LDS Women's Conference Spring 2014

On Saturday, I had the pleasure of tucking myself away in the basement of my sister-in-law's home and watch the LDS Women's Conference streamed live to my brother-in-law's iPad. We were visiting to celebrate the birth of their firstborn -- a son. There were so many family members caught up in the excitement, I didn't want to interrupt. But, oh, how glad I am that I took the time!


One of the special things about this conference was the opening of the meeting to women and girls all the way down the age of 8 years old. For the past few years, there has been some concern that young women transitioning from their YW groups at the age of 18 don't feel like they quite fit the Relief Society mold and extend that perception to a lack of participation within the organization. I am delighted that this "Molly Mormon" mold (that never truly existed in the first place) was broken this evening. "We all need each other" was an overarching theme of the meeting. "Help Wanted" was the call to serve with what we have, wherever we are at, and without unnecessary and ungraceful comparisons to one another.


One sister used the primary song "Teach Me to Walk in the Light" as a theme for her talk. She asked the girls aged 8-11 who were present in the Conference Center to stand and sing the first verse of the song. How their sweet, fearless voices rose up and filled the hall! She then had the rest of the sisters sing the second verse in answer to the plea:


Verse 1
Teach me to walk in the light of his love.
Teach me to pray to my Father above.
Teach me to know all the things that are right.
Teach me, teach me to walk in the light.


Verse 2
Come little child and together we'll learn
of His commandments that we may return
home to His presence to live in His sight
Always, always to walk in the light.


As a woman, this interconnectedness is something I've always understood. I learn so much from my children, my sisters, my neighbors, my friends, my husband, my coworkers, and even strangers who only touch my sphere of influence for a moment. The human family is complex, diverse, and full of wonderful opportunities for growth and connection -- even though we, so often, feel alone, separated, and impossibly different. I'm thankful this idea is being extended so visibly at this time to inspire us to remember that our covenant is not only to the Lord, but is to lifting each other as well.


In addition to the Relief Society General Presidency sharing messages about covenants, service, and extending grace to ourselves and to others, President Henry B. Eyring reminded women that from the beginning -- starting with Eve, the Mother of all Living -- there have been courageous, intelligent women who lead their families and communities in following the Lord by doing so themselves and standing as witness of God at all times, in all things, and in all places.


I was personally touched by the story he shared about his mother preparing him to make covenants by imparting of her faith and expounding scriptures to him from the time he was a little boy.The same scripture (D&C 68:25) that had inspired Pres. Eyring's mother, motivated my own mother to send us to church (even though she wasn't a member) so we would grow up in the gospel. I still recall visiting with a sister who lived in Bonney Lake, Washington so many years ago who justified her lack of scripture study with the scripture (Ecclesiastes 3:1) "to every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven." I felt deeply sad for the lack of scripture power she would likely face in her life and how it might affect her children that she would not have specific scriptures in mind to help them through trials and challenges as they came.


I am thankful for the women in the world who believe their lives have value and purpose -- thankful to be educated and to have others who dig in, research, discover, serve, and apply what they know because they are dissatisfied with sitting back and passively being fed. I am also deeply grateful for a moment of stillness yesterday evening when my heart and mind were wide open, ready to receive, and that I found myself so completely filled.


If you haven't had a chance to watch this session of the conference, I invite you to do so.

A Safety Net or a Noose?

"We tried to provide more for the poor and produced more poor instead. We tried to remove the barriers to escape from poverty and inadvertently built a trap." ~Charles Murray Loosing Ground: American Social Policy 1950-1980 (1984).

As I prepare to write this blog, I am conflicted -- uncertain about how it will be taken. I am a child of welfare. The daughter of a single mother, never married. I have eaten most of my meals at the hands of taxpayers and tithes. My college education was federally funded by grants and student loans I have yet to be able to pay. I have lived safe and warm under several roofs that were subsidized. We paid a portion: you paid a portion.

One of my proudest moments was becoming employed (post baccalaureate) and earning enough -- along with my husband's temporary job -- to fall off of food stamps and Medicaid. We may have still qualified due to our household size, but I wanted the "safety net" gone. I wanted to be able to say, "We've got this."

Several bouts with unemployment, choking on debt, and hazardous health issues later, I've made some observations that I can't find a study to back up. So, I'm throwing them out into the world hoping that someone with the ability to reinvent policy will do so.

You see, once upon a time, as two young college students about to graduate with a large family in tow, my husband and I sat down to figure out how much income we would need to earn to *maintain* the subsidized lifestyle we were then living. We were surprised at how much we were being given while still classifying ourselves as "poor" and we have been disheartened by the fact that, even with both of us working in jobs that require our freshly minted college degrees; we have yet to reach that pre-determined dollar amount.

Something has got to change. I'm not asking for a rise in minimum wage or a brand new EBT card to keep us afloat. I don't want the government to feed us. I want to do what real citizens do -- I want to pay taxes and know that I built roads and kept a national park or two healthy for another year. 

