a free couch...

I keep thinking about my couch.

It's become quite a personal symbol of God's love for me. You see, DC met us with surprise expenses and a mostly unfurnished apartment, meaning the futon that was left here had to cut it, because there just wasn't any wiggle room in our budget. And it was a huge blow for me. I can't even completely say why. It's probably partly due to the fact that I fantasize about decorating each apartment we move into and then am faced with harsh realities every time. Or it's because I was so desperate for friends but the ugliness of the futon was enough to make me turn down play-dates at my house. Or it's because after an evening of sitting on it, catching up on Parks and Recreation my tailbone literally ached from the lumpy, awkwardly angled, hideousness that was to be our "couch" for the next 9 months. I just couldn't take it.

I cried about it. More than once. Yes! Cried! About how ugly and uncomfortable my futon was! And the knowledge of just how petty and stupid I was being would cause me to plunge deeper into my tears.

Sigh.

Those were the days.

But I got over it. Sometimes it takes a good cry and a good bath to realign your perspective so that you see you actually have everything you could possibly need. I have four walls and a roof. And a sweet (albeit force to be reckoned with) daughter. And a loving husband. And access to a billion free things in the city to distract my toddler (and myself) with. And food. And a bike. In many ways I'm living the life I suppose.

So I went to bed repenting, but grateful one night. Grateful that I have so abundantly much. And repenting for have forgotten so completely.

The next morning Mike woke me up saying, "Free couch!" (I thought he said, "FREAK OUT!" and I was so confused coming out of my blurry-sleep that I thought there was a terrorist attack or something). But no. No terrorist. Just a free, not-bad-looking, genuine leather couch that was up for grabs to whomever would haul it away. We made a phone call, rented a van, and by lunch had a new couch.

It only took me letting go a little bit and realizing that I am blessed beyond measure. And I do believe that God was involved, as silly as it may sound when taking about free couches.

So there's this wearing pants to church thing going around. And like everything that comes and seems to rock the boat a bit, so too has come the sort of vitriolic comments (see, I would have linked to the Facebook group that started the pants-wearing-thing, but the comments are so off-putting it's not even worth revisiting the page to get the hyperlink) and back-and-forths that make me want to delete my Facebook, ditch this blog, and take my family to the hills. But that's not very courageous, now is it?

But the pants thing keeps turning my thoughts to my couch. I guess I can't stop thinking about God's love for us. That He cares about what we care about; that he cares about what others care about (even when it seems as silly as a couch; that He cares that some of his daughters (and sons) feel belittled and underrepresented in His Church; that He cares about our questions and our doubts and even about us wearing pants to church. Because he loves us.

I read two things recently that also have been swirling around my brain and mixing with all these thoughts about feminism and couches and pants-wearing. The first are the verses in Mosiah 18 about  mourning with those that mourn and comforting those that need comfort; about knitting our hearts together in love; about compassion and service and standing together with one heart and an eye towards God. I love those verses. I think they speak to what we strive toward. I think they stand as a stark contrast to what I read online between passionate members ofttimes. The second is in 2 Nephi 30. We read that chapter last night and the last few verses stuck with me because it reminded me that there is yet so much to be revealed. We just have to trust God and keep on keeping on.

I guess I just want to say that I'm hopeful that answers will come and hearts will be mended. Because I got a couch. And that is way more silly and inconsequential than any of the things so many of those that I love are grappling with every day. That's why I'm hopeful and how I know that God loves us.

The tempest and the calm

Last night I was a tempest. I let the weighty emotions take over, the loud, challenging ones in me met my loud-challenging desire to keep my head up. It took me too long to blow over. But by morning I had slept, and woke to my favorite face in the world.

Today I feel steadied. I just put my paints away for the day while watching rush-hour traffic backed up outside my window. I'm about to make dinner for my family of three. And Mikey just walked in the door.

A calm has set in.

Travellog: Ohio to DC

Open roads and clouds in Pennsylvania

In many ways we feel like we never left. Even though our stint here over three years ago was short, it was gritty and real and left deep impressions on us and our marriage. If we gained some staying power in Italy, we laid our bedrock in Washington DC.

