CURVES

When I was an adolescent, trying to figure out the language of adolescent boys, it was my understanding that guys liked curves. On girls, at least. So, when I started getting some, I felt dandy. Then, when the reality of my habits mixed with my gene pool, those curves took an evil turn. Concave became convex, in all the wrong places.

I have a love/hate relationship with curves. The curvy roads of western PA made me motion sick.  And the stupid bell curve in college got me my first and only failing grade. (My professor: “Somebody had to fail. I guess it was you.”)

But the beautiful bulge under my heart, stretching over my babies? I loved those curves. And I do enjoy spreading soft butter cream frosting over little mounds of moist chocolate drop cookies. 
And... rainbows!

There’s a lot of talk about curves in the news these days. My daughter, who is a doctor, said in a phone conversation a few weeks ago, that whomever created that coronavirus curve graph would likely be on a Nobel Prize short list. The way the world has reacted to what that graph of curves represents makes me think she might be right. Basically, the two curves on that graph represent us humans, one if we went on living our lives like normal, and the other, the shorter one, if we altered the way we lived and what we chose. Those of us trying to be responsible, reasonable citizens, are following the prescription of staying home, staying away from other people and places where the virus might be present. It has been a dramatic change. Seriously dramatic! It’s actually quite moving to me, to see how we can cooperate as a culture, and how our respect for others and for ourselves sits soundly as a foundation under our choices. Way to be, fellow humans!

Being dutiful, however, creates its own crazy circus! My friend Sharla is on a roller coaster ride right now. Yesterday it looked like the ride might even be ending. But it looks today like we just hit a low point, and the car decided to take a teeny upward curve today. Her husband Frank is a patient at McKay Dee Hospital, riding that rickety roller coaster of Covid 19. Not sure how that sneaky little virus found its way into that workhorse of a man, it has taken the family and all his friends for a loop, that’s for sure. He is intubated and sedated. Oxygen is being forced into his lungs to keep him alive. No one who knows and loves him can even see him. A kind hearted nurse has to dress from head to toe in protective clothing to take an ipad in so they can see him and talk to him, hoping that the sound of their voices will give him courage and hope.

Last week, when Sharla dropped Frank off at the hospital, they would not even let her in to see him after she parked. She didn’t even get to kiss him goodbye, or whisper some sweet little nothing. Just, "I’ll see you in a minute." But that minute didn’t come, and Sharla waits at home, distanced from her kids and grandkids, and from the man whose name she has owned most of her life. I don’t think I know a stronger woman than Sharla, but this is a serious stressor, so I pray for her, as I pray for Frank. And their kids… I can’t even imagine… terrified for their dad, worried about their mom, and trying to calm their own throbbing hearts. All from a painful distance.

Years ago, when my mom was alive, she was sharing a meal with us. I looked at her across the dinner table and knew instantly that something was wrong. She thought she might be having a heart attack. We went immediately to the hospital. It turned out to be a bona fide panic attack. This was a new experience for us then. We are more familiar nowadays. Mom and I were able to get help from a great psychiatrist. He recommended a book that Mom and I read together: Hope and Help for Your Nerves. The thing I most remember, and that I most use in my own anxious moments, is the concept of the roller coaster. Instead of bracing ourselves, wishing the ride would stop, holding our breath until it does, the safer thing to do is to breathe out, raise our arms, and just ride it on down, trusting that once we hit the bottom we will start to rise. It takes incredible courage. And it works. Mom eventually crawled off that roller coaster, a bit dizzy, with a healthy respect for what the human mind can do to the human heart.

Tonight, I look out my front door and peer into heaven through the brilliant light of a Super Moon. I understand it is the closest the moon will be to the earth this year. I look at it, silvery-pink and bright and dependable, noting the perfect curve. True to its course, the curve travels round and round, until it reaches the starting point. I place my confidence in the belief that one day my arms will do the same; wrap themselves around the people I cherish, one hand meeting the other, with a super-moon portion of love inside. 

