Yeah, Write

Join Me for the 52 Stories Project

 

I always have a handful of journals going at any one time. There's my main chronological journal, where I record major life events along with insights, inspiration, life lessons, spiritual impressions and more. I also try to keep up with my 5-year question a day journal, which will wrap up at the end of March. I have an Evernote file, where I keep ongoing bulleted lists, one for each month, to record my daughter's milestones, phases, funny sayings and more. Then there are a few themed computer files, where other random memories go. 

This year, I'm adding a new project to the list. It's the #52stories project sponsored by FamilySearch, whom I happen to write for. The idea is to write one story from your personal history every week for a year, based on a question or prompt. To make it easy for me (and for you), I wrote a total of 144 questions based on 12 monthly themes, so there are plenty of options to choose from each week. 

You can download the full set of questions at the bottom of my "Define Your Dash" article, and I'll post January's list below. (Here's another version of the article, written with a stronger religious slant, but the downloads and questions are the same.) Or here's a direct link to the 12-page pdf. 

The first question I answered in my new journal is the very first question on the list: What is your earliest memory of feeling proud of yourself? I didn't labor over my response; I just quickly poured out my thoughts in a few minutes. If I put too much pressure on myself to compose perfect sentences, write brilliant life-changing stories, and never misspell anything or cross out a word, I'll never stick with the project. I'm just going to do it, reminding myself that a memory recorded imperfectly is far better than a memory not recorded at all. 

To keep this project simple and doable over the course of the year, I chose a small, 56-page journal, leaving me with just enough space to answer each question on a single-sided sheet of 5 x 8 notebook paper. Having this kind of boundary in place keeps me from spending too much time on each question. After all, this isn't my comprehensive life story. It's just a way to get into the habit of reflecting over my life and writing quickly and succinctly. In the end, I'm sure some of these stories will spark more in-depth memories that I may want to write about in another venue, such as another of my journals, an article for Family Search, or a story I upload to my profile on Family Tree (so it can be found by future generations of my family). 

Here are a few additional tips:

1. Remember there are immediate personal benefits that come from journaling. This is not just a gift to future generations; it's a gift to yourself. Writing is a therapeutic act. It can give your life a sense of purpose and control. It can reveal hidden blessings and patterns. It can help you make sense of past events and current experiences. It puts you in the driver's seat of your life story—you get to decide what you write about and how you interpret and connect past events. Take this chance to own your story.

"In his book The Happiness Advantage, Harvard professor Shawn Achor cites research that shows how “explanatory style—how we choose to explain the nature of past events—has a crucial impact on our happiness and future success. People with an optimistic explanatory style interpret adversity as being local and temporary . . . while those with a pessimistic explanatory style see these events as more global and permanent. Their beliefs then directly affect their actions” ([New York: Crown Publishing, 2010], 187–88)."

2. Give your memory time to work. If you try to select a question and answer it in a single 15-minute session, you may find yourself drawing a blank. Read over all the questions at the beginning of the month, and read them again at the beginning of each week. Pick one (or a couple) and let your subconscious mind work on them for a few days, so by the time you sit down to write, you'll have something to say. When you tune your mind in to a particular memory or time period, you'll be surprised at what surfaces as you go about your daily life.

3. Go off script. Don't feel beholden to the questions provided for you in the 52 Stories project. One of the questions might spark a memory that's completely unrelated to the question itself. If another story is more inspiring to you, share THAT memory instead. Follow where your memories take you. And if you want to answer a November question in January, go ahead. This is your project, and you get to make the rules.

4. Let go of chronological pressure. The questions in this project are arranged by theme, not by date order. The stories you tell will be random, pulled from many different periods of your life. Embrace the random nature of the project. This is just a collection of stories, not your comprehensive life story. But the project has the potential to make you a better writer, get you in the habit of exploring your past, and even put you in the mindset to write your comprehensive life story.

5. Be creative with the form of your answers. You don't have to answer each question with a paragraph-style response. Some questions might be better answered with a bulleted list. For example, the question, "What do you consider your greatest academic achievement?" can either be answered with a thorough description of a specific paper you wrote, a difficult class you passed, or your graduation ceremony. Or it could be a list of all the achievements you can remember from throughout your school career.

6. Get family members involved. See if you can get siblings, parents, or grandparents to join you in the 52 Stories project. You could even use this opportunity to ask an older relative a question each week and record his or her answers with your smartphone or another voice recorder. 

7. Follow Family Search on Instagram. Throughout 2017, Family Search will post a question every week to their Instagram account (some are from the 144 questions listed on the PDF downloads, some are new and different). Follow along to see how other people respond. Reading other people's memories can inspire memories of your own. And you might encounter a question you like even better than those on the monthly themed quizzes. 

8. Find ALL the #52Stories downloads here. You can print a giant 3 ft x 4 ft. poster containing all 144 questions to hang on your wall (there are two different styles). You can print the Monthly Themed Quizzes on 12 sheets of 8.5 x 11 paper. Or you can just get inspired by them all online. It's up to you!

 

Sweat, Tears and the Sea

It has been mentioned a couple of times, and I agree, that infertility is one of those trials that is "safe" to talk about. People will generally be sympathetic and kind, even if they don't understand. Unlike some other challenges, it's not something that can be easily blamed on the sufferer. 

It can still feel embarrassing and shameful to acknowledge any kind of inner struggle. There's the fear that people who can't relate might be thinking, "Why make such a big deal out of it? Just accept it and move on." It took me years to be willing to even say the word "infertility," let alone blog about it. There's the fear that others who are suffering more will look at you like you're a whiny little speck of sadness. That they might even intone "first-world problems" at you. There's the fear that people will look at you in pity and feel grateful that they aren't you.

But generally, I've found that people try to be kind.

On the other hand, there are plenty of trials that cannot be discussed in a public way, because of the other people involved who don't want or deserve to have their part in the story revealed. I'm dealing with some of these too, directly and indirectly, as I suspect we all are.

Things like:
personal addiction
addictions of family members
rebellious or difficult children
abuse
anxiety/depression
anxiety/depression of a family member
mental illness in one's self or a loved one
financial struggles
divorce and separation

All of the above become even more difficult to talk about in a public forum like Facebook or a blog when you have older children who are able to read and somewhat active online.  

For me, it was cathartic to finally share the story of my miscarriage 2 1/2 months after the fact. I'm definitely on a path of healing, feeling mostly good most days. But there are still times when I feel like the walking wounded, and with yesterday's post, I wanted my wider circle of friends and acquaintances to understand what's going on with me if I'm a bit more absent or emotionally fragile at the moment. 

