Wanted: Birthday ATP

"Mommy, do you think you are going to feel good on my birthday?"

It's a hard question to answer. It teeters unreliably, on a pointy rock, in the wind. 

It is impossible to definitively plan for the future. I have to be honest about that. 

"I don't know, darling. But I'll probably be feeling a lot like how I've felt the last few weeks. Have you seen how slow I am until late afternoon comes?" I sheepishly ask. 

I apologize. I see her little chin fall a few degrees and the corners of her delicate doll lips dip. But that upper lip stays strong. 

She knows. 

She knows I can't be relied upon. My health is predictably unpredictable. Like on Saturday, when I finally had the get-up-and-go to hit the shower and get dressed in real clothes (the pants weren't even stretchy) so we could go to a museum. But then we didn't go because the shower made me crash and my husband came home late from work. I hated that I was wearing a belt while dozing off while I should be museum-ing with my kids, with or without my husband, because I committed to it. 

Disappointing Mom Award. 

For me, birthdays changed a few years ago, two days before my own birthday. I accidentally ate a salad dressed with vegetable oil (made of soybeans, if you didn't know). My intestines spasmed and cramped so badly that they felt as hard and big around as collarbones beneath my abs, zig zagging and imploding like nothing I have ever felt before. It was horrible. I'm allergic, but I didn't know how badly until then. I saw a GI doctor and had an emergency colonoscopy on my birthday. I admit it was a terrific nap (please pass the propofol?), but I was tired and under the influence the rest of the day. The indignity of bowel prep had kept me up the night before. Happy birthday, dork. 

As each of our birthdays circulated the following year, I noticed I lay through them, just getting up to serve cake in the evening. I was sick. It was so sad for me. I felt like the worst wife and mother ever. 

With subsequent years, the birthdays have lulled by at the speed of a snail, devoid of ATP energy because the matriarchal author of birthday celebrations around here has a deficient Krebs cycle and thus nothing to give on a mitochondrial level. 

When my babies were little, it didn't take much to make them feel like they owned the day from my pathetic prone-ness on the couch. Now, this little girl cares and has an impressionable memory. My worst fear is that she won't feel important, and that this feeling will stick with her. 

I keep trying to talk myself out of it. "You're doing your best," I say. "She knows you love her." "Snuggles fix everything." "Her presents will blow her mind." 

I find that hopeful voice being chastised my a more logical, injured complaint. "Listen, Self, the new bed set she's been asking for is not going to distract her from wanting to go to the indoor trampoline place. It's not going to change her mind about the seven-layer chocolate cake she wants (never mind that you've never seen one of these). You're deluded. Everyone needs to be at a party for her, or she won't feel important."

There, there Self. Wipe your tears. That's the way. 

(So mean.)

I remember the first form of discipline for babies: distraction. Maybe if I put shiny objects in noticeable places, they'll be more interesting than trampolines and a tower of cake. 

Like...a tower of crepes with Nutella between the as a cake, for example? Or a store-bought ice cream cake? (Note to self: price ice cream cakes tomorrow.)

Or...an afternoon outing to somewhere fun we've never been before?

It could be awesome. I just have to get creative. From the couch. And maybe ingest some "pep" (my code word for Dr. Pepper, which I keep on hand for dire emergencies like near-birthday-fails). 

Hopefully the rare, circumstantial joys she craves don't matter as much as the novelty of surprise and delight. Hopefully being spoiled with love feels more satisfying than being spoiled with stuff. Children are tough, resilient, and want to learn. Hopefully, even though I'm not good at birthdays, our daughter will get the birthday that holds the highest good for her. 

Wish me luck and plenty of natural ATP energy pep.

I Reek

Most of the time, I think I'm a well-adjusted sick person...but sometimes, it really gets to me. 

