicked on the picture and saw that it was indeed a new dress with matching accessories and a nicely-written note that read "Dinner at 7! Put this on and be ready by 6:30. I love you. James" Like my friend, I found myself wistfully saying, "I wish that would happen to me." I love my husband, but he's not exactly the hopeless romantic I envisioned myself marrying while in my teens. Don't get me wrong; he shows his love and affection for me, just not in those cute, romantic ways that girls gush over. If I want something I pretty much have to write it on a figurative sledge hammer and bash him in the head with it a few times. Then once more, just to be sure the hint sunk in. And even then I'm not guaranteed success. (I do love you, sweetie!) It's just not in his nature.
Then, as often happens when we look at Facebook posts, my eyes drifted to the comments. I was disheartened to see comments such as "There are no men like that in the world.", "Anyone else notice that's girly handwriting?" and "Men like that don't exist because any guy who could pick something that cute in the right size and accessorize it has to be gay." There were also several wistful, "Why don't more guys do things like this?"
Okay, ladies, we're constantly screaming that we want to be empowered to do anything. Why are we denying men the same opportunity? If we want to be considered "equal" than we need to extend that same right to the men in our lives. I would submit to you that the reason men are less romantic now than in years gone by is not because they've lost that side of them. I would submit that it is because we as women are degrading them when they do show that tender, romantic nature. While we shove down our daughters' throats that they can be anything, do anything and have any life they want, in general we are telling our sons that they have to be tough. They have to be strong. We say things like, "Real men don't cry.", "Chivalry is dead.", and "Only gay guys do/like fill-in-the-blank."
How hypocritical can we be? To my wonderful husband, to my brothers, to my father, to my son and to all the other men in my life I have a few things to say. I want you to feel empowered too. I want you to know that it is not weakness to cry. It is a physical expression of a deep, internal emotion. It is not "gay" to have a good fashion sense. Nor is it "gay" to know what would look good on a young lady. (Really, that gets to me since why would a gay guy care what a girl looked like?) It shows taste. It is not sissy to have good handwriting. It shows that you are willing to take the time to write beautifully and eloquently. It is not unmanly to show romance and affection to the special girl in your life. To my son if you want to brush your mommy's hair and play with it, please do! I love that time with you. It doesn't make you girly. It helps us to build a relationship. I miss the days of sitting in my daddy's lap while he brushed my hair and braided it. If you want to work in the garden, grow flowers and smell the roses, do it! It is not girly to love God's creations. It shows gratitude and appreciation for the beauty we have been given. When the time comes that some special young lady steals your heart, shower her in affection and romance. Do write her love letters. Do get her little trinkets to show your love for her. Don't let anyone tell you that it is "gay" or "unmanly" to appreciate the finer things in life. You show her love in what way comes most naturally to you. If that is taking the time to write her a beautiful letter, or buy her an accessorized outfit for a special date, or simply get her a bouquet of flowers, you do it. A real man is not just a football-watching, tough-guy 24/7 workaholic. A real man isn't afraid to be sensitive and to show affection in whatever way is most natural to him.
Empowerment is a two-way street. Not only should our young women feel empowered to be their own kind of beautiful, but our young men need to be empowered to be gentlemen. Let us stop being offended when a man opens the door and be grateful that his parents took the time to teach him to be a gentleman. Let us stop being cynical when a man shows a romantic nature and be appreciative of his sensitivity. Let us stop empowering only the girls and start empowering the boys and men too. So many of the world's troubles would dissolve if the men in our lives felt they could show their sensitive side without being judged.
So to you, James, whoever you are and wherever you may be, thank you for showing your significant other what a "real" man does. I hope you had a great dinner date.
