tollipop

tollipop giveaway: do you think writing makes a difference?

Dear reader, do you ever think about the difference you are making with your life? Do you wonder about the impact you have on this world?  

I do.

Since Friday night I've been thinking about my experience of coming across someone in dire need of help.  

It troubles me that I don't have the skills to address the needs of someone in an emergency situation.  One of my favorite books as a child was a story about Florence Nightingale wherein wounded soldiers referred to her as the Lady with a Lamp because of her ability to administer to the suffering, especially as she brought them comfort during the long, difficult hours of the night.  

I've always wanted to be someone like that, someone with actual knowledge to help in such situations.  As I once mentioned, my brother and I used to talk about becoming a travelling doctor and nurse until I realized watching a person get pierced with a needle made the room turn upside down for me.

Incidentally, my brother went on to become an amazing surgeon. 

I do try to make a difference in the ways I know how.  Do you think it's it too late to become a nurse??  I honestly think I could stick someone with a needle at this point in my life.  I've toughened up and lost some of the excessive compassion which paralyzed me as a child.  

More realistically, I was thinking I might take a first aid course to enhance my utility in a situation like the one I encountered last Friday.  I'm haunted by the thought if I'd been the very first person to arrive on the scene of that accident, what more could I have offered the man laying on the road than a conversation about our favorite words??

I don't know what I'm trying to say here.  I guess I'm partly wondering if my natural skills make any difference, the ones I already have.

Do you think writing makes a difference?  They say the pen is mightier than the sword, so I suppose the roundabout answer is yes.  More to the point, I guess I'm wondering what kind of difference writing makes.  It doesn't put food in one's mouth or shelter over one's head unless, of course, that person is reading a pamphelet entitled How to Put Food in Your Mouth and Shelter Over Your Head.

It isn't very helpful to someone who has just crashed his motorcycle.

There is much I could say about how writing has made a difference in my life, how soothing it is, how words keep me company and how arranging and rearranging them gives me no end of pleasure.  But I am wondering if it makes a difference to anyone else.

Moving on...something which makes a small yet real difference: stitching.  You'd be surprised how satisfying it becomes to the person who spends time doing it.  I've actually witnessed this activity absorb the pain of a terminal illness and provide a few hours of reprieve to someone who was very dear to me.

My girls have been happily engaged with their stitching projects all week.  I thought it would be nice to offer an extra project here on Tollipop.  

By leaving a comment on this post (please do not feel obligated to validate my hope that writing is as vital as open heart surgery, unless you actually think it is), your name will be entered into a drawing for a little piece of linen featuring a quiet rabbit, with a pretty Japanese hoop and some embroidery floss for your pleasure.

Wishing you the ability to make a difference today.  xo

how precious and fleeting is every moment

Dear reader, it's late but my mind is having a hard time shutting down tonight.  Earlier this evening I went for a run in the desert.  It was lovely--one of those runs where the night air feels like a magical cape lifting all physical effort and leaving my mind to float along in a state of peaceful harmony.  

There was a cairn that took my breath away.  

Who made it?  Who?  Who stopped to create this tribute?  Who could be capable of such deep and stirring expression? 

I still believe in the ancient Norseman... 

On the way home I was the first to arrive on the scene of a motorcycle accident (after the police officer who had been trying to pull the driver over).  I parked my car on the shoulder of the road, left the hazard lights on, and asked if I could help.

The accident had only occurred seconds earlier so there was a certain amount of ascertaining and containment to be done and the officer asked me to train his flash light on the victim as well as to slow down oncoming traffic.  I'm not sure if I was officially deputized or what, but as traffic was approaching and the scene was in total darkness except for my car and the officer's flashing lights, I grabbed my running lamp and flagged down a van.

The driver of the motorcyle was, by all appearances, incredibly fortunate to be alive. I held the flashlight and we talked to him, trying to keep him alert until more help could arrive.  I noticed he was wearing a wedding ring.  He blinked and lay motionless. He wanted us to disconnect his earphones because his music was too loud.  

