Back With a Vengeance and an African Tulip Tree

This is the blossom from an African Tulip Tree.  It's considered invasive here in Florida--which means that it grows easily and can crowd out native trees.

This is the tree as it looks when I come out of the Lewis Center (where I take Financial Accounting this semester).  Because it is so large, I didn't really notice it until I came out after a test today and there were dozens of red-orange flowers on the ground all around it.  

The leaves are actually large leaflets all strung together.  Shiny and slick on the top, they provide great shade for the ground underneath the tree.

The back side of the leaf is dull and downy to the touch.  The ribs are easy to see--and the leaflets are attached opposite each other--at the same node on the petiole.  

What I really love, though, is the way the flowers are made.  From the side they look flat with a gradual transfer of colour from yellow through orange to a hot red.  The moon-shaped sheath that covered the flower before it bloomed is really soft and tender--fuzzy like a favorite baby blanket might be.

I love the split casing where the flower kept hidden until it was time to come out (it reminds me of a waffle cone).  The same colour scheme flows up from the back of the flower to the top of the highest petal. 

Now for the essay.  Yes?

I damaged my right shoulder about two months ago.  My surgeon didn't want to go in again and operate when I first went in to see him.  This would be the 4th surgery in the same place.  He suggested a cortisone shot--which I was OK with.  

My lifetime of falling off of horses, falling off of gymnastics apparatus, pulling at the stubborn roots of weeds, sporadic wall climbing bouts--blended with my genetic predisposition to arthritis--has left me with bulging discs in my neck and lower back. 

The pain that comes from my spine is assuaged by routine steroid shots, nerve risotomies (they go in and cut the nerves that are being crushed and that cause sciatic pain in my hips and down the back of my legs) and the infrequent spinal (it's what I got before giving birth to my first child).  SO cortisone in my shoulder was no biggie.

Unfortunately, a few days after the shot, I decided to pull some invasive vines off of a palm tree in my backyard.  My plan was to jump up and grab a bunch of them and then my weight would pull them off of the palm and down to the ground. 

It must have been quite funny to watch.  I launched myself up, arms extended straight above my head, and grasped the thick maze of vine stems.  And then I just . . . hung there.  

Having misjudged the influence that my 125 pounds of muscle and sinew would have over the thick vines that covered the palm, I hung there--listening to the remaining muscles Pop! . . . Pop! off of the shoulder bones of my right shoulder.

Envisioning what it looked like now, I am rather put off by the fact that I don't remember any pain--only the frustration I felt at failing to bring the vines down to the ground.  It felt as if I was left outside the gates of the city as night fell, pounding and screaming to be let inside.

Back to the present:  After I got home from taking the test, I looked over the test questions that I remembered AND realized that I had forgotten to subtract the SALES from the RETAIL COST OF GOODS AVAILABLE FOR SALE before multiplying the cost-to-retail ratio with the RETAIL ENDING INVENTORY COST.  So my FINAL INVENTORY AT COST was WRONG.  Augh.

This revelation leaves me outside the city gates, with my hands in my pockets, eyes glued to the ground--kicking the gates with the toe of my shoe in a hopeless, irregular kind of fashion.  

What's on the other side of the gates?

For years, one of my daughters continually sketched a small character whose face was covered--or was positioned with the back of her head facing the viewer.  I asked what the character looked like--was it an animal--a mouse or a mole or a rabbit?  As time passed, the character began to reveal more of itself to my daughter.  
"He is not ready to show more of himself yet," she would answer my questions.

What was on the inside of that drawing?
It took time, but eventually the character opened wide for the world to see. 

The same happened with my daughter--she has gradually flowered and become quite open and comfortable with those around her.  In high school, I would walk down the halls with her and lots of kids would greet her "Hi, Megan!"  I would ask her who each of them was and she would tell me softly that she didn't know any of them.  

Now I visit her, her husband, son and daughter in their home and she introduces me to all of her neighbors and describes the family members and what the children are interested in. 

