3-14-19 FIGHT

When our daughter Annie and her husband Jordon decided to take a job promotion that would move them back to Utah from Washington, we were ecstatic. Even more amazing was their decision to purchase a house right in our hometown of Farmington. The house they chose happened to be one of my favorite homes on a sweet little culdesac just under Flag Rock at the base of the foothills in central Farmington. It is a lovely traditional home with a welcoming covered front porch where the Creer’s, the previous owners, hung American flag bunting between the tall white pillars on the 4^thof July.

The home sits comfortably on a large grassy lot with a healthy raspberry patch out back and plenty of trees to explore and climb. John and MaryAnn Creer are friends; good, kind people about our age. They raised their family in this home, and there's a lot of love in its history. When John passed away two years ago, Mary Ann moved into the city to a place that required less upkeep. That's when Annie and Jordon bought the home.

Before they closed on the house, we visited with the Creers. Their son, Mark was visiting, and we had a nice chat about the old days - growing up in the foothills of Farmington, playing little league, and going to Farmington Jr High. Mark told me then about the first time he knew of John Connors, our oldest and only son. Mark said he was in eighth or ninth grade at Farmington Junior, the same grade as our son, only they didn’t really know each other. One day Mark walked out of the school doors at the end of the school day, and as he opened the door he heard united chanting from a large crowd that had gathered in the courtyard. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” the throng shouted in unison, throbbing with testosterone pumping through adolescent veins. Mark worked his way into the outer edge of the circle to see what was happening.

Two guys shifted in and out of the center of the circle, their hands clenched in angry fists, their chests pushing forward and then retrieving. Each boy had a little band of supporters, egging them on, calling for them to go let the other guy have it. The rest of the periphery simply chanted “Fight”, curious, as humans are, to watch people hurt each other. Mark said he watched in silence. Then from the outer edge of the circle someone yelled, "Stop!" He turned and watched as a brown-haired boy wearing a tie dyed shirt and a pair of Gramicci hiking pants pushed his way through the crowd and planted himself between the two boys, his arms out against both of them, his chest firm. He turned his head back and forth, calling to both boys, speaking only to them and not to the crowd.

“Hey man, you do not have to do this. Really.” His presence broke the electric thread that buzzed between the enemies. They were, Mark said, frankly stunned that someone would jump between them in the heat of the moment. Mark said he asked who that was, because he could not see him from his vantage point, and they said, “That’s John Connors.” Mark said one of the fighters turned away, and the other followed suit. The circle surrounding them broke up and the crowd dispersed. Mark said he watched John pick up his backpack and throw it over his shoulder and walk away. No fanfare. No cheering crowd. No punches thrown. No blood, and no pride lost. Mark said from that day he has had a sort of reverence for John. He couldn’t imagine having the courage to step into that circle.

A story like that does a mama-heart good. I’m not even sure if Johnny would recall that event. But Mark did, and he said he has used that story through the years when he has taught Sunday lessons to young men and old. 

Johnny Connors has a God-given gift with people. He likes people, and he has an unusual amount of natural empathy for them. It’s what makes him a good teacher, a friend to the friendless, and a champion of the underdog.  It also breaks his heart. It’s, no doubt, what led him to a degree in Philosophy. It’s why he has taught the same group of kids at church every Sunday for the last three years, moving up with his class, because the dynamics of the individuals in that class make it hard to find willing teachers. 

John Connors is a passionate man. He feels the feels with depth, good and bad, and he gets frustrated like the rest of us. He would be the last person to tell you about stopping a fight. He would not even tell us he had been called to be an assistant to the president on his mission, a calling he held roughly half his mission in England and Wales. It was months before we finally figured it out. I'm his mom, and I don't know half of what he's accomplished. He will talk himself out of credit he deserves. Even talk others out of giving it to him. The mama bear in me thrusts her head forward and feels the claws coming out. But the cub reminds me he’s his own grown bear now, and he can take care of himself. And so, I take a deep breath and slowly lumber back to my den, hoping he will use his smarts as much as he uses his heart. 
In the end, if I were to grant any of my children a strength, it would be the one that manifests in the heart first, and then the brain. He’ll hand the goods and the glory to someone else, even when he has earned it with his own hard work. He’ll throw his figurative backpack over his shoulder and walk away with a pure heart and a clear conscience. And for that, he is rich. 
And because he is mine, so am I.

He's remarkable
(but he won't tell you that.)

My oldest and his oldest -
John and Sophie.

Team Connors.