After what felt like an eternity a firetruck, ambulance, and other emergency vehicles arrived and a swarm of professionals began taking care of the situation.  

Before I could leave, the original officer asked me to fill out a report.  He gave me a pen and piece of paper and directed me to write what I witnessed in its entirety.  

I'm sorry to admit this but a pen, a piece of paper, and a writing assignment??  

What is wrong with me, but I wanted to get a gold star on that report.  I truly had to repress the inclination to write out my thoughts in evocative language.  

Instead, I kept the account so technical and terse it could have withstood the scrutiny of a court of law, although I couldn't resist adding how much I hoped the motorcyclist would be okay.  

At any rate, I was there for quite awhile because as it happened another police officer wanted to interview me and couldn't do so until things were cleared up (I witnessed more than I'm sharing in this post).  The EMT guys also wanted to ask me a few questions, though not many of those were on topic.  I think mainly it was a lecture about running in the desert by myself.  

When I arrived home, I was so happy to see the girls.  It was late, but I took them out for a treat and then we snuggled on my bed way past our bedtime.  We read stories, laughed about the silliest things, my mind split between enjoying their company and thinking how differently things might have gone this evening, how differently things went for the man on the motorcycle.

And I'm still thinking about him, how he's doing, about the call his family must have received by now, and the very sudden and terrifying effect such news would carry.  

This is often why my mind can't shut down at night.  I think about people I saw during the day, how very needy and desperate some are, how helpless, how their faces open to me as if I can see into their souls. I think about other things, too. It seems many thoughts rest on me and my mind takes forever to let go.  I've been that way ever since I can remember. 

I hope things will go well for that man.  I hope for the very best. 

What else is there to say?  Just take it a little slower, I guess. Make this moment last a little longer.  Reach out to the ones you love and if you can, reach out to someone else who needs help, too.

Sooner or later, everything's going to be okay. Not always, but ultimately.

angry fries

Dear reader, you know how when you have an arch nemesis you study him closely for signs of weakness?  You look for the element of surprise?  

Well, Heat never saw this coming.

Angry fries: jalapenos, spicy bulgogi, and kimchi tossed together with sweet potato fries and topped with an evil eye of a fried egg.  That's more mojo than Heat could muster even if he traded in his turtleneck for a tight pair of Wranglers.

It's from a place called Buldogis, dear reader, the answer to prayer for anyone who's spent his life loving Korean food and hot dogs and wishing like crazy he didn't have to choose between the two.

We went there last night to celebrate a friend's birthday.  It was fun...I can't say the food was exactly my cup of tea, but that's because I've never worshipped at the altar of hot dogs.  You know?  They kind of gross me out.  Unless you go to Germany, where they serve a version that is poetry in the shape of a sausage.

It really is hot, though.  I can't tell if it's unbearably hot or if I've merely capitulated to the psychological warfare Heat inflicts upon my brain.  

Probably both.  Or maybe just the latter.  Like, if Heat commanded me to recite his manifesto I'd probably do it with a blank stare, wincing only slightly at the part that makes fun of Canadians.

 At any rate, we are doing lots of swimming.  

And playing indoors. 

And as it so happens, Heat has not managed to fully zap my spirits, because I'm still making the girls practice.  

Franchement, it would take more than a mere molten sun to make me surrender that ground. 

pea patch

Dear reader, it is hot.  I just checked the temperature and it says only 99 degrees which is either a total lie or proof the heat has psychologically broken me.  

Probably both.  Or maybe just the latter.  Like, if this was an interrogation and Heat was sitting there stroking his repugnant cat, I would've already named my accomplices, their hiding places, and how they like their eggs for breakfast.  

I tried going for a trail run on Saturday morning, the first in two weeks, and it was quite the rite of passage.  I wandered in the wilderness, had a vision, a near death experience, and a conversation with a wolf.  The wolf took one look at me and said have you lost your mind?  I scowled and said, have you lost yours? because that's about all I was good for, comeback-wise. Then he called me a piece of beef jerky which, granted, hurt my feelings but the worst part was how thirsty it made me. 

Anyway...I still feel sick from that run.  