Like the other day at Home Depot, when the wail of a tiny newborn baby pierced my composure. Partly because it was unexpected in that setting, and partly because the baby was SO small and SO upset—and the mother was making no efforts to soothe the child. Much to my embarrassment, tears filled my eyes and I lost track of the conversation I was having with a store associate about furnace maintenance. Thankfully, these moments are becoming more rare.

Given the general level of peace and equilibrium I had achieved while not being confronted with distressed infants at hardware stores, I didn't expect the volume of tears that accompanied the writing of my story. I could barely type through the waterworks, and I had to write it in three pieces on three different days. But when I punched out that last sentence, dry-eyed, I thought the well was exhausted once again.

Until, that is, I read your comments on Facebook and on my blog yesterday. 

I saw there were comments, while I was out and about with Keira. I got the alerts on my phone. But when the very thought of there being comments made my eyes water—and when I got one or two texts that triggered the faucet—I knew I couldn't really read them until I had a box of tissues by my side and no immediate tasks to perform.

Good move. Because last night, I was a puddle. Useless, really. 

Kindness makes me cry. Of course, everything makes me cry. I've always known my emotions are directly wired to my tear ducts; sometimes I even cry when I'm angry, which only makes me ANGRIER. Also, extreme laughter makes me cry, which only makes me laugh harder. It's a vicious circle. (One day I'll have to tell you about the 10-minute cry-laughing fit that interrupted a recent Polar Express-themed train ride with my sister and all five of our children.) 

Honestly, I didn't expect the flood of kindness, empathy and prayers offered on my behalf. 

I am overwhelmed and grateful. 

And I feel for those who are struggling silently with things they can't share. 

A dear friend who's going through a divorce sent me this text:
"The way you expressed your feelings helps this apply to so many different trials and struggles. I definitely identified with some of your honest feelings of disappointment and still wishing that things had ended differently than they had. Also, holding on to hope against the odds!"

That was my hope in sharing this trial of mine that is more relatable than some others are.

I still believe we get most of our comfort directly, through the mirrored expression on a friend's face who may not know what to say but still shows up on your porch and gives you a long hug. Through generous hands who have prepared a meal and dropped it by. Through the ringing of the phone at the very moment I had just said "Amen" at the end of a pleading prayer. Through an anonymous note in my mailbox. Through my greatest comforter of all, the holy spirit and the intercession of a loving Savior.

We all need one or two people who can offer hands-on help with our quiet trials, and we need to be willing to let them in.

I felt, and still feel, like other people are (literally) carrying the weight of this with me. When I hear the words, "I'm grieving with you," it feels (figuratively) like a pebble or a stone has been taken from the backpack I'm carrying. And it makes me want to do more to ease their burdens too.

A few weeks after my loss, I escaped for a week to my sister's house in Southern California. I soaked up all the love and sunshine I could and shed all the tears I wanted, which wasn't too many, right then. I even bodysurfed with my nephew, unsuccessfully. As I sat on the sand feeling the wind on my face and watching the children splash in the waves, I was reminded of a favorite quote.

Thank you for shedding tears with me and helping me heal.

 ***

All this talk of water brings to mind a short, stunning article I recently read by Martha Beck: "3 Words that Will Help You Comfort Anyone." It's definitely worth reading.

Related Posts:

Falling and Rising
Meditations on Grief
I Am Infertile
The End of Infertility?
The Three Most Annoying Words in the English Language

 

Falling and Rising

Despite my intentions to make this year my blogging comeback, I'm still not very consistent. But I haven't lost hope.

I've found that holding on to hope against the odds is one of my gifts. 

An almost obsessive concern with authenticity is another gift, but also a curse.

In the last couple of months, I've found it hard to blog because the one thing that's been on my mind the most is the one thing I wasn't ready to share just yet. And blogging about anything else seemed somehow false and trivial. But I think I'm ready now. 

Right around the end of September, I had been planning to share some wonderful news that I had been keeping to myself until I was more certain. I alluded to this pending announcement a couple of times, but I had to get through one final hurdle before the big reveal. 

I was pregnant, for the very first time EVER at age 39, after a 10-year struggle with infertility.

 

7 week ultrasound

My due date was April 2, which was perfect in so many ways, especially as news trickled in that others we care deeply about were expecting too. All the stars had finally aligned for me. I was exhausted and hormonal, but otherwise perfectly healthy. No morning sickness at all. My blood tests looked wonderful, and my ultrasounds with my fertility doctor at 7 weeks and 9 weeks looked perfect. I heard my baby's strong, steady heartbeat twice. And once I saw her wiggling around like crazy, even though I couldn't feel her yet.

At my 9-week appointment, when I was about to graduate to my regular OB, my fertility doctor calmed my anxiety and disbelief that this was really happening after a decade of hoping and praying. She told me that when things look this good at this point, and considering the particular IVF protocols we had followed, my chances of miscarriage were less than 5%. And I reminded myself of that fact often.

I had told just a few people, and of course my family all knew and were absolutely ecstatic for me, but I was waiting until after my first official OB appointment before making the big announcement on Facebook or here on my poor, neglected blog.

My doctor's earliest available appointment was when I was just shy of 13 weeks along, on the cusp of my second trimester. When that day finally arrived, Travis and I headed in to the office, list of questions in hand, excited to finally get the self-imposed stamp of approval I felt we needed before going public.

 

9-week ultrasound

As we sat in my new doctor's office, going over our list of questions and feeling thrilled that A) he assumed I was in my early 30s, and B) he never once uttered the words "advanced maternal age," he was paged for an imminent delivery. He apologized and said, "Let's do a quick ultrasound before I head down there, and then we can continue our conversation after I return. I'm sorry for the interruption." I didn't mind. The high prioritization of baby delivery is precisely what I'm looking for in an OB/GYN. 

I lay on the table, and he pressed the wand into my abdomen and paused. He readjusted, pressed harder, and paused again. And again.

He said some very direct but very kind words that I couldn't hear or accept in the moment.

On the monitor, I saw a perfectly still baby in profile, but that didn't sink in either. I just waited calmly for the second opinion with the more advanced ultrasound equipment. 

"I'm not going to panic yet," I said to Trav when we were alone in the room.

When the second ultrasound confirmed the first, and we heard the silent sonogram, I still didn't panic.

Instead, the truth sank into my chest like a terrible, dark weight. 

My first instinct was to run. I wanted to escape the grief, to leap over it and land in that place of acceptance and understanding that I hoped would be on the other side of this chasm. I ached for it all to make sense, right away. 

But there were things to get through first.