3-13-19 WINGS

Backstage, over in the wings where the curtains hang in thick velvet gathers, and little ballerinas huddle in the residual light of the spots, there is a collection of human electricity that buzzes on an audible level. It is exciting and enticing, and is likely the stuff that makes actors and dancers and musicians willing to do so much for so little pay. Every June I tuck my guitar case back in the corner, behind a rack of costumes to the right of a line of prop tables. Light, overflowing from the stage, streams in color through teeny specks of dust and pointe-shoe-rosin floating through the air. I carry my guitar past little sequined dancers practicing their turns. Passing the tech table and the stage manager with his thin black microphoned headpiece and clipboard, I push through the back-stage door, into the small passageway, stage-right. I emerge on the apron of the stage where the grand piano and drum set, bass and keyboard are squeezed in together like musical sardines. Musicians in this setting should be heard, not seen. We dress all in black, and the only light we get is on the music stands placed in front of us, because the show, while it needs us, is not about us.

All this hidden power; the musicians in our little band, the full 80 piece orchestra in the pit, the engineers at the mixing board and the light board, the crew on stage, the chaperones down in the basement of the Browning Center, and the costume managers and ushers and sales team and the crew of teachers that hover there behind the curtains like expectant mothers – these are all wing men, gathering the best of their own talents in the dark so a thousand little satin and touille draped dancers can feel the nerves and the energy and the thrill only a spotlight can offer.

The audience, a collective gathering of moms and dads, siblings and aunties, uncles and grandparents all focused on a specific pair of little feet, clap and smile and weep at the sight, unaware of the massive cost of this one recital. They see only those two little dancing shoes, and that is how it should be. The best, the very best, of professionals will understand that it takes a team to make that one individual shine, and that team is usually in the wings. The team Clytie Adams assembles for her recitals is top notch, and I am honored to be among them.

It seems wholly appropriate to me that we call the sides of the stage “the wings”. It fits the definition, physically, sitting on either side of the center stage. But it is also where the lift is found, the point where the muscle sets in motion the rising of the star. I love being in the wings, though in a different way, as much as I love the heat of the spotlight and the interchange with the audience.

The term “wing it” originated from the stage; referring to actors who had to fill in unexpectedly and could be found quickly learning new lines in the wings. Truth is, even those who wing it well are stars. You would not be able to grab any old Joe from the audience and ask them to fill in. Actors are familiar with the setting, with the timing and the energy and the flow. They are usually familiar with the show itself and when asked to fill in, they have likely heard the part they are quickly learning enough to improvise on the spot. In fact, winging it is usually defined in dictionaries as improvising.

About five years ago, when they divided our church congregation and combined us with another divided congregation, creating a new “ward”, I was called to lead the Primary kids in music every Sunday. I had served in this calling several times in my life, one of the great benefits of a lay ministry we practice in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I remember one Sunday I went unprepared. Usually I had props, and singing charts, and a list of songs with their page numbers, and sheet music for the pianist, and a good idea of how I would present the songs I was teaching to these children, aged 3 to 11. But this Sunday I apologized to our pianist. “I’m afraid I’ll have to wing it.” Luckily, she smiled and went with the flow. When we were done and the kids were filing out, my pianist, Lib Thatcher, said these words to me:

“You don’t need to apologize for winging it. You have decades of practice behind you, and winging it to you is just a matter of muscle memory. At some point we earn the right to wing it, and you are at that point. Enjoy it!” 

 

She was gracious in her comments, and she was right. Not that any of us should approach what we do with the carelessness that allows us to be and do less that we are capable of doing or being. But I was awakened to the fact that when you have done something many times, with real intent and sincere focus, there comes a point when you can legitimately improvise and it will work just about as well as if you had prepared and rehearsed. I must add that this attitude should be reserved for occasional use. It’s somewhat arrogant to think that we can wing it repeatedly and still be a pro. Real pro’s know that you have to come prepared, seriously prepared, regardless of the audience. Winging it is reserved for emergencies. This is unless the Holy Spirit speaks to us and tells us not to over-prepare. This is a matter for a deeper discussion, one that involves the spirit of discernment and the needs of an audience that is unknown on the human level.

What it boils down to is a recognition that if we are trained and experienced and our skills are well honed, we may have reached a level of being allowed to “use our wings” and improvise now and then. Good thing, because year after year of doing the same thing every Sunday finds one occasionally not-quite-prepared. And that is when you are grateful for the team back there in the wings, who knows what they are doing, and are willing to wing it with you. Here’s to the pro’s who know how to fly. 

3-12-19 STRING

Every respectable kitchen pantry will have, tucked somewhere in a reachable spot, a bit of string at the ready. Thin cotton string; more mature than thread, but basically still an adolescent form of rope. Twine has its place in the garage, but it isn’t well suited for tying chicken legs, or securing a piece of muslin or gauze around Herbs De Provence. You need string for that.