I was with her Halloween 2013 (almost a year ago now) and as we walked the labyrinth of streets in her area, she told me about which Church members lived where and what callings they held.  It was as if they were part of her--as if in opening up herself, she had become multiplied, magnified. 

She has adsorbed the full range of her self:  bright sunny love; citrus sparkle intelligence; fire hot curiosity and devotion to those things that she knows are right.  I am looking forward to seeing what else is revealed as her character reaches further still--protecting her children as she provides them with the resources they will need to flourish and discover their own characters.  

Taken in New Your City  December 2012. Church door.

I am still outside the city--standing at the gate.  At 55 years old, I feel as if my own chance to emerge is beyond me yet.  My mother used to tell my brothers, sisters and me that we would be better than her and our dad.  If mankind--if each of us--wasn't growing into someone with more love, more patience, more talent, more curiosity, more intelligence, more obedience, and more sensitivity to that which was sacred and holy; then we were becoming less.  Like muscles that atrophy with disuse, we could not simply exist.  We had to be improving or we would be losing something of who and what we were.

I think I am still waiting to see what is beyond my shell--that gate that keeps me from entering, but also protects me from having to face, what must be faced.  To see the city is to see my own character--to find my own face.  

I have always loved staring at myself in the mirror.  The older I get, the more of my mother I see in that reflection.  Last year I felt a desire to have the wrinkled corners of my eyes lifted and the loose skin below my jaw taken off.  I felt old, past the time for starting and exploring and flying and learning.  I felt weighed down by the reality of my body.  

Something has happened between then and now.  I do not focus on the outside edges of my eyelids.  I carry my head higher and my back straighter.  I smile more.  I am still standing at the gate . . . but I think that I am beginning to have the patience to wait for what will come, what will become, of me.

 In this photo, I practice hold my head high and walking in the dress that I will wear to
Lauren and Rob's wedding in November 2013.

Dress for La's wedding.

Same dress but with the jacket I wore over it.  It rained that afternoon so that the hem of my dress got wet and stained as I moved around and visited with the guests.  Some reproved me--but it will probably be the only time in my life that I wear it ... so what's a little water between friends?

Esoteric phrases . . . I am never NOW.  In the time that it takes my brain to comprehend where I am--that place has changed. 

My husband protects me, still sees me as I emerge.  It is good that I trust him so well--if he has confidence in me, then so do I.        
       

Never Never Again Land--Thoughts on a Bad Experience at BestBuy

The initial point of this experience.

Me at a happier time--with Brent in NY Central Park.

I decided that I would break my usual habit of ordering ink cartridge replacements on-line.  It seems so easy to look up the part number and find the best price, click it into my "basket," click on the basket icon, click CHECK OUT--and two days later, a box full of ink cartridges appears on my front porch, behind the ficus bonsai trees and across from the pitcher plant.  Sometimes I hear the quick, single FWAP! our UPS man makes with the knuckle of his forefinger before he turns and strides back to his brown truck.  (I LIKE our UPS man . . . but then I like most people who bring me good things and don't ask me to babysit their children.)

The printer cartridges.  I decided to order them "For Personal, Same Day Pick Up" from the Best Buy store located off the next exit south of us, off I-95.  I paid for my order of 4 color combination (three colors all in one box) and 6 black and white (each in its own little box).  The email receipt came immediately--with a last line that read DON'T COME IN TO PICK UP YOUR ITEMS UNTIL YOU RECEIVE AN EMAIL FROM US TELLING YOU THAT YOUR ORDER IS READY.  Small print afterwards:  It usually takes about 45 minutes to process your order.

Me at a happier time--tour guide during the
Fort Lauderdale FL Temple open house.

I waited . . . an hour went by as I did some on-line homework . . . refreshed my email.  Nothing.  I waited . . . another hour went by and I folded a load of laundry and ate some Greek coconut yoghurt . . . still no email from BestBuy.  I decided that I had waited long enough.  I got in the car and took the next freeway exit South to the store.  After waiting in line for the salesfemale to process someone who had bought a washing machine, I was ignored for about 15 minutes.  When the person looked up and asked me what I wanted, I gave her my last name and the order number.  She then tried to find the order on her computer--which wasn't working at that moment.  She went to another computer, a few feet to her right, muttering that the computer system was really slow.  Finally she found the order and then opened a cabinet to her right, attached to the wall.  She fished around until she located one lump--the coloured ink cartridges all taped together with a label that had my name and order number on it.

