(I'm posting this a little early, so that the Powers That Be can have a heads-up in their planning this year. I don't believe in playing "Guess What's In My Head." Here it is, folks. Make it happen.)

(OK, so it's a picture from December, but it's the most recent one I have.)

A PERFECT MOTHER'S DAY:

No presents. Instead, everyone writes a note to me telling me what I do right as a mother, and what they like about me.

No breakfast in bed. Instead, someone else plans, shops for, cooks and cleans up lunch and dinner so that the kitchen is clean all day. I don't care what we eat—sandwiches, breakfast for dinner, spaghetti. I just don't want to have to think about food at all, the way the rest of you do all the other days of the year: show up, and there's food! And I'd like someone else to do the dishes, promptly, all day.

Absolutely no fighting all day. No unkind words for me to overhear for the whole day long.

All day, I get to do whatever I want. And when I invite someone else to join me (for a walk, or a card game, or a read-aloud), they act delighted and say yes.

That's all.

A FEW EXTRAS THAT WOULD BE NICE BUT ARE NOT EXPECTED OR NECESSARY FOR ME TO HAVE A GREAT DAY:

I don't want you to make me breakfast in bed because I get up an hour before anyone else does, and I like my cereal. However, I would LOVE some crepes later in the morning, if someone wanted to make some. I like them with Nutella.

I would LOVE it if, when I woke up, the house was clean, including bedrooms, and that it stayed clean all day.

I would LOVE it if each boy made some sort of progress on their Eagle/Duty to God during the day, and showed it to me.

One year down.

Last night I turned in my last paper and portfolio of the year. A few days ago, I attended a defense of a fellow MFA poet and learned what to expect in my own. As a result, I spent a few hours yesterday beginning an outline of the critical readings I encountered this year, which I will make into notecards. This has actually been enjoyable work for me because it has enabled me to begin to make connections between things, to create a sort of conversation in my mind—conversations between the theorists, and conversations between them and myself. It's been a good opportunity to review what I've learned this year, both in terms of my own aesthetic and in terms of craft.

So: what have I learned? How am I different, as a poet and as a person, because of this year's adventure in school?

Well, to answer that thoroughly, I would have to post my two term papers here, which came in at 12 and 20 pages, respectively (they were supposed to come in at 8 and 12; I just can't NOT research thoroughly and put it all in there!). Which brings me to point #1:

1. I work a lot harder than most people on papers.

            I don't know whether this is because I'm older (and scared?), because I’m more organized (getting things done earlier than everyone else), because I'm more thorough, or because I am there at school out of sheer desire and I wanted this more than anyone else. At times, it is irritating to me. (I will be in the grad carrels and hear other students talking, a day or even just a few hours before the deadline, about how they "haven't even started yet.") Then I will see them whip off something that looks pretty darn much like a paper. (Sometimes they don't even make it look like a paper but instead write something "experimental.") I don't, of course, see the grades these last-minute efforts get. But the prodigal-son's-brother in me wants them to SUFFER. Thankfully, that's only a tiny part of me, and the rest of me doesn't care that much because I find the work rewarding, and because these papers, especially, will turn into the critical intro. to my thesis. So what if I work harder when the work is so enjoyable?

2. Putting more recklessness, chance, subconscious leaps into my poetry makes it more intriguing and gives it depth.

            Last semester I encountered Dean Young's Art of Recklessness. That, more than anything else, has influenced my work this year. I still am not where I want to be in terms of playfulness, but I'm improving, and I think my poetry shows it. I’m not sure whether people who have enjoyed my poetry in the past (many of whom don't read other poetry) will still like it, but that shouldn't matter. I've also been influenced by Bill Stafford's philosophy of "Lower your standards"—this has helped me produce some interesting things I never would have tried before, when I was trying to write a great poem every time.

