Thoughts From 15,000 Feet

Dear Readers,

I returned to Boise late last night after spending a week in New York and New Jersey.  I enjoyed a lot of great experiences, and even more important, a lot of great people.  I have a bag full of stories and memories to share, but that will have to wait for another day.  For now, here is a snapshot from my travels last night that I wrote on the plane ride from Minneapolis to Boise.

As I was getting off of the plane in Cincinnati, I watched as an older black woman climbed into an airport courtesy wheelchair.

"How are you, Mrs. White?" Asked the girl who would be helping her.

"Blessed."  Answered Mrs. White.

So certain in her conviction, so quick to answer.  It wasn't religious, pretentious, or annoying.  Rather, it may have been the closest thing to a wholly honest answer to that often inane question that I've ever heard.

It is possible that I took this entire trip to hear that one, valiant word: blessed.

Sincerely,
h.

A Hot, Glittery Mess

Dear Readers,

Not long after I wrote my last post, where I made a commitment to not be depressed and self-deprecating, and to be kind and offer pie to everyone,  life threw me a curve ball and challenged that commitment.  A dear friend of mine, Deana, decided it was her time to leave this party we call life and let us continue on the dancing in her absence.  And I, once again, found myself in a place of contemplation spurred by the sting of heartache and the longing for an answer to that great question: why?

Deana and I worked at Anthropologie together, along with a gaggle of fantastic girls.  Working with all ladies has it's ups and downs, but I made and strengthened some great relationships there. Deana was one of those, and we always had a great time together.  We laughed, all of the time.  She's one of the few and the proud that could match me in my crassness, and my wit would cower in the shadow of hers.  Loren went into the hospital on my last of work at Anthropologie, and knowing that I was greatly distressed, Deana organized a gathering of the great Antho ladies and took me out for a night on the town to help me take my mind off it; funny how it's a night I'll never forget.  We weren't best friends, the ladies in her life that she was closest to are a phenomenal bunch that never cease to impress me.  However, she was a great friend to me, and I think I was to her.  Either way, I'm glad I had her in my life, I'm glad we had a few occasions to dance all night, I'm glad we made dirty jokes, and I'm certainly glad some of her glitter spark rubbed off on me.  As we learned from Robert Frost (or Pony Boy in "The Outsiders"), "Nothing gold can stay."  But it's impossible to get rid of glitter.

So, let me tell you about that week that Deana died.  I had a birthday, a funeral, a wedding, and a tattoo appointment, one right after the other.  Highest of highs and lowest of lows.  My closest of friends, that joyous group of people that are so essential to my heart that it would stop were they to leave, showered me with love and joy and gifts that I didn't deserve on my birthday.  The next day I picked up my sweet kindred spirit Stephanie, and we spent the morning reflecting and laughing and crying, and then joined some of the other beautiful loves of Deana's life for a memorial that was fitting and tragic. Later we sat in the backyard of Deana's house and mingled in that sort of dazed way you do after a tumultuous afternoon, smeared red lipstick on one another and left red kisses for our departed friend.  On Saturday I was overjoyed to be with my family, that amazing Braegger clan that is full of laughter and chatter and gossip and pie.  My cousin Taylor's wedding was beautiful, it was so fun to be a part of it.  Shay and I were charged with playing the music; it was great to have a reason to dance and celebrate.  Finally, Sunday came and after a year of waiting I went to see the amazing Darcy Nutt, who tortured me for several hours, but the end result is a beautiful and perfect scar.

From this week, I learned (again) that tragedy and joy are the most unlikely companions, but hand in hand they walk together.  I guess it makes sense, as their existence is dependent on the other's success.  Thank you, my friends, my family, for sharing in both with me.  If my life has any purpose at all, it has everything to do with you.  Thank you, Deana, for helping me remember all of this.  I hope you've found yourself in disco heaven, and that you'll save a dance for me.

Sincerely,
h.

Love by the Slice

Dear Readers,

A few weeks ago, I was sitting next to my Uncle Wally near the fire pit at the hollowed grounds of Banbury Hot Springs. We were discussing my blog, the very one you're currently visiting, and I mentioned that I was working on not being so depressing. In response, he told me what my Grandma Hazel used to say to him when he was depressed: "Usually people are depressed because they're spending too much time thinking about themselves."

This conversation has echoed through my mind several times. My Grandma was and continues to be a very important person to my life and development. She died when I was Lucas's age, a very young 8 years old. Even then I put her on a pedestal, and when I think of her I picture someone filled with nothing but warmth, light, and love. I would love to grow up to be just like her. I suppose that it goes without saying when I hear words of advice that she's given, I listen to them reverently and closely and lock them away safely in my heart. What Wally shared with me has held an extra sort of gravity, and I think it's because it was a message that I particularly needed at this time in my life.

I, just like everybody else, have a lot of reasons to feel sorry for myself. My life has had more than it's share of grief, pain, illness, and misery. I have struggled with clinical depression for the entirety of my adult life, sprinkled with post-partum depression as well as anxiety issues. I have an auto-immune disease that reminds me daily that it's alive and well and doing it's best to make things difficult. Funny, I'm getting upset with myself for listing my complaints like this. I don't wear self-loathing well. For that reason, it was and is hard for me to recognize that I am being selfish when I allow one or the other of the items on my list of despair to bring me down. Once again, I can look to my Grandma Hazel's example for guidance; she spent a great deal of her life battling diabetes. I'm sure her list of struggles in life far exceed my own. However, I don't remember ever hearing her complain. I don't recall a time that she had negative words to say about anybody else. But I do have vivid memories of her patience, her kindness, and her pie, which she shared with whomever walked through her door.

This next week I will have my 33rd birthday. As a gift to myself, I am releasing myself from self-pity, and will replace it with the freedom to perform good works for others. I will allow my mind to rest from it's thoughts of self-doubt and critisism, to leave the job of deprication to others, to find and recognize my strengths and beauty. I will think kind thoughts, say kind words, and practice kind deeds. After all, I am doing no one else (let alone myself) a service of wallowing in guilt, grief, and depression. There's already plenty of that in the world without me adding to it. Most importantly, I will make more pie, and everyone that walks through my door will be offered a piece. I'm not sure that there's a better way to serve love and happiness than by the slice, after all.

Sincerely,
h.

A Window to my Soul

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.

My Mom: a Mother's Day Tribute

Dear Readers,

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

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.

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.