I just need to say that it is disappointing to be a sick mom. Usually, I tell myself that I'm doing my utmost, so it is enough, and I am happy. But sometimes it tugs at my heartstrings, like almost every night when my husband tucks our children in bed without me, and I feel sad that I am not more involved. Like when he is massively overworked as the mom and the dad, then he uses the time when he's not working or taking care of our little people to do laundry or dishes. 

I joked with him that I would love the kitchen floor to be mopped for Christmas...but that's like asking someone who babysits for you every day to babysit for you one night so you can go on a date. I can't ask. So I have to be happy with a dirty floor. Our dog walked muddy feet through the dining part of the kitchen a couple months ago, and it is still smudged with streaked mud from when I feebly tried to clean it up. Someone keeps dripping something on the floor next to the barstools. If I have energy, I use it on our family, not on the floor; that's why it's dirty. I read books or snuggle or watch the kids play outside. The floor is just a symbol of lots of things I don't do as a mom and homemaker and how those "I'm failing" feelings get to me. 

Then there is the world. I am impassioned about the refugee situation in Europe, but do I do anything concrete? No. Money donations. I almost went to humanitarian Wednesday at a nearby church building, but did I get out of bed? No. I was grounded to my bed. My only consolation is that we gave an SUV full of clothing and stuff to DI in the summer, and hopefully some of those articles have made it to the people in crisis. We also gave modest clothing to Brazilian missionaries who can't afford or find anything suitable to wear in Brazil. I search for things to do. I feel so selfish for having it so good here. 

Then there is the self-loving piece. It's Tuesday night, and I am wearing the same thing I went to bed in on Sunday. I am a gross, disgusting mess. There is vertigo and nausea and absolutely no energy. I lay in the dark until 3 this morning trying to fall asleep, tortured with my disappointed brain chatter. I felt guilty that I didn't help more the day before with our son who was sick, that I barely saw our daughter, that I hadn't the energy during the day to crack open a book or even watch a movie. I wasn't safe to drive the kids around. 

So when I get the whim to do something for myself, like maybe it will lift my spirits and therefore help my family, or maybe it will help me be more productive so I can start cooking or helping in the house again, and then it falls flat, I'm consumed in scolding brain chatter until the wee hours. 

I'm just having a hard week. I can hardly move. I am stressing over my book and Christmas and some big decisions, yet I feel incapacitated to act. It's dumb. 

We met Brad Wilcox a couple weekends ago, and I whined to him. "I want to the the girl who is putting up chairs right now. I want to be powerful enough to be who I used to be." Brad said, "But you're doing everything you can. God isn't concerned so much about how much your offering is. He doesn't shake the tithing envelope by His ear. He is more concerned with what your offering does to change you." Brad told me I'm doing just fine. I don't feel powerful or proactive, but He said God thinks I'm good enough. "Remember that," he said, then pointing at my husband, said, "When she forgets, tell her that Brad told you to." He gave me two hugs and held my hands and made me feel like maybe I'm okay...even on weeks like this, when I reek and think I have nothing to offer and that I'm a miserable, selfish, lazy person. I have to believe that Heavenly Father views me more compassionately than that. I know it, even if I can't always bring myself to believe it. 

I Wrote a Book

I always thought I would have to be either extremely imaginative or several decades older in order to write a book. Yet during the month of November, I challenged myself to write a complete novel…and I did it. I did it! Heavenly Father showed me what to write.

Several years ago, I went out of my way to take a holistic nursing class. The practice I still use daily is called “dreamwork,” in which one learns to understand the meanings of one’s dreams, maybe even others’ too. It says right in the Bible Dictionary that dreams are another way Heavenly Father communicates with His children, and some dreams are even described in the scriptures. When I learned about dreams, I was thrilled to notice the messages Heavenly Father had been giving me in my dreams during my life. I began to pray that Heavenly Father would teach me in my sleep. Because I pay better attention now, He often does.

During a dream, the subconscious mind bubbles up into our consciousness. If we pay attention, we can be given answers to our problems and guidance for our lives. We find out how wise we are and how connected we are to Heavenly Father, deep, deep, deep down.