Only 72 hours after saying "I do" I was thousands of miles away from anything familiar. My life felt completely new and foreign. I was a wife now and trying desperately to figure out what that meant for me, for my identity, for my role. I was trying to make the best home I could and look for a job while writing hundreds and hundreds of thank you notes. I was grappling with many of the newnesses that newly weds do but letting much of it fall away as I focused on love and commitment and making dinners without a kitchen. Soon we were both working long hours, living in a place a little rough around the edges, and finding out in a very real way, that we were each others' new everything.

I was thrown in. Sink or swim.

I think we came away sailing.

She kept a small library within reach for the whole drive.

*

About three hours outside the city we hit traffic, and rain, and a text message that made me angry. I wanted to drive. Fast. But instead we rose and fell with the hills and saw mostly red brake lights as we inched (mile-ed) along the highway. It was the darkest point of the drive. Mike patiently sat by my side, probably wishing he was the one behind the wheel and not his raging wife.

As we ate dinner with family Sunday night they asked about the drive, about which point was the worst and whose fault it was. "It was Paige's wasn't it" they said, jokingly (intimating in their sarcasm that the suspected-culprit, Ada, most likely caused the uproars in the car). Mike and I turned to one another, "Yeah. It was Paige." "It was me!"

*

After filling up for the last time I let Mike drive. Because of the traffic, my behind-the-wheel time was less-than therapeutic and handing over the reigns gave me time to close my eyes and find my inner-adult again.

By the time we got to Constitution Avenue I was calm and any sadness or worry or anger I felt faded as the memories surfaced, one after the next, of being in this city as a newly married woman—walking home from the movie theater and wondering if we were lost yet; getting caught in monsoon-like rain and buying new shirts so we wouldn't have to wear our wet ones all night; going to church for the first time at the church on 7th; my first Eastern Market breakfast; riding the bus the completely wrong direction; feeling like a pioneer. My heart felt so big and so ready to do it again.

I love this city. I want to make it home again.

Helping unpack her things

Make me feel like shining

I've tried to write my feelings a dozen different ways this morning, but nothing I've written seems to capture the weightiness in my heart. It seems ironic when life is so good, so bright, so full.

I've always been one to wonder and question.  It's been one of the many reasons I've been grateful a thousand-times over for a husband who seems to understand things clearly. He helps me uncomplicate my thoughts and line them up into understandable rows.

I like to think I'm a lot like my great-grandmother who is said to have been same. My grandfather said she was very intelligent, always thinking and writing and trying to uncover the mysteries she faced. Sometimes I wish I could talk to her and learn how held so tightly to things she believed and could understand, and gripped less tightly to those things which made her mind wander or her faith slip.

Not that mine is dangerously slipping. But it seems like everywhere I turn I see another person who I love decide that faith is too complicated, too hard, or too unknown. And it sometimes puts a hiccup in my normally steadily-humming heart. I understand how easy it is to let one domino knock down another and another until you're too confused to set them up again. I've had to learn what my reset buttons are—certain things to come back to, certain passages to rely on, certain people to steady me—and find the strength (or often humility) to press them.

And I'm confident other people will figure it out because I believe in people. I guess I'm just feeling the weight of what it means to be a human struggling to spiritually contextualize humanness. I'm feeling the heaviness of watching others grope for truth and realize that I'm right by their side, groping in my own way for pieces of light that make me feel like shining.

Stories and liquid modernity

Last Sunday, we listened to one of Neal A Maxwell last talks. The talk felt so grandfatherly to me.

While listening I thought about stories—my stories, others' stories—and why they matter at all. It comes back in a small way to creating community, I think. Stories also matter because they serve as one more reminder that we're a work in progress and so is everyone around us.

*

The hard thing about stories is that they're slippery. Events slide into other events. Picking the starting point when recounting a story always proves difficult. Even stories like: how I met my husband, because truth is there is a point where I met him, but there were months of events that brought me to that point. And years of events before that. You see?