3. But too much recklessness is obnoxious and unkind.

            Here I differ from the aesthetic of some of my classmates, who feel that it's ridiculous to consider audience at all when writing. It's hard not to allow that attitude to mess with my self-esteem (some poets tend to have such a condescending attitude towards those whose aesthetics differ, as if they are constantly patting me on the head—"bless her heart, the poor, earnest thing"). But an interesting session at AWP in Boston with Tony Hoagland helped me see that not everyone who hasn't given up a desire for meaning in their work has lost respect in the world. I'll stick to my guns, even when it makes me look provincial and unsophisticated. I'll write what brings me joy—and that involves, for me, some measure of bringing others joy as well. Which brings me to:

4. There are lots of aesthetics out there.

            There's no one way of defining what makes a poem good. Even among poets reading other poets, tastes vary widely and most of us hate what others of us love, and vice-versa. But the good news is that this means that poets are succeeding at all sorts of things.

5. And I am succeeding. (See my previous post.) At least at something, for someone, I am doing OK.

6.  Specific things:

            Well, one specific way that my work is different (besides the inclusion of more recklessness) is that I've been trying some new forms such as sections and prose poems. I've also been trying more language-generated leaps (as opposed to having a goal for the poem before I begin it). I'm also writing some flash-nonfiction, or turning what used to be poetic impulses into flash-nf impulses, and what used to be too-narrative, autobiographical poems into flash-nf pieces. With success.

7.  The canon.

            I entered the program at a disadvantage since I wasn't an English major (I was humanities with English emphasis) and missed some of the English classes others took, and since it has been so long since I've been in school, and since I have read, comparatively, much less poetry than I should have for a program like this. So I've been getting acquainted with things that other students already know (who are the "Objectivists"? What is L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry? Why was Charles Simic's Pulitzer such a big deal? etc.). It's nice to finally know what's been going on. I'm still weak in this area, though, and plan on doing more reading over the summer. It'll be fun!

So that's that. It's been a fantastic, soul-wrenching, joyous year at school. I'm so grateful for it. I'm glad to have a break for the summer, to play with my kids and clean out the office. I'll work during the summer on some reading and write a few poems, but it'll be a nice breather. By August I'll be hungry again. I'm so glad I get to go back. I'm so sad that this will end someday. What in the world will I do then?

BYU Contests

I finally feel free to tell you about the BYU contests, because last night was the awards dinner, so I guess it's public news. I've been reluctant to tell anyone because there was no official announcement. I didn't know whether, for example, those who hadn't won had found that out yet. And it would be dang awkward if they were to find out from ME.

And that's sad. It makes it hard for me to have my moment, if you know what I mean. The thing is, the only people who can know what a big deal it is to place in a writing contest are the other writers—and they are the ones who a winner has most likely beat out. So success is a lonely thing, when it comes to writing. Especially poetry, since no one reads the stuff anyway.

So, the news is that I won the following:

            Second place in the Vera Hinckley Mayhew poetry contest.

            Second place in the Hart-Larson poetry contest.

            First place in the Academy of American Poets (BYU chapter) contest.

            First place in the Elsie Carroll essay contest.

I won't make the slightest attempt to disguise the fact that this was a big deal to me.

I think I've said here how hard it is to go to workshop and get trashed, time after time. This semester has been difficult for me in terms of my self-esteem as a writer—and as a teacher. I have been at the point of despair. And, as I mentioned, I had to read at the English Symposium a few weeks ago and was terrified, because the other poets in my session are SO GOOD. Getting the news about the Mayhew the night before the reading enabled me to read with confidence the next day; I see this as tender mercy from God, truly.

I know that it's not that big a deal to anyone else, but I felt that the validation from this enabled me to hold up my head a little in front of my classmates (well, those who know, I guess, since there's been no public announcement) and my professors. Also, it's nice to have something to point to when I fear that people wonder what it is I’m doing at school. But most importantly, it's nice to remind myself that sometimes my work shows a little glimmer of value.

I guess I won't give up after all.

Another thing: the essay contest win was a big deal to me. Because it launched some questioning about genre (I won it with a short essay that had begun it's life as two poems that weren't working well) that led to my idea for my big Paper that's due in two weeks—the paper that is supposed to be the beginning of the critical introduction to my thesis. I see this as another tender mercy, because I had really been at sea about what to write on for my critical intro. I have been blessed.