This week I'm home with Izzy and Caroline.  We're making friendship bracelets and possibly an embroidery project if I can muster the stamina to insert a piece of linen in a hoop.  Just thinking about it makes me tired.  And thirsty.

Sophie is off in Iowa playing volleyball and my husband is text bombing the living daylights out of my phone so I can follow her progress.  It's pretty thrilling stuff.

Pictured above is Izzy's garden.  It's a tiny plot in the middle of our yard.  Looking at it, I don't know whether to be touched or depressed.  

I grew up with a garden the size of this entire backyard, with a pea patch so endless and wild the tendrils would snake around your ankles and attempt to pull you under as you wandered by. I think I actually lost a little cousin to that patch.  The soil was rich and black with fat, pink worms and the smell of minerals, compost, and manure.  

Izzy is so intrigued by gardening that I am constrained to give it another go.  When we first moved to Las Vegas fifteen years ago I enthusiastically attempted to carry on the torch of my gardening heritage and then, as the horror of the heat and the brick-like quality of the soil dawned upon me, eventually capitulated.  

It strikes me that step number one in this renewed venture, if it is to be a success, is to stop thinking of the garden of my childhood.  

Indeed, I've found waiting for the ideal conditions in order to be happy has always been a surefire recipe for unhappiness...so I guess I choose to be touched by Izzy's little pea patch.  

Touched by her wonder and delight at the miracle of planting a seed and watching it grow.  Touched by her excitement to build some raised beds in the corner of our backyard and maybe even add a chicken coop!  

There's always room for another farmgirl in this town. 

arizona high performance

Last night Sophie and I rolled into town after spending a week in Phoenix training with the Arizona High Performance Youth team.

Now I'm a little bit in love with Phoenix.  

Also, it was an amazing experience.

Amazing to have an entire week with my daughter, amazing to watch her sail into a challenging situation and find her footing, amazing to watch these girls come together as a team.  

They are off to Iowa next week for a championship tournament and this time I will hold down the fort while my husband cheers them on.  Yes, it would be fun to attend but I developed a serious case of missing Izzy and Caroline while I was gone, so I'll focus on enjoying them and try not to think about missing Roger and Sophie.  

What a crazy summer.

But what fun to spend a week with this girl!  What a unique gift to have such an opportunity.  I spent a lot of time in the gym watching the team demolish volleyballs (which appear to have hailed from Wonka's factory...did you notice?), but we also went to the movies, had yummy things to eat, cold things to drink, talked, laughed, and painted our nails.  Well, I painted hers.  

When it came time to drive home, she promptly fell asleep.  

But I didn't mind.  

I know I often say this, but there is something about the desert. Something strange and post-apocalyptic, as if whatever lives there defied all odds to do so.  There are places between Phoenix and Las Vegas where the desert suddenly blossoms, becoming stranger and more exotic around every bend, with armies of cactus standing like sentinels, giant fronds waving on stalks, bleached plains stretching as far as the eye can see.

The desert bleaches me out, too.  It has a way of making me feel as if I had a good cry. It calms me with its bleakness, its inability to console.  Its barren soil and hardscrabble growth make me aware of the hum of being alive.

In the desert, it is enough just to be alive.

And when the sun goes down, there's no more lovely nor lonesome company than the desert to pass time with on the long road home. 

endless and fleeting as a dream

Over the weekend there was a homecoming,

the pleasure of one's company,

and clouds finally gathered for a storm.

In between there was packing, hugs, sending girls to camp in the woods, more packing and hugs, and getting back on the road for a long drive into the night with skies rumbling, the desert unfolding, creatures slithering, my first baby sleeping, and me listening, watching, and enjoying the ribbon of road, the sounds and the silence, the winding path of my thoughts made peaceful by the magical logic of leaving one place and ending up in quite another.

heat

The heat has suffered a slight setback in operations today, dear reader.  I'd like to take the credit with yesterday's veiled threats, but it likely has more to do with the cat waiting until Heat rolled over the secret trapdoor before leaping from his lap to land squarely upon the release button.