I was blessed to be the child of someone who had created a designated spot where string and scissors were kept. There in the bin with masking, scotch and duct tapes and a stapler with extra staples. Also, a little divided box of picture hanging supplies, a small wood handled hammer, a pair of needle nose pliers, a spool of wire and some thumb tacks. As I ponder that little bin of dutifully kept supplies, I kind of yearn for that kind of order. When you know where to find the string, it frees up the brain space for the project that needs the string in the first place. I should live by this, but sadly, I don’t. I try, but things often end up finding a new home after they are used around here.

That bin of goods was in the first closet in the entry of our apartment on East Bruceton Road, the one where the old Singer sewing machine hid out in the dark. If you walked into the apartment, past the two large closets on one side and the entry table on the other, and you went right on through past the dining table and the old white rocker, the bathroom on the left and Ann Marie’s room on the right, you came to the end of the hall. Mom’s room was on the left, and on the right was the room Libby and I shared. One year, for Libby’s birthday, I cleaned our bedroom for her birthday. (That’s how rare and awesome such an event was.) But seriously, I really did deep clean it. We bought new bedspreads and curtains with petite flowers printed on them. We moved all the furniture, and painted the dresser. I vacuumed every nook and cranny, washed the windows with Windex and crumpled newspaper, and tucked our feather pillows into freshly washed flowery pillowcases. I felt an intense sense of pride and ownership in that sweet, calm space. I was so excited when Lib came home from camp to our new room, and she responded just perfectly. What a great birthday that was! At that point I had moved my bed over against the wall where the door was. The light switch was on the wall by the door. My pillow, however, was at the other end of the wall, so when it was time to put out the light, I had to get up and flip the switch. I have always had a hard time falling asleep, at least at bedtime. I’m pretty good at dozing off any other random time, but making myself turn off my brain and drift into LaLa Land has always caused a certain mysterious portion of anxiety.

I am always amazed at how quickly my husband, Dave, can go down. I mean, we say Amen in our nightly prayers and I roll over and he is sawing logs before I can finish my personal prayers. I have always been jealous of this aspect of him. I have to read, or try to focus on one thought or a new song lyric, anything to keep my mind from wandering into the massive forest of my imagination. It’s dark in there, with all sorts of emotional and intellectual options, and as often as not I end up actually getting out of bed and going out into the easy chair in the family room to get myself out of the trying-to-get-to-sleep funk.

Back on East Bruceton, when I finally got sleepy, the last thing I needed to do was get up to turn out the light. Once my mind was finally slipping down into the deep end it was easily jostled up to the surface. So, I did what any intelligent girl would do, I rigged a system to flip the light switch without getting out of bed. Now, I know, any normal person would have saved up her money and bought a nightstand and a lamp, but that must not have crossed my mind at the time. Instead, I drew up a plan, and that trusty bin with string and pins accommodated the execution of it. I wound string around the light switch, taping it in place with the duct tape. Then I used picture hanging screws above it and below it, through which I strung opposite sides of the string, ending with a ring on each piece down by my pillow. The rings hung from a nail. When sleep had almost overcome me, I could pull the sting that flipped the switch down, and viola, it was dark.

You know, my mom never did reprimand me for that contraption, which did the trick wonderfully up until the time Ann Marie left for college and I got her room. I mean, the holes in the wall, the tape on the switch; it all went with the tasteful decor of the single ski that I hung on the wall as well as random cool sticks I dragged in on various walks home. Poor Libby. She actually has really good taste, and is much more tidy than anyone would have guessed from the time we shared bedrooms, which was basically most of our childhood. I don’t remember her ever being irritated with my messes. She was just the best roommate, going along with the junk I dragged in. Her bedroom now is quite tidy and well decorated. I’m so sorry she had to spend all those years swirling in my messes. 

Libby’s house has bins just like our mom’s. She actually has Mom’s bins, come to think of it. It’s a good thing she lives one house away from me, because, quite honestly, it is easier to shuffle up to her place to borrow stuff than to try to remember where I might have put it around here. I just have to remember to get it back to her. Ugh!

3-11-19 LAYERS

Karl must’ve swallowed a giggle button. He just kept laughing and laughing while I sat on the piano bench in front of him, tickling my guitar and trying to sing sweet and serious songs. Deep, up from the belly, rumbling in the back of the throat laughter, like he saw something hilarious that no one else in the room could see. Poor Ellie, her wheelchair placed right next to his, kept trying to say something to him, as if he could understand her. Her eyebrows pursed as she slowly and repeatedly moved her lips. Finally, I stood with my guitar and walked over to her to see what it is she wanted to say, and what she said was that his laughing was setting off her cystic fibrosis. “And you know that cystic fibrosis is a farting disease and it’s making me fart and I’m so sorry.” Ellie is likely the sweetest soul I’ve ever met. She is one of the few in this facility who can talk, and she speaks slowly and deliberately in whispers.  All through the rest of my gig she kept apologizing for farting. I reminded her that we all fart. 