She asked for my ID and the credit card I'd used to make the purchase--and then went back to her computer for a couple of minutes.  When she finished, she handed my cards back to me and the small bundle she had found.  I waited for a minute--and she looked up at me.
me:   "I ordered both black and coloured ink cartridges.  Aren't the black ones with the order?"
her:   "Yeah--both kinds are on your order, but the black ones are on order at another store.  It's just a few minutes from here.  You take I-95 south a couple of exits, turn left and it's on your right.  It's easy to find--you can see it from the freeway."
me:   Silence.
me:   "I selected this store as my pick-up point."
her:   "It's just a few minutes from here.  You take I-95 south a couple of exits, turn left and it's on your right.  It's easy to find--you can see it from the freeway."
me:   Silence . . . and the realization that there was nothing to do but get into my car and drive the 30 minutes to the BestBuy South of us.

Me at a happier time--in Utah last year.

I was not happy and did not wish that she would have a nice day.  I was irked and wished that I had not just ordered the ink cartridges on-line for next day delivery.  The cost of the gas needed to get to and return from the next BestBuy meant that I was spending lots more than shipping would have cost.

I got onto I-95 and drove 25 minutes South, took the exit, turned left and left my car in the parking lot outside the store.

I walked into the store and asked where Customer Pick-Up was located.  I was directed to a long desk on my right.  A customer was talking to a Sales Associate under the Customer Service sign hanging from the ceiling.  At the next computer, under the Customer Pick-Up sign, was another Sales Associate standing behind a computer screen--talking on her cell phone.

I walked up and got out my ID and credit card and the order number.  After talking with her sister or girlfriend a few more minutes (while I watched her with a steady, unblinking look), and then hung up.
her:  "What can I help you with?"
me:   "I need to pick up an on-line order."

Me at a happier time--another day as a tour guide
at the Fort Lauderdale FL Temple open house.

Thankfully, her computer was in good working order and she quickly located my order.  After calling over someone to help her find the cartridges in a large bin located in a closet built into the wall behind her, she took my cards and proceeded to ring up my order.  There were 6 small, black ink cartridges, (individually packaged) piled on the counter.  She then put them in a bag--and then asked for my credit card again.  Apparently only 5 of them had been charged--she fished out one of them and added it to the total, handed me my card, and told me to have a good day as she looked down at the cell phone she took out of her pocket.
I went to my car (by now a toasty 105 degrees inside since there were no shaded parking places in the parking lot) and drove home:  silently vowing never to make the mistake of picking up something I'd ordered on-line at a BestBuy store.  I listened to NPR on the drive home.  Installing the new ink cartridge took me about 5 minutes.  (The most difficult part was cutting through the packaging.)  I stored the other cartridges in a small cupboard near the printer.

The experience was completed.

The next day, I got an email asking me to fill out a survey based on my experience with In-Store Pick-Up at BestBuy.

It was good that I had 24 hours to calm down before the email came--but I was still fairly drawn to the "Not Satisfactory" side of the answer grid.

Up-side to the experience?  It is good to know that this was something that I would never do again.  There are few such certainties that a person is able to attain to during her lifetime.

TALK. Singing and Sacrifice

Waiting for the ceremony to start.

Sunday, 4 May 2014

Today has been filled with the temple.  This morning Brent drove me to the new Fort Lauderdale FL Temple.  I was privileged to sing with the choir at the Cornerstone Ceremony.  Elder Uchtdorf welcomed everyone and then spoke simply.  He joked about Florida’s reputation as the Sunshine State—and suggested that yesterday’s down pouring raindrops were merely tears of joy at the dedication of another new temple. 

I sang with the outside choir. 

     *A hymn to start the Ceremony.   

     *Elder Uchtdorf’s words.

     *Lots of adults put mortar around the cornerstone. 

