Dear Readers,
This is something I don't normally do, but I wanted to share an entry from my journal with you. I wrote this yesterday after hiking into a beautiful canyon right outside of Bryce Canyon National Park. Please note, there is nothing I could write to express the beauty and majesty of this place I was so fortunate to visit. So here you go, a little window into my soul:
I met God today. As a skeptic and non-believer, it's odd for me to say that. But I know no other name for the beauty I experienced today. Neither man or woman, rather a genderless wall of red cliffs and a rushing stream of cold water, with majestic piness growing in places you wouldn't think fit for a tree.
Memories of building scenery in a mason jar with different colors of sand (that smelled both sweet and putrid at the same time) filled my mind. Remember shaking the jar, erasing the lines and colors and turning the so carefully layered landscaped into a mess of brown nothing?
The wind whispered sweet nothings in my ear of past loves and of future possibilities.
No promises made but one: what was there before my birth will stay around long after my death.
I met God today in nature's cathedral. I said no amens, and it gave me no blessings; but we shared an experience that is now recorded in the stones of the rushing creek and the canals of my memory.
Sincerely,
h.
6.07.2012
5.13.2012
My Mom: a Mother's Day Tribute
Growing up, on more than one occasion I heard the story about my mom being mad at my Grandma Hazel. I can't remember what the argument was about, but my mother's way of showing her frustration at the situation was to go into her bedroom and throw her hairbrush on the bed, and that was the end of it. My sister's and I used to really get a kick out of this story, mainly because when we were upset with our parents or each other we were loud enough that the entire neighborhood knew. Andrea and Kate had their own ways of showing frustration; mine was to play "Waltz in A Minor" by Franz Schubert on the piano as loud and as passionately as I could. I have that song memorized. I'm sure my parents know it note for note as well.
My mom never had to learn such an angry song on the piano because I don't believe she has an angry bone in her body. Patient, kind, loving, pious, she is these things. But never angry, never mean. Her name is Kristie (please refrain from spelling it wrong), and it's with great pleasure that I introduce her to you. Mom is the youngest of the five Braegger children: Jed, Nan, Ruth, and Wally. Besides my dad and sisters and I, there was never a question who the most important people in her life are. I spent countless hours with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins growing up, and still look forward to and relish the time that I get to spend with them. A big reason for this is the example my mother set for me on the importance of family; she is at her happiest when she is surrounded by hers. When someone in the family is struggling, you struggle along side them (and feed them pie). When someone in the family is celebrating, you celebrate along side them. You call them when they are sick, call them when they are well, and of course, you always feed them pie.
As of late, I have struggled with understanding my need to nurture. Ask my friends, I'm obnoxious about needing to take care of them. I have this built in urge to make sure that everyone is okay, that they are fed and their well-being is nothing but tip-top. I called my mom not long ago and asked her if she remembered just when, exactly, I started showing this behavior. As she was silent and thinking for answer, I had visions of my mom, my aunts, and my grandma at family dinners and holidays, busily preparing meals, serving them, and just as the rest of the family was finishing they were just sitting down to quickly eat and then were up again to clear the table and serve dessert. "Oh," I said to my mom, "Wait. This isn't just my instinct. I got it from you, from grandma. All the women in our family are like this!" to which she replied, "It's our culture. It's part of who we are." After that conversation, I've realized that my nurturing instincts are a gift, not a burden. As long as a Braegger lady is around, if there is someone to take care of, by george they will be taken care of! Again, my mom set this example for me.
I was convinced as a teenager and young adult that I had nothing in common with my mom. That she didn't understand me. However, the moment I had Lucas, I saw my mom in a completely different light. It's true, on the surface, we don't have a lot in common. She listens to Carly Simon, Neil Diamond, and the dreaded Michael Bolton, while I prefer loud classic rock, Radiohead, and sad ambient songs. She has faith without question, a devotion to church that is admirable, and lives her life with quiet and untarnished dignity and integrity; I am a skeptic, have loud opinions, and although I have integrity there is nothing quiet about it. Like I said, once I had Lucas I was able to see a different side of my mom. I'm having a hard time coming up with a good way to explain it, but I understand now why she is overprotective of my (as she coined it) tender heart. I understand why there are times that it's more important to be a parent than a friend to your children. I understand that there is validity to taking a hot bath when you have a problem, that more often than not if you go to the bathroom it will take care of your tummy ache, and if you just go to sleep when you wake up things won't seem so bad.
My mom has been by my side through thirteen surgeries. After my last, about two years ago, as I laid in my hospital bed recovering from my appendectomy, I would come in and out of my morphine stupor and my mom was just sitting in the dark and quiet room by my side. I told her she could turn on the tv, that she didn't just have to sit there. She said to me, "One day, if Lucas is ever sick, you won't need to do anything but just sit by his side and make sure he's okay." Although I haven't had this experience with Lucas, I remembered those words last Mother's Day as I held Loren's hand and watched him sleep. As usual, she was right.
There aren't words good or kind enough in the english vocabulary to describe my sweet mother. She is, without question, one of the best people I know. I am proud of any and every trait she passed down to me. My dad, my sisters and I are some of the luckiest people on the planet to have such a gracious and caring individual in our lives. So it is with great sentiment, awe, and love that I wish my mom, Kristie Badger, the happiest of mother's days.