Meanwhile, directly in front of me, Andrew had about a half a cup of phlegm sliding down his red beard. I actually had to close my eyes so I wouldn’t look at it, and then I had a conversation with myself on one of the under layers of my brain. It has always been curious to me that we have so many layers of thinking. I had this silent conversation with myself while part of me was singing and another part was playing the guitar. I made myself look past that phlegm falling out of the corners of Andrew’s mouth, and commanded myself to look straight into Andrews eyes. They were not 5 feet from me, and they were beautiful and deep golden brown, and they were innocent and pure and they were likely unaware of the phlegm dripping from his chin or the intense inward curve of his wrists or the wide black straps that held his feet onto the wheelchair he sat in. I made myself pretend, on an even deeper layer, that I was Andrew, and that his was the body I got instead of mine, and I made myself feel the love that is inherent in all the spirits that get bodies, even if their brains don’t work the way they might in a healthy vehicle. I was able, the rest of the gig, to look right at Andrew and not be disturbed. I think this is how our angels help us. They see us trying, and they lend a hand.

Finally, Esther, the Recreation Director, came in and wheeled laughing Karl out into the doorway, for which I was grateful because I was losing my voice trying to sing over his laughter. I’m still recovering from a bout with the flu and I had not realized how much it had affected my vocal chords or my lungs. But seated behind Andrew, hidden under Karl’s laughter, was a whistler. His body was not misshapen, and he had a good bit of his wits about him. I’m not sure why he was there, though he, like the others, was in a wheelchair. He had a silver mustache, and a T-shirt with a stretched-out neck, and his mustache fluttered as he whistled, trying unsuccessfully to find the melody I was singing. He amused himself with his whistling, making sure I knew he was doing it while drawing air in rather than out of his lips. 

Against the wall, far from the light of the windows, that young olive skinned man covered in tattoos rubbed his palm over his head, round and round, repeating and repeating, like he was trying to figure out what happened. He has been here, if I recall correctly, just about a year now. When he first came in it felt to me like he was shell shocked, like he had only yesterday been a vibrant if not mischievous bodybuilding Hellion. His young body was musclebound, and in every other way seemingly healthy. I could not stop myself from imagining what tragedy had befallen him; what was that pivotal moment that caused a brain injury and changed his life forever? One of my under layers always has a curious conversation with myself when I see him, because I wonder what path his life may have taken, and what troubles he may have seen, had he not found himself freed from his choices the way he is now. I try, as I sing, to decipher the messages in his tattoos, curious about who he was, or is, under that layer of flesh that disconnected from the motherboard somehow.

I noticed, somewhere in the middle of Can’t Help Falling in Love, that Robert has two new travel pillows carefully situated under each of his arms. His mother, Katherine, sits next to him, her soft woolly jacket overlapped across her heart. Every day Katherine rises at 4 AM and drives 20 miles to spend the morning with her adult son. He cannot talk, or walk, but he is always clean, and tidily cared for. He speaks to her with his eyes. It is obvious to me that in the not too distant future these two will be able to have intelligent meaningful conversations because they know each other by heart. Katherine reminds me that all of us have an innate desire to be needed, and I deeply appreciate and understand the value of a routine that involves the feeling that we are necessary in someone’s life.

By the time my hour is up, laughing Karl is back in the room, contented and quiet. My tattooed brother has laid his hands in his lap, and Ellie has closed her eyes and laid her head back into her head rest, her long dark braid falling over her shoulder. I think she is sleeping, until I finish and she slowly whispers the words, "thank ... you."

When I sing to this little band of warriors, every month of every season, I get more songs in per hour than most other sets I play. I tell no backstories, no musical tales, I offer no introductions. I simply play and sing, speaking, now and then, short phrases for my own sake, not theirs. But mostly it’s about the songs and the nurturing that weaves itself into them. There is absolutely something going on between us, on some level I can’t exactly put my finger on. We wiggle in our space between the layers, trying to find the comfy spot, at least the safe spot. Side by side, layers within layers, packed together, in this speck of time and space.

Out of respect for the privacy of the people and place I am blessed to visit every month, I have changed all names.