In the last weeks, which have now turned into months, there have been countless tears and countless prayers—some painful and pleading, some peaceful and grateful (much to my own surprise). There have been a lot of questions and a few answers. 

We did genetic testing on our baby, who was somewhere between the size of a Brussels sprout and a lemon, and everything came back normal. They can't test for everything, of course, but all of the most common things were ruled out. We were having a baby girl, just like Keira and I both thought. 

My fertility doctor also ordered an array of tests on me, because this is just so uncommon considering the particular facts of my situation. Everything came back normal. I don't have a blood clotting disorder. I don't have a "hostile uterus," whatever that means. I don't appear to have an incompetent cervix; even a couple of weeks after my baby died, my body was not ready to let go of this pregnancy.

The answers are: we just don't know. It may only happen 5% of the time after a picture-perfect 9-week ultrasound, but it still happens. To me, so far, it happens 100% of the time.

 ***

The day we got the news about our baby, I felt restless and impatient, on top of all of the other, weightier emotions. 

Trav would have done anything to ease my pain, and in hindsight I should have requested a red-eye to Hawaii. But instead I asked him to drive me up Little Cottonwood canyon to see the beautiful fall leaves and fill my lungs with fresh mountain air. 

The heaviness in my chest pressed harder the higher we climbed on the winding canyon road. I looked out my window at the dormant, barren trees, and the scattered remnants of glorious reds, oranges and yellows littering the ground. We had just missed Utah's very short window of brilliant canyon color, probably by no more than a few days. 

Of course, I thought bitterly. Of course.

We wondered if we should just turn around. We made it this far, I said, so we might as well complete the journey. We drove to the top, and then took the sharp left toward Guardsman's Pass, leaving the bleak, faded landscape behind us--all the more depressing considering how fiery and alive it must have been just days before.

We drove higher as the sun sank lower. And there, at the crest of the pass, were dozens of cars and dozens of cameras on tripods. They were trained east, toward the scenery in front of us, instead of west, the landscape we had just left. 

Ahead there was beauty.

Small patches of trees that seemed to be lit from within were still belting out the song of fall, still fighting off the encroaching grays and browns of winter.

I stood and stared, pulling deep breaths of solace into my soul. 

It was enough, in that moment, to carry me on for a few more hours. 

 ***

I wanted to wait and tell this story when I had a happy ending to share.

That's kind of how I approached it when Keira was born. I didn't share much publicly about my infertility journey until we were pretty darn close to having a successful adoption. I know how I crave a nice lovely bow wrapped around the end of a story. 

But I'm realizing it's important to tell our sad stories too, and to speak up when we're in the middle of the struggle. That small piece of wisdom came from Brene Brown's new book, Rising Strong, which could not have been released at a more perfect time. Next to my faith in my Savior, my caring family and my friends, and several addresses from the October LDS General Conference—which have brought me waves of peace and perspective that are still ebbing and flowing—this book has been a lifeline.

No one likes to talk about the messy middle of a story, even though that's where all the strength and growth happens that eventually carries you to the finish line. We only hear about the initial falling down and the eventual rising up, and we sweep that painful, scary, uncertain stuff under the rug. 

This is my messy middle. I'm glad I could keep it to myself for a little while, shared only with a small circle of family, friends and neighbors—many of whom were first tipped off by a very excited 5-year-old. But now that I've lived with it for a while, I'm okay to talk about it, even though I'm still waffling between grief and anger and denial and hope. 

Maybe seeing me be brave, fall flat on my face, and then pick myself back up, maybe that will give someone else courage too. 

It has taken incredible courage for me to grind away at this dream of growing my family, after so many years—to continue to put my heart and my hope on the line. I had to decide what kind of person I wanted to be. Did I want to resign myself to disappointment, take the safe path, and maybe always wonder "What if..."? Or did I want to risk big, throw that Hail Mary pass, and know that whatever happens, I gave it my all?

In the lives we imagine for ourselves, we all pick the second option. In reality, it's not so easy. I'm now finding out how much it hurts when the risk doesn't pay off.

But you know what? I'm still glad I tried. 

I liked being pregnant. 

I liked finding out that I can get pregnant. 

I liked the camaraderie I felt with other pregnant women.

I loved seeing the nurturing side of my husband, as he sheltered and cradled me in my despair.

I loved recognizing tender mercies from Heaven and sacred, undeniable answers to my prayers.

I loved the outpouring of kindness and compassion from those who knew of my loss. 

I loved liked didn't mind finding out that I'm stronger than I thought I was.

***

I desperately wish things had turned out differently. In that parallel timeline where I'm still pregnant, we would have just announced our baby's gender, a few weeks before my brother and his wife did (they're having a boy). I would be showing now, like my neighbor is (they're having a girl). I would be posting pictures of baby clothes to Facebook, like Keira's birthmom is (they're having a girl). 

Instead, I'm trying to figure out what "rising strong" looks like for me. Trying to choose courage over comfort. Trying to feel grateful for the opportunity I have to choose and chase my dreams at all.

Trying, still, to hope.

What's So Funny? These 11 Writing Tips Are

Looking to add a bit more humor to your writing, journaling, or personal history? Here are some tips I shared in a podcast episode (that's no longer available) with my friend Elizabeth Dillow, who shared her funny business here.

I frequently write a bit of humor into my journaling and personal stories, but not exactly in a laugh-out-loud funny way. More in a mildly amusing manner that may cause the occasional inward chuckle. I'm not going for high comedy or punchlines, just a lighthearted, humorous take on daily life.

For me, there are two different approaches I use to lighten up my personal stories: writing techniques and writing devices. But first, some expert advice.

The Hard "K" Sound

Playwright Neil Simon, author of The Odd Couple, Barefoot in the Park, and Biloxi Blues, among others, has been dubbed "Broadway Master of Comedy." In his play The Sunshine Boys, it is pointed out that the hard "k" sound is the funniest sound in the alphabet. 

"Fifty-seven years in this business, you learn a few things. You know what words
are funny and which words are not funny. Alka-Seltzer is funny. You say 'Alka-Seltzer', you get a laugh...
Words with 'k' in them are funny. Casey Stengel, that's a funny name. Robert Taylor is not funny.
Cupcake is funny. Tomato is not funny. Cookie is funny. Cucumber is funny.
Car keys. Cleveland... Cleveland is funny. Maryland is not funny.
Then, there's chicken. Chicken is funny. Pickle is funny."

Do you agree? Start paying attention, and you'll notice that this is true! Even the word "comedy" itself fits the theory. (And this could explain the popularity of a certain word that begins with "f.") Now on to my eleven writing tips. Why eleven? Well, it's funnier than both 10 or 12, because it's unexpected, and it also might remind you of the best scene in Spinal Tap.