I love you Mom, and am grateful and humbled to be your daughter.
Sincerely,
h.
P.S. It was me that destroyed your Michael Bolton "Time, Love, and Tenderness" cassette tape. But I'm not apologizing, because it was awful. I will, however, replace it. xoxo
4.13.2012
What's This Call, This Sperit?
Dear Readers,
For those of you who have been devoted readers from the beginning, you may recall me speaking of John Steinbeck a time or two. If you haven't guessed, his books are held very near and dear to my heart. I cling to his stories the way most do to scripture. I am his disciple. Last night I embarked on my annual reading and review of his Pulitzer Prize (as well as the catalyst for his Nobel Prize) winning classic, "The Grapes of Wrath". Although I would have to say that "East of Eden" is my favorite, most prized piece of literature in my vast collection, "The Grapes of Wrath" is in my top five. Written by a very driven 37 year old Steinbeck, he started and finished this very important transcript of American history and welfare in 4 short months. As a result, laws were made and lives were saved. Not many authors have such bragging rights.
Not to completely change subjects, but I had an experience today that shook me up a bit. One of my officemates is a lovely women named Bonnie. She's been an educator her entire life, and is passionate about teaching. After teaching elementary school for years, she retired only to be snatched up by Northwest Lineman College to teach our Training Specialists the art of instruction. We haven't worked in the same space for long, none-the-less she is a warm and loving person and someone I'm proud to call a friend. It was shocking and awful today as another coworker and friend of mine, Jennifer, and I witnessed Bonnie answer the phone to receive the tragic news that her husband had a heart attack, and was in a coma as a result. Bonnie was frantic (naturally), and Jennifer and I scurried to her aid, helped her gather her things and came up with a quick plan to get her to the hospital. Soon we found ourselves in the waiting room of the ICU, wanting to make sure that Bonnie was okay and to offer any support we could. The room was filled with coworkers and friends of her husband, and soon their grown children came as well, and we made our exit.
Last year at this time, you would find me loitering in waiting rooms on the 5th floor at St. Al's hospital, usually accomponied by one or the other of Loren's parents. A lot of reading, writing, and conversation transpired in those waiting rooms. What an apt name, because wait we did. Wait till Loren wakes. Wait till Loren goes home. Wait till the sun is shining and the grass is green and the flowers are blooming. Eventually there was nothing left to wait for. Today, sitting in a different hospital, on a different floor, in a different waiting room, the old anxiety surfaced, and my heart broke for Bonnie, knowing all the waiting she has in front of her. Regardless of the outcome, that inbetween time when you flounder in the abyss of ignorance, it's just so helpless and awful. It's times like that I miss faith. Or maybe crave it. I'm not sure, all I know is that I don't have it. I see things in such a black and white nature, I can't imagine holding an unknown force responsible for the well-being of myself or those that live in my heart. I envy those who can.
It is with that big faithless void that resides in me that I bring this conversation back around to John Steinbeck and "The Grapes of Wrath". Last night, I read some of my favorite paragraphs ever written. Tom Joad comes upon an ex-preacher named Casy, and eventullly their conversation is turned to the reasons why Casy left his preaching days behind. He says it better than I can explain:
"Casy spoke again, and his voice rang with pain and confusion. "I says, 'What's this call, this sperit?' An' I says, 'It's love. I love people so much I'm fit to bust, sometimes.' An' I says, 'Don't you love Jesus?' Well, I though an' thought, an' finally I says, 'No, I don't know nobody name' Jesus. I know a bunch of stories, but I only love people. An' sometimes I love em' fit to bust, an' I want to make 'em happy, so I been preachin' somepin I though would make 'em happy.' ...I figgered about the Holy Sperit and the Jesus road, I figgered, 'Why do we got to hang it on God or Jesus? Maybe,' I figgered, 'maybe it's all men an' all women we love; maybe that's the Holy Sperit -- the human sperit -- the whole shebang. Maybe all men got one big soul ever'body's a part of.' Now I sat there thinkin' it, an' all of a suddent -- I knew it. I knew it so deep down that it was true, and I still know it."
Now, this is the abridged version of the conversation, but I hope the point came across. Steinbeck brings up this idea again and again in his writings. That we are connected as humans, that our souls should dictate our actions, not our beliefs. That we are bound to each other by love and grace, but not by religious rederic. That we are responsible for ourselves, our choices, our actions, and not sinners that will be brought to justice by a higher being. This idea, the notion of huministic accountibility, is probably the closest thing to faith that I've found. I like the idea that we share a common soul, that we suffer and experience joy together. The tides rise and fall for all of us, and there's not a lot of emotion that hasn't been experienced by each of us.
With that in mind, I bring my thoughts back to Bonnie, her husband, and her family. If this idea is true, if we do share one giant soul, than I offer her what little light and love is in my share. I hope the waiting isn't long, and that her family is on the road to recovery soon. As for the rest of you, feel free to take parts of that as well. In turn, I offer my sincerest thanks and gratitude to the many that have shared their love with me.
Sincerely,
h.