I have watched a man with a work ethic I admired shrivel and shrink until I hardly recognize him. He is longing for the "safety net" I refuse to apply for (oh, yes, we totally qualify still) and he is not the only one I've seen it happen to. What is the psychological cost for being "protected" like children? And what do we teach children who witness parents who feel entitled to the net without any requirements but a thick stack of paperwork?

I believe the answer is here.  I can't imagine that I would be an educated woman, writing this blog -- capable of research, analyzing data, and communicating with clarity -- had it not been for the assistance I have received. I am not saying that help with basic necessities should be removed completely, but when "help" is given to the point where a human being is crippled by receiving it, we *must* reevaluate what we are doing.

Why not take an inventory of people's skills and qualifications and ask them to give 10 hours per week in community service in exchange for the help provided? Unless they are physically or mentally handicapped beyond the ability to give any service, this requirement would allow them to maintain their dignity and tap in to their need for human interaction and affirmation. (I should point out that this idea is for adults or teens of a working age and NOT for school-aged children receiving free or reduced lunches as has been suggested of late. School is hard work and long hours. Let's not make it more difficult and push people to drop out.)



 

Aging Un-gracefully

I was never "the pretty one."  When I was growing up, I had the nice singing voice, the book smarts, and "great feet."  My first husband almost never looked at me as if he was appreciating what he saw.  I was scrawny, curveless, lanky, and (like most little girls I've learned) didn't feel pretty.

Then, I got divorced and found me in my mid-twenties. Gosh, I loved me!  My body wasn't perfect, but whose is?!  Anyone?... Yeah, that's what I thought. I have a great sense of humor. I love people -- helping them, listening to them, getting to know them.

A few years back, I broke my coccyx.  That was only the beginning.  I graduated from college and started working desk jobs.  Let's face it.  I've got curves now. My weight hovers around the same as the ninth month of my third and fourth pregnancies. I jog. I yoga. I dance. I walk. I play. But, I also eat what I want when I want. I had to curb the eating a little because that metabolism that burned so hot for three decades recently tanked.  I actually feel full for a while after eating.  This is brand new to me, so I'm learning to adjust.

I'll be 38 years old later this year, I've given birth to six human beings, my hair is beginning to show white, and those awesome dark, course hairs I used to loathe tweezing from my mom's chin are now popping up on mine. I'm not blind people.  I can see the roundness on my arms, my belly, my chin, and my thighs.  I know I'm aging. But, I think I've earned every single solitary wrinkle.  So, why not just let me LOVE ME instead of taking every opportunity to point out the parts of me that you believe are flawed?

Do you know what it's like to have people shocked by the way you look because of the extra 25 pounds you're carrying? It's awful. It makes me feel self conscious. I'm beginning to not want to take pictures (or pull apart the ones I am in) and not get dressed in the morning to go out in to the world.  Why do people do that?!  WE'RE ALL FLAWED DAMN IT.

And, p.s., when I was that scrawny little twig girl in junior high AND high school, I used to look at Greco-Roman art and LONG TO BE lusciously curvaceous like their women are portrayed. Muscular and strong, but also completely soft. 

This week, I walked up to the building I work in now (mirrored glass) and saw that long ago desired figure.  And I thought to myself, I love me.  I'm okay with me.  I've earned this body. Today, someone said something about the recent roundness of my face as if it were a derogatory characteristic and now I'm sitting in my bedroom crying and writing this to the empty cyber world where no one will read it and no one will change, but I will be able to say it "out loud."  I LOVE ME. I am growing OLD.  I will get wrinkly.  Stuff will sag.  My hair will be white.  And I plan to LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE, and PLAY all the way through to the end.  I've EARNED this body. I might even start wearing a toga. So, keep your damn derogatory insecurities and commentary to yourself.
 

Guest Poet: Jason VanDaam

A big shout out to my poet buddy and Ping Pong Poetry partner, Jason VanDaam.  You can find some of his published works, such as "It Seems I Have Heart Trouble" and "Plato's Pawn Shop" in the WSU interdisciplinary journal Metaphor or you can follow him on twitter @wordalchemist1. If you ever get the chance, Jason's distinctive voice is best heard live at a local Poetry Slam. He is currently working on a compilation of his best hits.  Watch for it!

Adventures in Feminine Hygiene

A recent Russian Tampax commercial demonstrates their "leak proof" technology by having the other girl eaten by a shark. If you're a girl, you know there are a lot of choices when it comes to making sure you're covered when facing the "sharks" of this world who will eat you alive over embarrassing leaks.  What you might not consider is your very own busy brain.

I know I didn't...

Once upon a time, I brought some reading, a chair, some water, and the camera.  All these things made it quite clear that I had no plans of getting in the lake to swim with my children.  It's one of my very most favorite things in life, but there I was on a spontaneous trip to our favorite swimming spot wearing a pad and not a tampon.  I was not going in. 