     *Lots of children picked to put some mortar around the cornerstone. 

     *Even more people taking pictures of adults and children putting mortar around the cornerstone. 

     *We begin to sing a second hymn and the adults go into the temple. 

     *We keep singing and Elder Uchtdorf and his wife wave to the crowd, turn toward the temple doors and then go in. 

We finish the last chorus—a swell of emotion and volume and exultation . . . and relief.

The music is over.

We are still looking at the director who is smiling.  No, he is not smiling:  he is grinning and he is profoundly happy.  We all are.  And we just stand there, feeling the sun on our shoulders and the closeness of the other choir members around us.

Our eyes move beyond the director.  Behind and above him there is a cameraman.  He is pointing to the sky with his left index finger—somehow we all know that we are not to move.

As the director turns, the cameraman covers the microphone attached to his earphones.  “All clear.”

I look at the women around me and then over at my husband, who has been standing a little ways off on the sidewalk for the last 90 minutes.  Everyone starts to walk off and a panicked voice cries out—“Don’t leave!  Someone take a picture before we all split up!”

Everyone waits and poses.  The photograph is taken.  Everyone goes off to enjoy the rest of that holy Sabbath day.

Fort Lauderdale FL Temple  June 2014

Monday, 5 May 2014

I’m writing now on Monday evening.  The glow of the temple grounds is safe inside my memory . . . but now, as I think about singing at the Cornerstone Ceremony, it is tinged with guilt.

There were only three practices and I missed them all.  During the first one I was out of town.  The second, I was sitting home, surrounded by my plans and preparations for Nursery—and forgot until it was too late.  The last, I mis-read the date.  I thought that it was for Saturday night . . . but it was on Friday.  That Friday was spent at dinner with my daughter and her husband, celebrating her 29^th birthday.

The hymns we sang Sunday morning were both ones that I have sung all of my life.  When I was young, Mom sat next to me during Sacrament Meeting and sang the alto part so that I could learn it.  Those two songs were part of the fabric of my faith.

Early yesterday morning, I warmed up and then sang the hymns through dozens of times during the eighty minutes it took us to drive to the temple.

So . . . I don’t feel that I wasn’t prepared to sing on Sunday morning . . . but I hadn’t sacrificed the time and effort that the other choir members had given. 

When I have been choir director in the past, I always felt miffed by those who didn’t come to rehearsal, but then stood up with the choir to sing during Sacrament Meeting or Stake Conference.  It felt as if they didn’t find significance in or value the effort that everyone had spent during the hours that had been spent rehearsing--or value in the contribution that I had made in preparing everyone to sing.

When I lived in Des Moines, Iowa, Stake President Mills decided that the Stake Choir would sing Handel’s Messiah every Christmas to celebrate the Savior’s birth.  We began to practice in September—every Sunday evening.  He invited people to sing the solos—by virtue of their consistency in attending rehearsals rather than by being selected after trying out.  The music was difficult, but my mother said that he “loved us” into trying so hard that every Christmas it sounded wonderful. 

My second year with the choir, I was invited to sing “He Shall Feed His Sheep” (an alto solo).  It was a difficult challenge, but by performance time, I had sung it so often that I had it memorized.  

The following year, I did not set aside the time to attend rehearsals or plan to sing with the choir.   December came and the night before the scheduled performance, the Stake President called me and asked if I would again sing “He Shall Feed His Sheep” during the performance.  The woman who had been given the assignment had come down with a sore throat—and although she was to sing with the choir, she told President Mills that she could not sing the solo.

The next night, as we began to warm up for the performance, the woman whose solo I was singing, caught my eye.  Her eyes were rimmed with tears, and she mouthed “Thank you.” to me.  I nodded and whispered “You’re welcome.” back.

At that moment, I felt the weight of all of her hours of practice and worry and effort.  I felt regret that she was unable to sing out and share with the audience the words and notes that she had practiced over and over again. 

Even though I was singing at President Mills’ request, I felt guilty.

I knew the music by heart, but I had not sacrificed to earn a place among the other singers. 

