tollipop

she's off and running

Over the weekend we took Sophie to BYU.  

That sentence stares at me from the screen, leaving me blank in terms of what to add.  I can say I'm deeply grateful, excited for her, and filled with the peace which comes from knowing God is near and over all.  But I can also say these past few weeks have been shaky in unexpected ways...feeling fine one moment and then, without warning, plunged into an awareness of impending change, of something so dear and elemental not quite leaving, yet still dislodging from its usual place in my heart.

As we drove to Utah, however, I felt calm in much the same way I felt while driving to Canada to visit my dad in the hospital...it wasn't an innate calm but rather one which came to me through the kindness of others, through friends who remembered me in texts and emails, thoughts and prayers.

That awareness made all the difference.  It was like an ocean wave propelling me forward, lending strength, grounding me in the goodness of the moment, assuring me this could be done.

If you are someone who happened to wish me well during that time, I'm telling you: it worked.

It helped that I got to spend time with my sister while we were there.

It also helped that Sophie's excitement to begin this new chapter of life was nearly palpable.   

Throughout the weekend as we set up her dorm room and walked around campus, purchasing textbooks and locating classrooms, I was reminded of Sophie's very first day of school when she jumped out of the car and started running down the sidewalk, her enormous backpack dangling from her shoulders.  I was struggling with my emotions, struggling to get Caroline out of her carseat, and felt aghast my little girl would take off like that without me. Didn't she need to hold my hand?  Didn't she need me to walk her into the school?  Didn't she need me to be her shield and protector??

I called out, my voice catching, feeling both ridiculous and panicked at once. Sophie turned around, her eyes wide and face bright, exclaiming, "Oh, Mum, I just can't wait to see what's ahead!"

I've reflected many times on that moment, as it has been a template for Sophie's life.  She is independent, forward facing, and engaged.  I've spent the last seventeen years trying to catch up. 

And so we are all moving forward, as there seems to be no alternative.  I don't think Izzy and Caroline anticipated the reality of the situation until it was upon them; it didn't quite click until the last actual hug.  It was a tough moment, but I see their relationships will grow in new ways, with added appreciation.  The house feels different now, the dinner table is set with one less place.  Winnie is more loved than ever, especially, I think, by my husband.

Yesterday I went for a run in the desert.  With all my acknowledgements of faring well, it felt uncommonly good to face the sun, breathe the air, and fling myself into the middle of nowhere, to feel the old, ancient magic which has always beckoned me out of doors, into my secret places to be alone, wild, and free.  

this week

Dear reader, there's so much going on that I want to sit down for a moment and not think about any of it.

I would rather think of this: Caroline's hand tattoos.  May they bloom on.

Izzy's wee scarab.

And this fantastic picture sent me by one of Sophie's friends, taken while he was out adventuring on the sand dunes.  He said he thought I would like to see it. 

A teenage boy interrupting his fun to send a picture of a beetle to his friend's mom because he thought it might be of interest.  

Let's hear it for the rising generation, dear reader.  We're in good hands.   

I would rather think of the pancakes my cousin made while I was at his house over the weekend.  

The recipe is from his mom, my dear aunt, who assured me nothing in the world can compare with Magic Baking Powder.  

I smiled, but she was not joking around.

She even sent me home with a bottle of my very own.

And now I know she's right.  For how much more magic could a pancake possibly be??

Please don't smile, because I'm not joking around.

On Veteran's Day, we visited with a friend I deeply admire, James Ruffer.  

He let me pin a Canadian poppy on his lapel and proceeded to give me and my girls a riveting tour through time.  If you ever get a chance to visit with him, you may count yourself one of the luckiest people alive.  It is completely rare to meet a man of such valor, a little bit like meeting a storybook character from King Arthur's knights of old.  He's lived a life of daring service, patriotism and love of freedom are at the core of his soul, he is well read and a fascinating source of knowledge, he is gallant and mannerly, a wicked hand at Hearts, and has a beautiful wife and ten children.

So many men and women have given a great deal, even all, to protect the freedoms I hold dear.    

Yesterday Sophie signed her official letter of intent to play volleyball for BYU.  I find myself feeling a bit like a lost tourist through such moments, as if I've stumbled onto someone else's grand event and am left to make sense of it from a distance.  

In a way, I don't think I've quite gotten over the fact I had Sophie in the first place, I don't think I've processed that initial awe.  

So sometimes it's hard to keep up with everything else.

home

Bad hair days.  Everyone has them.

How are you doing, dear reader?  I just spent the weekend in lovely Reno. Lovely and cold!  