Still, true villains never die, right?  I have faith Heat will crawl out to the desert and retrieve a horcrux.  He probably has a zillion out there. 

At any rate, we've been combatting the heat by any means possible, including sleepovers with early morning movie parties.  
Please conceal your disapproval, dear reader--I'm at the point where I'll say yes to anything.  

Conjuring up instant little sisters who are so adorable one forgets being cooped up and instead marvels over their tiny toes and the fun of making them smile.  

And pilgrimages to the international market, where one may wander for hours examining salt from seas of every continent, pickles, olives, oils, honeys, mustards, pig livers, carps, frankincense, paprikas, teas, biscuits, fizzy drinks, noodles, seaweeds, chocolate, and sour candies.  

Of course I said yes to the candies.  

You would, too, if Heat beamed his 115 degree death ray in your direction.  

los tacos

It's unbelievably hot these days, dear reader.  The heat is playing hardball.  I always picture it as some bald, turtlenecked villain in a motorized wheelchair stroking a Persian cat, laughing maniacally as he beams his death ray on moving objects.  

One of these days I'll find Heat's lair and burst in, ready to unleash my inner farmgirl, but Heat will push a button and I'll fall through a trap door into a shark tank, and the cat will accidentally wet himself upon realizing what an absolute crackpot he has for an owner.

Oddly enough, none of this pertains to the topic at hand, which is the total nirvana awaiting patrons of my favorite local taco shop, Los Tacos.  The tacos, the shrimp cocktails, the mango frescas...it is all so simple and yummy you will wish you had two stomachs in order to keep eating. 

It's one reason I don't care if the heat gets as obnoxious as casino decor--because when it's too hot to cook, Los Tacos often comes to my rescue.

And to my nemesis: that's not reverse psychology that's for real, you lamentable man with a twitching, sour-faced cat.

byu volleyball camp

A few days ago I took Sophie to a volleyball camp at Brigham Young University.  This is the school I attended, the place I met my husband, and the backdrop of many happy, poignant memories.  

How surreal, then, to watch my daughter occupy these old haunts.

This week we are staying in touch with her when she finds time to text, which is not too terribly often.  

That's a good thing, right?  

She's having a wonderful time.  Her coaches are the actual coaches of the BYU women's volleyball team, as well as players from both the men's and women's teams, which is beyond amazingly cool.  

Last night Sophie attended a dance for the youth sports camps and texted to say taller boys had asked her to dance the slow dances.  

Depending on your altitude, this may or may not resonate--the phenomenon of taller boys--but when you are 6'2 at 14 years old, it is a little bit like finally touching down on your own planet.  It is a total revelation.  Trust me, I know.  

And while I'm definitely the mom who thinks there are more worthwhile interests to pursue than boys at this age, as a tall girl I could not have been more thrilled.  

notes on summer

This morning I got a text from a friend asking, among other things, if I was running a summer marathon and never touching down.

Yes.

That is very much how it feels.  There's been a lot of tag team parenting, a lot of if we take two cars then you can leave early with Sophie and get her to practice-type thing, a lot of packing, unpacking, and re-packing, a lot of driving, navigating, registering, and deciphering itineraries.

A lot of color coded maps from my husband.

It distills on my brain like a restless dream, wherein one day you are a normal person entitled to her own thoughts and the next you are this hounded mother of three growing girls who need rides everywhere and no matter what you are never going to get them there on time.  

This is a new phase of parenthood.  Maybe not technically new, per se, but the old phase is growing ever more outward and shifting into higher gear.  

I love my friend who is a few steps ahead of me parenting-wise (and in many other respects), who with her simple, genuine way helped calm me over this increasing speed limit, this expanding frontier.     

I realize these pictures do not especially convey the message of a hectic summer...pictures can be misleading that way. They were taken over the weekend when I brought the younger girls up to Utah to meet Roger and Sophie at a volleyball tournament, then switch kids so he could head home and I could continue on with Sophie to another camp.

It was a brief yet lovely moment of being together in these beautiful woods.

While there we discovered some delightful forest sprites.

And this young deer, who watched me as I watched her.  

One still moment at the beginning of a new day.