And I pray, for Sharla and Frank, their arms will do the same.

(Covid 19 toll to date: 82,108)

SURFACE TENSION

Last year my brother, George Hansen, was one of four persons awarded the Governor’s Medal for science and technology in Utah. President Russell M Nelson, the world-renowned heart surgeon who also happens to now be the living prophet, also received the award that day. It was such a treat to be present when they received this recognition from Governor Herbert. My brother is a gifted scientist.

Two scientific pioneers with hearts of gold.
George Hansen and Russel M Nelson, M.D.

Other Medal recipients (my brother is in the middle.)

Eight years ago, I also received a medal from Governor Herbert, but mine was in the arts. I, for reasons I do not understand, received the 2012 Governor's Mansion Artist award, along with the gifted glass artist Tom Holdman, whose life and work I greatly admire.  

The first and last time I wore my medal.

Tom Holdman's stained glass art
is seen all over the world. He's as
kind and genuine as he is talented.

George and I thought we should take a picture of ourselves wearing our respective medals; his in Science and mine in the Arts. The only problem was that I could not for the life of me find my medal. This is a problem in my life. I think I am putting something in the most logical, safe place. But my logic changes hourly. Alas, we do not have a photo of the two of us donning those medals (that no one ever in the history of humankind wears beyond the day they receive them.) 

George has a propensity for teasing me about my lack of scientific understanding. (I try not to tease him about his weaknesses. Just saying.) Truth is, when George explains science to me, I can understand it, because George is also a creative, which is partly why he owns dozens of scientific patents. He is a good pretender. We share that gift. 
George can explain complex concepts in layman’s terms. If my science teachers had used those methods to teach in high school, I may not have completely lost interest in Chemistry. Because, truth is, all science is creative. I mean Creative, with a capital “C”, in that the originator of all substance and its behavior was just that, the Great Creator. 

I remember when my daughter Annie was in elementary school. Her science fair project one year examined the processes of surfactants. Surfactants are in soaps, cleaning supplies, even the human body. They break surface tension, attract dirt and empower molecules to be removed by water. At least I think I remember that being the case. (Like I said, my medal is in the arts.)

Anyway, that whole concept of surfactants has been on my mind since this Covid 19 thing started. I even did that little experiment with my grandkids, Calvin and Beth, where they shook pepper on a bowl of water, then added a drop of soap, which made the pepper scurry away. I was teaching them about how important it was to wash their hands.

But on a deeper level, I am thinking about how other aspects of my life need to follow the pattern of surfactants. This whole pandemic has created tension everywhere. The surface of this whole huge planet is covered with tension. and yet, the tension is personal to each of us. The things that break my emotional tension include all sorts of things: 
Laughter: I send a joke a day to my kids and grandkids, as well as a scripture of the day.
Communication: By phone, or to a larger group through social media and technology, (since actual physical interaction is off the table). I write every single day, whether or not I feel like it.
Service: I need to provide service daily. For me that service has manifest most often in the kitchen and at my desk, through cooking and writing. Whatever it is I create must be shared in order for it to be “service”, which can be tricky these days. But I do it. 
Self Talk: Seriously. I talk to myself. Out loud. 
Breathe: Five deep breaths in, and slowly out. Not a big deal, but important as part of my routine. 
These are just a few of my tension breakers. Everybody gets to find their own.

This little Covid 19 molecule, as far as I know, has not entered my body. So far, so good. But its effects have entered my life in a profound way, and the lives of the people I love. There is not a soul I know who is not feeling the tension.

I remind myself, and I remind you, that awareness of the tension is healthy. This thing we are going through is hard! When we recognize it, we can analyze and utilize methods for breaking it up. 
On the other hand, fixating on the tension itself, rather than the “symbolic surfactants” that help break the tension, can be paralyzing. So, let’s think about what breaks tension for us, before we end up breaking it in unhealthy ways. Go for a walk, breathe deeply - exhale slowly, tell a joke, read something inspiring. Tighten your muscles one by one, then release them one by one. Color a picture. Work. Work even when you don’t feel like it. The sense of self that comes with work can be a tension buster. There are so many options.

