My Medicine Cabinet

It's that time again. Flu and Cold season! When we don't feel well, we head for the medicine cabinet. I'm sure we each have our personal remedies that "honestly work the best" up front on the shelves. But, what do we reach for when we aren't feeling well on the inside? Is there a medicine cabinet for that, and what in the world would we put in it? 

It's just a thought, but a thought that has been ruminating for a while now. I think I want to build a medicine cabinet containing the following:

1. A book of poetry
2. An ipod full of my favorite music - specifically replaying the Weepies, Ingrid Michelson, and Joni Mitchell  
3. A movie that's going to make me cry and then leave me smiling
4. High-quality Chocolate (best band aids I hear)
5. Scriptures / My patriarchal blessing 
6. A coloring book with a big box of crayons 
7. A cook book with ingredients all ready to go
8. A pre-paid plane ticket to the beach 
9. Some of my old writings and letters
10. A box of exercise clothes with a Zumba membership
11. A cell phone with all my friends and family on speed-dial 
12. Fresh flowers
13. A ticket to a live play
14. Fall leaves
15. A cuddly pillow and blanket 
16. Cleaning supplies (sometimes feeling productive is my best medicine)
17. Jeans that fit perfectly 
18. Tchaikovsky's "None but the Lonely Heart" piano music. 
19. All episodes of Boy Meets World 
20. A list of friends who need a friend

So, what's in your cabinet? 

A Psalm

I took a class on the Bible as Literature a year or so ago, and had the opportunity to write my own psalm. I've always thought the psalms were beautiful songs of longing and praise, so now I add mine. It was inspired by Isaiah 40:31, D&C 121, the story of Abraham and Isaac, and of course my own raw feelings.

Forget not my heart oh Lord

and forget not the secret desires which

reside in its depths.

For I have waited upon thee in hopes of promised wings

and foretold blessings.

Oh turn not away, oh Lord, these broken knees;

Nor scorn my shaking fingers

clasped in prayer.

For I seek thee and cannot find thy face.

Where, oh where art thou Lord that I may again feel

the embrace of peace in this

my darkness?

Hasten to my side and deliver my soul.

For anguish hath overtaken my heart

in the light of another’s dark suffering.

Oh Lord, what is my path

And where is the escape from sorrow and sin?

Do not, Oh Lord, conceal

your glory from me;

Open my eyes to the purpose of thy plan

and save me from my troubled doubts.

For in this, I the child,

carry wood to her pyre,

Willingly, sacrifice for the molding

of another.

I honor thy trust,

Yet see thou my blemish.

I fear the burning fire

and doubt

the unseen promise of deliverance.

Nevertheless, like Isaac of old,

Save me by the blood of a promised lamb.

Even in my weakness and travail,

 bind up the wounds of my aching soul.

You are my guidance and my comfort,

I shall not doubt, nor fear.

For thou hast renewed my faith

to sing praise and wait upon thy answers.

Forget not my heart oh Lord

and forget not the secret desires which

reside in its depths.

For I will wait upon thee in hopes of promised wings

                                                                 and foretold blessings.

Old men, Young men

I'm trying to be a runner. 

There are running "purists," who don't need the distraction of music to keep them going. 

I am not one of those.

There are those that hit a "runner's high" and feel as if they could keep running forever.

I am not one of those.

Honestly, I tend to prefer dancing, Zumba to be precise,

but right now I am trying to be something resembling a runner. 

In my efforts, I have started to run regularly around a well-known park in my hometown. It's mostly shady and flat, plus there is a wood chip path for runners, a natural stream water fountain, and a constant flow of interesting people. Today's interesting people were the old men and the young men. 

On the wood chip path, I noticed two young men, shirtless and toned...(hard not to notice) 

They were running side by side with one of these men being completely bare foot. 

"How in the world is he running bare foot on the wood chips?" was the question that sparked my curiosity in the first place. But, what really got me thinking was their specific positioning with the runners in front of them.

Ahead of them, also running side by side, were two other men.

These grey-haired men not only kept their shirts and shoes on, but they also wore hats to keep the sun off their faces. 

I couldn't help but smile at this brief snapshot of life.

Two young men with their vibrant, confident, and fearless spirits bolting toward their future.

Two old men, content, cautious, and wise, allowing the past to chase them.

All running. 

In memory of Sheila

Sometimes it is hard to say goodbye.