*

Several months ago Mike told me about a term he has just learned: Liquid Modernity. The term seems so fitting. "Nomadism becomes a general trait of the liquid modern man, as he flows through his own life like a tourist, changing places, jobs, spouses, values and sometimes even more. . ." When the world we live in is more-or-less a liquid one, it's no wonder why it seems so scarey and people seem so lost. It's also no wonder why we have the compulsion to record our wanderings—to give a sense of place, stability, or momentary solidarity. That way, in moments of retrospection we can see that we are indeed forging a path, that we're moving forward, even if it seems like we're constantly sliding off the road.

I think this is one of the strongest under-pinning of my faith: I believe in God because He is the only stable thing I know to exist. In a world of eternal change, I hold to the Unchangeable One, because it makes me feel rooted in something solid.

*

I often come back to the question: Why am I doing this? Am I blogging for myself? To clear my brain and help me sort through experiences? To record my life? Am I blogging for my posterity? So they can see the ways I change and grow? Am I blogging for others? It this time I spend daily to help others? To give them tips? To give them insights? To give them a story?

Honestly, I'm not sure. And it changes from post to post. But one thing that constantly hums in my head while I think or talk or write is that our stories matter. I don't know a better, more powerful way to say it: our stories matter.

I am a series of events

Linton, oil, acrylic, beeswax on panel, 9 1/2" x 9 1/2"

If it's scientifically proven that everything is in a constant state of change, then life's big question: Who am I? becomes irrelevant. It's no wonder the question is hard to answer. What you are changes from one moment to the next. It's impossible to pin down.

Rather, the question we should be concerned with is: What am I becoming? After all, we know that matter is energy (and energy matter), therefore it's what we put our energies into that constitutes the matter we are made of.

Michael shared a few lines from the book he's reading with me a week or so ago. The author explains,

"The idea of a substance [or, I would say, a person] as something extended in space and persistent in time becomes meaningless if neither space nor time is absolute. A substance [or, again, a person] now had to be considered a series of events, connected together in one continuum, taking place in space time. . .  there occurs a process of everlasting change; and the only thing eternal is change itself." - Europe Since Napolean by David Thomson

Viewing myself as a person living in space time—as one in process of everlasting change—not only coincides comfortably with what I believe about the eternal nature of beings, but also gives me room to breathe a little in my mortal skin. I think the paradigm shift from Who am I? to Who am I becoming? takes the paralyzing weight off the present and constructively places it as Focus in the future. It helps me remember that every day matters. And that means tomorrow too. It allows me to treat myself more kindly because I know that I am just a person striving. Mistakes don't mean I'm a bad person, rather, they serve to strengthen my belief that I am a person in a constant state of change. And change means ups and downs. Who am I becoming? Isn't it a hopeful question?

It's hard to compartmentalize events in our lives. I am not made up of neat little bits of my life, but the sum—in totality—of my experiences, circumstances, history. Sometimes that sum can't be divided so tidily. I am made of a series of events, connected together in one continuum.

And so I'm back again where I started several years ago when I began work on my final show: "This notion [that I am a series of events] has profound implications; that events give birth to events, changes to changes, and actions to actions; that I am but a part of a grand causality."

Funny how cyclical our understanding is.

At once

I watched a short video about space on AshMae's blog while holding Ada on my lap. I was caught up in the at once grandeur and simplicity of it all. The movie made space out as sophisticated and scientific one moment, but then ordinary—just a couple of big balls that spin around each other—the next. I thought about God; about his at once complexity and plainness. And about my life; how it seems at once a frenzy and a calm.

Then I looked at Ada. My perfect little Ada. My Ada who just the day before had spent many hours in frustration because she couldn't get in and out of her highchair by herself; who flailed and screamed when I tried to help her turn two pages of a book that were stuck together; who hit and cried when she couldn't make me understand exactly what she wanted.

Now she was so calm. She was content sitting with me and turning her green spoon over and over in her fingers. She caught me craning my neck to look at her face. She turned.

We took turns finding each others' tongues and clapping our hands loudly, then softly.

I thought about her again later as I laid down together before her nap. I thought about how she is like space. Perplexing, involved, vast, systemic and extraordinary—but small, clear, simple, sincere and pure.

Maybe one of the reasons we have kids is so we can remember how at once miraculous and mundane our lives are.