Until hubby decided he wasn't going in either.  What?! We have two small, non-swimmer children wearing floaties out there.  Come on.  I was so concerned about their safety, I completely forgot about my little "situation" and dove in.  The good news?  Pad technology has seriously come a long way in the past few decades -- no falling apart, bloated, floating pieces. The bad news?  Realizing I didn't have any replacement equipment in my purse and there was no way I was going to sit in the car wearing this thing.

What could I do?  Well, there's always the Business section of The New York Times...

Do You Know My Voice?

Every author has a voice of their own.  Without any audible sound, one can come to recognize a favorite author or other individual authors based on their distinctive imprint on the way they put words together.  One of my poet friends and I like to challenge each other with games of Poetry Ping Pong.  What follows is the context of a recent game (played over texts) without any edits -- completely raw (other than line spacing I am adding here).  Do you know which stanzas are mine?  Can you guess the identity of the other poet?

Sinners either run
or they sit, stuck in the mire
loving the cool earth smell,
birth smell with less blood
and sweat.  Running makes
a body tired.

Eventually...

each of these choices reflects
the same color, earth-toned
and salted sour aftertaste as it is just pain
leaving the body replaced
with hope.  This palate sweet dew,
heavy with sacred time. 

St. Peter vacations here during Catholic holidays.

Sometimes, when the heat of hell
overlaps the space in the year
for salvation, as the choirs of heaven
take a break and watch reality TV
Harlem shaking a Gungham-style Macarena,
it is the more in everything
that ruined it for the rest of us
have enoughs.  American birthing pain
during a scheduled patriotic C-section
during the delivery of a stillborn
child named freedom.  R.I.P.

It is the whistle warning song before a firework bursts,
before the baby's mouth opens wide to wail against the world,
before the heart break happens and our feet do their own choosing
Payless size nines with a man-made upper.

Man is always on top,

even when he's on the bottom,
in the pit, bottomless, running again,
carrying sin like a flag with thirteen stripes
of red.

Castor oil covered, foul-tongued, ostrich-feathered
girls fill themselves, leaving me
empty, tattered and torn, like a national flag
of a country that no longer exists as it was
full of generous peoples.  This is archaic,
unrealistic and silly.  The world now demands
selfish self centered plastic media driven

images that have forced a national forgetting

of a simple hug.  Revelry sounds shrill,
automated.  Leaving the listener lonely,
satisfied in the fact that choices are limited
for peaceful, satisfying breath. So, I dance
like everyone is watching secretly folding
the flag with pomp as it will wave once again
when we remember we are we

or even...

just part of something greater.

Chore Joy

Isn't that an oxymoron?

I wonder why we started calling our household duties a "chore."  With synonyms like "drudgery," "burden," "gruntwork," and "rat race" attached to it, it's no wonder we look forward to doing them as much as having a tooth pulled without anesthetic by a dentist smoking a cigar.  Yet, we expect our children, who prefer the whimsical and delightful (or, at least, the "what's in it for me?") approach to life, to dive in with both hands singing as cheerfully as Snow White without any help from her Seven Dwarfs.

As a mom, I've attempted the Snow White approach.  It is actually the one that works the best in my home.  If I say "all hands on deck," the dwarfs -- I mean, children -- come running.  I sing at the top of my lungs and turn up the music and we all dance the dust, laundry, and dirty dishes away.

But, it turns out that "all hands" are not always near "the deck" and sometimes Snow White's singing voice is just not available to inspire the masses.  What then?

We've tried the Chore Charts, the Privilege Points, the Raffle tickets, and the Treasure Box.  We've tried the FlyLady and her Zones, the Morning Checklist, and even the Free-to-Choose method.  Nothing seems to work.

The Ten-Minute Tidy is the ONE thing that my children are completely attached to.  There was a time when I used this method at the end of the day just to prevent myself from tripping on a toy during a middle of the night bathroom trip. It was combined with a Saturday Morning "all hands on deck" tackling of the Deep Clean along with hit and miss attempts at the above mentioned methods of keeping the house in some semblance of Order.  It was granted as a way to acknowledge teen participation in extra-curricular activities and stellar school performance (i.e., hours of homework).  It was even used on Snow White's Sick Days...just to make it through.  But, now, if they are asked to put their hands in for more than ten minutes, it's like signing the Declaration on World War III.

When I transitioned from Stay-at-Home Mom and full-time Undergraduate Student to Working-for-Money-and-for-Free-as-a-Mom full-time, my time with the people that matter most was so limited, I decided not to fight about chores.  I decided to just dig in, get it done, and hope to heaven I would be able to see straight on the other side of the sunrise.

This morning, I started something new.  It's a "Chore Choice List".  I write down -- very specifically -- the things I'd like done today (there is even a "little kids" list).  They initial what they want to do and cross it off the list when it is done.  If they complete it, they get the password to the computer. If not, they don't.

I like to keep things simple.  Wish me luck!