3-9-19 BODY

Little Annie twirled and swirled and fell and rose without even a pause or a hint of self-pity. She just got back up and danced to the music in her head. I sat on the pseudo-soft floral couch familiar to all Latter-day Saint chapel lobbies worldwide, there across from my new friend, Annick. She had recently relocated to our neighborhood from Bountiful, but had originally hailed from Medford, MASS. I instantly liked her for her accent, her lack of makeup, and her obvious taste for comfortable shoes, but mostly she felt like a kindred spirit because home to her, like me, was east of the Mississippi River. Annick sat in one of the velvet chairs across the lobby, under the dusty leaves of a hovering fake ficus tree. She was out there with us in the foyer because Andrew was just as wiggly as Annie, none of which went very well with the passing of the holy sacrament inside the chapel. I must have closed my eyes, or drifted into attempted reverence, because Annick’s words startled me;

“I’ve never seen a spirit so happy to be in a body!” Only she said it with that Boston flair, like this:

Eye have neh-vuh seen a spear-ut sewwww happy to beena bawdy! (emphasis on the “so”.)

After the millisecond it took for me to translate, I turned my eyes to my Annie, and sure enough, there was joy overflowing! That one phrase endeared Annick to me for life, and still, more than thirty years later, I hold her to my heart like a sister. 

I think God sent my daughter Annie specifically to me, for me. She came to teach me. The youngest of my four treasures, she was Tigger personified. She bounced three separate cribs off their hinges. She surely contributed to her father’s perpetually sore knee. My sister tells of the time she entered the old house on Kensington Street, the one just up the hill from the old-old house (we have owned three houses in this neighborhood; wanted change but could never bear the thought of leaving the people here)…she tells of walking in the front door and finding Annie literally swinging from the chandelier over the kitchen table. Thank goodness she was tiny then. I love what Annie tried to teach me. Annie understands that her body is the house of her spirit.

I’m not exactly sure when the demon Shame laid its ugly shroud over my body. I was young, but not too young. I can still conjure feelings of freedom and exuberance regarding my flesh, but I have to dive way back. Just about the time my father abandoned us, I began babysitting for a family in our apartment building, down on the opposite side of the complex. After the kids were in bed I sat in the TV room waiting for the top of the hour when a new episode of Emergency or CHIPS would start. Beside the chair there was a basket of magazines. These were not the typical Children’s Friend or New Era magazines you might find in our apartment. But they were magnetic. And they were naughty. Naughty is by nature magnetic. And the anonymity of this secret quiet room was compelling. Anyway, it has come to me that the photos and the poses in those magazines sprouted the seeds of shame that lay tucked deep inside the fertile ground of adolescence. Months before we had moved to our apartment I had suffered an event of massive personal proportions where the awareness of my body as something other than innocence was ripped from my belly by an abusive house guest. At the same time my body was changing shape, the baby fat shifting up from my waist and into my breasts. And then there was blood. Sometimes I allow myself to pause, inhale slowly, and look back at that little girl, and the emotion it always evokes is compassion and sorrow. I remember telling a therapist once how it felt:  I was, one minute, playing on the school playground with the rest of the kids. I could feel my own laughter, and I was cooled by the air that fanned against me as I swung back and forth, back and forth on the swing set. Then, suddenly, I was on the outside of the chain link fence surrounding the play yard, my hands curled through the cold twisted metal, and the rest of the children went on playing. The laughter drifted through the fence, but I was no longer a part of it. I had to watch from the outside.

I weep for that girl.
I weep for every child standing outside the fence.

That girl eventually covered up her tummy, and her shoulders, thinking it was modesty, when in reality it was shame. For one brief teenage moment she wore a pair of Peanut hip hugger bell bottom jeans, and a tank top, and guys on the street whistled and she liked it. But soon enough she found comfort and safety in a thicker waist and puffy sleeves, then eventually she disappeared into oversized football shirts and a soft pair of 501’s. 

Throughout my life, a cushion of comfort padded the vulnerability of my heart. To this day, I like the soft bread-dough texture of too much skin over too much flesh. It’s really a love-hate relationship. I have felt compelled to announce publicly that I was fully aware of my overweightness, like I owed the world an apology for not being fit, or at least thin. The two are not necessarily the same. What should anyone besides me care what shape my own personal body is in?  It is a real curiosity to me that I am so overtly aware of this physical flaw. In fact, thinking on it right now, I am ashamed of the shame. Now there’s a double-whammy! 

Now that my body has been around for so many decades, things are shifting again. When my mother died, I think she left me her hands. My fingers are not as long and slender, but those wrinkles and veins and age spots began to appear the moment she left. I gaze on them, perhaps because they are so easily seen from where I sit, or look down on them when I play guitar, and think about all the love that has come from them. The love speaks first: patting babies’ backs, brushing soft locks of hair, folding piles and piles of laundry, stirring pots and scrubbing little brown summer-blessed knees in a bubble bath. But the same hands have spanked bottoms in pure anger, and slammed doors, and wiped hot tears and dripping noses. Shame rests knuckle-to-knuckle with love in these hands. 

This old body of mine is a bit weary, and her legs hurt, Always, her legs hurt. Even her toes carry shame. Years and years of shame over ingrown toenails. Seriously!