Writing Techniques

As you may have noticed, even the funniest story that ever happened to you can be difficult to express in a humorous way once you start writing. You have to be deliberate about how you write, if you want the humor to come across. Below are a few techniques to try, which you'll find illustrated in one of the more amusing posts (in my opinion) I've written recently, "Some Days You Just Can't Win."

1. Exaggeration. 
   From the blog post: "As I try to order, Keira wails at supersonic levels when her window is UP. But every time I roll it DOWN, she leans forward and shouts her own preferences at the intercom."
   
   
2. Understatement.
   If your scrapbook layout includes a photo of a baby grimacing after eating a pickle, an understated caption like "You could say she's not a huge fan of pickles" is much funnier than the more direct "She sure hates pickles!"
   
   
3. Unexpected Combinations.
   When writing a list, it adds humor when the last item in your list doesn't quite fit in with the rest. For example, here's a recent Facebook update I posted: 
   Learn how to melt away a double chin, which house plants cure anxiety...and my tips for summer scrapbooking. It's all in this week's Woman's World magazine.
   
   
4. Fake Gravitas.
   The contrast of writing in a dead serious tone about something that's actually hilarious certainly adds humor to a story.
   
   
5. Vocabulary.
   When you're going for a humorous effect, always go for the more unusual, exaggerated or bizarre word. Back to that blog post, notice that Keira tried to "fling my phone over the banister" instead of trying to "throw" it. I "devoured" three fun-sized candy bars instead of "ate" them. The tomato soup "oozes" onto the floormat instead of "spills." There's no doubt that "oozes" is the funnier word. 
   
   
6. Brevity and Variation of Sentence Length.
   Also from the blog post, Keira "puts a dishtowel over her face to play 'married' and promptly walks into a wall. Hard. Needs mega soothing." Notice how this combination of longer and shorter sentences is both punchier and funnier than if I had said, "And then Keira walked into a wall really hard, and I had to soothe her."
    

Writing Devices

Here, I'm talking about the initial set up of the story. If you start out from a humorous angle, you don't have to try quite as hard to be funny with your phrasing. Here are a five ideas:

1. Charts. I have used charts for humorous effect over and over again. You can be funny in the categories you choose, and then simply add a checkmark in the column that applies. The reason this works is the unexpected factor. When you see a chart, you expect something serious, scientific, data-driven. And then you start reading. 

 

2. A Memo. The contrast between the formal memo and the lighthearted words you can include in your message can add humor to a page, especially if you use a product from knockknockstuff.com

3. Pet Peeves. A page listing your pet peeves is an easy way to inject humor into your scrapbooks. I created a page years ago, without even using a photo, and most of the peeves still stand. Most especially: "Close talkers, loud talkers, and people who poke or nudge you for emphasis while conversing with you.

4. Writing Like a Reporter. Tell a lighthearted story in news reporter style, as I did on an old 2005 layout about an impromptu recorder concert my 4th-grade stepson put on for his cousins:
"Talented 4th grader Jeremy Lucas favored a rapt audience with an impromptu recorder concert in his living room. Lucas's mad record skills brought the house down. 'The house' consisted of his dad Travis (also the event's photographer), his stepmom Angie, and his favorite cousins Zach and Riley. After an encore and a standing ovation, all participants stayed for a sleepover."

5. Top 5 Funny Facts. This can be a quick and easy page that lists amusing little details about your personality, either directly in your journal, on a social media post, or on a scrapbook page. Here's a page that appeared years ago in the now-defunct Simple Scrapbooks magazine, where I was the managing editor.

Yes, I do spontaneously, accidentally adopt people's accents right in the middle of conversations. I have to really concentrate to avoid it. Just imagine how difficult it was for me to recently visit Alabama! In fact, after we landed, I lapsed into a drawl with the very first Southerner I spoke to: the Delta airlines gate agent. (Hopefully she just thought I was a local. Yeah, right.)

 

5 Writing Tips for More Readable Personal Stories

Here are five simple tips for making your personal stories, family-history writing and scrapbook journaling more interesting and inviting. Because interesting is always better than boring. That's my personal motto. 

"Interesting! Of course! People LOVE interesting writing!"
—Elaine from Seinfeld, circa 1997

1. Keep it short. 

In writing, as in conversation, audiences appreciate it when you get to the point quickly. If you must meander, make sure there's a purpose for every detour—it should either add important context, personality, or humor to your story. Just because a thought came to mind while you were writing doesn't mean it belongs where you put it. After you've written an initial draft, read through your story again with your finger poised over the delete key. Here are the three easiest places to cut when brevity is the goal:

• Remove repetitive sentences. Look for the same idea expressed two or more times in close proximity and cut out the extras. 
• Omit filler phrases. Get rid of those introductory phrases that plant themselves in your story while you're composing but serve no other purpose than to take up space. Think of them as weeds that are choking out your flowers. Examples are "now that I think about it" or "and the truth is" or "believe it or not."
• Delete unnecessary words. Cut out half of your adjectives, especially vague and overused adjectives like "very" and "so."

Just three meaningful sentences, plus a fragment. Short and sweet.

2. Embrace lists.

When you're drowning in facts, switch to a list. I use bulleted lists on scrapbook pages, on my blog, in all forms of my professional writing, and even in my personal, handwritten journal. One clue that a bulleted list is needed is when you find yourself struggling to connect a bunch of random or disparate facts together in paragraph form—and you start getting bored along the way. A short bulleted list also makes your ideas friendlier to read. See #1 above. 

 

Lists aren't just for facts, though. They can also be handy devices for framing a story. For example: 

• "10 Things I Didn't Know About My Grandfather While He Was Alive"
• "What I Remember About My Grandma's House"
• "A Few Quick Updates About My Life" (I use this one in my journal all the time)
• "Things I Miss Most About My Mom"
• "12 Life Lessons Learned from Great-Grandma Milliken"
• "10 Things I Love About My Life Right Now" (great for a scrapbook page)
• "Highlights from Our Hawaiian Vacation" (also great for a scrapbook page)

What do you know, I just used another list. 

This photo inspired me to list everything I could remember about my grandma Hill's house.

 

3. Pick an angle.

It can be tempting to include everything you know or remember about a particular event or story, but the most interesting stories are told within a framework or from a specific angle. Imagine you're writing or scrapbooking about a birthday party. You could share everything about it, encyclopedia-entry style (who was there, what was on the menu, what gifts were given, etc.). Or you could approach it from a unique direction by asking yourself questions that will help you zero in on the most interesting and story-worthy aspects of that event. 