I know that if you've read this far, you are one of my true supporters. Let me just say here that I am extremely grateful for your support. This writing thing is a lonely endeavor with meager rewards. It's nice to know I have people who care and who are rooting for me. It can make all the difference.

Some poetry for you today:

First, William Carlos Williams, interpreted VERY NICELY by Matthew McFadyen:

And now, "Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams," by Kenneth Koch, which you can get at this link  http://www.cs.berkeley.edu/~richie/poetry/html/poem191.htm (so I don't feel guilty for pasting it here).

Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams
Kenneth Koch

1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.

2
We laughed at the hollyhocks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.

3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.

4
Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!

First year MFA student

Dear Blog,

I'm still alive. I'll skip over all the usual apologies/excuses, because I know you're just darn glad to see me and all is forgiven.

What a crazy week it has been. In the last ten days or so, momentous things have happened in my writing life. No, I didn't get that long-lost-in-the-email letter from the agent who (STILL, after 18 months) has my novel manuscript—the novel I could hardly even remember well enough to paraphrase when someone asked me about it last week. Or anything like that. But still, some big stuff.

First off, I went to AWP. This is the annual conference of the Association of Writing Programs, which was held in Boston this year. BYU kindly provided funding for this trip, thanks to some vigorous advocacy on the part of the Creative Writing faculty, who claimed that since the college funds MA students to go present papers, it should fund MFA students to go feel the vibes at AWP. And they were SO RIGHT. Because at AWP I began to finally feel like I am one of the community. I am a poet. I participate in the conversation (and I'm finally learning what the conversation actually is). What is going on in the world of poetry affects me, and I can affect it, or respond to it.

As I may have expressed here, I have not always (ever?) been solid in my belief that I really am a poet. Having limited success in poetry (and how was I even defining that? I am, after all, a beginner, and yet I've been published quite a bit) and what seemed like more potential for success in other genres, I dithered. But during my time at AWP (and probably because I was so sleep-deprived from staying up late with my perky roommates), long-forgotten memories of my childhood and adolescence came bubbling forth to remind me that yes, poetry was my first love. (I had totally forgotten, for example, that I had laboriously copied several poems into an old journal in high school because I loved them so much. And the snatches of poetry I had memorized from my junior high English teacher's walls—"Come live with me and be my love," etc. And the Carol Lynn Pearson poems I read over and over and over again. In my more "muture" [read "snobby"] years I had looked back on this last fact with embarrassment—of course, I had chosen the less sophisticated Pearson poetry to memorize—but now I am both less embarrassed [there's some good stuff in there!] and also more forgiving because I realized suddenly that the Pearson books where the only books of poetry we had on our shelves so of course they are the ones I memorized. Anyway, the point of this long parenthetical meandering is that I actually ALWAYS LOVED POETRY.) And though I will never confine myself to JUST poetry, I am willing to fully embrace the fact that yes, I am a poet, first and foremost, even when I don't know what the heck I’m doing, even though it will never get me fame or (heaven forbid!) money. I do it. I love it. I want to invest in it.

So, yeah. AWP hit me over the head and set me straight. Also, it was really good. I loved hearing Tony Hoagland argue that there is still a place for "soul" in poetry, and that those who put others down for asserting the opposite should be ashamed. I loved developing my own opinions about the work of the poets I heard and realizing (with the help of Lance, my professor) that my opinions were well-founded and not naïve—or, at least, not too naïve to be worth discussing. I loved being exposed to "new" (to me) poets (hello, Terrance Hays!). One of my favorite sessions was on the work of William Stafford, a poet and writing teacher who advocated a kind of instruction in which teachers never praise or criticize a student's writing. Not sure how I feel about all of his teaching ideas, but I loved his claim that the best thing a writer can do is "Lower your standards." That's my new mantra.