If my uncooperative legs would let me, I think maybe I would just let go in church tomorrow. I am old enough now to get away with this type thing. I might go out there in the lobby during the sacrament and give it a go, twirling until I fell, then getting back up just like my Annie. I would say to myself how happy I was to be in my body. Only I know better, and all of that would hurt, and even if there was no shame left to manifest, the hurt would have a good guffaw over the whole thing.

For good and for… well, just for good, our Father gave us this supreme gift, a house for our spirits. As far as I know, this is the only one I’ve got permission to use. It’s sluggish, and not the most pleasing to look at, but it’s mine and mine alone. And the only way to access the spirit who dwells here is through these fleshy walls; through my eyes, my touch, the sound of my voice, or the messages in my fingers. I speak to all I know through this flesh. No other way.

And so, I picture this: I see myself loosening my grip on that imaginary chain-link fence. I stretch my frozen fingers in the warmth of the sunny playground, and move my sluggish feet around the perimeter of the fence, over to the gate, and let myself walk in; toward the laughter, toward the light, toward the Son.

3-8-19 TENT

My grandchildren will not know it, that peculiar smell of a musty old canvas tent. They won’t have to lug a big ole two-ton duffel up into the Pennsylvania hills, complete with hefty support bars and metal tent pegs and a blunt edged axe buried in the bottom. They will never know the kind of tent that takes at the very least two people to assemble, and one of them had better know what they are doing. The tents of my youth, the ones lugged to Young Womens Camp up Mingo Creek, never dried out. Never. They got air in them a few times a year, when the Scouts used them, and when the girls got them and finally cleaned them out.

The seams were lined with speckles of black and blue, with tea-stained water marks seeping up the sides. The pungent sting in the nostrils, mildew and earth and campfire smoke swirled into damp cotton, remained through the days and nights of our journey into nature, and it remained and was added upon through the years. When you’re young, if you are blessed to not be too awfully anxious and you are in the safe company of family or friends, the smell of an old canvas tent may be bearable. But if you start fixating on it, you end up in trouble and will find yourself in the morning outside the tent, freezing in the distillery of and awakening morning in Western PA, and you will be covered with bug bites. Still, there is a charm in the aroma of an old canvas tent that my littles will not know, and it kinda makes me sad.

Instead, because they do have adventuresome parents, they will carry their tents in their backpacks, all sleek and practically weightless. They’ll assemble them in a flash, by themselves, and take them down by themselves as well. I should celebrate the beauty of such ease for these kids I love. They can enjoy the sweeter things in nature. With all the technical advancements of the modern age, there will be more energy and time to enjoy fish in the waters, and trails to be hiked, and sweet mountain air to inhale.

Still, they will have to find a clearing for whatever tent they carry with them. The material may be different, but I suspect there will always be one sweet absolute in every tent, at least ones actually used in the hills: Smoke. Pure, aromatic, heart calming wood smoke. Mother Nature, as patient as she is with the advancements of mankind, may have watched as we outgrew our old musty canvas tents. But she still has certain absolutes: earth, water, wind and fire.  

3-7-19 SPARKLE

The pitch raised with the volume until it reached its apex then hovered there like a massive hummingbird in the horn of a flower. We added our voices to it, though no matter how loud we got we would never hear ourselves. From our vantage point, about ten rows back, we could not see her when she stepped on stage, but we knew she was there. Then, suddenly the light of a thousand electric candles reflected off her gold outfit and electrified her ten inch glittered heels. She stood there, iconic, all a’sparkle. As the roar of the crowd diminished, her voice rose up through it, like yin and yang changed places and created chi.

The spectacle was stunning, larger than life, but it was sweetly counterbalanced by the warmth of her personality. Celine Dion. Barbie doll thin, with liquid platinum hair floating down her back; she looked every bit the part of a woman who could command a sell-out audience of 4000 night after night; a single common-born human being for whom a whole incredible colosseum had been built. Thirty musicians backed her, all dressed in formal black, three back-up singers, two gigantic screens on either side to give close-ups, a grand piano, two glass enclosed drum and percussion chambers and the whole stage lined with additional screens just for effect. My puny human brain tried to figure out how much something like this must cost, and how much was made on an average sell-out night at hundreds of dollars a pop. All the while, she spun her voice up and around and back down the vocal scales.

Besides admiring her voice and her style, I was curious about a concert on this scale. So, when the burden of six full decades of earth life fell unapologetically at my feet last year, tickets to Celine’s Las Vegas show were at the top of my list.  Dave accommodated, but just before we left to travel the seven hours south to Vegas, Celine fell ill and they cancelled her shows. Now, one year later, she is back on stage for one last hurrah before she retires the show in June, and so we found ourselves ten rows back, seated comfortably in our red velvet seats, clapping and whistling with four thousand other fans. 