I'm always so disappointed in myself when I visit another city and end up freezing to death...it feels like a self-betrayal, like I've turned my back on my heritage or something. 

Another strange phenomenon which occurs every time I leave Las Vegas, particularly via airplane: when I return, I feel a bit disoriented.  

Is this where I live?  Is this my home??  

I don't say that to be aloof or snobbish, as if Vegas doesn't meet with my exacting standards of dwellability.  It's more that it genuinely throws me every time, looking out over the city and that vast, barren terrain as we come in for the landing.  

It surprises me.  

And then it surprises me that it surprises me.  

I guess such moments provide an unanticipated gauge as to how reality continues to play out more in my head rather than actual surroundings.  I've always been that way.  I think I'd be surprised by a visual reminder of where I live, no matter where it happened to be.  

I remember my friend once gently told me that's a prerequisite to growing up...to move beyond one's personal reality.  I understand what she was saying, I really do.  But I think it requires more effort for some minds to do so than it does for others.  

At any rate, we visited Reno for the lovely coincidence of being able to watch Sophie play in a volleyball tournament and hear Izzy perform in an all-state orchestra there.  It was great fun, so nice to share these moments together, to see the joy these pursuits bring my girls. 

I had a chance to visit with Izzy backstage before her concert and when I asked to take her picture, she graced me with this praying mantis pose.  You'd think it was some sort of gimmick she performed just for the camera but she pretty much does it on a daily basis, acting all weird and poking at me with her little mantis hands.

It's one of those things I really love about her.  

lately

Hello, dear reader.  How are you doing?  

I always cringe when I write a post entitled "lately," because it tends to signify I haven't had much opportunity to write for the past little while, and now I'm coming here to submit an itinerary of what I did during that time.  

That's not really how I like to blog.  I'd rather relate a conversation I had with Sherlock or talk about cloud shapes.  When I think about trying to account for the past few weeks of my life I feel...the same feeling which kept me from getting here in the first place: overwhelmed.  

But there really were so many things I wanted to talk about.  

I wanted to tell you about Reading Week and how I was able to visit Caroline's class every day to read to those students.  I read Fantastic Mr. Fox and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and we had the most marvelous time together.  I mean, it was beyond marvelous.  

It was magical.

Do you believe in magic, dear reader?  Not sleight of hand, or smoke and mirrors, but real, true magic?

Try this: contact your local elementary school and ask if you can be a volunteer reader...then visit a class and read Fantastic Mr. Fox to them.  What will transpire during those moments is nothing short of magic.  It is completely unusual. It is electric.  Time is suspended, the room disappears, and it's as if you and those children are winging through a universe of foxes, tunnels, foul tempered farmers, and everything else in between.  

Read with love.  Read with wonder.  Read with relish.  Read with expression. Read as if you wish you could soothe every care and make the world a better place, as if you believe each kid is the brightest and most interesting person you could ever hope to meet.  

Because they are, dear reader.  

Somehow I feel convinced of all the things I could do with my time, this thing is one of the best.  This is not an attempt to back-pat or compliment-fish, but I honestly believe I can make the world a better place by reading stories to children.   

How is that not magic?

Moving along, Sherlock molted.  He's quite a character, my dear little Sherlock. For one thing, he is a voracious hunter.  For another, he's very antsy.  And finally, he does not adore me half as much as Charles Portis did.  When you stop to consider the extent of Charles Portis's affections I think you can feel very sorry for me, indeed.  

The desert darklings are back!  It makes me happy to see them tottering about the desert, doing handstands and keeping their little corners of the world in order.  

Yesterday we went to southern California to watch Sophie's team compete in a tournament.  As I get to know these girls better, I grow increasingly more fond of them.  

I am sort of shy, especially around teenagers, but I hope they know how much I admire them.  They fought like lions in the last game we watched and I was nearly moved to tears.  Afterward, I wanted to run up to each girl and express my feelings, but I know that would have been manifestly UNCOOL.  

As it was, I did run up to this girl and hugged her to pieces and made her take a picture with us.  I always come back to this feeling of wonder that my lovely, sweet, growing up girls were so recently babies.  Sophie was the dearest little thing to lug around: my blinking, brown-eyed girl.  I did not realize how quickly time would pass nor, as much as I cherished her, did I grasp how wonderful she would become and is still becoming.  

I do not say this in some some simple, naive way...I speak with my eyes open to the sorrows of this world and the struggles I have within it: wonder, beauty, magic.  I see it every day, in almost every moment of every day.  I see it in rooms full of children, hungry for a story, in every insect I've ever stopped to observe, in glorious spring days and piles of leaves which look like tattered butterfly wings, in total strangers and the people I love best.  

