Food for Thought

First, a quote whose source is very surprising:

..., unheard-of wonders are to be seen, performed by God: the sea is divided, a cloud has shown you the way, water has gushed from the rock, it has rained manna; all things have conspired to your greatness. The rest is up to you. God does not want to do everything Himself, and take away from us our free will and our share of the glory which belongs to us." – Machiavelli, The Prince


We are all prime numbers divisible only by ourselves. – Jean Guitton

And some wise words to soothe our worries at this time of political and economic uncertainty:

How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! - Samuel Johnson

Trying to Live in the Moment

I wish I had some profound insight or hilarious experience to share, but it's just me - blogging to get the old blog off the screen. It haunts me sometimes how long a blog can linger in cyberspace as if its contents constitute the author's 'famous last words.'

I've been struck lately by the quick passage of time. Whole months are going by in what used to feel like a week of days. It's September 24th already? Impossible!

So in order to slow time down a bit, I'm trying to focus more consciously on each day and date. What's possible today? What do I want to accomplish? Journals (and blogs) are good for chronicling that sort of thing, but in order to make time slow down a bit, I need to appreciate more of its incremental moments.

Human felicity is produced

not so much by great pieces of good fortune

that seldom happen,

as by little advantages

that occur every Day.
Benjamin Franklin, Autobiography, 1771

Frivolousness

Let me see if I can explain this emotion I have from time to time, this sense that I am not taking life, or, more specifically, life’s blessings, seriously enough.

I first recognized it when my children and I were sitting ducks in a car crash and our minivan – the most beautiful minivan I had ever seen – was totaled at both ends and completely destroyed. I was thrilled to be alive, of course – and especially that all of my children were alive and virtually unscathed. I would gladly have sacrificed ALL of my material possessions for that outcome. So I was surprised when days later I felt a sense of loss. It wasn’t really that I had lost the minivan – we were already at work replacing it – it was that I had never fully appreciated it.

We give our time and resources to people, activities, and, yes, even to 'things' that are important to us: the people we love, the activities that bring us joy, and the things that serve us or make our lives better, like our homes and our cars. In my life, 'things’ always fall to the bottom of the list, as I believe they should, but I do wish I knew how to appreciate things more.

A few years ago Scott and I were driving down State Street in Salt Lake when we pulled alongside a 1970-something small pickup truck. Neither of us is a car-afficianado at all, but we both noticed it for its immaculate condition. It was a hideous orange color with a crisp white camper shell and shiny windows. The woman driving it had white hair - probably the original owner. The truck itself must have spent every night in a hermetically sealed garage. She probably vacuumed it weekly, gave it sponge baths on schedule, and parked far away from store entrances to avoid door dings. I was awestruck, admiring this woman and her truck, even as I told myself that she was undoubtedly a perfectionist who led a tortured existence in an effort to preserve all of her possessions indefinitely - that having a 30-year-old car that looked brand new really would not be worth the sacrifices she had made along the way, even if a complete stranger is blogging about the experience of seeing it years later.

Obviously, I still have a lot to work out on this subject. I reassure myself that things are only there to give us pleasure, so I should not allow them to give me even a moment of angst.

I'm Being Rebellious...Again

I see that I have not blogged in a week.

Brownies are baking in the oven as I write, so a chocolate aroma is wafting through the house. My children are gone to the playground with their cousins. I'm neither hot nor cold (Scott has discovered that I have a half-degree tolerance range on household temperatures, so this fact alone is remarkable.) It's Friday, so we are all breathing a sigh of relief because we will not have homework tonight. And BYU plays tomorrow...All is right with the world (well, almost all...I'm sure if I put my mind to it I could complain about something.)

Anyway, I am rebelling. How? By procrastinating. I'm supposed to be writing newspaper stories. I've been researching and interviewing for days -- stories about comediens, truck drivers, fun runs, etc. I have six stories due at noon on Monday, and they'll all be done, but at what cost in terms of sanity, family harmony, etc.? My legs will be permanently bent by then.

I've read that doing what you're supposed to do WHEN you're supposed to do it is a sign of maturity. I am not mature. I pay my bills on time -- that ought to count for something -- but I'm weak. I lack discipline. I AM A PROCRASTINATOR. There must be a support group somewhere for people like me.

I know, I know. Time is a valuable thing! A very, very valuable thing. Thoreau's words haunt me: "As if you could kill time without injuring eternity." Ah, the guilt!

But here I sit, blogging.

Sarah Palin at First Blush OR Washington: We've Found Authenticity

• I was a ‘Mitten,’ smitten with Mitt – not because he looks presidential with Reagan’s hair and chiseled jaw, but because he is a true leader, a conservative, a thinker, AND, more importantly, a doer. He remains by far the most qualified candidate for president or for any other office…but he will not be president this year, and now we know, sadly, he will not be vice president.
  
  I resigned myself to this probable reality last night before falling asleep, predicting that McCain would select the milquetoast Tim Pawlenty as his running mate.
  