Becoming a little person

After just over 30 minutes at the new museum in town, Mike and I bustled out of there with our bored and anxious toddler. The whole time I was thinking, How will I change her between now and April when my parents come and we plan on hitting up several museums and sites a day for over a week?!

Poor thing.

But after a quiet Sunday, I was struck by the thought that Ada has been spending an eternity prior to coming to me forming a personality and becoming the little person she is right now. So while I still believe I can teach her, I recognized that I can't change the fundamentals. They're out of my control. She's only been my daughter for thirteen months, but she's been Someone Else's for an eternity. And I think He has a pretty good handle on parenting.

The realization didn't solve my museum conundrum, but it did make me feel like Ada is spectacular. 

Ada's latest trick: climbing onto the kitchen table. Oh what fun!

Two thoughts on humans

1. Nicholas Phillipson authored a book on Adam Smith and talks about his desire to study human nature in an attempt to create a better society. He summarized Smith's conclusions like this:  "The only thing we can be sure [of] is that human beings are the weakest, feeblest, most defenseless of all animal species. The only reason they can survive is because they learn to cooperate . . . We learn from the moment we're born to exchange ideas, goods, services, sentiments with others and we do that because if we don't we die. . ."

2. Tom Freedman published an article Sunday that points out an oft overlooked renewable resource. In praising Taiwan he says, "...you developed the habits and culture of honing your people’s skills, which turns out to be the most valuable and only truly renewable resource in the world today." And quoting a researcher on natural resources and test scores noted that, ". . . knowledge and skills have become the global currency of 21st-century economies."

Because the day is beautiful

C'è il sole.

I woke to a screaming child two nights ago. When I fumbled around for her in the dark my hand found wetness before the baby. And then it rested on a wet, screaming baby who wouldn't stop rubbing her eyes, which prompted more hysteria. I called for Mikey to turn on the lights, and when he did, I saw my Ada absolutely covered in vomit. Her clothes, her bed, her face, her hands. She looked more helpless than I've seen her look in a long time.

I scooped her up and stripped her down, all the while trying to get her to stop rubbing her eyes with messy hands. It will just make it worse, Sweetie, I tried to tell her.

I spent all day yesterday trying to get everything washed and dried before bedtime. I did six loads of laundry.

Today, there is sun. It's bright. If you stand still enough you can feel its warmth.

Today, I went into my bedroom to hang yet another load of laundry. Ada was happily jabbering as she sat under the drying rack—just one of her many personal hideouts. The sun streamed through the gauzy curtains. The house was warm and clean. Ada was content and well.

I stopped.

I stood still and felt how beautiful the day is. How beautifully simple my life is. It was one of those rare, but sweet moments; one of those moments that become fixed in our memories as a snap-shot of perfection. Pile up enough of them, and you have picture of heaven.

I don't think I stand still enough to feel enough. I'm working on that.

Thawing, technology, and place

Everything seems to be thawing. Yes, streets, cars, bikes, doors, walkways, the city in general, but also my mood. It's like my iced over attitude is slowly being freed by the sun. Other people seem happier too, I don't think it's just me. The feeling on the street is more sunny, and not just in a physical way.

It's weird to see a city painted in such rich, warm colors look so cold in the Winter. Without the sun making it glow, yellow just looks dirty. But the past few days have been full of light and rays. Everything is illuminated again. And people are out reconnecting with each other. It's like we all came out of hibernation and we can't wait to tell someone about it.

I've been thinking a lot lately about place. Specifically physical place. I think the internet has tricked us into thinking we don't need geography. You hear people say, I work from home. So home can be anywhere. But I'm beginning to feel more and more that humans have an intrinsic need to be connected to place. Physical place. We need to feel a sense belonging in actual spaces, in real communities. We need to have frequent interactions with those who live—breath, eat, sleep, shop, play—in close proximity to where we live.

Connection has become too disconnected from geography. I think it has cheapened what it means to be connected to someone.

And don't get me wrong. I am the first to admit that I love Facebook because it keeps me in touch and connected to those who are far away. But there is something so much more in talking to them face to face and being in the pictures posted to their profiles, rather than just clicking through them.