For those of you who have been devoted readers from the beginning, you may recall me speaking of John Steinbeck a time or two. If you haven't guessed, his books are held very near and dear to my heart. I cling to his stories the way most do to scripture. I am his disciple. Last night I embarked on my annual reading and review of his Pulitzer Prize (as well as the catalyst for his Nobel Prize) winning classic, "The Grapes of Wrath". Although I would have to say that "East of Eden" is my favorite, most prized piece of literature in my vast collection, "The Grapes of Wrath" is in my top five. Written by a very driven 37 year old Steinbeck, he started and finished this very important transcript of American history and welfare in 4 short months. As a result, laws were made and lives were saved. Not many authors have such bragging rights.
Not to completely change subjects, but I had an experience today that shook me up a bit. One of my officemates is a lovely women named Bonnie. She's been an educator her entire life, and is passionate about teaching. After teaching elementary school for years, she retired only to be snatched up by Northwest Lineman College to teach our Training Specialists the art of instruction. We haven't worked in the same space for long, none-the-less she is a warm and loving person and someone I'm proud to call a friend. It was shocking and awful today as another coworker and friend of mine, Jennifer, and I witnessed Bonnie answer the phone to receive the tragic news that her husband had a heart attack, and was in a coma as a result. Bonnie was frantic (naturally), and Jennifer and I scurried to her aid, helped her gather her things and came up with a quick plan to get her to the hospital. Soon we found ourselves in the waiting room of the ICU, wanting to make sure that Bonnie was okay and to offer any support we could. The room was filled with coworkers and friends of her husband, and soon their grown children came as well, and we made our exit.
Last year at this time, you would find me loitering in waiting rooms on the 5th floor at St. Al's hospital, usually accomponied by one or the other of Loren's parents. A lot of reading, writing, and conversation transpired in those waiting rooms. What an apt name, because wait we did. Wait till Loren wakes. Wait till Loren goes home. Wait till the sun is shining and the grass is green and the flowers are blooming. Eventually there was nothing left to wait for. Today, sitting in a different hospital, on a different floor, in a different waiting room, the old anxiety surfaced, and my heart broke for Bonnie, knowing all the waiting she has in front of her. Regardless of the outcome, that inbetween time when you flounder in the abyss of ignorance, it's just so helpless and awful. It's times like that I miss faith. Or maybe crave it. I'm not sure, all I know is that I don't have it. I see things in such a black and white nature, I can't imagine holding an unknown force responsible for the well-being of myself or those that live in my heart. I envy those who can.
It is with that big faithless void that resides in me that I bring this conversation back around to John Steinbeck and "The Grapes of Wrath". Last night, I read some of my favorite paragraphs ever written. Tom Joad comes upon an ex-preacher named Casy, and eventullly their conversation is turned to the reasons why Casy left his preaching days behind. He says it better than I can explain:
"Casy spoke again, and his voice rang with pain and confusion. "I says, 'What's this call, this sperit?' An' I says, 'It's love. I love people so much I'm fit to bust, sometimes.' An' I says, 'Don't you love Jesus?' Well, I though an' thought, an' finally I says, 'No, I don't know nobody name' Jesus. I know a bunch of stories, but I only love people. An' sometimes I love em' fit to bust, an' I want to make 'em happy, so I been preachin' somepin I though would make 'em happy.' ...I figgered about the Holy Sperit and the Jesus road, I figgered, 'Why do we got to hang it on God or Jesus? Maybe,' I figgered, 'maybe it's all men an' all women we love; maybe that's the Holy Sperit -- the human sperit -- the whole shebang. Maybe all men got one big soul ever'body's a part of.' Now I sat there thinkin' it, an' all of a suddent -- I knew it. I knew it so deep down that it was true, and I still know it."
Now, this is the abridged version of the conversation, but I hope the point came across. Steinbeck brings up this idea again and again in his writings. That we are connected as humans, that our souls should dictate our actions, not our beliefs. That we are bound to each other by love and grace, but not by religious rederic. That we are responsible for ourselves, our choices, our actions, and not sinners that will be brought to justice by a higher being. This idea, the notion of huministic accountibility, is probably the closest thing to faith that I've found. I like the idea that we share a common soul, that we suffer and experience joy together. The tides rise and fall for all of us, and there's not a lot of emotion that hasn't been experienced by each of us.
With that in mind, I bring my thoughts back to Bonnie, her husband, and her family. If this idea is true, if we do share one giant soul, than I offer her what little light and love is in my share. I hope the waiting isn't long, and that her family is on the road to recovery soon. As for the rest of you, feel free to take parts of that as well. In turn, I offer my sincerest thanks and gratitude to the many that have shared their love with me.
Sincerely,
h.
3.07.2012
The Man Behind the Beard
Dear Readers,
Beyond a handful of pictures I’ve seen from his younger years, I have never seen my dad without a full beard. Never once. It’s safe to say that asking him to shave it off would be equivalent to asking him to cut off his own foot, it’s that much a part of him. My grandma Donna used to threaten to come over and shave it off while my dad was sleeping, but even as a small child I knew it was an empty threat and something she said just to get a rise out of my dad (which he was usually happy to oblige). But I’m not writing this blog about the gloriousness of my father’s facial hair; rather this bit of writing is dedicated to the man behind the beard.