 

Here are a few sample questions to ask yourself:

• Why am I really making this page or telling this story? 
• How was this birthday party different from every other birthday party I've attended?
• How was it the same?
• Who was the most interesting or unexpected guest?
• What was the most unexpected gift? 
• How do these photos make me feel?

You may discover that your real purpose is to share your thoughts about how quickly your children are growing up, or realize this was the last birthday party grandma attended before she passed away, or notice a tradition that you've carried on from your own childhood...and suddenly you have a more interesting angle for your story. 

 

For an example of a family-history story told from a strong angle, read all about Mona's Mustard Sauce, which I also attached to my grandmother's name in my family tree on FamilySearch.org.

 

A page that was originally about Keira and her puppy learning to climb the stairs turned into a brief reflection on life itself.

 

 

4. Be authentic.

Remember that what you say is more important than how you say it. Which would you rather read: a fascinating story told imperfectly? Or a series of grammatically pure, impeccably written sentences that say nothing in particular?

 

Don't let your insecurities about your spelling, grammar, punctuation or vocabulary hold you back from sharing the stories of your life. Just write the way you speak—it's important to let your personality shine through—and make an effort to polish it a little bit to make it friendlier for others to read. Because no one wants an unfiltered glimpse into the inner workings of your mind. (Wink.)

 

The core of authenticity, though, is a willingness to be real. Tell the truth of your life, not the glossy version that you wish were the truth. You've struggled and triumphed, you've learned and grown. You have nuggets of wisdom to share. So share them. 

 

This is me being real. These are all things that were once true about me, but are no longer, written in a simple, unstructured list.

 

5. Take your time—some of the time. 

Remember that not every page or story must be a literary masterpiece. Certain types of stories and pages can be told quickly using lists of facts, photo captions, free-form writing and more. But when you uncover a story that means a lot to you, spend some time writing and revising it. Shape it and hone it until it truly reflects the vision of the story that exists in your mind. 

 

Not every scrapbook page can or should include long, paragraph-style journaling. Not every story you write for your family history must be detailed or in-depth. Make most of your stories "good enough" and save your journaling genius for the pages and stories that matter most to you. Your care and attention will shine through, and those who encounter your work down the road will be able to tell: this is a story that matters. 

 

For this page, the photo doesn't tell much of a story on its own, so I took more time crafting my story. I wrote it first in pencil, then rewrote my second draft in pen, revising as I went. I had additional details to share that didn't fit in my journaling block, so I also wrote a bulleted list of memories around the edge of the page.

 

Further Resources

• Listen to the latest Paperclipping Roundtable podcast, where fellow guest Elizabeth Dillow and I discuss ways to craft more interesting stories with hosts Izzy and Noell Hyman.
• Also read Elizabeth Dillow's five excellent tips for making your scrapbook journaling more interesting on her blog, A Swoop and a Dart.

 

Meditations on Grief

As we've been observing Memorial Day here in the U.S. this week, I've had some thoughts swirling around in my head about loss and grief.

Pictured: small cemetery in Cleveland, Idaho, where many of my ancestors were buried.

Grief and Social Media

Social media is often (rightly) accused of connecting us only on a superficial level. But I've recently realized that it also has the power to make us aware that others are suffering—much like the black armbands or mourning attire of ages past. It's a signal to be gentle with those who are fragile, to mete out an extra dose of love and understanding. 

Were it not for my very haphazard monitoring of my Facebook feed, I'm not sure whether I would have heard about an old college roommate who recently buried her mom. Or a former work colleague who lost her husband to cancer. Or a woman in my church congregation who recently suffered through a stillbirth. 

The kinder side of social media has the power to connect us to our entire extended tribe on our very darkest days, the power to invoke kind words and prayers from all corners of the globe. 

I have a friend from high school and college who lost her husband to suicide last last year, after a long and private battle with depression. Although we had barely interacted with each other in the past 16 years, apart from random comments on each other's Facebook posts, I found myself weeping for her for days, weeks, months. She has been using Facebook as a public diary of sorts, which is a wonderful thing. I can check in on her daily and know how she's doing, since I'm thinking about her anyway. She can share her dark moments and her triumphs with an audience of family and friends—both old and new—who want to help her in any way that they can, if only by a few words of encouragement left in a comment.

She is finding that she has a gift for the written word, and that every expressed emotion lifts a bit of the burden from her heart. Every task she accomplishes in the face of overwhelming grief (her own and her children's) can be shared and celebrated by her circle of friends, since her beloved partner is no longer there to celebrate with her. 

Her honesty and vulnerability have inspired me, and apparently everyone else she knows, judging by the comments. She reminds us all to look past the detritus of life, find and celebrate our hidden reserves of inner strength, and focus our thoughts and energy on the things that matter most—like lifting and serving those around us.

Comparative Grief

I've blogged about it before, but one of my favorite quotes about grief is from writer Anna Quindlen. She calls it "the continuous presence of an absence" and "a whisper in the world but a clamor within."

I don't personally know much about the grief one feels at losing a spouse or a child, but infertility is its own kind of grief. In some ways, grief is grief. In other ways, it's a completely different experience for everyone, every single time.

I have another dear friend who is an angel mom. She buried her little baby just 2 months after birth. She has become a member of one of those clubs you never wanted to join. Just like the infertile, who understand one another in a way no one else can, angel mothers have a terrible and instant kinship.

And yet the very thing that unites them can also divide them. My friend has heard other angel mothers say things like, "Oh, she's so lucky she got to have her daughter until she was 14. I only got a few months with my baby." Whereas the mother whose teenager died might argue that her grief is deeper because the more years together, the bigger the hole that is left. 

Sometimes people try to relate to my friend's pain with stories of losing a grandparent or a pet. Some angel mothers take offense at these kinds of comparisons, and perhaps rightly so. But my very kind and generous friend looks at it this way: maybe that loss of the family dog is the most significant grief this person has ever experienced. And that's their only frame of reference for trying to understand and relate to her. And at least they are trying. So she accepts the gift of attempted compassion, and she does not diminish it. I admire that. 

I remember when I was in my early 20s and suffering from a broken heart, someone I knew laughed at my pain just a little. Admittedly, what she had gone through in her life was an ocean of grief compared to my trickling stream. I could easily recognize that, even at the time. Yet when she brushed off my pain as something insignificant, it only made me feel small and stupid and disconnected.