Cyber-connection has also made us introverted. There's no need to make friends in new places because I can keep in touch with more people than I could ever have time for that are an ocean away. Plus, let's face it. Making friends is hard, and we like the friends we have. The problem is that the cursory, cyber-interactions are becoming so frequent that we forget how enriching and deep real interaction is. It's like getting high-fives all day when what you really need is a hug.

Take church. We have the technology where I could Skype into all my Sunday meetings, worship in English with people I know and love, see faces, hear voices, more fully understand the lessons that are being taught. But The Church says, No. You worship with those you live by. Because physical space matters. Our bodies matter. Handshakes, and hugs, and singing together, and turning the pages of books, and looking each other in the eye matter. Geography matters. It's strange that spirituality relies so heavily on physicality.

I'm not sure why I'm thinking so much about this lately. Perhaps its because I'm finally feeling connected to this place. Or maybe it's because I think of more and more things that I'm missing back in Utah. Or maybe it's a combination of both.

I guess, what I'm learning is that while you can be rooted in several places, you have to be primarily invested in the place where your feet hit the pavement each day.

Piena Vita

The view from the courtyard where we lock up our bikes at home.

In forced and broken Italian, we tried to explain what we feel makes up a "full life." In the article we had just read, Alexandra said her life was full: she had a good job, a beautiful house. My Italian teacher began asking each of us: What does it mean to have a full life? (Che cosa significa 'una piena vita?'")

My friend was asked first. She is probably one of the most sincere women I have met here. You can tell by watching her for just a few moments that she would do anything for her family. She's an extremely devoted mother and wife. She works hard. She doesn't complain. I'm always impressed by her day-in and day-out positivity and cheerfulness. She responded, "Mia famiglia. E . . . basta!"

I was asked next. "Anchio, ma anche abitare in un bellissimo posto." In a different setting, perhaps both of us would have answered in a different way. As the rest of the class answered, I thought of how I would answer the question if I had all of the words and ability that I did in English. At the top of the list, undoubtedly, was my family. But without being surrounded by beautiful and inspiring things, would I still think my life was full? What about without other relationships? Without friends? Is there room in a full life for good food? For working hard? For achievement?

I began feeling guilty for not giving my friend's answer. I felt that maybe she was better than I because she said her family is all she needs.  

Does it make me a discontented person to confess that I need more than just my family (even though they make up the large majority of what I need) to feel like I have a full life?

I took these questions to Michael and we talked while we ate leftover tomato soup from the night before. He has a way of teaching me while we talk, but not making me feel like a louse in the process. It makes me grateful every day. We talked about how we have both always felt stirrings and tuggings that there is something important for us to do. We both agreed that while the most important thing to do is to raise a family that Heavenly Father would be proud of, the gifts and talents that He placed in our hearts are also worthy and important pursuits.

Michael shared a quote with me from Joseph Smith that says,

"A man filled with the love of God is not content with blessing his family alone, but ranges through the whole world, anxious to bless the whole human race.” (History of the Church 4:227) 

Those words settled on me softly and made me feel dignified again. And I thought how grateful I am for the Restored Gospel and modern-day prophets.

I think when we're acting as our best self, we could boil our efforts down to blessing the human race. The feeling of wanting to surround myself with beautiful things and thoughts and people and places isn't selfish in its very nature. It can be used as a tool to show others the beauty in the being I worship every day. It makes me happy to have beauty as a constant presence in my life, and the God I worship cares about my happiness.

I feel deep gratitude, especially on Thanksgiving Day, as I think about what I have been given and what I have to do. My life is full. From the stirrings in my heart to the dinner on the table, I feel blessed by and indebted to a host of people, but most of all to Jesus Christ for placing those stirrings there and giving me the power to turn them into actions.

West of the Hudson

I was just as bothered as Mikey was, but I didn't want to let it fester. Maureen Dowd's most recent New York Times article annoyed me. Not because she was poking fun at Mormons. I think members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints need to get better at laughing at the jabs and maybe jabbing ourselves now and again. But I was bothered that she published such misinformation and wrote it off as journalism.

Like, we have sermons on getting our own planets someday. Or that we refer polygamy as "The Principle." (What? I don't even understand what that means. "The Principle?").