I've only ever loved one car. She was my first--the first car I ever drove. I remember feeling upset by the fact that I wasn't supposed to use both feet to press the pedals. We passed my driving test with flying colors together, but she still doesn't trust me to parallel park much. On our first drive alone, I rocked out to Beyonce feeling liberated and alive. 

She was the setting for my first kiss, cheering me on with music and soft revving noises. 

She got me in trouble once for speeding down a hill, which we both thought was ridiculous. She witnessed tickle fights, crazy car dancing, and my learning to change a flat tire.

We moved away to college together, and then drove endlessly back and forth between Salt Lake and Provo. She even accidentally received a "wedding trashing" at my best friend's wedding. 

Over the years, Sheila has seen me at some of my most desperate and glorious moments. She's felt me pound the steering wheel and heard me wail a prayer into the night. She's been my silent companion as I drove my thoughts around town. She helped me be brave and pushed me to laugh, dance, and sing. She saw the cheesy and romantic deliciousness that settled into the constant comfort of being.

She is truly amazing, but now I feel like the rotten husband trading his wife in for a newer model.
Sure, she and I celebrated her 100,000 mile birthday about 10,000 miles ago.
Yes, my sister criticizes her air conditioning.
True, the windshield wipers make annoying sounds
She's been battered and bruised by no fault of mine or her own, but she has never ever let me down.


I'm going to miss her, but I am learning to love again. Perhaps this new car will be the car that takes me to graduate school, the one I drive away in from my wedding, the car that drives me to my first home, and the one my first child leaves the hospital in.

Either way, dear Sheila, it's been a good ride.

The Attitude of Singing

It was a small thing- a direct result of too much talking, yelling, projecting, singing, etc. I was losing my voice at the end of each week, but surely it would come back once I stopped talking to an entire bus-load of students.

 It hasn't. 

"Severe muscle strain" were the words from the doctor with the white coat and credentials. "Months" was the projected time for recovery to settle in. Until then, this singer would need to be on vocal rest. No projecting, no whispering, and no singing.

Singing is part of who I am. It's been part of my daily routine in ways I never realized until it was taken from me. No more singing along to the car radio, rocking out in the shower, and no breaking out into song randomly because I feel like it. It's funny because I find myself compensating in other ways. I sing along in my head simply mouthing the words. I rock my foot, tap my thumb on the steering wheel, and bob my shoulders back and forth to the music. My whole body sings without any sound at all.

I can live with that in the privacy of my car, but not being able to sing is nigh unbearable when it comes to church. I turn away invitations for solos and participation in choir, but that is nothing compared to not singing the hymns. "For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me" (D&C 25:12) It feels so wrong not singing them. I feel like people are looking at me and thinking, "why isn't she singing? Maybe she chooses not to sing the hymns, or perhaps she isn't a very good singer." I'm neither of those things, but how could they know that I am sitting there desperately yearning to open my mouth and sing?

I was reading in the Book of Mormon the other night and came across a scripture that describes angels in the "attitude of singing and praising God; yea and my soul did long to be there." What exactly is an attitude of singing? I don't know, but I love it. My soul longs to be singing, but at least for the next few months the "attitude of singing"  will have to do. Here's hoping that my singing career isn't over just yet, but even if my voice never comes back...I surely will always yearn to sing the prayer of my heart and be grateful for the way singing made me who I am.

Oxytocin: The Bonding Drug

Can you be addicted to bonding?  

Oxytocin has been labeled as the "bonding" drug. It is what naturally occurs during childbirth, nursing, and intimacy.  However, it is also wrapped up in eye contact, holding hands, putting your arm around someone, a hand on your knee, hugs, kisses, etc. It's that warm bonding that happens from physical touch. 

Believe it or not, but people believe it has a specific use in healing wounds. Perhaps there's something to the phrase "Will you kiss it better?" Mothers have kissed their child's scraped knees for ages, but has anyone ever thought it might help the healing? I've certainly found that a hug, a lingering squeeze of my hand, and a kiss on my forehead heal a wounded heart. Love heals. 

In fact it was the topic of healing that first brought the bonding drug to my attention. I attended a Social Science / Human Development Conference with my roommate once during College. The topic of the conference was Pornography and I found myself in a few presentations specifically dealing with what to do when your loved one has an addiction to pornography. 