Understandably, some of you are excitedly awaiting to see what sort of hilarious prose I deliver at the expense of my father's ego. It would only be fair, after all of the compromising Christmas letters and humiliating stories he's passed around about me and my sister's throughout the years. What justice would be served by me recounting the time he decided that my birthday would be the best day to fill the attic with insulation (I, the lucky birthday girl, was feeding the bricks of it into the insulation blower. Nothing says "Happy Birthday" like fiber glass burns), and then fell through the ceiling onto Andrea's bed, filling the house with shredded insulation just hours before my party guests were due to arrive? Perhaps you feel that I would get some pleasure out of revealing the time he fell off of the roof of his garage, only to have a neighbor yell at him, "Call the doctor! Call the nurse! Call the lady with the alligator purse!"? But to you I say, this is an article of dignity and substance, not cheap shots at the man who painstakingly raised three well-behaved, beautiful daughters alongside his wife.
There are some of you that probably have not had the distinct pleasure of meeting my dad, David Badger. I can't help but feel sorry for you, as he's a great man to know. Although some might consider him an "expert on rocks", he truly is one of the most intelligent people I know. A reader of fine literature, a lover of history, and a great fan of the Coen Brother's films (I believe I watched "Raising Arizona" more than any other film in my formative years), he always has something interesting to say about what he's reading/writing/watching. He has a great affection for Austria and Germany, having served an LDS mission in Austria, and later becoming a German teacher and making several trips back to the countries he connected so well with. None of us girls speak German, nor have we set foot on the European continent; none-the-less, I (and I'm sure Andrea and Kate would say the same thing) have always felt that I inherited a foreign heritage. Perhaps it was because we had to sing "Silent Night" in German at church once; more likely it was the amount of German pastries and chocolates we've consumed over the years. Regardless, my dad's love of Deutschland was passed down to us.
As I've mentioned in earlier blogs, my love of the outdoors is directly related to my father's influence. Born and raised in Rupert, he is probably the foremost expert on the Mini-Cassia area. His love and connection to both the desert and the mountains of Southern Idaho is deep, and just as much a part of him as his beard. Growing up, on Sunday's we would go on long, arduous drives on the country roads that seemed to lead to nowhere, being forced to listen to Prairie Home Companion. Although I now appreciate the knowledge gained from those drives (sparking my own love of both the terrain and NPR), at the time they were torture. There was nothing worse then being stuck in the backseat of our Pontiac with my obnoxious sisters. Typically by the end of the drive, my dad would blindly reach into the backseat until he could grab onto one of us and give a big shake accompanied by threats to leave us on the side of the road. I'm not sure how he survived us.
My dad is a man of great faith, and I can't help but admire him for it. He's very quietly dedicated to his neighbors and community; it's not rare to call home and have my mom say that he's out of the house helping someone or another. He's set the example for me of what service is. His integrity is unmatched; it's very black and white for him, what's right is what's right. Typically a man of this fashion would have a closed mind, but my dad has always been progressive and open minded. A rarity, indeed.
I find as I get older I see more and more of my dad in me. We are both stubborn, insufferable know-it-alls, and that helped to cause a fight or two between us in the past. We both think that we're the funniest people we know, often found laughing the hardest at our own jokes. We are both work-a-holics. We are both impatient. We both require our space, to be left alone when watching tv or reading, and can only spend very limited amounts of time in noisy and chaotic situations. My annoying habit of singing my boys awake in the morning is a direct result of my father raising me. So very many things; down to the way my eyes crinkle when I smile.
My relationship with my dad has gone full circle. There was a long time where I wondered if I would ever amount to anything that he would be proud of. I think we all worry about things like that at one time or another. But his opinion in-particular has always been the most important to me (regardless of whether I let him know it or not). So you can imagine my relief and joy when he called me as an adult woman in my 30's and told me that he was proud of me, that he respected my life decisions, and that he loved me. I don't know that I've ever left a conversation so moved before. I get choked up just typing about it.
I'm a lucky girl to have David Badger for my dad. I have a fierce sense of pride in my family (even those obnoxious sisters of mine have earned my loyalty), and am grateful to have been raised a Badger Girl. My mom earns a blog of her own, which I'll deliver next month. For my father however, as a little tiny bit of his 60th birthday present, I want to give him this sentiment:
Dad, I'm glad to have your traits. I'm glad I have your influence. I'm proud of you. I respect you. And I love you, so very much.
Sincerely,
h.
P.S. Dad, please remember how kind I've been to you when you sit down to write your next Christmas letter. Feel free to embarrass Kate and Andrea as much as you like; but please, have pity on me.
2.19.2012
Where I Belong
Dear Readers,
You know that John Denver song "Country Road", a folksy ballad dedicated to returning to the mountains of his youth? I've been experiencing a similar sentiment the past couple of days. I haven't felt an urge to go back to the mountains so strongly for a long time. The craving is so vivid, my dreams have been infected with visions of tree-lined mountains, feelings of solitude, and the wonderment of realizing just how small I am in this very big world.