But resist, if possible, the age-old tension reliever that binds itself to chocolate. That is sure to facilitate the gaining of what I call the Covid 19 (as in 19 pounds of excess body fat). Then again, if that’s what it takes to get through… go for it. What do I know.

Here’s a little scientific fact, from a non-scientist:

In COVID-19, 'CO' stands for 'corona,' 'VI' for 'virus,' and 'D' for disease. Formerly, this disease was referred to as “2019 novel coronavirus” or “2019-nCoV”. There are many types of human coronaviruses including some that commonly cause mild upper-respiratory tract illnesses.

By the way, I did find my medal recently when I was cleaning out our study. Apparently, I had thought a logical place for it was in the little hidden drawer of a ribbon box. I was putting that box in a bin to be donated to Deseret Industries. Good thing I opened that little drawer first. Go figure. 

(Covid 19 toll to date: 74,654)

HAVE HOPE

Hard days. We all have them. But I've learned, finally, that what I have , more often, are hard chunks. Sometimes they are divided by sunsets and sunrises, but sometimes they are on the other side of a Dove ice cream bar, or a stubbed toe, or a call from a friend.

Yesterday I let my head go down the rabbit hole, thinking about my Littles, the kids who belong to my kids. In real life, before this situation called global pandemic blurred my vision like a bad dream, I spent nearly every day, or at least some portion of it, in the presence of my grandkids. I recognize this as a blessing, even moreso now that it's out of reach. I crave their touch. I ache to feel the warmth of their skin, the energy of their arms around my neck. I even miss changing little Tessy's diaper, patting her soft little tummy, drawing her up to my chest, smashing her with a giggling embrace, then throwing her on the mountain of down pillows we piled up on top of the bed. I miss baking with them, and coloring and just sitting and talking, or playing guitars and ukuleles and kazoos. 

I think this current lump of sadness started the night before last, when Annie and the kids stopped over for a minute. We keep ourselves apart, but cannot resist the magnetic pull to at least be within six fet of each other now and then, if only to exchange a loaf of bread or batch of cookies. But it is a double edged sword, because being that close and not touching is almost harder than not seeing each other at all. Tessa was on the swing in our yard, and her two year old legs do not yet know how to pump. She called to someone to push her. It sounds overly dramatic, I know, but it nearly broke my heart. I started to move toward her. David and Annie both insisted I stop. Meanwhile two year old Tess and 62 year old Gummy just stared at each other, tears welling in our eyes.

So yesterday morning I woke up with an overwhelming sadness. I'm not prone to tears, thanks to medication, but they came anyway. I've lost enough people to know this is what death brings to us. I am grateful this is not death this is just a temporary separation... with an unknown end date. I sent a text to my kids:

Immediately John called on FaceTime and each of his kids, and their parents, just walked around with the phone talking to me.Thank you, Dear Lord, for smart phones! Annie and Sarah both sent pictures. All sent love, and I suspect little prayers. And the nap I took helped, so that when I woke up I was able to record my daily scripture and joke and send out to all of them.
Today, when we drove over to the kids houses to deliver our traditional Sour Cream Conference Cake, eleven-year-old Ruby handed me a letter.  The outside of it said, written in artistic lettering:

HAVE HOPE

And this was the letter she wrote me:

I hope you are able to read it, because it is so beautiful and so dear, and besides being well written, it is so representative of my Roo. Ruby has always been an old soul in a young body. One day the body and soul will be in sync with each other, but until then I am afraid she is destined to be strapped into a roller coaster of emotion. But when that synchronization happens, watch out world, she will be a force beyond compare. 

For my birthday last month, Ruby gave me a stack of envelopes, each one with a hand drawn title. They are amazing! I taped them to my locker, so I can see them every day. I have waited until I felt the exact need to open each one. Here's a picture of the set, and just so you can get a sense for what is in each one, there's also a sample:

Each envelope says: Open when you're...
(pick an emotion)

Here's a sample of one envelope.