  So imagine my surprise when I awoke at 5:45 and turned on the television to see if the press had figured it out yet. They were talking about Sarah Palin…Sarah Palin…governor of Alaska…oh, yeah, the woman who stepped forward this summer to complain when Nancy Pelosi shut down Congress before they could vote on drilling. Sarah Palin…Really? Tell me more.
  
  Facts began to emerge – rumors of midnight moose hunting, a weakness for ice fishing, the mother of five children, including a soldier deploying to Iraq and a newborn son with Downs Syndrome.
  
  By this time, I was picturing a rifle-toting woman in a bearskin coat.
  
  Before I had seen Sarah Palin or heard her speak, I learned that…
  ...she sold the gubernatorial jet on EBay.
  ...she dispensed with her state security detail saying she didn’t really need it – she could take care of herself.
  ...she sold the governor’s fleet of limousines and official sedans, choosing instead to drive herself around in her own Chevy Suburban and VW Jetta.
  ...she stood up to the head of Alaska’s Republican party, the man who held her political future in his hands, to accuse him of unethical conduct, then, when he was not relieved of his duties, she resigned her post. Her position was eventually vindicated when he was convicted of wrongdoing.
  ...she put the kibosh on the infamous ‘bridge to nowhere’
  ...she looked into the eyes of her special needs newborn and said that she saw ‘perfection.’
  
  Each fact was a revelation. Though her name had been politely included on several lists as if to pacify female voters, no one expected this. She was a complete unknown, a true dark horse candidate.
  
  I was intrigued, fascinated. She sounded like a cross between Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and Davey Crocket. Her life story was great, but could she speak? Could she go ‘toe to toe’ with Joe Biden?
  
  Then I saw the press conference. After a lengthy introduction by John McCain, she came on stage with her family: husband Todd, daughters Bristol, Willow, and Piper, and baby Trig. She proudly announced that her husband is a commercial fisherman, an oil worker, a member of the United Steel Workers Union, and a champion snowmachiner.

She was unapologetic for not attending Harvard – did not mention her academic credentials at all – but spoke instead about what she has DONE in her life, not what she thought about doing or wanted to do in the future. And she’s done it all: won a beauty pageant, had a family, owned a business, worked as a sportscaster, played and coached sports, volunteered in the community, run for several offices, sat on boards, served as mayor and governor, passed important legislation….

She wore eyeglasses and a dress, not a pantsuit. Her voice was strong, but not shrill. Her words were wise, but not flowery. She used 'whom' correctly in a sentence. She did not shy away from lauding McCain’s heroism in Vietnam, though he, unlike John Kerry, is usually too stoic to mention such accomplishments himself.

She will make a great running mate and a great Vice President...but then, Mitt would have, too.

Back to School

Ah, it’s that time of year again…the first day of school. Picture children everywhere splashing milk into their cereal bowls at 7:00am then strapping on their backpacks. Picture big yellow school buses buzzing through neighborhoods like low flying bumble bees that pause at street corners as if to pollinate flowers. Recall the smell of Crayola crayons, pencil shavings, and damp, mimeographed worksheets, the pulpy feel of newsprint, and the taste of milk straight from a carton. School is back in session.

In my memory, the morning air on this first day of school should have been crisp, but it was hot instead, a summer day arbitrarily designated to mark the beginning of fall. In compensation, school children will have recess, friends to play with, and new teachers to become acquainted with. Their parents will have peace and quiet, until after school when their children will be chattier than usual and very emphatic, excited and exhausted at the same time, and, to a certain extent, resigned.

At our house this morning, alarms started going off at half hour intervals beginning at 5:30. First, Tom (for zero hour seminary), then Abby (her first day of junior high), then Scott, then Emily, then me. Clothes were already laid out, of course, for the first day of school, and backpacks, lunch money, and water bottles were all ready to go.

On the first day of school we’re firing on all pistons like a well oiled machine. Everyone knows where both shoes are and has matching socks, for example, but time will inevitably prove the entropy theory again, and things will be in “perfect internal disorder.” We will achieve a sort of equilibrium verging on chaos soon where one forgotten but essential load of laundry will threaten everything else.

But today – today went quite well, and I am blogging again.

Word of the Day: Prosaic

I am ambrrassed to admit that I did not know the definition of the word 'prosaic' -- until now. And now that I know the definition of the word, the word itself makes sense.

prosaic: unimaginative, commonplace, dull; like prose instead of poetry; lacking wit

I searched high and low on the Internet to find 'prosaic' used in actual sentences, but didn't find any. (Okay, I didn't spend that much time looking.) So I decided to write a few of my own:

"A centerpiece of fresh flowers can turn the most prosaic meal into a romantic occasion."

"Her prosaic letters arrived like clockwork every Monday detailing the ordinary events of the previous week."

"Next to creative writing, she found laundry to be the most prosaic activity of all, yet she was compelled to do it."