My dad never had a son; I believe I was the closest thing to it. Kate and Andrea never showed much interest in the outdoors. I, on the other hand, enjoyed the adventure. I joined him on trips to the desert and lava flows near Kasota, to the mountains and lakes south of Albion, and spent countless Sunday afternoons exploring the Minidoka Dam area. We did everything on these trips from cutting firewood to mapping trails for his scout troop (which I am still bitter that I wasn't allowed to join just because I'm a girl). White water rafting, skiing, backpacking, my dad taught me all of these things.
Later, when I was in high school, I discovered and fell in love with mountain biking. I helped to form the Minico High School Mountain Biking Club, and spent loads of times in the foothills outside of Oakley putting the shocks on my hard earned Schwinn to the test. My friend Monica and I were the only girls in the club, and the guys were more than welcoming to us. We had a blast racing the trails, and I'm sure I made a great impression on them with my sailor vocabulary when I would wreck. That Schwinn and I enjoyed a lot of miles of trail together; when I lived in Logan I continued racing and riding until I was hit by a car on my way home from work. No matter that my head was bleeding and I needed stiches in my leg, my bike was totalled and I was devestated. I haven't been on a trail since. What a shame!
On one college spring break, my friend Melanie and I went on a road trip from Logan to southern New Mexico to visit her family. On the way, we stopped to camp in Moab, Utah. It was dark when we got to our campsite and clumsely set up our tent as best we could with flashlights. It was colder than I expected, and I struggled to sleep. Finally, at first light, I climbed out of the tent to start a fire and witnessed what is easily the most beautiful sunrise I have ever experienced. I wish I could describe in great detail the warm, gold light as filled the red canyon with contrasting dimensions of shadows and stone. We drove through the red desert, eventually making our way through a vast sage brush filled country to the white sand dunes outside Alamagordo and finally to the snow capped mountains where her parents lived. Melanie is an outdoorsman to her core, and she and I had a great time on that trip, hiking whenever we got the chance and taking time to appreciate the solitude of the desert.
For my 30th birthday, I had the great pleasure of introducing "my boys" to one of my favorite places on the face of the planet: the City of Rocks. I grew up visiting there with my dad, and remember loving it from a very young age. The pioneers wound their way through the rocks on the Oregon Trail, and you can still see where they wrote their names and messages, as well as the seemingly permanent ruts of their wagons. Shay, Chris, Aaron, PL, Loren, and I had a blast climbing and exploring. We all slept in the same tent, and all woke feeling like we had slept on a rock. It is one of my favorite memories.
I can already hear the call of the Sawtooths, even though I won't make it there until late spring at the earliest. Zion's National Park and Bryce Canyon are beckoning me from afar. Even the small trails in Hagerman are singing my name. I've made a resolution to ignore the pains of my joints, pull my backpacking tent out of it's hiding spot, load up my 15 year old pack, strap on my boots and hike up that country road, to where I belong.
Sincerely,
h.
2.05.2012
The Misery of Youth
Dear Readers,
I rode into the 1990's holding to the dirty flannel shirt wrapped around my older sister's waist. The very early years were lost in my childhood, but I made up for them quickly during my awkward tweens. Full of angst and hormones and armed with a very small collection of grunge cd's, I traded my bright Cross-Colors Malcolm X shirts (because no one can identify with the trials of civil injustice quite like a 12 year old white girl from Rupert, Idaho), for plaid shirts, thrift store cardigans, and a pair of fake Doc Martins.
I was reminded by all of this a few weekends ago, when late one night with Shay out with the boys and Lucas asleep in bed, I found myself watching the Cameron Crowe documentary "PJ20", about the beginnings and goings on of the band Pearl Jam. Conincidentally, I also dug out all of my old journals that same weekend, and spent a couple of hours being thoroughly entertained by my much younger self.
Like a lot of the music from those days, my journal pages were filled with themes of loathing and longing, a bipolar roller coaster of elation and dispair. I wrote of specific songs during that time, honestly believing that I had problems in common with the likes of Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain. Why not? Why wouldn't a good mormon girl who had never been to a bigger city than Salt Lake have much in common with heroin addicted rock starts? Clearly, it was a time when emotion took presidence over reason.
At the time I was quite sure I was the quintisential misunderstood teenager, and I was eyes deep in a misunderstood generation. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, they were our voice. I remember clearly memorizing the words to Pearl Jam's song "Jeremy", and standing in front of my 9th grade speech class, reciting it as poetry, and sitting down in my seat thinking to myself, "No one in here understands the meaning of that song but me." Ha! Such confidence for someone with such limited life experience.
Later in my teens, while attending Minico High School, I went through some seemingly traumatic surgeries. I had been diagnosed with an extrememly rare skin disorder, which required a sizeable piece of my scalp to be removed. In preparation for the removal, a tissue expander was implanted on the left side of my head, and every week I had injections of saline put into the expander. It was extraordinalry painful, the stretching of my skin. By the time it was filled to capacity, it was about the size of a softball. My hair was cut short. My peers were cruel. My soccer career was over. Conincidentally, that awful band "The Presidents of the United States" released the song "Lump" during this time; I hate them still. I remember coming out of the second surgery, after everything was removed, and looking in the mirror to a horror scene. A nylon stocking of sorts holding my mess of a head together, my face swollen and my eyes blackened, and all I could do was cry. A mistake from the doctor resulted in more surgeries than originally planned, going through my senior year of high school. The strangest thing about this experienece, is that not a word about it was written in my journals. Not one, single word. In fact, this might be the first time I've written about the experience at length. Instead there is page after page of emotional vomit; entries of length on music; horrible poetry and drawings concerning crush's and my prettier friends of whom I was green with jealousy. The later pages desciribing my questions in faith and the beginnings of an existential crisis.