Sometimes we confuse sad with mad,
and what we really want is to feel loved.

She laminated these little notes of encouragement.

Isn't she just so cute?

I'm not sure why Ruby included this picture of her dad,
my firstborn, dressed as a wiseman. Maybe she thought it would
make me feel happy. Or maybe she wanted to remind me that I have
already learned about dealing with feelings of frustration and
anger while raising him as a teenager.

Before this craziness, when days were chock full of  calendered events, so many that I had to have little reminders ding at me through my phone, and my gas tank emptied twice a week, and my guitar went in and out of its gig bag on a regular basis; when I sifted, without thinking, in and out of stores and houses and church pews... back in the old days, Ruby invited me to her "Lunch with someone special" at Knowlton Elementary School, where she is in 5th grade.

A little sashay in the school parking lot.

I stopped at Subway and got us sandwiches and chips and her favorite lemonade and we sat at those squatty little cafeteria tables just tall enough for first graders. I had brought enough treats for her to give away to friends. I love that being with Ruby is wholly comfortable for me. She makes me feel important, and she makes me feel at ease. It's one of her gifts. I just love her so much. Even now, as I type this at 2 in the morning, I feel warm love dripping from the corners of my eyes because I love her so much. And then my mind goes right on down that holy list of names belonging to my posterity, from sixteen-year-olds down to two, and I am a blubbering mess. I just miss them so much.

God granting we survive this, I inhale slowly, imagining the day we first get to embrace again. It seriously feels like I have eleven missionaries out at once, and I am going through withdrawals.

I write this tonight so that I might remember: How it felt to be kept apart. How it felt to be mature and responsible in spite of overpowering emotions. How love looks from far away. It is a test, for sure.

My heart is sifted through my sacred four; John, Sarah, Kate and Annie... then further down into eleven beautiful, gifted, loving, intelligent, striving, delightful souls I claim as my own. Thank you, Lord. With everything that is in me, thank you.

(Coronavirus deaths to date: 64,787)

FACE IT PEOPLE, THIS IS REAL!

Multi-purpose face mask.

If you're prone to vanity you're in trouble these days. We are all wearing our worries and anxieties, and no amount of makeup and other finery can hide that.

Todays guidelines from the CDC didn't help matters. They've suggested all Americans wear face masks when out in public. So much for vanity.

The problem is, there is a massive shortage of face masks, especially ones needed for the medical field. We, who are not dealing daily with those invasive Corona viruses must not, seriously, MUST NOT try to get our hands on the medical ones, with the serious filters, because the people trying to save our lives need them. The CDC says a simple cloth mask will at least reduce our chance of exposure.

So, in the interest of being a good citizen, I spent fifteen minutes in my closet designing face masks.

You can do it, too.

A simple bandana works. Yee Haw!

Disposable diaper.Unused.

One of 5,000 ties on Dave's tie rack.

Ukulele strap, best for kids.
Guitar is better for adults.

Shoulder pad from 1989.

Padded door hanger that
used to hang on Mom's bedroom door.

Tomato-Basil soup container.
Aromatherapy.

Panty hose, also from 1989.
Found in the back of the same drawer as the shoulder pad.

Gracie's pajama bottoms.

Re-purpose those Beanie Babies!

Tessa's pajamas.

Underwire.
 (Adjustable)

It's best to wear a mask when you laugh in public.

On a serious note, because I am keeping track in this daily writing exercise, Coronavirus deaths to date are 59,224

WHICH NEIGHBOR, LORD, NEEDS THIS FLOUR?

Before I got my body there was a blessing given in the bloodline I would join at birth. Things like this have always happened, historically. Abraham and his posterity, for instance. I might add, adoption into families applies the same blessings. They are spiritually driven. Our physical bodies carry DNA. Our spiritual selves carry what I call DBA: Divinely Bestowed Assurances.