When we're our most generous selves, we would simply recognize a kindred loss and never diminish anyone else's. But we're not always capable of selflessness and generosity. Sometimes we're hurting so much that we succumb to feelings of envy and the tendency to compare. And I understand that, too. 

Mourning with Those Who Mourn

What I'm learning from my own experiences and friends who grieve is to never, ever judge. Everyone responds differently to loss. If this is the best a suffering person is capable of in this given moment, then they deserve my compassion, not my judgment. Heaven knows I've wished for that myself.

The more I've tried to "mourn with those who mourn" (a phrase I love from LDS scripture) the more I've learned to let go of my expectations of what a grieving person should think, say or feel—and when they should think, say or feel those things. For a million different reasons, the loss I feel for my grandmother is not the same as the loss you feel for yours. Every individual relationship is unique, and the grieving experiences will be too. 

Generally, I try to err on the side of being available to those in my circle who are suffering, rather than retreating in fear of saying the wrong thing. I believe that stumbling through my words imperfectly—and my efforts are always imperfect—is far better than never showing up to say anything at all. 

That said, it never hurts to brush up on a list of the wrong things to say. In every grief club, there are certain remarks and questions that are especially hard to take. They are uttered in innocence, but they cause pain nonetheless.

• To any parent anywhere, I try never to ask, "How many children do you have?" I know more than one angel mother who dreads this question. She has to decide, based on how long she's likely to know you, whether to answer "three" and include all of her children, "two" and include only those who are still living, or the more descriptive "two here on earth and one in heaven." If she chooses the last option, she may have to endure your embarrassed apology, sympathetic looks or questions. A safer approach is to say: "Tell me about your family." This allows angel mothers, those who are childless by choice, and those who may be childless not by choice to frame their answer however they want.
  
  
• To adoptive mothers, you never ask about the child's "real mom." While I may not have carried my daughter in my womb for 9 months or given birth to her, I am a real mother who is doing the hard, daily work of parenting. And I'm eternally grateful to the birthmom who gave me the opportunity to be a real mom.
  
  
• To birthmoms, you never say that they "gave up" their babies. She "placed" her baby for adoption. She will keep her baby forever in her heart, even though circumstances may have made it impossible for her to parent the child. I wish there were a more elegant expression than "placed," but that's the preferred term in adoption circles, and you'll earn compassion points for using it correctly. 
  
  
• To infertile women, you never tell stories of friends who managed to get pregnant right after they "stopped stressing about it so much" or after they adopted a child. The first makes women feel that they are to blame for their situation, and trust me, they already feel that enough. The second frames adoption as a means to a different end, rather than a beautiful choice in and of itself.
  
  
• To women who have suffered pregnancy loss, especially when it occurs later on, it can be painful to hear the term "miscarriage" or especially the more active construction "she miscarried." Both terms subtly imply some fault on the part of the mother, as if there's another way should or could have carried the baby, and it can minimize late-term losses that are more correctly described as stillbirths. I'd never thought about this before, until a friend who is in this club enlightened me. I've learned that a better thing to say is, "I'm sorry for the loss of your baby."

Clearly, this is not a comprehensive list. I'm certain there are other innocently insensitive remarks that are often made to other "grief clubs," probably even by me. And after hearing these kinds of comments often enough, those of us in a particular club become inured to them over time. Nevertheless, a little extra compassion goes a long way.

We've all been on the receiving end of stumbling remarks made by well-meaning people who are just trying their best to identify with us. Perhaps, to help lessen the feelings of offense, we can give the other person points for trying and realize there are no magic words anyone can say that will make it all better. 

Above all, it helps to remember that we're all walking wounded, in one way or another—and connection is the only way through. 

The Three Most Annoying Words in the English Language

These three little words comprise one of the most irritating phrases in the English language.

I know I've been guilty of saying them myself here and there, but I hereby vow to stop cold turkey. Won't you join me in helping to eradicate this smug and unpleasant utterance? It's not just the words themselves that offend, but the sentiment behind them, so let's get rid of that as well. 

Here are three situations that will explain what I mean. 

Just You Wait, Newlywed

I remember being a starry-eyed newlywed, blissfully in love and dreaming of a bright and unblemished future ahead of me. I was so happy to be married and living in a home of my own—no more roommates or apartments—and I honestly felt like I was playing house at first.

Every now and then, a veteran married person (you know 5+ years) would ask, "So, how's married life?" And I'd share how I happy I was, with a small detail or two thrown in, such as, "You know what's really great? Since he spent so many years as a single dad, he is so appreciative of anything I do for him. He knows what it's like to have to do everything by himself, so he never takes me for granted."

And the response, quite often, would be, "Just you wait. He'll get used to it and start leaving his socks around with the best of them."

Another time I mentioned how grateful I was for a husband who cares about a clean house and would willingly complete about half of the housework (back when we were both working full time).

One more experienced married woman replied, "Enjoy it while you can. Trust me, it will start driving you crazy soon enough. My husband cares way more than I do about keeping the house clean, and he constantly nags me."

Bubble effectively burst. 

Sure, I was living in a bit of a fantasyland back in those days, imagining a happy, shiny, problem-free future. It's tempting to do exactly that anytime we're at the start of something new. But reality always rises up to smack us in the face soon enough. We should all let each other enjoy the fantasy while we can. 

I'm not saying that we should indulge a person's unrealistic expectations forever—especially if the fantasy could be damaging—but in the moment, it never hurts to just share in another person's joy. 

Here are some alternative responses to keep in your back pocket:

"I can see the joy on your face. It's good to see you so happy."

"Yeah, I remember those days. It's fun to be a newlywed. Things will get both harder and more wonderful from here on out. You have lots to look forward to!"

"Sounds like you're starting out your marriage on the right foot. Stay in the honeymoon phase as long as you can."

 

Just You Wait, New Mama

When Keira was a tiny, sweet, immobile newborn, and I'd spend hours just holding her and staring at her, people would ask, "So how's life as a new mama?" I'd reply with how much joy she had brought to my life. I'd express surprise that I'm really not as tired as I expected to be, or as overwhelmed. I'd say how shocked I was that I was still managing to keep on top of my business (for the most part), blog occasionally, and even read a book every now and then. I'd say that I didn't really know what was missing in my life until now—that Keira Jane Lucas made me feel complete in a way I hadn't felt for the 7 years I had waited for her.

Now, if you imagine yourself saying in response to any blissful new mother, "Just you wait until you have a teenager, then you'll know what tired is," or "Just you wait until she's crawling. You won't get anything done after that," please hold your tongue. Here are some alternate responses to try:

"I'm so happy for you!"
"I remember when my son was that age. The baby years are so precious."
"You're lucky. My baby never slept when he was little. I hope things continue to go well!"