As The nineties ended I was entering adulthood. A year and a half at Utah State, a stint in Washington D.C., and then finding myself in Boise helped to curb my self-loathing and I found that maybe life wasn't as bad as I had assumed. The music scene made a transition along side me; while Pearl Jam survived, the grunge scene in general was lost. I found what I needed more and more in hip-hop and indy-rock. I stuck to some classics (The Smashing Pumpkins, The Cure, The Smith's...a whole lotta "The's"), and embraced a music culture that was bigger than me and I understood it as such. My journals were not so desperate, but far more introspective.
So after watching that documentary, 20 years of a single band, I was touched and a bit emotional. I would love to be able to go back, and whisper to my younger self that things aren't that bad. Yes, there are people who are mean, who will say awful and horrible things. Yes, there is saddness and dark times. Yes, there are times even when you're surrounded by people who love you that you will feel disengaged and lonely. But overall, the majority of days will be good days, and that yes, you are beautiful, and yes, you are talented, and yes, you will be a catalyst to others. Most importantly, I would ask myself to please throw away that disgusting flannel shirt and dress with some dignity because, let's be honest, nothing says "desperate" more than a pair of fake Doc Martin's.
Sincerely,
h.
I rode into the 1990's holding to the dirty flannel shirt wrapped around my older sister's waist. The very early years were lost in my childhood, but I made up for them quickly during my awkward tweens. Full of angst and hormones and armed with a very small collection of grunge cd's, I traded my bright Cross-Colors Malcolm X shirts (because no one can identify with the trials of civil injustice quite like a 12 year old white girl from Rupert, Idaho), for plaid shirts, thrift store cardigans, and a pair of fake Doc Martins.
I was reminded by all of this a few weekends ago, when late one night with Shay out with the boys and Lucas asleep in bed, I found myself watching the Cameron Crowe documentary "PJ20", about the beginnings and goings on of the band Pearl Jam. Conincidentally, I also dug out all of my old journals that same weekend, and spent a couple of hours being thoroughly entertained by my much younger self.
Like a lot of the music from those days, my journal pages were filled with themes of loathing and longing, a bipolar roller coaster of elation and dispair. I wrote of specific songs during that time, honestly believing that I had problems in common with the likes of Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain. Why not? Why wouldn't a good mormon girl who had never been to a bigger city than Salt Lake have much in common with heroin addicted rock starts? Clearly, it was a time when emotion took presidence over reason.
At the time I was quite sure I was the quintisential misunderstood teenager, and I was eyes deep in a misunderstood generation. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, they were our voice. I remember clearly memorizing the words to Pearl Jam's song "Jeremy", and standing in front of my 9th grade speech class, reciting it as poetry, and sitting down in my seat thinking to myself, "No one in here understands the meaning of that song but me." Ha! Such confidence for someone with such limited life experience.
Later in my teens, while attending Minico High School, I went through some seemingly traumatic surgeries. I had been diagnosed with an extrememly rare skin disorder, which required a sizeable piece of my scalp to be removed. In preparation for the removal, a tissue expander was implanted on the left side of my head, and every week I had injections of saline put into the expander. It was extraordinalry painful, the stretching of my skin. By the time it was filled to capacity, it was about the size of a softball. My hair was cut short. My peers were cruel. My soccer career was over. Conincidentally, that awful band "The Presidents of the United States" released the song "Lump" during this time; I hate them still. I remember coming out of the second surgery, after everything was removed, and looking in the mirror to a horror scene. A nylon stocking of sorts holding my mess of a head together, my face swollen and my eyes blackened, and all I could do was cry. A mistake from the doctor resulted in more surgeries than originally planned, going through my senior year of high school. The strangest thing about this experienece, is that not a word about it was written in my journals. Not one, single word. In fact, this might be the first time I've written about the experience at length. Instead there is page after page of emotional vomit; entries of length on music; horrible poetry and drawings concerning crush's and my prettier friends of whom I was green with jealousy. The later pages desciribing my questions in faith and the beginnings of an existential crisis.
As The nineties ended I was entering adulthood. A year and a half at Utah State, a stint in Washington D.C., and then finding myself in Boise helped to curb my self-loathing and I found that maybe life wasn't as bad as I had assumed. The music scene made a transition along side me; while Pearl Jam survived, the grunge scene in general was lost. I found what I needed more and more in hip-hop and indy-rock. I stuck to some classics (The Smashing Pumpkins, The Cure, The Smith's...a whole lotta "The's"), and embraced a music culture that was bigger than me and I understood it as such. My journals were not so desperate, but far more introspective.