I get a little nervous when I write such things in case it conveys the impression I never feel like breaking an emergency swear vial or hiding away in a closet.  

I do, but none of that changes the rest of what I just said.

over the weekend

Over the weekend we watched Sophie play in a local volleyball tournament. Her team did very well, placing 14th out of 130 contenders.  This is a high level of gameplay, rife with bloodthirsty gladiators and balls whizzing around like asteroids.  In case you were wondering where all the tall people hang out, come to one of these events.  It's like wandering through the gene pool of amazons.    

Best of all, my little brother Jonny came to visit.  

We had a wonderful time together, though not without an element of distress as our youngest niece was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia.  

I am grateful to report she will be coming home today.

On another note, dear reader, I think I must take a break from blogging.  I don't know if it's the time of year or a general weariness altogether, but my heart hasn't been much in writing lately.  I feel tired, worn out by daily demands which seem to rear up with increasing frequency.  I really do wonder about our schedule, whether it's too busy or if I am merely incompetent.  I cannot help but feel something about revising this novel is also taking a toll, but it seems silly to go on about that...presumptuous, or something.

At any rate, I hope this will be a brief hiatus and am wishing you the very best in the meantime.  

yoga is good for the soul

Dear reader, this is still something of a blog break, or at least a pace scaled back from daily entries, but I had to return because of my disinclination to leave up that post about Charles in case anyone might wonder if I was still in mourning, if it was only appropriate to wear black or speak in hushed tones around here.

I am still in mourning.  I always will be over the loss and sorrows I've sustained along the way.  I don't adore loss but since I rarely have a say in the matter, it follows that I don't mind mourning.  Mourning reminds me how dear and precious something was to me.  It keeps a sense of having loved intact.

BUT.  Just because I mourn doesn't mean I can't also be happy.  Franchement, how dreary would that be?!  Sorrow has its place on my stage, but more as strange and lovely background scenery.  The main characters tend to be: contentment, wonder, gratitude, amusement, and love.  Oh, and forgetfulness. 

At any rate, I'm still struggling with my novel revision, and it seems the effort spent there saps the energy to come here and write more.  But I wanted to stop by and post a few pictures of things which have been making me happy lately, because that is just as important as things which make me sad.  

So to begin: Izzy's yoga cats.  What could possibly make one happier?

Caroline's report on Henry Hudson.  At least, things were going swell until that final mutiny.

Sending packages in the mail.

The quest for a dress: accomplished.  And the happiness of that moment lives on forever.  

Side note: the experience was not anywhere near as daunting as I feared it would be...though my inner Puritan has a few tart words for designers and their seeming inability to create frocks which don't heavily rely on exposure as part of their allure.  

Forget Puritan.  I don't even think it's flattering. 

The desert and the ever mysterious comings and goings of cairns.

Cubby.

Izzy and her violin.

Caroline and her cello.

Volleyball girls...or is it just tall girls in general?  Either way, they make me happy.

Rice pudding.

And tiny cars parked beside tiny houses.  Who can imagine all the tiny goings on within?

as molting chambers go, it's not exactly the ritz

Poor Mr. Portis.  How did he come to be stuck with such a hayseed?!  What qualifies me to be the guardian of gentility incarnate?  You may recall my track record on this point is not exactly stellar.

At any rate, I suspect he is preparing to molt, as evidenced by the fact he took one look at the cricket I laid before him this morning, then flicked it away in an expression of contempt.  

On second thought, this could just as easily indicate his feelings toward me in general.

The thing is, dear reader, I need to take a break from this blog but don't DARE while we're hanging off this cliff together, wondering what merry goose chase Charles might lead us on this time.   

So...please rest assured I'll try to keep you abreast of the situation.  I'll try to let you know if Charles molts to the size of a wooly mammoth and exacts vengeance for the way I constantly offer him a penny for his thoughts.

I can't help it, dear reader!  I know it's annoying, but he always looks so lofty, so transcendent, so beyond the things of this world!  It maddens me to no end, it makes me put a death grip on my Hi Chews.

Charles, darling: if I'm forced to renounce candy, then there's simply no way.

You'll have to be enlightened without me.  

As for everything else, beyond the bustle of the season, we are doing quite well around here.  

By the way, I realize you don't come to Tollipop for style advice, but here's a seasonal tip I gleaned from my sister-in-law which I plan to exhaust without mercy: the wearing of leg warmers beneath boots.

When it comes to fashion, I try to set realistic expectations for myself: to dress my age without undershooting it by a mile.  