While I wrote this book, I felt like I was daydreaming—like I was literally accessing the subconscious parts of my brain while awake. It was wild, and awesome. My characters fleshed out easily, and I loved them immediately. There is no going back once you wake up like that.

Early in the month, I was exhausted with the metaphorical bag of rocks I carry in my waking life. We all have one—just look at that heavy thing slung over your shoulder.

I had an appointment with my doctor and shared my concerns, and also related, as an aside, that I had started writing a novel. She is a published author many times over, so I told her the premise of my book. I mentioned a character who was having second thoughts about a big decision, and how I didn’t know what he was going to do. It seemed to be my own version of “writer’s block.”

In that moment, I realized how much his issue symbolically matched the quandary of my waking life. “It will be interesting to see what he decides to do,” I conceded with a shrug. My doctor expressed interest in his outcome; I bet she realized that his fate would somehow help me realize my own.

Through the coming weeks, that character and I really struggled together. I had compassion for him, and by extension, I learned, for myself. I loved myself for struggling and trying and having growing pains. And my character sure hurt too, but I knew he would be okay. I knew he was strong enough to heft his bag of rocks.

This is my first novel, but it can’t be my last. It is too therapeutic to stop. Heavenly Father helped me access my inner wisdom and get through my pile of rocks.

The greatest accomplishment of writing my novel is not that it is written, though I feel joyful about this. The greatest accomplishment is that, now, I love my Lyme. I love it. I love the gifts it has given to me. Gee whiz, it’s all mine—my struggle, my grief. I see myself as a character that I believe in, who I know will be okay, even if I have writer’s block figuring myself out.

I love my Lyme. The critter that has taken over the function of some of my cells acts out of a loving concern for me. It gifts me with struggles that prove who I am in this epic of life. Fifty thousand words could never contain all this; I must be pretty awesome.

Now, my Lyme is as precious to me as my characters. They were born out of love from my subconscious mind, and I think my Lyme was born out of love too, whenever it infected me. My characters keep slapping me on the back, letting me know I’m as okay as they are. I am safe and remembered, and I am trusted by Heavenly Father to do the right thing in my story.

There is purpose to every rock in my sack, and maybe, in the end, it is a joy to be added upon with more rocks when I need more stretching. I’m a plucky, resilient character who doesn’t know how to quit.

My husband has read my manuscript and likes it. I printed it and spiral bound it into a 175-page book so I can edit easier. I love its heft in my hands, like a piece of my heart and deepest mind has literally materialized. When I read the manuscript last week, I knew which parts in the arc of the story needed to be expanded like an accordion. It is an exciting work.

Writing my novel has been an immensely private, selfish, vulnerable, therapeutic work. I updated my doctor just yesterday as we sat like girlfriends, talking about fiction. She didn’t even charge me for an office visit; it was crazy. Maybe it was therapeutic for her to sit back in her chair and talk about the love invested in story-writing. She thinks my book could help people, like it has helped me.

Someday it may be read by others, but I did not initially write to be published. I wrote to write. My characters and I hang out and heckle each other as I continue to daydream about them and other stories that need to be told.

Maybe it is selfish to hang onto my characters for only myself. Maybe I need to learn eventually end this “book honeymoon” and set them free.

I am grateful for the safety of stories. Stories matter. Families stick together with family legends and stories, everything from ancestor narratives to recent embarrassing moments. Prophets comfort the afflicted and lovingly prick heart with stories. Jesus told masterful stories, each with a thousand levels of understanding. They can be studied for millennia, I feel, and never be fully digested.

I did not know I had a story. But because of Lyme, I do. I can talk about my rocks, look at the rocks of my characters, relate my rocks to other people’s rocks. It is really beautiful.

I am really grateful.