So after watching that documentary, 20 years of a single band, I was touched and a bit emotional. I would love to be able to go back, and whisper to my younger self that things aren't that bad. Yes, there are people who are mean, who will say awful and horrible things. Yes, there is saddness and dark times. Yes, there are times even when you're surrounded by people who love you that you will feel disengaged and lonely. But overall, the majority of days will be good days, and that yes, you are beautiful, and yes, you are talented, and yes, you will be a catalyst to others. Most importantly, I would ask myself to please throw away that disgusting flannel shirt and dress with some dignity because, let's be honest, nothing says "desperate" more than a pair of fake Doc Martin's.
Sincerely,
h.
12.30.2011
Good, Evil, and the Promise of a Better Tomorrow
Dear Readers,
On my way home from work today, I watched as the sunny sky complimented by fluffy white clouds was swiftly overcome with a wave of darkness. For a moment, there was a distinct line between the light and darkness; it looked like a photo from one of those pamphlets overzealous christians hand you on the streets to inform you in a few illustrations and words that you'll most likely be going to Hell. Already in a reflective mood, when I witnessed this strangeness in the sky I couldn't help but think of the battle of good and evil.
I studied philosophy in college (which is the reason for my great success in life, I'm sure), and wrote several papers on the concept of good vs. evil. I've read many books and articles written by far smarter people then myself on the subject. It's a fascinating subject because it's a battle being fought all of the time; as nations, as communities, within ourselves even. There is no one that is immune. The concept is easy enough to understand. Simply said, there is no good without evil, no happiness without sadness, no love without hate, etc. etc.
Keeping this in mind, I'm broaching on a touchy subject. Don't worry, it's not politics or religion or anyone's waistline. Rather, I would like to speak on the year 2011.
If the concepts I discussed a paragraph or two ago are correct, then I experienced the year 2011 so that I can put both past and future years in proper prospective. 2011 will be the year to gage my happiness and misery by. Good days will seem great when I remember "Hey, it's not 2011 anymore!" Sad days will seem not so dismal when I think, "Hey, 2011 was so much worse! You can get through this!". One doesn't gain this perspective without experience, of that I'm sure. That doesn't mean I'll volunteer for experiences like I've had in 2011; I think my perceptions are fine as they are now, thank you very much.
For the majority of the year, I have looked to December 31, 2011 as a beacon of light in a very dark tunnel. Somehow, magically or otherwise the transition as the clock turns to midnight will be like a baptism; I'll get to enter a new year as a new person. I'll leave this pathetic year and all of it's lousy sorrow behind, and be welcomed by the new year like a brand new baby into a mother's arms. A cleansed person, I will have a positive outlook every day with nothing but smiles to offer. Sweet mother of mercy what a miracle it will be! Sugar will taste sweeter, the sun will shine brighter, the gods up above will call down to me from their seats in the sky, "Heather, this year is for you!" And what a grand year it will be.
So maybe, just maybe, I'm exaggerating the possibilities of 2012. But here is the beauty of the battle, I now know how bad it can be, so it won't take much for it to be a great year. In an effort the start the cleansing process a day early, I would like to note the highlights of this otherwise dreary year. That way, if anything else, I'll end this mess on a high note. In no particular order, here are the good parts:
1. I landed my job at Northwest Lineman College. This may surprise you as much as it did me, but I have found my calling in the work force at a vocational college that trains electrical linemen. I have never been so happy at a job. The work environment is not only healthy, it's optimistic and supportive. I feel very fortunate to find myself as the official Smiley Happy Face of NLC.
2. I attended my friend Jessica's wedding. I have loved Jessica and her family for a very long time. They have always been good to me. This year, not only did they invite us to the wedding, they engulfed Shay and I in their lovely world. I can't remember a more pleasant stay in Salt Lake (and we have a few memories there, don't we Jess?). The happiness of that weekend was exactly what my broken little heart needed, and I only hope that one day I can help them in the same way.
3. I spent a lot of time with my family. Whether in Banbury, Tamarack, Rupert, or the bowling alley, spending quality time with my family (both immediate and otherwise) has proven to be therapeutic. Sometimes it's just so damn noisy I can't hear myself think, which in it's own way is a blessing. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for loving me and reminding me how lucky I am to have such an amazing bunch of relatives.
4. I learned how to be a good friend. This was a hard lesson with a lot of trial and error. I haven't perfected it by any means. But I try to listen more. I say "I love you " more. I value my friendships and relationships more. And most importantly, I allow them to take care of me more. It's a fact that I lost more friends then I gained this year, but regardless the amount of love I give and receive has somehow increased in significant quantities.
5. Baking my heart out. Sometime in the summer, when I was having a really hard time, I stopped by Bricolage on a whim and asked sweet Julianna if I could bake for one of their First Thursday events. She graciously said yes, and we made arrangements for pie in November. Focusing on that one particular Thursday got me through some rough times. I know it sounds ridiculous, but there is something very calming to me about making pie, and just imagining people enjoy my fruit and cream filled creations was enough to give me some hope. After Bricolage, I moved on to Festivity, not to mention a plethora of orders in between. There are few places I'd rather be then in my kitchen and to all of those who support that part of my life, my most heartfelt gratitude is yours to keep.