It's interesting to watch the world become aware of something you've known your whole life. It makes you self-conscious. Not in an embarrassed way, but in a way that you're aware of what could be perceived as weird.

The thing is, there's tons of fodder for a poke-fun article based on stuff that's actually true about Mormons. Like the fact that we don't drink coffee. Or our focus on families. Being married with a baby at 22 is weird. Believe me, I GET IT. But who knows where Dowd dredged up some of her misinformation.

There is so much information on the LDS Church (Michael Otterson, anyone?) it's almost embarrassing to publish about it without getting the facts straight. And it's not that I think everyone needs to be an expert on Mormonism. I, admittedly, know relatively little about other faiths.  But I least hope that I wouldn't declare my ignorance as "news".

One commenter said, "They say they don't practice polygamy, but I don't believe them." Okay. Here's the thing. A "Mormon Polygamist" is an oxymoron, a contradiction of terms and anyone with a grain of intellectual integrity knows that. I've lived in the Rocky Mountains my whole life and I have never known a polygamist; never known one, never met one.  In fact, they are kind of hard to find.  Sure, you might see some at a service station when your in the Middle of Nowhere Utah/Colorado/Arizona/Idaho but Maureen Dowd acts like we see them in our chapels every Sunday.  Sometimes I wonder if she has ever been west of the Hudson.

Mikey wondered aloud, "All religions are weird. What is it about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints that makes people go after it?"

I thought about this and came up with: Because we're serious about our religion. Most Mormons are actively practicing their faith. They hold callings, attend church weekly, pray daily . . . Religion doesn't freak people out. But religiosity does. I've heard numerous times, "I'm a ___________ but I never went to church or anything."

That's the difference. We're peculiar because we can't say that. And we're not an arcane or orthodox sect of our religion. We're it. And we're relevant and not afraid to say so.

The genesis of Woman

I grew up reciting a theme each week that starts like this:

"We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us . . ."

That statement has come to be a fact I rely on; that propels me through good times and hard times. It has become so much a part of what I believe that it's hard for me to distinguish it from other facets of my beliefs. I believe that every woman is a daughter of a Divine Being who has endowed her with His same qualities and powers.

When I gave birth to Ada, she was whisked away before I got to hold her. As I watched the screaming gray-purple-pink being get passed off from gloved-hand to gloved-hand I remember thinking, The world is open to her. I thought back to that dark ultrasound room where we first found out we were having a girl and I realized that what grew within me was a being of infinite potential. And not only that, but she was being born in a time and a place where she could choose any opportunity she wanted. This thought came back to me as I sat in my hospital bed while the room seemed to move in slow motion. I also remembered in that instant, that I too am in a place where I have limitless choices.

When she was placed in my arms and I felt her warm body against mine, I realized that she is made up of divine essence that is uniquely woman. She came from a Heavenly Father who formed her spirit after His, passing his limitlessness to her in the written code of her biological make-up.

 This is the genesis of all women.

All women have a heritage of strength and beauty because the heritage of women is strong and beautiful.

Woman is innately wise. She is an innate seeker. She is an innate believer (in whatever her beliefs may be). Woman is made of of the stuff that compels conviction and corners capability. Woman is resilient. Woman is clever enough to find whatever she is looking for. She can listen. She can capture truth. She can choose to live and walk in paths that may not have been walked before. She can see. She can change. She can pair herself with God.

She is not less than, or more than, the next woman (or man). The habit of comparing her to other women (or men) cheapens the entity that is uniquely her. She is her own. And she is also others'.

She can fight against intolerance, exploitation and injustice. She can heal from intolerance, exploitation and injustice. She can help others heal. She can create. She can destroy. She can work. She can find satisfaction in her work. She can do many, many, many things.

Because she comes from an infinite being who gave her everything He has.

She is part of a sisterhood of women who feel empowered when they are helping other women recall that which is exclusively theirs. She helps lift, inspire, carry, comfort, encourage and love.

I believe that each woman is in the process of defining and redefining exactly what womanhood means to her. It goes without saying that this experience (and the conclusions drawn from it) are different for every woman. But each has the right to find joy in her own femininity and identity. Because Woman is not only endowed with power, but also with joy.