Checking In

Hey everyone. I just wanted to check in with a quick post. I don't feel well. Lately, mornings have been like an out-of-body experience. I wake up exhausted and stay brain dead until evening, usually. I had two pretty good days this week, which was a miracle, but looking back, they were both days when I had a little caffeine in my system. Still, I got a little shopping done and was able to do some laundry. It felt good.

I am still keeping busy with various personal projects, like finishing the Book of Mormon by the end of the year, writing my first novel by the end of this month, hand sewing a bit, and reading loads. Plus there are the casual, everyday things, like listening to my children read, homework, and ponderizing. For ponderizing, we are going over the Articles of Faith, adding one or two every week. Right now we're up to ten.

I still go to the doctor once every week or two for LDI injections. So far, I've had 13. I eat this and that, but can't summon the energy to cook most of the time. I broke out into the worst acne of my life about six weeks ago and am trying to resolve it by eliminating foods from my diet. The symptoms I don't have anymore are the painful gut problems that were my constant companions for almost three years. It is so awesome to be pain free when I digest!!! I love it so much. My twitching spells are few and far between, which is great. Now if I could just get over this devastating, debilitating fatigue and get my brain/memory retention/emotions back, I'd feel just about back to normal. Weak and needing to build stamina, but normal. I spend so much time in bed, but on my good days this week I hung out on the couch instead. I count couch days as victories, because I get up.

Sometimes my fatigue feels like I am recovering from anesthesia (dizzy, disoriented, and mentally checked out), but being forced awake against my will. Sometimes it feels like I've just caught the worst cold of my life, and all that matters is immediate, undisturbed sleep--but I can't sleep well, day or night. Sometimes it feels like have just run a race, and all my ATP energy has been sapped from the mitochondria in my muscle cells. Sometimes it feels like my body presses heavily into the mattress, like a stone. But usually, it's some sort of combination of all of these.

My family is cute and supportive. My husband is so kind and compassionate. Our kids are growing up too much. Snuggling with them while they're still little and still adore me is one of my favorite things.

That's all, I guess. Hope you're well!

Death and Faith

Guys, this is a first draft. I'm aware it is unclear and poorly written. But I'm not editing it. Deal. I am. xoxo

 

 

 

As a nurse, my goal is to help people towards wellness.

 

But sometimes, nothing more can be done.

 

Some of my favorite nursing experiences were with people who were about to go Home to their Maker. Heaven was so near: the room was always crowded with people I could not see. A hushed anticipation hung in the air as messengers awaited the person's journey home.

 

As a nurse, I could not cure; I could only comfort. A lot of pressure was taken off. The families loved me for being present when they needed me. They loved me for leaving them alone. And they loved me for treating their family member with dignity.

 

One lovely elderly woman was brought in by ambulance and came into my care. Her only local son was the only family in the room. I checked with he and his mother often; and finally, it seemed her time to depart was drawing near. The son poked his head into the hallway and asked to speak with me at about three in the morning.

 

He was a reserved man, nearly silent. But a little boy came out of his roughened, plaid appearance as he expressed concern. He wondered if he should leave. After talking with him, I finally deduced he did not want to be alone as his mother passed away. After he asked me, I told him I would be honored to sit with him. After handing my other patients' care to the charge nurse, this son and I sat together to be with the woman who gave him life in her last moments.

 

All he wanted to do was sit—not touch, prop, or anything else. He was a little boy—scared of death. But I knew death comes, and that his mother was so unconscious and slow that she would pass peacefully. He was afraid of an episode; I made sure he knew he was safe as he stayed with his mother in her final moments.

 

I did not point it out, but the woman's face began to flicker, light-dark, light-dark, at irregular intervals. Her face was the only skin we could see, and it reminded me of the glowworm baby dolls with glowing faces that were popular when I was a girl. The woman's breaths grew more and more shallow, less and less regular, and the light would go out for longer and longer stretches of time. I thought she was gone a couple of times, but then the light would glow for just a moment. Meanwhile, her son and I sat, and I let him talk when he wanted to.