Where does that leave me?  It means, sadly, that Caroline gets the cat-ear hairbands all to herself, but I do think I'm safe with this conservative approach to leg warmers.  

If you disagree, break it to me discreetly, darling.

Beyond that, Sophie's school volleyball season ended yesterday, bittersweetly. The sweet part is having her home again.  I'll enjoy that while it lasts.

Izzy continues attempting to split the atom with her violin.   

And Caroline.  Sweet Caroline.  She's still my little girl, my constant companion.  We're reading Pride and Prejudice together at night.  She comes and lays on my bed as I unfold the intricate tale, sometimes quite drowsy by the time I'm done.  But she knows the story well and I read with a British accent, so it is a moment of shared pleasure between us.  We keep remarking on all the walking undertaken by the ladies of that time and have good intentions to go for our own evening stroll, but so far to no avail. 

It seems, perhaps, we'd be ill suited as Victorian heroines, though you can be assured I would have bungled the part long before we ever got to the matter of wandering the moors.

over the weekend

Over the weekend we had a family movie party and watched Kon-Tiki, a depiction of the true story of Thor Heyerdahl who sailed from Peru to Polynesia in 1947 on a balsa wood raft.  The only problem is, everyone went to bed and left me and Izzy to watch a bunch of bronzed Norwegians clamber about a dubiously seaworthy craft on shark infested waters.

But that's not why I'm staring.

I'm staring because on that 101 day voyage over the deep blue seas there was one particular sailor who kept a collection of books in his sleeping quarters and whiled away entire afternoons just...reading.  

I miss that, dear reader.  I miss those days when I could be lost in a pile of books without ten different ways to demand my attention: no texts to hasten time, no voicemails or emails...nothing.  I miss the days when books were the authority, when you couldn't just whip out your phone and google Thor Heyerdahl, you had to go to the library and look him up in the encyclopedia under h.

And if you wanted to take a book home you had to write your name on an index card, wait for the librarian to peruse you over her reading glasses, then stamp it with her due date stamp.  But first you had to present a card, a library card, and weren't you so terribly pleased to be in the possession of one?! 

There's something about that memory which romances the living daylights out of me.

Beyond that, there was a cousin birthday party which incited a flurry of gift making.

A tiny cookbook with real recipes!  What could be better?

The birthday girl was tickled green.

I often tell my girls nothing makes me happier than to watch them enjoy one another's company. But seeing cousins get along so well comes pretty close.

There was also lots of volleyball over the weekend and the chance to see a favorite coach.

Tin Lizzie, against all odds, still lives.  True to her name, she is a sturdy character who keeps on running despite the occasional broken part.  Her little yellow antennae are no longer to be seen, for example, leaving me to conclude they must have actually fallen off.  

It makes me sad, dear reader.  It really does.

Something about her resilience, her spunk, the way we've settled into a comfortable understanding (oh, please let it be an understanding...please don't let it only be me thinking there's one): I just want her to make it.  I want her to live. 

And then there is the desert.  There's always the desert.  It's been lonely out there lately, empty and grey...sometimes I wonder if I should take a break from it, as well.

But if I get rid of all my escapes, my circuitous routes, then where would I be?  

Is there another raft stocked with books, waiting to take me on a voyage across the open seas?

Maybe, but I don't think so.  

This is my raft, the good ship Tollipop, and the desert is my ocean.  And I'm writing a story which I can lose myself in for entire afternoons, whether it becomes a book or not.

Possibly not as romantic as a crew of bronzed Norwegians striking out across the Pacific, but then you can't always quantify these things scientifically, dear reader.  You can't measure the depths of someone's passion by the leagues of the sea, nor tell by the way she drives carpool the degree to which she may be wild at heart.  

You can only smile and exchange pleasantries, hoping for each person there is a raft, an ocean, and a pile of books out there somewhere, awaiting the luxury of losing oneself for an entire afternoon.

these lazy, smoldering days of summer

This summer has been unusual so far.  I mean, it's been busy, but it hasn't been insanely busy.  If there's one thing I wonder about in terms of how we're raising our family, it is the seemingly relentless pace our lives.

That's not the only thing I wonder about, by the way.  But in the interest of your time and for clarity's sake, let's narrow it down to this: we seem to be very busy.  And it's not like I have that so called tiger mom mentality wherein I can't be at peace unless my child is hyper-engaged in meaningful development every minute of the day...but it seems nowadays having your child participate in even one measly activity is the equivalent of laying her schedule upon the altar and watching it get hacked to bits with a machete.  

Multiply that by as many kids as you have and watch your own schedule get juiced in a blender. 