The presenter specifically mentioned the two "Love" drugs: Dopamine and Oxytocin. He suggested that both are present during sexual intimacy, but only Dopamine appears to be present during the viewing of pornography. This Psychologist's study focused on the benefits of the increasing of intimate touch when talking with a loved one, even when talking with a loved one about his or her addiction. It is as simple as touching someone's arm, knee, or hand. Oxytocin separates the fantasy from the reality. It's the "bonding" drug that says, "I love you," "I'm here for you even when things get hard," and "I want to stay with you." It's real. I'm real.     

 I realize there are people out there that love to be alone, but I believe no one truly loves being lonely. We are relational beings.We like bonding. This is why we seek relationships in our significant others, friends, family, co-workers, strangers even, and of course in the cyber world of Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and even this blog. We are meant to be in relationships.We want to give our lives to someone who will trust and understand. In fact, besides being a major contributor to romantic attraction and maternal bonding, Oxytocin also appears to heavily increase trust and empathy. What a drug! 

It feels good. I, perhaps more than most people, tend to crave that bonding and long for it when it is not around. It speaks to me more than words sometimes. I found bits of it when my Grandma would simply hold onto my hand at the table, when I would cuddle up with my mother while we watched a show, and in the silent snuggle listening for a beautiful heartbeat. It is in my two people "just being" moments. But, what happens when you are just one person being? You simply crave. 

Can you be addicted to bonding? Well, I sure am. 

A Happy Girl's Bout With Sadness

I consider myself a happy girl. 

In fact, I pride myself on my positive, optimistic, hopeful attitude. 

But, sometimes even happy girls feel sad. 

Though dealt with in different ways by different types of people, grief is something to which we are simply not immune. Some run through it, some sleep through it. Some talk it out among safe relations, some cry it out privately in the dark softness of wet sheets. And some, do a combination that is all their own. But this is not about the "some," it is about the "one." Specifically, it is about me, the happy girl, and my turn with sadness.

"There lives the dearest freshness deep down things" 

Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote those words. Our "deep down things" are perhaps some of our most precious and sacred. They make us who we are and shape who we become. Recently, I discovered a sadness aching deep down inside of me. As a happy girl, I tried to fight it off with the thought that I shouldn't be sad. But, there lives the dearest freshness in those deep down things and sometimes it's ok to be sad. There is beauty in sadness.

Still, I didn't want this sadness. I tried to sweat it off with exercise, wash it out with expensive shampoo, mask it with fancy makeup, cover it with a new dress, or simply push it aside with constant activity, but somehow it persisted. It sat by the door of my heart like an obedient puppy, a pain demanding to be felt. So, I felt it. I felt it singing in the car, finishing my book on the patio, falling asleep, waking up, showering, or sometimes simply gazing at the clouds. These were the days when tears streaked down cheeks like rain on car windows, and I wondered if perhaps tomorrow they'd finally stay dry. For a week they didn't, but there was beauty in that sadness. 

However, let me clarify...there is beauty in some sadness. The moments of sad/mad-ness, the screaming out, sinking into a ball, hitting the dashboard, illogical refusal of hope or help moments are not pretty. Not only physically does it leave you with eyes stinging and forbidding to stay dry (or open), but emotionally it puts you in a dark hole where no one can calm you and where "this hopeful stuff really just isn't helpful anymore." I don't like this kind of sadness and am glad it didn't stick around long. It just wasn't me and it wasn't beautiful. It's just horrible.

I'm the happy girl. I didn't want to be sad, I shouldn't be sad. I had so much to be happy about. I knew I was surrounded by loving family and friends, I knew i'd made the right choice, I knew God loved me, I knew I had so much going for me, and I knew so many other people had better reasons for sorrow. And still, I ached. And still, I cried. "Don't be Sad" was the whisper that entered my ear as my mother's arms enveloped my body. I really wanted to be happy, I did, but it was my time with sadness.

"Grief is not a force and has no power to hold. You only bear it. Love is what carries you, it is always there, even in the dark, or most in the dark, but shining out at times like gold stitches in a piece of embroidery" - Wendell Berry

You can't quit living because the world deals you a tragic twist of fate. Life calls us forward. It calls us into our bodies, our homes, our work, and the ones we most cherish. It bathes us in the passing of time and the taste of healing. It is in the people who offer us love and beckon love from us. It is in the ordinary pleasures of each separate day. It is my realization that I am laughing and smiling again, and that days have passed without the taste of tear soup. It is my acceptance that it is ok if tomorrow tears kiss my cheeks, nose, and lips. For there is beauty in sadness, and this girl is happy for it.