That is what I believe about women. And this is why I find joy in my womanhood.

Defining womanhood

We had a lesson in Relief Society yesterday about how incredible women are. (Amen). As I sat a listened to all these single ladies (Mikey is serving in a Bishopric for a Single's Ward) contribute to the lesson by making comments, it was interesting to recognize how they define womanhood at present and note how differently I view womanhood now.

I could relate to everything they were saying, "We've got it so hard! Boys don't have to deal with this, or this or that!" "Women know what true sacrifice is because we have to sacrifice our bodies." "Behind every righteous man is a righteous woman."

I've been there. I remember well the point in my life where my definition of womanhood was a definition in spite of men.

But I have come to define my womanhood because of the role of men (specifically my husband) play in my life. I feel more womanly because I have my husband by my side.

After dinner with a friend and her family on Friday, we sat in the parking lot chatting. We were talking about blogging and celebrating domesticity through blogs. She said something that struck me. She said that she felt that many girls in our generation are trying to figure out how we fit in this post-feminist(?) era. We are almost reacting in a radical way against the notion that to be a real woman, you have to wear a pantsuit and be accepted as a man in the corporate world. Being seen almost genderless made women feel empowered and truly womanly.

I don't think as many are reaching for that sort of "womanhood" anymore. We relish in the fact that we are different from men. Men aren't the obstacle to overcome or the status to reach. Rather, they are our partners, our teammates, our co-equals in an increasingly leveled playing field. And yet, our roles remain distinct and different. In a good way.

I used to think it would be degrading to stay home and fold clothes, make beds and prepare meals day in and day out. But I have been surprised to learn that I find immense satisfaction as a homemaker. I feel like the ultimate woman.

My definition is still growing. While I am still learning what exactly it means to me to be a woman, I feel like the way I define myself is becoming more nuanced and refined as I take on new roles and stretch myself in new ways.

My patronus is a goat

A friend wrote a few days ago that not blogging about the Harry Potter movie final installment would be "a huge generational betrayal." She may be right. So just to cover my generational bases . . .

After walking out of the theater this morning (at 2:30 AM) I couldn't help but feel like it was my grade (maybe plus or minus one grade) that truly grew up with Harry. I remember reading the first book in the 5th grade. Harry and I were the same age (as are, coincidentally, Daniel Radcliffe and I). The heroes and heroines of the books grew up with me, almost at the same rate.

Near the end of the film during moments of quiet, sniffles (and sobs) could be heard echoing in the theater. But I don't think the tears were for the dead in the movie or the touching exchanges. Rather, they were tears shed for a closing of a door, for the coming of age of millions worldwide.

But I wasn't sad. For me, the sadness came when I finished reading the books. I think there is a key distinction between the book-era Potter fans and the movie-era Potter fans.

The true HP-ers, the ones that grew up with Harry, the ones that graduated from High School as Harry left Hogwarts, we had our sobbing-on-the-floor moments when we finished the books. I remember staring at the ceiling after closing the back cover and thinking, "Harry is done. And I'm going to college in two months. Childhood is officially ending." The movies are fun, yes, but I attach no nostalgia to them.

For the book-era Potter fans, we learned from Harry that geeks were cool. The coolest girl at Hogwarts was Hermione. The bad-a kids were lame and ugly. Gryffindor--where all the brainiacs go--was where you wished to be if you could somehow get in to Hogwarts.  The Harry Potter Series not only increased world-wide literacy, but it made reading hip. When else did millions of kids camp out for a book release? We devoured them.

So while it may be sad that we can't dress up and wait for the latest and greatest from the Wizarding World, I'm not sad that the movies are over. I'm sad that I don't have more time to read.

Update

I threw it all away. Except for the maps. Especially the one we bought from a guy somewhere in Maryland who feigned ignorance and a sudden forgetting of English when we asked for directions to the temple. Suspiciously, the only English words he knew were "Map?" and "Buy one?"

Fine you lame-o. We'll  buy your freaking map WITH A PICTURE OF THE DC TEMPLE ON THE FRONT which you apparently have neither heard of, nor know how to communicate directions to find.

(The temple was like 7 blocks away.)