 

Her light finally went out. The room released a breath, and energy was vacuumed like a conduit through the ceiling. "Is she gone?" her son asked. I went to her, removed just enough warm blankets to feel for no pulse, listened through my stethoscope for breath and heart sounds, and told him she had passed away. He let out a breath. He thanked me for helping them both. And he went home to go to bed once he said his goodbyes.

 

The rest of the work began before the oncoming nurses arrived—calling the doctor, bathing, charting, calling donor services and the mortuary, seeing she was transported safely, and caring for my other patients. She was gone before the next shift arrived.

 

 

 

 

As a nurse, I guess life and death have been my business. I've spent a lot of myself saving the lives of others—truly. Heavenly Father has allowed me to save or have a hand in saving many. And He has allowed me to be part of others' passing.

 

Death was always a subject I avoided until a couple years ago. I was a young wife and mother—I needed to live. Then I had to find sense in people passing away after I and a team of others had done our utmost. Then I grew sick to the point I thought I was dying, and I didn't want to. Then I went under the knife a few times. Then I was told by countless that I was fine and to have a nice life, even though I would bid love and farewell to my husband in case I didn't wake in the morning—I felt so close to dying. Then I examined death, read books on near-death experiences, made friends with death, felt no intimidation by death. Then sometimes—often—more days than not—I yearned for death.

 

Or unconsciousness.

 

Or not being aware, or existing, or feeling.

 

Just going home. And though being without a body is a burden, and I looked forward to mortality for—like—ever, and it's groovy to feel stuff and whatever, I want a break sometimes. A big, fat, unconscious break.

 

Weird that one year you're fighting for everyone else's life, and the next you're wishing you didn't have one.

 

 

 

 

Today I attended the most beautiful funeral for my husband's sweet uncle, and cancer-dominator for over thirteen years. The talks made me laugh and cry. I felt so much love. I wanted to be a better person.

 

Then the last few talks hit straight in my heart. In my usual fashion, I cried silently. The impressions that kept hitting me so hard were thoughts on how Jesus Christ succors us, how God allows us to be challenged but supports us, how our test is to endure to the end. All the while, I felt the heaviness of my burdens, the grace that I experience on a day-to-day basis, and the overwhelming emotional fatigue of feeling like I will never succeed well enough even though I am doing the best I possibly can.

 

And I cried. I cried because I was envious.

 

Just this morning, as I do often lately, I prayed that if I couldn't have a break from being conscious (hating life one minute, falling asleep, and being awakened to the same life just one second later with no relief between), could I please have an out-of-body or near-death experience so I could achieve some perspective and sit on my Heavenly Parent's laps for just a little while. Oh, how I miss Them. I have always had such a HUGE eternal perspective because of this and that (too sacred for the internets). Death is an awakening, another birth, a reunion. And gosh, I miss my Parents and my Home so much. And mortal life is so much harder than I thought it would be.

 

So yes, I'm weak. And I cried. And you can judge me.

 

I hated myself for crying. For being selfish. For envying so hard every person I hear about who has gotten to go Home. Because I've been fighting, and I'm tired, and I wimp out.

 

Bah. I'm dumb.

 

There was plenty of reason to be crying for missing our uncle who had left an astounding legacy of love. There were family members an arm's-length away who will ache for him in every thought. And here I was, pitying myself and being ungrateful for a life rich with difficulties.

 

Yes, I envied him. I wanted to be where he was, to remember what he now knows, to rush to my Heavenly Parents and feel wholeness and safety. I wanted to shed my burdensome body long enough to get some kind of spiritual recharge.

 

I heard an analogy about death once. It's like the testing center at BYU. You go in, you take your test, and you leave. Sometimes I would walk in with a study buddy, and we'd sit in faraway areas of the room. Always, she—no matter who "she" was—would finish first. She'd know her score before I even went back to the questions I'd skipped.