It's funny, because that idea (not exactly the lowering of standards but the importance of proceeding fearlessly or at least courageously in the face of fear) has become a theme for me this year in school. Because I arrived on campus to discover exactly how far I have to go as a poet. A good thing—I never want to feel like I've arrived—but discouraging. You get into a program (hurray! I must be doing OK!) only to encounter Workshopping (yes, a capital W), in which you spend twenty minutes being told in great detail why your work stinks in ways you never even imagined before. So I was discouraged. Then I had a tiny little jolt when I took one of my failed "too-narrative" poems, made it into a paragraph, and showed it to a visiting writer who is the editor for a flash nonfiction magazine—and he praised it highly. Wait! Maybe I’m not a poet after all! Maybe I've been writing flash nonfiction all this time and calling it poetry! So I began to doubt my calling.  That's when I read excerpts from Dean Young's The Art of Recklessness and realized that if I could find a way to trust the process and take more risks, leaps, jumps in my work, that was my path to my next step as a poet. This idea of practicing recklessness, combined with "lower your standards," has unstuck me, and I am excited, rejuvenated. And—for this moment at least—I have pushed fear back into its corner.

So, AWP was good.

It was a crazy week after that, trying to catch up on my work as a teacher (papers to be graded) and as a student (Annotated Bibliography due for my term paper) and my mothering (missed these little guys, and then two of them left again for a week with Grandma in St. George) and my church work. I had a great catch-up lunch with Margaret and Cheri, dear friends from Berkeley days.

But all of this was overshadowed by something terrifying: I was scheduled to read my poetry in the English Symposium on Friday. I've read at readings before, but somehow this was different. Even though it was really just an undergraduate conference, it was a big deal to me because it was my first reading since being in school, and thus my first reading since committing to be a Poet. (Before this, I could always claim that I just dabble.) Also, I was scheduled to read with my two "older sisters"—the two other poets in the MFA program, Emily Ho and Katie Wade Davis, who are in their second year and who are both AMAZING poets, way better than I am (or may ever be). I hadn't volunteered to read but had been asked because they needed a third to round out the panel. I knew it would just be like, "and here's Darlene. Let's tolerate her." (Not that THEY made me feel this way. They are only gracious.) So I was nervous. Very.

But something happened, which I'll tell more about in my next post, the day before the reading. I got an email with some good news about my poetry. And it made ALL the difference. Suddenly, I was confident. Suddenly I felt that maybe someone, somewhere would enjoy what I had brought to share.

So I relaxed and enjoyed the reading, and it went REALLY WELL. People responded, asked me questions. It felt good. My poems are not perfect. They are not as good as Emily's and Katie's. But there is something there. I will keep working.

In other, less happy, news, a friend is moving away. I am sad to see her go. I'm also angry with myself, because she has been in the ward a few years and is a friend, but not as close as I had planned to make her. I have let time get away from me. I am faced again with my own awkwardness about taking friendship to a deeper level. How do people do it? Why am I so bad at it? I don't think she—or a few other women in the ward—knows how much I love her, how I had thought of her as a future very close friend, how I had planned to grow closer over the years. And she is leaving.

Sadder than that was a terrible tragedy in our ward: an 18-month-old baby died this month as a result of aspirating food while laughing. A horrible thing. A bittersweet, tender time. I love being part of a ward, even when it hurts. So many thoughts and prayers for the Carroll family.

And that, plus a lot of interesting stuff regarding life with teenagers, has been my life this past month.

Well, hello there!

No, I didn't drop off the face of the earth.

 Thank my professor, because--get this--it is actually an assignment in my English 610 class to "write 500 words on-line anywhere." I guess that's for the people who haven't had much experience writing on-line (is there anyone like that out there anymore?) who are preparing to teach our last unit in freshman english, which involves using new media of some sort or another. Whatever the reason, the result is that YOU get a blog post from ME! (assuming there's anyone still out there . . . )

 My freshman students tell me that "no one reads blogs anymore." I can't figure out what, other than facebook and twitter and texts, people actually read. How do they get their news? I guess people figure they can see what their friends are doing on facebook more easily than going to everyone's blog. I can't blame them for that; I gave up reading blogs two years ago (yes, even yours, probably). It just took too much time. (And too many of them were about people's kids. Sorry, but unless I visit teach you, I don't really care to see a daily account of what cute thing Junior did.)