Ew, stuff

When Mike and I first got married and I was complaining to my mother about moving she told me that she and my dad moved just about every four months. I couldn't believe it. And I told her I could never do that. I wanted to find an apartment in Provo that we could last in for a year or two.

So here we are, married just over two years, and preparing to move for the fifth time. And we're moving to Italy in September. And then probably someplace else for an internship. And then to DC after that. I'm learning again and again to "never say never" because you'll always end up doing what you could "never" do. Like getting married at 20. Or having a baby in college. Or moving basically every four months. (But I wouldn't change any of it for the world. Okay, maybe the moving part).

The thing about moving is that you realize how much crap you have. And even though I feel like we take box after box to D.I. every time we move, we still seem to have so. much. STUFF. STUFF! I hate STUFF.

One thing I have yet to throw away after 18 months of moving it from one apartment to the next is this pile of ticket stubs, receipts, programs, sketches, maps, Metro Cards, and younameits in a sack from the Apple Store in SoHo. It's full of STUFF from Mike and my first summer together; living in the District without a car, without parents and without money. It was awesome.

But for how awesome it was, is it really worth toting around this STUFF? I've always intended to put together some sort of book that has pictures, all these things, maybe some blog posts or journal entries (wait, that is sounding dangerously close to a scrapbook) but it hasn't happened so far and what will I do with it once it does? KEEP TOTING MORE STUFF AROUND. Right.

A (large) part of me wants to throw it all away. Especially now that we know we're headed back and our Metro Cards will be a far-cry from a keepsake (nor will the tickets we got for not paying on toll roads. Who knew the toll roads are stuck in the 18th century and don't accept Debit cards? And who knew how much change you had to bring to get back from Boston...We owe the state of New York something like 3 dollars...) Plus. That's the purpose of a blog right? It's like a memory book you never have to pack.

But another part of me is too nostalgic. Like "Awe, how could I toss the little American flags they gave us to wave on the Fourth of July? or the Why Did This Skunk Have to Die pamphlet?"

Maybe I should be democratic about this. To toss? or not to toss?

Go you chicken fat go!

I know I've expressed similar sentiments here before but, I'm still caught off guard by what my life looks like right now. I often look at Ada and wonder, “Whose baby is this? How did she get here?” Sometimes this happens when I’m overcome by the sheer enormity of the fact that I'm her mother and the fact that I’ve brought a baby--an actual live human being--into the world.

I feel like everyday brings a new discovery for her. It's fascinating and exciting to watch as she inspects her hands and then puts it together that, "Hey! I control these." She's grabbing things and understanding more and more that she can do things she wants to do and avoid things she doesn't (or at least try to avoid).

I was telling Mike last night that while it's so fun and amazing that she can do all sorts of things now (grab things, hold her head up, do baby push-ups, baby sit-ups...) it's also a curse that she's gaining more control over her body. I used to be able to hold her head and wipe her eye or suck out her nose (two of her favorite activities) but now she's put it together that she can bat my hand away or turn her head, making me completely inefficient. Oh she's a smarty.

And a pistol already.

What a mug.

Return to Modesty

I so appreciated David Brook's most recent column that astutely pointed out how a return to civility can only come through a return to modesty. Modesty is unpopular. It's not flashy or quick or attention-getting--the seeming virtues of the day. However, I completely agree that modesty could very well be a step in the right direction for ourselves personally, as communities, and as a nation.

I thought about the people I know who are fine examples of modesty and a few faces immediately came to mind. I so admire them.

I think women, in particular, could use a dose of modesty. The notion that women should be humble, meek and mild has long since been thought out-dated. Women are supposed to be strong, resolute, determined, courageous, and educated, they say. And yes. Undeniably yes. Women are to be all of these things. But they are also to be tempered by modesty, softened by gentility,  and sweetened by civility. My own mother is this way and I respect her so much for that. She is an example to me of simultaneous strength and soft-heartedness, tenacity and tenderness, fierceness and faith, power and purity.

Oh that we were all more like our mothers! I think of my female fore bearers with increasing frequency these days as I prepare to join their ranks as a mother. I am grateful that I have so many to look to as examples of might and modesty.