When part of one’s self-definition includes an occasional presence on stage, with a microphone, singing songs -- it’s inevitable that the little compare-devil will make an appearance. Though, seriously, who could in all honesty compare themselves to Celine Dion? Funny thing is, though, her easy manner, and her charming French accent brought her bouncing down toward us from the stratosphere and it sort of felt like we could meet each other for lunch tomorrow afternoon, though I would no doubt always be trying to pull my tummy in as I sipped Perrier when what I really wanted was a coke Slurpee and my favorite stretch cotton yoga pants. Still, it’s pretty stunning that she could emit that feeling of comfort and graciousness while sparkling like she did. 

When the show ended, and we were all sufficiently exhausted just from watching, we shuffled over to a late dinner at Giada, then back through the maze of walkways to the dancing water show at the front of the Bellagio. The room Dave had arranged for us was spectacular. Our own private terrace overlooked the fountains. I laid there all through the night on a thick downy mattress, our door open to the warm Las Vegas night, and watched the famous strip of worldliness sparkle and shine; the Ferris wheel, which as far as we could tell never actually turned, and the throbbing lights on the imitation Eiffel Tower, behind the rainbow splashed globe just this side of the giant banner of Donny and Marie. Las Vegas strip is the perfect place to squint your eyes; the color and the light and the vibrant sparkle. But it is not, I might add, the place to look very closely. Not the place to pick up flyers on street corners, or even glance in the direction of neon advertisements. It reeks of liquor and cigarette smoke and chimes and grinds with slot machines and money changers. It is aptly named Sin City. I find it a little funny to have come here for the express purpose of witnessing a human use their most divine God-given gift-of-a-voice in the heart of Sin City. The most basal and the most heavenly – they both sure do know how to sparkle.

LENT 2019

Here we are again, our figurative foreheads emblazoned with powdered ashes. Ash Wednesday - not a holy day on the calendar of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, where I hang my shroud of faith. Nonetheless, it is a Catholic holy day, and our family has Catholic roots. For the last decade or so I have dedicated a portion of each day during the 40+ days of Lent to exercising my writing skills and at the same time attempting to preserve personal memories as a sort of chaotic personal history. My ADD issues make me more of a Readers Digest type person, as opposed to a Michener novel. There is no chronology. But if you want to know who I am as a person, quirks and all, then this is will do the job. I publish my short writing on this blog because it requires accountability of me, and it preserves the writings in an accessible place should anything cause an untimely demise for my body.

I began this Lent writing exercise as a Word of the Day adventure. I chose random words from an online generator as a jumping-off place. You'd be surprised how simple words can conjure up images and tastes and aromas and memories. There are a lot of random words in my life story. I've also written the back stories to many of my songs. And a few years ago I recorded favorite recipes. I still refer to those recipes through this blog regularly. Its really quite handy, even easier than going into the study and finding my cookbook. I just Google: "Cori Connors- Chicken Breasts in Lemon Cream" and up it comes, with a little back story as well. Pretty darn handy.

This year I have decided to return to the roots of my writing, Word of the Day. I literally pull up a Random Word Generator from the Internet and usually have ten words from which I choose one that catches my fancy. Sometimes its religious, sometimes not. I am trying this year to make my writing shorter. Originally, Word of the Day writing was a ten minute exercise, up to 1/2 hour, but I had let it get a little out of hand for me, and the essays became long and unruly. So, I am trying to reign it in, to keep the actual writing to less than an hour, with an additional chunk of time to add photos and format for the blog. It takes a healthy portion of every day every spring. But in the end, it's my journal. If you choose to take a peek, that's fine - Welcome.

The ashes used for Ash Wednesday are created by burning the palm leaves from the previous year.
Palm Sunday is the Sunday before Easter and recollects the day the Savior entered Jerusalem for the last time.
The people waved palm leaves before him as he entered  on a white horse, representing that they
recognized his royal heritage. Lent is the season between Ash Wednesday and Easter,
 deservedly known as the holiest of holy days. 

I love holidays in that they remind us to return to our spiritual roots.

NEW LIGHT

Like freshly fallen Solstice snow, you sifted down to us, on this day, when Sagittarius handed off to Capricorn. Full of hope and newness and potential, you left your heaven-home and joined ours. It is not accidental that you came just then, the magical moment when the sun stood still in the northern hemisphere, situated exactly opposite the North Pole. This is the day the Pilgrims had landed in America, the day the Curie’s had discovered radium, and the day the first man to walk on the face of the moon left the planet earth. The deep mid-winter, the shortest day of the year, the beginning of lengthening light. December 21^st.