Performing sacred music is, for me, a part of the “broken heart” and “contrite spirit” (Psalms 57:17) required by Christ of his faithful saints.  When I perform at Church, I bring more than my musical talent.  I offer those who hear me prayerful preparation and hours of time spent in reflecting upon the lyrics and spent in singing the melody over and over again.

Last night I took the time to review my Facebook account.  I saw a photo, posted by one of the choir members from my ward, of those who sang at the Cornerstone Ceremony.  These were the few who had taken the time and the effort to prepare properly for the temple performance.  Their song included practice hours, travel time, and reverent contemplation:  all elements of a sacrifice worthy of the rare opportunity to participate in the dedication of a new temple.

I do not know if I would decide to sing again if I were faced with the same circumstances.  I know that I loved the opportunity to perform on temple grounds as part of the dedication of a new temple.  Perhaps next time, I would enlist my family’s help in recording and remembering the rehearsal times.  Perhaps I would just stand apart from the crowd and sing for myself. 

I hope that I get the chance to find out.

In the parking lot at the Palm Beach State College Eissey Campus, Palm Beach Gardens, FL
May 2014

I love this photo.  Since plants here don't usually winter-kill, I have hopes of seeing this tree providing shade in a few years.  Two more parking spaces sheltered from the heat of the Florida summer sun--something I would willingly arrive early on campus to find.

Godiva Chocolates and Laundry, M&Ms and Skittles

Self portrait beside my desert rose plant.  Sarah (the world's more talented plant person) fertilizes it and it goes crazy.  It almost reminds me of when I would work with kids in second grade who didn't like to read.  An M&M or a Skittle per page went a long way towards getting them to really open up to what reading had to offer.
It also just look really amazing.

The house is quiet this morning. In a little while I will turn on a video and jump on my small trampoline for 30 minutes to get my heart rate up.  Then is homework and laundry.  After that I pick up the iPad that I dropped something on a week ago (I didn't even notice it--but Nathan noticed the crushed corner right away.), before heading south to the Fort Lauderdale Temple Open House to do the evening shift of Tour Guides.  They needed so many more that I also signed up to do a double shift tomorrow (Saturday).  I guess they have over 9,000 people signed up to visit.  That means that I get short breaks between every group of people that I lead through the temple.  I have it easy.  Some who come and help have to stand in the sun for four hours at a time showing people where to park or pointing out which way the sidewalk traffic flows.  

I don't think that this writing is very "essay-ish," but I have been up since 6:30 am, gone and done an hour of pilates physical therapy for my back, brought in the empty recycle bins, started laundry and mailed a package to my oldest daughter and her husband.  

Maybe this is not just a scatter of thoughts after all.  When the children were small, I tried to "get organized" and write up a list of things to accomplish the next day.  The number of things was usually pretty long.  Usually I got about half of the stuff crossed off.  One day, nothing went right.  The kids woke up sick.  The laundry was WAY backed up so there was a dearth of clean sheets and shirts.  My list had included the weekly grocery shopping trip--so there was very little left in the refrigerator.  By the time Brent got home, I was exhausted and sweaty.  He came into the family room to find me surrounded by two crying pre-schoolers and one whimpering infant.  I hadn't done the dishes from the night before or that day.  I hadn't even dared to leave the kids for the time a quick shower would require . . . in fact, I was still in my pajamas.

He knelt down beside me and kissed my cheek. As he looked around the room, I snuffled out "I didn't get anything done on my list today."

He smiled and asked to see the list.  I told him where I had left it the night before and he went and got it.  Before he returned, I heard him call to have a pizza delivered.  Still in his work suit, he sat beside me on the floor, pencil and list in hand.

As he read each item, he crossed it off and wrote in something else.  "Call for visiting teaching appointments." he replaced with "Got the children up and dressed."  "Go to grocery store." he replaced with "Fed children breakfast and lunch."  "Take children to library." he drew a line through and wrote "Comforted sick children by telling them stories and singing to them."

You get the idea.

Instead of laughing at my efforts or criticizing the piles of dishes in the sink, he offered the equivalent of a Godiva dark chocolate confection, by recognizing all that I had actually done that day.