Well, that about sums up the good. I'm sure there's more (Lucas learning to ride a bike, heartfelt letters and emails sent to me by strangers, dancing in a basement club in Portland, finding a friend in Boise...tell me again why it took so long Brion?), but at this moment these are the things that stand out the most. It makes me smile to read this list. So I'll cross my fingers and hope the Mayans are wrong and I'll look forward to enjoying the upcoming new year.
Sincerely,
h.
On my way home from work today, I watched as the sunny sky complimented by fluffy white clouds was swiftly overcome with a wave of darkness. For a moment, there was a distinct line between the light and darkness; it looked like a photo from one of those pamphlets overzealous christians hand you on the streets to inform you in a few illustrations and words that you'll most likely be going to Hell. Already in a reflective mood, when I witnessed this strangeness in the sky I couldn't help but think of the battle of good and evil.
I studied philosophy in college (which is the reason for my great success in life, I'm sure), and wrote several papers on the concept of good vs. evil. I've read many books and articles written by far smarter people then myself on the subject. It's a fascinating subject because it's a battle being fought all of the time; as nations, as communities, within ourselves even. There is no one that is immune. The concept is easy enough to understand. Simply said, there is no good without evil, no happiness without sadness, no love without hate, etc. etc.
Keeping this in mind, I'm broaching on a touchy subject. Don't worry, it's not politics or religion or anyone's waistline. Rather, I would like to speak on the year 2011.
If the concepts I discussed a paragraph or two ago are correct, then I experienced the year 2011 so that I can put both past and future years in proper prospective. 2011 will be the year to gage my happiness and misery by. Good days will seem great when I remember "Hey, it's not 2011 anymore!" Sad days will seem not so dismal when I think, "Hey, 2011 was so much worse! You can get through this!". One doesn't gain this perspective without experience, of that I'm sure. That doesn't mean I'll volunteer for experiences like I've had in 2011; I think my perceptions are fine as they are now, thank you very much.
For the majority of the year, I have looked to December 31, 2011 as a beacon of light in a very dark tunnel. Somehow, magically or otherwise the transition as the clock turns to midnight will be like a baptism; I'll get to enter a new year as a new person. I'll leave this pathetic year and all of it's lousy sorrow behind, and be welcomed by the new year like a brand new baby into a mother's arms. A cleansed person, I will have a positive outlook every day with nothing but smiles to offer. Sweet mother of mercy what a miracle it will be! Sugar will taste sweeter, the sun will shine brighter, the gods up above will call down to me from their seats in the sky, "Heather, this year is for you!" And what a grand year it will be.
So maybe, just maybe, I'm exaggerating the possibilities of 2012. But here is the beauty of the battle, I now know how bad it can be, so it won't take much for it to be a great year. In an effort the start the cleansing process a day early, I would like to note the highlights of this otherwise dreary year. That way, if anything else, I'll end this mess on a high note. In no particular order, here are the good parts:
1. I landed my job at Northwest Lineman College. This may surprise you as much as it did me, but I have found my calling in the work force at a vocational college that trains electrical linemen. I have never been so happy at a job. The work environment is not only healthy, it's optimistic and supportive. I feel very fortunate to find myself as the official Smiley Happy Face of NLC.
2. I attended my friend Jessica's wedding. I have loved Jessica and her family for a very long time. They have always been good to me. This year, not only did they invite us to the wedding, they engulfed Shay and I in their lovely world. I can't remember a more pleasant stay in Salt Lake (and we have a few memories there, don't we Jess?). The happiness of that weekend was exactly what my broken little heart needed, and I only hope that one day I can help them in the same way.
3. I spent a lot of time with my family. Whether in Banbury, Tamarack, Rupert, or the bowling alley, spending quality time with my family (both immediate and otherwise) has proven to be therapeutic. Sometimes it's just so damn noisy I can't hear myself think, which in it's own way is a blessing. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for loving me and reminding me how lucky I am to have such an amazing bunch of relatives.
4. I learned how to be a good friend. This was a hard lesson with a lot of trial and error. I haven't perfected it by any means. But I try to listen more. I say "I love you " more. I value my friendships and relationships more. And most importantly, I allow them to take care of me more. It's a fact that I lost more friends then I gained this year, but regardless the amount of love I give and receive has somehow increased in significant quantities.
5. Baking my heart out. Sometime in the summer, when I was having a really hard time, I stopped by Bricolage on a whim and asked sweet Julianna if I could bake for one of their First Thursday events. She graciously said yes, and we made arrangements for pie in November. Focusing on that one particular Thursday got me through some rough times. I know it sounds ridiculous, but there is something very calming to me about making pie, and just imagining people enjoy my fruit and cream filled creations was enough to give me some hope. After Bricolage, I moved on to Festivity, not to mention a plethora of orders in between. There are few places I'd rather be then in my kitchen and to all of those who support that part of my life, my most heartfelt gratitude is yours to keep.
Well, that about sums up the good. I'm sure there's more (Lucas learning to ride a bike, heartfelt letters and emails sent to me by strangers, dancing in a basement club in Portland, finding a friend in Boise...tell me again why it took so long Brion?), but at this moment these are the things that stand out the most. It makes me smile to read this list. So I'll cross my fingers and hope the Mayans are wrong and I'll look forward to enjoying the upcoming new year.
Sincerely,
h.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)