My great, great grandmother, Rebecca Rhodes Parrish, lived across the river from Nauvoo, IL. A widow, and a faithful member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, she sometimes provided shelter for the prophet Joseph Smith. When there was trouble in Nauvoo, her sons would ferry the prophet across the river to temporary safety. One of her sons was Henry Strong Parrish, my great grandfather.

Once, when times were rough and food was scarce, Rebecca fed the church leaders who were gathered in their living room, including the prophet. Afterwards, Joseph Smith saw Rebecca leaving the house with something tucked under her cape. He called to her, asking what she was carrying. She lifted her cape to reveal the last of the flour from their pantry. 

“Where are you going, Sister Rebecca?”

She replied that the neighbors needed food.

Joseph sent her on, and when she returned he asked if he could give her a blessing. You’d have to have a sense of our faith to know how it might feel to have a prophet ask to give you a blessing. Somewhere in our family genealogy it is recorded that it was promised to Rebecca that as long as she and her posterity remained faithful to the gospel of Jesus Christ, they would not want for the sustenance of the world.

In our family history that same blessing was given at different times to my grandfather, George Washington Parrish, and my uncle Fred Parrish.

We have personally seen a fulfilment of that divine bestowal of assurance.

While my family rejoices in such a blessing, let me also say that there are other familial propensities that are not so wonderful. Weaknesses and challenges, we accept as part of our journeys. They balance each other out. But this particular blessing is on my mind lately.

"Work is always my salvation, and I will celebrate it."
Louisa May Alcott

 My husband, David is still working. I know, during this pandemic, that this is unusual, and we are deeply grateful. There is still a need for the judicial gears to remain in motion, and truth be known, he works every day from 7:30 until around 8 each night, sometimes more. There is a wide-swinging adaptation curve, trying to figure out how to run the courts from home. I am profoundly proud of him, and grateful that he is willing and able to devote so much of himself to this. Thank goodness, we do not have kids at home. (And curses that we do not have kids at home. How I miss them!) We are both able to focus without interruption. We are in the autumn of our lives.

David is still drawing a paycheck. I am not. My work has dried up. Gigs are cancelled, classes are cancelled. Even royalties are taking a hit, because fewer devices are playing our music (it’s real, folks). But we are ok. We are ok.

We recognize the blessing of having
 a place to work from, at home.

Last week I was thinking about my friends who may not be ok, financially. I have a lot of artist friends, and the art world has ground to a jolting halt. But I also have many friends whose livelihoods they never would have thought would cease so suddenly. They are worried sick. 

I pray for them. Sincerely. Mostly I pray that they will feel guided and comforted. But I also pray for the rest of us that we will have the courage and the wisdom to pitch in.

So, last week, as I was drying my hair, I got to thinking about my friend, Lisa, who cuts my hair. Under the buzzing drone of my blow dryer I was praying, and in an instant I had a flicker of a thought. I have learned that those firefly flickers of thought are often the Holy Ghost trying to connect, so I am training myself to pay attention. I set my dryer on the counter, picked up my cell phone, opened my Venmo app, and paid Lisa for a pretend haircut. Dave or I would normally be getting a haircut soon, so it is something we are used to paying. I find that when I have these flashes of inspiration I need to act on them right away. The Adversary tends to manipulate my mind when I think too much. (I’m not saying we need to be reckless, but we also do not need to be paranoid about our own needs. When the Lord speaks, I need to act.)

Flickers of inspiration.

Here’s an idea: if we are among those blessed to still have an income, it would be a good thing for us to lend a hand to those among us who do not have that blessing at the moment. Just a little piece of what we would normally do, if things were not so bonkers. There comes of it a feeling of solidarity among human beings. We are in this together. 

So, each day I challenge myself with a little pretend scenario: If I have a bit of flour left, even if it’s my last bit, am I willing at this very moment to take it to my neighbor? And if so, which neighbor, Lord, needs this flour?

I would rather die wanting than go to my grave wrapped in gold.