Just before we fell asleep in bed that night, he confessed that he wouldn't trade his job for mine for anything in the world.  My work was much harder than his daily office routine.  

Brent at 9:30 pm yesterday taking a break from doing taxes and taking a conference call.

I still remember that evening--and that day--after 25 years.  He has made a life for me where whatever I have done has been the perfect thing to do.

He has allowed me to have three children, own and jump horses, act in community theatre plays, attend and teach college classes, and "spend all the money--as long as I didn't spend more than we had."

I love him and miss him every day.  The end of many of our phone conversations ends with (besides the "I miss you.  I love you.  I'm praying for you.") my admonition:  "Don't die."

I have been blessed with the knowledge that I could survive if he died before me--but like patience, I would much rather not have to make use of it.

One Photo--Bougainvillea graphic.

Graphic rendering of Bougainvillea blossom.
Palm Beach Gardens, FL     March 2014

Just One Photo--Orchid

Orchid at night.
Palm Beach Gardens, FL      March 2014.

This One is All Essay: Every Time I Drive

Every Time I Drive




Tonight is Sunday and today has been quiet.  The rain is gone for the moment and the TV is playing a movie that Nathan ordered from NetFlix--The Wolverine.  Everyone is always fighting and the heroes are always getting hurt but eventually winning and protecting the weak . . . with a threat of evil yet to come.

In this one, though, the girls are able to help protect themselves because they are kung fu masters--just not masters enough to fight all of the bad guys at once.

Earlier today I was writing about all things that come to my mind and my body automatically when I get behind the wheel to drive a car. 

   *  In 10th grade we had a ex-military man for a driving instructor.  He took everything in his life very seriously--especially driving. I remember him saying several times that he was constantly on the lookout for other people driving on the road who weren't paying attention, or didn't know what they were doing.  He never wanted to be in a situation where somebody else's mistakes involved him in a car accident. 

So, every time I get a car, I look for where to go ("The only things you can do while you are in traffic are turn left, turn right, speed up, or slow down.") if something dangerous happens--to keep me and the people with me safe.  I am aware of this especially if I'm on the freeway--especially especially if I am driving my children somewhere.  I pay attention to where I would go and what I would do if someone around me did something stupid. 

I also do the same kind of thing when I'm flying in an airplane.  I read somewhere that the people who survived crash landings did so because they looked to see where the closest exit was located to their seat. I know that most everyone who flies a lot doesn't listen to the flight attendants' instructions before the plane takes off, but I smiled to myself when they counsel passengers to "look around you and find the closest exit because often the closest exit is behind where you're sitting." 

   *  When I am on the highway, I stay out of groups of drivers.  Either I speed up or slow down--my dad told me that accidents happened when groups of cars are in a cluster and someone makes a mistake.  Drive alone and you do not depend upon others to keep you safe.

   *  At stop lights I squeeze the steering wheel with both my hands--and then relax them--over and over again.  After having the trapezium bone taken from my left and then my right hand, the only post-operative exercise possible was isotonic: strengthen the muscles without putting stress on the joints.  

Over years, this repetition (along with other physical therapy) has returned enough strength and flexibility to my hands that I am able to play the piano and flute again, do needlework again, dig in the soil of my gardens again.  This has become as ingrained a habit as flipping the turn signal when I want to turn left.  

   *  And when I am waiting in the left turn lane--there is the memory of an essay that I have tried again and again to write.  Usually when I come to a light and want to turn left, I have to wait for the cars going straight through to get a yellow and then a red light.  Next the cross traffic has a left turn green; then the cross traffic has a long green light. 

After all that, I finally get a green so that I can turn left.  

                                                               graphic by cewhendry

This one time, however, I approached the left hand turn lane and as soon as I was there--just as I was slowing down--it turned green.

Someone had been there before me.  Come.  Gone.  Left the time and place prepared so that I would not have to wait for others before I could continue on to my destination.

I have never been able to write about that experience or describe that situation in a way that flowed or made any kind of sense. But I remember it every time I stop and wait to make a left turn at a light.