On the night you were born I laid in my hospital bed and cradled you, marveling at the little dusting of snow in your hair, that white streak that still remains in your ebony colored hair, right at the crown. Christmas carols played through the tinny little speaker on the side of my bed, the one used to call the nurse. If I hold very still on this day, and let carols play, I can hear tiny baby noises rise up in my memory; little gurgles and squeaks as you squirmed in your brand-new body. Your deep dark eyes looked straight through me, with a sort of questioning innocence that also remains with you still. 

People, for years, have indicated that a Christmas-time baby is unfortunate. You do not get the attention you deserve, and parties are aplenty this time of year. But to me, this is the perfect time to celebrate you, and your brother-in-law also born on this day. You both remind us of the sacredness of our human existence. We pause from the bustle to focus on our kindred relationship. 

We brought you home on Christmas Eve. A new snow had fallen, so deep that the streets were nearly empty. These were the days of blessed ignorance, when society paid less attention to the patterns of the people, and we were not encouraged or law-driven to put a baby in a five-point restraint car seat. Instead, your dad inched northward on the back roads through the snowy ribbons of streets while you slept cradled in my arms, wrapped snugly in layers of baby blankets. I gazed at you in awe, in the blessed silence of that journey, tired, and happy.

I still gaze in awe. You have retained the sweetness and the innocence, and have brought to it strength and passion and kindness and intelligence. You are the calm in my frenetic life. You remind me to be still and listen. You show me how to do hard things. You refresh the giggles that get lost in the guffaws. You prove that life is, by divine design, a repeating series of starting-again’s, and that the longest, darkest nights always give way, in the end, to new light. 

The Treasures love their Auntie Kate!

That's Kate's angel-voice you hear singing harmony with me
on my last three albums
... and in concert when I'm lucky enough to have her in town!

My 3 girls - Annie, Sarah & Kate.

She likes goofs!

She IS a goof! (It's genetic)

the RED MILK BOX

There's a red milk box on my front porch. Only, there's never any milk in it. Just music.

My red milk box.

But first, a note about my holiday concerts. Just last week we took our last bows in our Christmas concerts, blew kisses to the audience, hugged each other backstage, and bid farewell to another magical memory. Seriously, there's little that can compare to hearing oneself surrounded by strains on violin and cello from behind, a grand piano and Hammond B3 on either side, a nicely played upright bass right next door, and love flowing from everyone in front.

POW survivor Jay Hess sings I'll Be Home for Christmas.

It really does do me in, to the point of tears when I let myself inhale it. Thanks to Mark Robinette, Kelly DeHaan, Aaron Ashton, Nicole Pinnelle, Melanie Shore, Jay Hess, Eric Robinette and Tery Binkerd for making such great music and being so inspiring.

Thanks to Wendy Leonard for the lovely front page article in the Deseret News, featuring the beautiful story of our own Jay Hess (isn't he remarkable?). 

All the love.

And always there and rarely acknowledged for their incomparable value is my awesome family and faithful friends who sell product, make cookies and jam, sing in my Heavenly Choir, and generally hold us up during the holiday season. Yesterday my sister Libby came with me to an afternoon gig, just to help be lug my equipment. I am feeling the love, and offer thanks.

My daughter Sarah C Petersen painted the cover for this CD.

Look at the amazing talent that added their sparkle to this recording!

We were thrilled to present songs from our new recording, The SYCAMORE TREE, at this year's concert. Much to my surprise the CD's sold out at the concert. (I have the best following!) I have had more pressed and they are currently available online from my website, for DOWNLOAD or as a CD. 

But you may not know that if you live anywhere near Farmington UT, or are passing through, you can get any of my CD's, sheet music, or my book from the RED MILK BOX on my front porch. Yup, that's how we do it in small town America. You'll save shipping charges, I pay the tax for you, and you can even get the concert deal (the special rate I offer at my concert.) So if you want to stop by, you'll need my address, which I will send to you if you send me your name and email address or phone number.

email me for the address - cori@coriconnors.com

Here's what I've heard people have done for Christmas gift giving.

One friend bought Christmas CD's and put them on top of their Christmas packages for their married children. Another placed a CD at every plate for Christmas Eve dinner. Another fan bought copies of sheet music and tied them with a bow and put them on each napkin at Christmas dinner. A number of people bought $20 cd players at Big Lots (or wherever, I just know I've bought them at Big Lots) and put Blowing Kisses in them for their Grandkids. I've seriously heard from a goodly number of people that this was their favorite gift from Grandparents for young grandkids, because they felt special love from their Grandma and Grandpa every night as they fell asleep to the music. My own grand's fall asleep to my tunes, which totally melts my heart!

I love living in a place where I can comfortably put things on my front porch and trust that people who visit it will leave a whisper of love. And if you want to ring the doorbell and give me a hug, well I'm up for that, too!

A blessed Christmas to all.

Cori