(Coronavirus deaths to date: 53,216 )

APRIL 1

It would be nice, wouldn’t it, if the heavens opened with some sort of magical fanfare, maybe something like fireworks with a Disney band parading through the sky, and then a giant pair of shutters swings open and Staint Peter himself peeks out, smiling. He looks over the human race, holding on for dear life as the earth spins out of control, winks, and then shouts:

“APRIL FOOLS! Everybody back to your regular places now. Wasn’t this fun?”

Except for the fact that people have been, and continue to be seriously sick and dying. That’s the part that makes us all sober up and take this seriously. As we should. 

But wouldn’t it be the ultimate April Fool’s joke? One for the ages?

Hang in there, everybody!

Here's a little tidbit about how April Fools may have originated:

Pope Gregory XIII issued a decree in the late 1500s ordering that Christian countries adopt a standardized calendar. The Gregorian calendar moved the new year from the end of March to the first of January; people who continued to celebrate on the old day, either because it was the 16th century and word traveled slowly or because they simply wanted to be a rebel, were mocked as “April fools.”

(Coronavirus deaths to date: 47,249)

THE WELL

You would walk right past it if you did not know what you were looking for. There’s a decidedly typical house tucked against the foothills in Farmington, plain red brick with a typical plate glass window, a budding tree in the front yard, and over in the corner, next to the neighbor’s gate, is a wooden post steadying a thin pipe planted quietly in the ground. A small white striped hose is attached to the pipe, the other end of which rests comfortably between the rails of a grate in the ground. From that hose flows a steady stream of cool, clear water, straight from the breast of Mother Earth.

When I first started going to the well that was all there was. Now there is a small box for donations, and always a bowl, winter-spring-summer-fall, for thirsty animals. Last week, when I stopped with my empty milk jugs rattling around in the back of my van, there was also a bottle of dish soap and a bucket of bleach water. It’s a sign of the times.

This artesian well flows 24/7. It cannot be stopped. If one were to try to stop it, it would just find another route, like the basement of any surrounding houses, until the earth finally relented and gave it its original path once again. My mother, the realtor, always said that water will find its way home, and people may think they can change its course when they want to build a house on top of it, but in the end the water always wins. 

I do not know the people who live in that house, who gave legitimate form to the flow of that water, reining it and leading it comfortably downhill. Their generosity is evidenced in that hose, and in the little note that reminds people to return the hose to the grate so their yards and streets would not flood. They are stewards over this little vein of the bloodline of Mother Earth. That water, filtered by layers of carbon and who-knows-what-else lies beneath the surface, is as pure as it gets. I can feel it when I drink it. It may be my mind playing tricks on me, but I swear my mouth is sincerely happy after I swallow big gulps, cool but not frigid. It arrives at the surface having the same temperature regardless of the season. Down there, at the source, things are dependably steady.

I am charmed to think that in my sleepy little town, up the hill from the thread of Sycamores on Main Street, Mother Earth willingly nourishes her children from her voluptuous breast. She offers us the essential life source at the same steady pace, day and night, in sunshine or rain. We may be steadying ourselves from an earthquake, as in just days ago. She still flows. We suffer from a worldwide pandemic which has essentially paralyzed society, grinding to a halt businesses, events and nearly all physical social interactions. She still flows. We mourn the loss of life, the loss of innocence, and dreams of graduation and dances and first loves and growing loves put on hold. And yet, still she flows.

This ugly virus cannot get down there to her source. She flows at her steady unaltered pace, offering herself to anyone who is willing to accept her.

It is no accident that Jesus himself made himself known at a well. Living water. Any thirsty soul would understand.

I find comfort in knowing where that well is situated. I could walk there, if I needed to. If we have need, I know how to get back to that well. And I am grateful that the people who own that house on that sacred spot understand that they do not own that water, only God could. But they are stewards over its path. They are vehicles for something divine. 

I would hope, that if God gave me a well, I would share it, too.

I guess, in ways that are not physical, He has. 

Covid 19 deaths to date: 42,352