 

Life is like that: you go in, and some people finish early, and you see them zip to the exit without looking back. I can't speak for everyone, but it feels unfair to me—makes me do a quick check of what I can do to speed this thing along and get through my problems so I can get out of the freezing air conditioning.

 

Dumbledore said something about not pitying the dead; instead, pity the living. And I do.

 

 

 

 

So anyway, my mascara ran a little, and I recalled a part of my patriarchal blessing, which I read carefully just this morning. In it, faith is emphasized. Hard.

 

Duh! Faith!

 

A near-death experience would be too easy. Being numb or unconscious would not test me at all. I am meant to be alert, aware, feeling, thinking, struggling. I don't get to hand in my test early. I get to watch the testing center empty out while I work on problems I sometimes hate in a subject that is dang, dang hard.

 

Leaving life like I've been asking to would be too easy.

 

A spiritual reminder would be walking by sight instead of by faith.

 

I can grunge ahead seven days, but no more. Just until sacrament meeting. And sometimes I wish myself invisible until the block ends, but alas, I survive, bottom in my chair. And then it's seven whole days of enduring again. Wishing. Coveting. Regretting. Repenting. And trying to be grateful instead of angry or sad.

 

It is hard for me to have forgotten home so much. Until I'm in my Parents' laps again, I will never feel whole. There will always be a void. I will always want. Nothing will be quite right.

 

If I could have chosen, perhaps I would have turned in a subpar, incomplete test awhile ago just to get the agony over with. My brain, riddled with Lyme and other coinfections, likes to suggest this as the only alternative.

 

But Heavenly Father knows perfectionistic, gritty ol' me. And He knows I will be happier if I stick it out, even if it hurts so bad, even if my test is messy and smudged and has mysterious junk sticking to it from the vending machines downstairs. He knows I can complete it. He knows I'm stubborn enough not to leave bubbles open, even if I have to take a wild guess sometimes. He knows I'll sweat and stress and get the thing done. My essays will barely be legible, but the best I can do.

 

I'll look like I've been through a war when I hand it in. But hopefully, when Heavenly Father grades my test, and Jesus remediates it…it will be enough.

 

 

 

 

Bookworm

I made a New Years resolution this year to finish twelve books. 

Why twelve? Why, there are twelve months in the year, of course. But even at that, it felt ambitious. 

This time last year, I had a PICC line in my arm and was so sick that all I could do was watch movies and crochet. I couldn't concentrate to read to save my life, but I thought it would be a more productive use of my time if I ever shook off some of the Lyme brain. 

When I got my PICC line out last Christmas Eve, I don't know...I felt like becoming someone new. Lyme brain had lifted a little, and I'd crocheted three afghans, hats, scarves, pot holders, and anything else easy you can think of. I set this goal of reading hoping I could learn and grow this year...and just to see if I would ever be a reader again. Teenage me loved to read, but then college me and new mom me and nurse me and sick me all happened...so was there time for a reader me?

The start of my year was slow. But, to date, I have completed thirty one novels/books. I can't believe it! 

Once I passed ten or so, I couldn't stop. Now I read in spare moments, browse my library's catalog app, read reviews on Amazon, search the discombobulated shelves of the thrift store... But it feels so edifying and purposeful. I feel like I'm on the upswing of a parabola, projecting exponentially forward in my interest for this old, new endeavor. 

Purpose comes not just from reaching my goal, but also providing an escape, building my vocabulary, giving exposure to (mostly modern) literature, and practicing critical/analytical thinking again. I run through mental explications in my head. I fall in love with writing styles and characters and descriptive language. Oh, BOOKS!!!!!

I don't read a lot when my kids are awake at home, so when they are in bed and the stillness of evening is upon us (my husband often works late), I absorb new friends in the form of book characters. 

Some characters I have come to know and love this year are Cassandra (and Topaz) Mortmain from I Capture the Castle, Gwen Shephard from the Ruby Red series, America Singer from The Selection series, Keturah from Keturah and Lord Death, and Heck from Heck Superhero. Love you guys. 