Just You Wait, Rookie Employee

There are definite disadvantages to being a new employee (not knowing where the break room is, having no grasp of corporate culture and history, being unaware of company processes), but there are advantages, too. New employees can see issues, problems and areas of improvement that more entrenched employees are blind to—and they have a sense of optimism and energy that can be infectious to others.

If you're a long-term employee, it's tempting to fill the newbie's mind with all of your own gripes, injustices and prejudices right away—because you will certainly have some. But why not see if the new employee's fresh perspective can rub off on you, rather than letting your cynicism rub off on her? It's a chance for you to look at your team anew.

If you find yourself wanting to reply to all of her new ideas with a "We already tried that and it didn't work," try the following instead: "I'm interested to hear more about that idea. I'll share a similar idea that we tried last year, and maybe you can help us understand why it failed and what you think we could do differently if we tried it again." 

If you feel like warning her away from the difficult personalities in the office on day one, instead let her form her own opinion. If she says, "Mary in accounting sure seems nice," refrain from saying, with a mouth full of sour grapes, "Just wait until you're late with an expense report, then you'll see just now nice she is."

The office ogres will reveal their true colors soon enough. And then you and the new employee can commiserate together. Or maybe she'll forge a personal connection with Mean Mary that can smooth the way for you. 

 

Together We Can Banish Bubble Bursting

We've all been guilty of needlessly raining on another person's parade, haven't we? Whether out of jealousy or personal dissatisfaction or even genuine concern expressed in an unintentionally negative way. 

I cannot remember where this came from, or I would pass the credit along, but I've heard that every utterance that passes our lips should meet at least two of the following criteria, if not all three:
Is it TRUE?
Is it NICE?
Is it NECESSARY?

The bubble-bursting scenarios outlined above may be true, but they certainly aren't nice or necessary, so they don't pass the test. If for some reason it becomes necessary to burst a bubble, even if what you're saying isn't particularly nice, then by all means say the thing, as long as it's also true.

There's an adorable video from Dr. Brene Brown (below) that illustrates how disconnecting and isolating it can be when we try to paint a silver lining around someone else's pain. What I'm talking about is the reverse of that—inviting the storm clouds in to cast a shadow on another person's sunny news—but it will also get in the way of those true human connections that we are all starving for, whether we know it or not. 

Parades and blissful fantasies are rare and beautiful things in this world, and I believe we should all help each other enjoy the sunshine while we can—and then practice empathy and connection when those inevitable clouds roll in.  

 

 

Easter Traditions: Mona's Mustard Sauce

I  haven't always shared the depth of my faith on my blog, mostly because I consider it too precious to be held up to the potential scorn of the world at large. (Not that the world at large is aware of my obscure little corner of the Internet. Whew.)

But in honor of this Easter season, I'd like to share a personal essay I wrote about my grandmother, which was very nearly published in the LDS Church News. A shorter version of this piece is featured on the Family Search blog this week. I've also attached this story to my grandmother's name on my family tree on the Family Search website, so it will be there for any of her descendants to one day read.

"If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed..."
Matthew 17:20 

My Grandma Mona Hymas Hill made the world's best homemade mustard to serve with her Easter ham. I find it funny that my mom had to recently remind me about the Easter cupcakes grandma would bake specially for the grandchildren, topped with "nests" of dyed-green coconut and speckled jelly-bean eggs.

But I needed no help remembering the mustard. 

It was surprisingly mild in both color and flavor, given Grandma's lovably spicy personality. I can still picture her carrying it proudly to the Easter table in a gravy boat. My dad and his four sisters—nostalgia shimmering in their eyes—had to coerce each of the 22 grandchildren into our first taste of this thick, warm sauce that looked nothing like the French's we ate on our sandwiches. (At least one rookie in-law mistook the mustard for warm vanilla pudding and swallowed a heaping spoonful before realizing his mistake.)

My dad and aunts grew up spooning Mona's mustard over their Sunday ham. They also helped serve it in the small-town cafe grandma and grandpa owned for 30 years. But at banquets only, for either the Lion's Club or ladies bridge nights or when church dignitaries would visit the tiny Mormon town. Oh no, it was far too precious for the regular dining room.

The recipe can be found under the heading "Mustard Sauce" in the Matthews Family Cookbook ("Ewe'll Love It!"), which my grandmother typed painstakingly on a heavy old typewriter in a makeshift office in the backyard—otherwise known as a camp trailer. She spent an entire summer typing that old cookbook, copies of which now reside in the homes of nearly every descendant of her grandmother—as long as they attended the Matthews reunion grandma organized in the mid-1980s. My mom's copy is falling apart after years of heavy use, and the mustard sauce is highlighted in yellow.

I wonder how many of Caroline Elizabeth Orr Matthews's many descendants—she bore 11 children, 9 of whom lived to adulthood—skip right over the recipe to this day, having no inkling of the magic therein.

Truly, it can be the simplest, most unexpected things that turn into the most cherished and lasting family traditions. My cousin Andy's wife, Whitney, now stirs the mustard (for 15 minutes in a double boiler) each Easter for my Aunt Margo's family gatherings. My mom is the mustard maker in our family. I'm certain my Aunts Lynn, April, and Jennifer are carrying on the tradition, too. One day it will be my turn.

And grandma's example taught me so much more than just a tasty way to serve ham at family dinners.

I think of the impact of Mona herself, not to mention her mustard sauce, when I hear the parable in the book of Matthew, where our Savior likened the mustard seed to the kingdom of heaven. It "indeed is the least of all seeds: but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs, and becometh a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof." (Matthew 13:31) 

Indeed, Grandma Mona lived simply, never owning a dishwasher or even a disposal in her kitchen sink, in a little white house on main street in Grace, Idaho, a town of less than 1,000 farmers, homemakers, teachers, welders and plant workers. She and my grandpa could never boast much in the way of money or worldly goods, but she considered herself wealthy in terms of her blossoming family tree.

Never was there a woman more vehemently proud of her grandchildren. To be related to her was to have a champion in your corner who loved you unconditionally, unabashedly, and without reserve. She was a woman of fierce devotion to both faith and family, inviting all that she loved to "come and lodge in the branches" of her generous heart.

She spent her final years in a retirement home in a city 65 miles from home, where she had more visitors than she could count. She had been terrified to leave her tiny hometown and vowed she never, ever would, but she blossomed in her new life. She thrived. One of her final acts of faith was to be an instrument in the Lord's hands in introducing an 80-year-old fellow resident, Mary, to the gospel of Jesus Christ. 