By the by, I wonder what mentality I fall under?  Probably the butterfly mom. Something flighty but not to be underestimated...perhaps throw a little hippogriff in there as well, if those things are real.  

This week Sophie is at a volleyball camp at BYU.  She's been training with other recruits and playing against the actual members of the men's team, who were #2 in the nation this year.  Every night I get texts and phone calls from a very weary girl who is so excited and happy all I can do is listen and smile from ear to ear.  

At home, it's been cousin central...my sweet little niece has been staying with us while she and Caroline attend a local volleyball camp.   On the drive there and back, they regale me with questions as to how they may turn out exactly like Sophie and whether or not I will let them buy dangly earrings or the possibility of acquiring just one more fish.  

For myself, I'm still running.  The weather has been more exciting lately, which puts a little spring in my step.  Nothing like running for your life to speed things up a bit.

Marshall continues to mesmerize me with his inscrutable ways.

The scarabs are still thrilled as ever with their new vegan way of life.

And I'm still writing.  It's slow going, but nice going at the moment.  

To that end, I wanted to mention what may already be obvious, namely, that posting on this blog has become sporadic as of late.  I'm reluctant to announce blogging breaks because it always seems I fail to take them, a victim of my own reverse psychology.  But my crazy mind also tells me I should write a note of excuse if I'm not going to be a regular at this tea party...probably completely unnecessary in your minds, I realize...more just a flaw in my own weird sense of etiquette.  

I wanted to say at least this much.  

And to tell you it's a rabbit.  

So obvious.

over the weekend

Everyone was gone.  Everyone, that is, except me and Caroline.

Sophie and Roger went to a volleyball tournament in Reno.  Izzy travelled with her school orchestra to a competition in San Diego.  And Caroline had her first ever volleyball tournament here in town.  

It's been an interesting few days.

For one thing, Caroline's team lost every game.  Just got...demolished.  

Her team was markedly younger than the next youngest team in the tournament, but that fact was cold comfort in the heat of the bloodbath.  

Every day for weeks I've listened to my girl say how excited she was to compete in this tournament.  It was all she could talk about, that and the latest drama going on in On the Banks of Plum Creek.  

And when I say compete, I do mean compete.  Caroline does not show up to prance around the court and dream about unicorns.  She is there to plunder and lay waste. 

So to weather a day long drubbing...was something of a bitter pill to swallow. She wiped away more than a few tears and I gave her more than a few pep talks, telling her she was doing it exactly right: hanging in there, being a good sport, fighting for every point, congratulating her team, rolling the ball under the net, refraining from trash talk or evil eyeing the ref.  

By the end of the day I thought she'd be ready to throw in the towel.  But it turns out she can't wait for the next game.

Izzy called later that evening to say after the competition, in which she'd been the soloist in a concerto played with her school orchestra, the judge asked her to describe what she liked best about her performance.

Izzy, caught off guard and standing on stage in an auditorium filled with peers, said she thought her intonation had been good.  The judge responded by saying her intonation had been one of the weakest aspects of her playing.

I'm not going to sidetrack onto the various tangents this scenario inspired within me, but rather mention my greater curiosity was to know how she'd handled the moment.  There was a time when such a public critique would have made my little Izzy's eyes shimmer.  But over the phone she shrugged it off.  It was no big deal, she said, he was entitled to his opinion.  

I often wonder about this, about helping children navigate bumps in the road without losing hope or thinking their world is falling apart.  

The weekend went on and Caroline and I had a lovely time together.  We watched Ever After.  We played Go Fish for Art.  She slept with me in my bed and at 3:30 this morning, when I had to pick up Izzy from her orchestra trip, I put a pillow and blanket in the back seat of the car and woke Caroline up to come with me.  

When she saw the arrangement, she exclaimed, "Ooooh!  A hotel!"

Sometimes that kid kills me.  She really does.

Seemingly out of nowhere, she mentioned she was bothered by the fact she didn't have many memories of her grandma, who died when Caroline was five. All through the weekend, then, she randomly remembered details about my mom and shared them with me.

Today, as we were setting up chairs for choir practice, she said the last thing she remembered doing with my mom was attending a funeral together.  I stopped what I was doing and asked if she was sure it had been a funeral and she seemed very definite on that point...which is interesting, considering the only funeral she ever attended was my mom's.

She was eager, when Sophie came through the door, to demonstrate how she'd played in her tournament.  

And Sophie knew just how to listen, just how to commiserate.

Tonight my head is full of thoughts...of the sweetness of my youngest, the gift of having her to myself this weekend, of raising resilient children, of teaching sisters to build friendships, and feeling how good it is to have everyone safely back home.