 So why did I even bother with a blog if I don't even like to read them?

 I don't really know. I guess I wanted to show I had something to say that WASN'T about my kids but which also didn't have the constraints of an actual Piece of Art. And, ironically, I did find, when I was posting regularly, that my blogging made my writing come more easily. At least when I was writing novels.

 OK, enough of the intro. Here’s an official update, because if you’re still reading this, you are one of my very dearest acquaintances on earth (hi, Dad). Thanks for still caring about me.

 I am IN LOVE WITH SCHOOL. It is just like first love, really. I’m obsessed, ecstatic, unhealthily attached to anything to do with my life at BYU. And also in great terror of the Day It All Ends. Because it will. Agggggh, what will I do then?

 Yeah, I could get an adjunct teaching position so that I can continue teaching freshman English—which I am LOVING, by the way.

 Yeah, I could continue to write.

 But I will miss the feeling of all of it piled together, and all at one particular PLACE, a place that I love. I’ll miss having professors to work hard for. I’ll miss rubbing shoulders with other people who are earnestly working on the same kinds of things I am. I’ll miss the deadlines. I’ll miss the way I feel so justified asking my family to help with the laundry/dinner, etc. because I’ve got homework JUST LIKE THEY DO, so WHY SHOULD I BE STUCK DOING IT?

 Ah, well. I can’t let the fact that it will end spoil my time now. But it’s always there, over the horizon, haunting me.

 My ideal: to be in school for the rest of my life. A close second: to be at BYU for the rest of my life. I don’t think either of these has a great likelihood of coming to pass, though I can dream about getting an adjunct position there, I suppose . . .

 So, anyway. I’m teaching Freshman Comp. I’m taking three grad classes, only one of which really counts as far as my writing goes (“Intro to Grad Study,” “Composition Pedagogy,” and a grad poetry workshop from Lance Larsen). I had a fantastic retreat with the other MFA students at Susan Howe’s cabin near Capitol Reef; it was good for me to get a chance there to just socialize more. I still feel a little strange, being the age of my professors (or even older) rather than my classmates, and I’m trying not to let it make me nervous. I don’t have time for that. I’m just very grateful to be there. Something interesting: I am the only MFA poet who was accepted this year. There were only two the year before. Hmmmm.

 So, we up to 500 words yet? (Just kidding! I’m a kidder!)

 Some things I’ve learned:

 1. I’m a good teacher. Really. Mostly because I’m articulate and I really, really love my students. But also because, as it turns out, I do know a thing or two about writing.

 2. I am not afraid of my poetry workshops, or of my faculty. (It helped that Lance told me he voted for me when I first applied. It was hard thinking I was in his class and maybe he didn’t want me there.)

 3. This is my time to TAKE RISKS in my writing, not write to impress my faculty or classmates.

 4. I don’t care all that much what my classmates think of my work, except insofar as their suggestions help me. I’m really glad to have outgrown the desire to impress.

 5. I still love love love BYU. Always have, always will.

 6. Bronco should have taken Riley out and given Lark a try on Saturday. Really
 
7. The Provo mountains are still breathtaking.

 8. I am less tired (and eat less) when I have something absorbing to do.

 9. There is nothing in the world like having work to do that you love. How can someone who has experienced that do without it in the future?

 10. I have the World’s Most Supportive Spouse. Period.

 And there, my friends, is my Update Supreme.

 p.s. It’s very weird to think that one of my students could find this blog and read it. If YOU ARE ONE OF MY STUDENTS, QUIT READING THIS AND GO FINISH YOUR PAPER THAT’S DUE ON THURSDAY. Believe me, it could use another revision. Really.