I've learned what styles I like: for example, right now I do not have the concentration to finish a book that has no plot. It's too bad, because I have a lot of great plot-less books I'd like to read! I also can tolerate love triangles sparingly...but one after another. For example, I loved reading the Ruby Red series after the Matched series because I took a 1000-page break from love triangles. It was grand. I've read about more since, believe you me!

I've learned more about writing, a pastime I have sincerely loved ever since I started writing personal musings in a private notebook in fourth grade. In my reading this year, some of my styles I use were validated by other authors. For example, it seems I am not the only one who loves poetry, even free verse! Some authors write entire novels with it. It may be my jam. 

I've also learned that I don't know what my voice, schtick, platform, passion, whatever you want to call it, is, and I have a lot of drafting to do before I put out anything good. I don't feel like writing a memoir of my Lyme journey because I'm still in the thick of it, and I'm not far-removed enough yet to write my feelings without being deeply affected presently. I don't have a fictional story to tell yet (well, I do...but I have to do tons of research and maybe get another degree first). My poetry...well, my husband likes it, but I don't have a subject worth putting out there yet. I won't write a cookbook, ew. (Maybe a booklet?) I'm a fair lyrics writer, but effortless tunes only come to me once in a blue moon. 

However, I do excel in journaling--the stuff no one will read in real time. 

I don't know where my journals will end up in the end. I label my papers by age, so maybe a descendent of ours will want to see what, say, nineteen-year-old me was like or something...but it may be rubbish! Meh.

But back to books. I love them. I love flipping pages, smelling the print of a brand new book, tasting the food they describe, hearing sounds created my mere verbiage. It's amazing what words can do! And it's amazing what an addict I've become to words. 

I love reading about social issues right now, this month. That's my jam. Oh, Heck Superhero was so good in that way. The author didn't leave out real issues, like trying to find a restroom to use in the morning when you're homeless. Or hunger that is all-consuming and just can't be ignored. Those are real issues!!! People don't talk about hunger or needing to urinate in their books, you know? It's just assumed that meals and hygiene happen in between the other adventures. Well, to me, physiology matters, and j thank Martine Leavitt for bringing it home. Not knowing what to eat is a daily dilemma for me, and I'm too weak to make stuff very often. It's a first world problem maybe, but it's legit for me. Not having the energy to shower, and feeling gross and unkempt, really happens about every other day for me. Food and hygiene matter. Why don't more characters talk about this? I think that's why I'm loving reading about people who just struggle with their own versions of day-to-day living. Are we not all climbing mountains? Are we not all walking each other home? (*steps off soap box*)

I love lots of books. Not gushy, Mormon romance so much right now...or super dark horror probably ever...or plotless books, as wonderful as they are. Young adult fiction rocks, compelling stories that change my view of humanity or the world is awesome, and a froofy young adult romance never hurt, but not every time. 

It's just nice to be reading! Do you love to read? What's your jam? What feeling do you want when you close a book? Personally, I want to sigh or have my mouth hanging open in amazement. Then j want to scramble back to my favorite parts again and read them over. 

Oh my...the magic of books!

Sent from my iPhone

Art

They say it is something special. 

They say it is grand, touching, and relatable. 

But I just see this thing I made,

This thing I thought was only

Kind of

Okay. 

They say that they want more. 

They say I have a lot to give, show, and say. 

But all I see is vague repetition,

That cannot be valuable. 

And really--

What?

They say that I've got...something. 

They say I do it right, well, and poignantly. 

But all I see are half-baked drafts,

And they are probably not grand,

But share...

I do. 

I say that my work has changed. 

I say these works are no longer mine: ill and earthly.

For I see that feeble thoughts are touched
With power I did not request,

Because---

They're His. 

He says what He thinks they should.

He says what each person needs, wants, and craves. 

But He does not force the feelings down;
He invites us to look.
They are free

To keep.