 

State of the Nation (a non-political update about me)

Well, I'm 42, the age that is, as you know, the answer to life, the universe, and everything. (Modest pause here for you to insert comments about how I don't look 42 at all . . . aw, shucks, thanks, that's kind of you.)

Middle-aged.

And is that "aged" like a good cheese, or is it more like the rattle-trap van we are driving, always with our fingers crossed that the tailpipe won't drop off in the road? (Can't say that my tailpipe is all that much better, so I guess that says something . . . )

Anyway, I guess it's time for a State of the Nation for you, my three-or-so loyal blog readers who almost had a heart attack this morning when you saw on your reader that I had actually updated. Thanks for giving in to your curiosity and reading on to find out why I would visit this old haunting ground after all these months of ignoring you. And so without further ado, let's get on with

Darlene At 42!!!!!!!

PHYSICALLY:  Well, after that nice comment of yours on how I don't really look 42, I hardly need to go into detail here. But I'll be honest: I'm not looking twenty anymore. I did spend an awful lot of time (well into my thirties, really) wishing I looked older, or at least my age. Finally I struggle with that no longer! I somehow passed over that line—I'm not sure when—but there is no doubt that when I go down to campus in a few weeks, no one will mistake me for an undergrad. I look, I must admit with a big sigh, like Somebody's Mom. Part of that is my fault, because I refuse to go to the drastic lengths that seem to be the common behavior here in my neck of the woods (South Jordan: Plastic Surgery Capitol of the World) to look twenty years younger than I am. I dress, I am sorry to say, too much like a mom, and do my hair too much like a mom, etc. When it became clear to me that I was not going to ever go to heroic measures, I began trying to accept my "mom-ness." It's hard.

I've mentioned it before, but our culture is seriously lacking in acceptable ways for "older" women to dress with dignity and taste. I want to switch to saris or those beautiful African robes and wraps that older African women wear. In our culture, it's either dress like you're trying to be twenty (and look silly doing it, or else put a lot of time and money into sculpting yourself down into that shape) or spend an awful lot of money at places like Anne Taylor. Neither of those is going to happen.

I am, however, so far avoiding the Wal-Mart sweat pants look. Most of the time.

Anyway, so I look like a mom, especially around the hips. And around the eyes. I've got crow's feet, which don't bother me too much, and two permanent parallel vertical frown lines between my eyes, which do. My chin, what there is of it, has always been bad, so there's not much to say here. My gut sort of spreads out on the floor in front of me when I lie on my side (I know, right? ew.) or hangs weirdly when I do down-dog. My feet have gotten bigger along with my behind. My aunts (on both sides) all became more pear-shaped as they aged, so I know there's not much I can do about it, though I do try. (Latest reassuring mantra: "Women need to be soft in the middle; it's preparation for grandparenthood. Who wants to snuggle on a hard tummy?")

Speaking of exercise, I notice my age there, too, though it's harder to tell since I've never been in very good shape, even when I was young. Summary: I'm slow and heavy in whatever I do. But I haven't given up trying. Currently, I'm struggling with golfer's elbow, which is crazy, since I've never been golfing in my life. But I ran five miles yesterday, which is something. (I also spent the rest of the day completely exhausted and feeling like death-warmed-over. Will my body ever get used to the exercise and quit feeling that way after I run?

As for my health in general, I have to say that I am MUCH BETTER than I was a few years ago. I am still heavy and tired, and I'm beginning to suspect that I may be for the rest of my life (very depressing, but still lots better than I had feared at one time). I almost never get those weird "attacks" anymore, and when I do they are very mild. Though I still feel like I COULD, I don't HAVE to go to bed right after dinner these days. I am not struggling with brain fog anywhere near as much as I was.

Maybe (knock on wood) I have a few years of clarity before the menopause fairy comes to take it all away again . . .? (Knock on wood again.)

So, there it is. I'm saggy and a little draggy but able to do all I need to and pretty much all I want to, too. I will never, NEVER take that for granted.

INTELLECTUALLY: Well, this one is (wince) "on my mind" these days. Because I'm going back to school, and I am seriously suspicious that I have lost much of my brainpower to raising kids. It's hard to concentrate on longer, deeper reading projects. Heck, it's hard to stay awake at night. I've forgotten almost everything I learned in college, especially things like how to do research and the names of major movements in world thought. Will it all come back as I need it? Will I be as smart as the freshmen I'll be teaching? Not sure, not sure. This one is going to take some faith and some really hard work.

Also, there's nothing like an election to make myself doubt myself. The thing is, I have the hardest time committing to a "side" or an ideology. I'm pretty good at seeing the flaws in people's arguments, and (especially) at recognizing manipulation (of facts or emotions). In the end, too often I end up voting AGAINST someone than for someone, and too often I am unduly influenced by rudeness (as in, I tend to turn against a party when I hate how its followers act towards other people). I wish I were smarter. For now, I just try to surround myself with smart people who share my standards and basic beliefs (love your fellowman; value agency . . . but--well, you see the problem). A big problem is, though, that some of the most amazingly smart and kind people I know are Republicans. And some of the most amazingly smart and kind people I know are Democrats. Sigh.

SOCIALLY:  This last year or so has been the worst of times and the best of times for me. My closest friends moved out of my life (physically or emotionally). But then—wonder of wonders—a new set of really cool women moved into my ward. These are not just cool women, but they are married to cool men—whom my husband actually likes and gets along with! This has rarely happened before. These new friends in my ward are so cool that we can even go camping together as families. I am so happy about this; it has been such a blessing. I have had good friends in my life whom I could talk to but they haven't always been local. Now I have some nearby, in real life, and it's great. The only problem is that they all have younger families than I do, so they're still in that "home with kids all day" phase while I am a free woman during the day but seriously booked in the after-school hours. Oh well; that will change. (But it reminds me so much of my Pocatello days, when I was the one with young kids and my friends were older, with their kids all in school. I wanted so much to go out together in the evenings, because I needed to get out for a break, and they wanted to be home in the evenings with their kids, whom they hadn't seen all day. That was a really hard difference to straddle, and I was lonely.)

SPIRITUALLY/EMOTIONALLY:  Doin' pretty darn well, all told. I'll start school in about a week. I'm scared. The things that frighten me:  1.) I'm still weak physically, and the stress/strain of doing so much more mental and physical work than I'm used to will make me sick again; 2.)  my parenting/children will suffer. My beautiful cousin Kathryn, who also returned to college for an advanced degree not long ago, gave me good advice, "Just take it one day at a time." I realize that much of my fear has to do with big ol' consequences that are quite a bit in the future and may never come to pass. If I try to live each day well and not panic so much about setting up systems so that life will be easy the whole time, I'll do better. Faith. When it became clear that I would not be able to do this degree one class at a time, as we had originally planned, we prayed hard and still felt we had a "go-ahead." Maybe, I sometimes think, my kids NEED me to be a little more gone, and a little more emotionally invested in something other than them. (Certainly I know my teenagers wouldn't mind having my fingers a little less in their lives.) So I'm open to the possibility that this all could be a GOOD thing even for them.

My testimony, my relationships with others, my feelings about parenthood all go through changes as I get older, waxing and waning and then waxing again. I guess the thing about being older is recognizing that the waxing and waning are nothing to panic about, and that the key is to stick things out, to be patient with myself and others, and things get better, in general, over time.

I am optimistic in general, these days, about myself and about the world. I don't share the feelings of doom that it seems so many people do about the State of the World. There are ugly things, I admit, but there are good things, too. God hasn't given up on us; good people haven't given up on the world; there is still great goodness and kindness and justice going on. The most distressing thing is that families are breaking down, but I still believe in the Good  News of the gospel: no one is doomed, whether because of a broken family or Evil in the Media or whatever. There is always hope, there is always potential for change, there is always the atonement waiting to be used. I guess that's my greatest testimony: always there is potential for progress.

So, that's me at 42, and I think it's a pretty nice place to be.