For me, Mona's mustard sauce is a taste of childhood and of home. It's a reminder of the far-reaching effects of faith. How the tiniest seed of hope, kindness, and pure devotion can blossom and grow, touching lives in the most unexpected ways. 

I wouldn't even venture a guess as to how many of Mona's 22 grandchildren will be serving her mustard this Easter. I know we will be. 

Grandma originally got the recipe decades ago from a little old lady in town my aunt can only remember as Mrs. Titus. She made a few of her own modifications. From what I hear, the mustard sauce is still served to this day at most every funeral held in my grandma's former church congregation.

Mona's Mustard Sauce

1/2 c. sugar (scant)
4 T. dry mustard, Coleman's
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. cornstarch
Mix together well

Add:
2 beaten eggs
1/2 c. milk
1/2 c. vinegar
2 T. butter

Cook 15 minutes in double boiler. This is a very mild sauce. I add more mustard to suit the taste. —Mona Hymas Hill

The Problem With Ghostwriting

"You know you make me a ghost."
—Ingrid Michaelson

The problem with being a ghostwriter, which is one of the things I'm doing now, is that many of my most brilliant sentences can never be attributed to me. 

Sure, those sparkling strings of words may be about a topic as banal as project management, but that doesn't make them any less witty or wise. 

I almost typed my most recent favorite sentence right into this post, but then I remembered that we live in the days of Google, and you'd be able to find the full article lickety-split. And then the secret would be out. I tried rewriting the sentence to make it unGooglable and yet retain its glory, but there's no substitute for the original. 

I don't necessarily feel like ghostwriting has to be a dirty little secret. It happens more than you may realize. After all, the articles I'm writing now are not my ideas, so I don't need the credit for them. I spend an hour with the "thought leader" in question, pulling as many ideas out of him or her as I can. I use direct quotes when possible, and then I craft a readable, well-organized, scannable article (because, short attention spans), embellishing with related research as needed.

The entire time I'm writing, I imagine the author's actual speaking voice in my head. Then the article goes back to the author for review. He pulls out anything that doesn't sound like something he would say, adds a bit more of his own personal flair, and makes suggestions for me. I revise as needed and turn in the final.

Yes, sing it Ingrid. I'm a Gho-ost.

It's actually a pretty great gig.

You combine what the thought leader is good at (coming up with innovative ideas that resonate with the intended audience) with what I'm good at (writing and organizing ideas) and it's the perfect symbiotic relationship. She gets to just sit and talk, spilling her ideas out loud in a quarter of the time it would take her to write them. I get great material to shape into something greater.

The ideas themselves are appropriately attributed to the person who thought of them; I just make them more accessible—and sound prettier.

Certainly, a little bit of "me" inevitably creeps in, and I discover my own dormant ideas and experiences related to team management or hiring best-practices. Perhaps I'll start collecting them—those that truly come from my own head—and become a business thought leader myself. Ha.

At the very least, I should save some of my own brilliance for my blog. I'm getting better at that. I think I've already blogged more this year than all of last year, and prospects look good for the remainder of 2015. 

In case you're wondering whether ghost-writing has ever happened in the craft and scrapbooking industries, the answer is YES. Entire books by scrapbookers you know and love were ghost-written by staff writers and editors. Not all or even most of them, but I do know of a couple of instances (none by me). If you sometimes wonder how certain scrapbooking celebrities are able to do it all, the answer is that they can't. They often have help. And there's nothing wrong with that in my book—as long as they're making their own memories, creating their own scrapbook pages, and thinking their own ideas.

Some people just need a "professional idea polisher." Like me.

(For the record, note that none of the books that were published under the Simple Scrapbooks label were ghost-written. Stacy Julian, Cathy Zielske, Elizabeth Dillow, Rebecca Cooper—they all wrote their own books. Every word.)

5 Ways to Beat the Winter Blues

While I don't think I'm a particularly SAD person, I do have a slightly harder time regulating my mood in the winter, particularly in January and February when the novelty of the snow and the cute sweaters has worn off. 

Here are a few tips that have helped brighten my mood on dreary days. Obviously, wearing polka-dot socks isn't going to cure a real case of Seasonal Affective Disorder (for that, try a "happy lamp"), but if you're just a little bit blue—you know in the steel blue range vs. a deep, dark navy—maybe these ideas will help.

 

1. Go Where the People Are
One of the things that I both love and hate about winter is my tendency to hibernate. I do love cozying up next to the fireplace under a warm quilt to read a good book late into the evening. But since I've been working primarily from home over the last 5 years, I find the extra isolation from people in the winter can affect my mood. A new gym finally opened up within 10 minutes of my house, and it seems that is where all the people of Bluffdale and Riverton are. Pulling into that crowded parking lot at 7 or 8 at night gives me an instant energy flicker; the boost doesn't usually arrive until after the workout. Oh, I don't exactly talk to anyone. But there's something about being in the same cavernous room with a hundred sweaty strangers that increases my feelings of camaraderie and common humanity. (Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd write.)

 

2. Drive to the Sun
Last Sunday, we needed an escape from the endless gray skies. We packed a lunch and a bunch of snacks, and we headed into the nearby desert. We drove and drove until we saw the sun. Out in the wilderness, southwest of Salt Lake County, you can hook into the old Pony Express Trail and drive it for 133 miles (no services), until you reach Fish Springs, a strange and isolated oasis. Sometimes you won't see another living creature. We saw maybe five other cars all day long. Sometimes you'll see a few rabbits and wild mustang, like we did on Sunday. Sometimes you'll even see a massive herd of antelope running through the brush in the same direction you're driving (that happened once in 2005, and it was magical). We rolled the windows down and breathed in the unspoiled, clear air. We sat at a picnic table in the middle of nowhere and ate peanut butter sandwiches with the sun on our faces. We soaked up enough vitamin D to last us a week. When we weren't chewing or talking or tromping through the patchy snow, we could hear literally nothing. Dead silence for miles around. We road-tripped on paved and dirt paths for 7 or 8 hours, just there and back, stopping to expolore here and there, talking and not talking, listening to satellite radio, reading The Lord of the Rings, connecting. I believe that any journey, no matter how small, can enliven a dreary week.

Keira Jane standing on green volcanic rock near Simpson Springs. I love that her fingers are crossed! Even this much blue sky was a balm for the soul.

Fun Fact: Did you know that the Pony Express trail was only operational for one year before it was made obsolete by the overland telegraph? For having such a brief history, it sure holds a big place in Western lore.

 

3. Wash a Window
Perhaps you are a more diligent window washer than I am. Perhaps you clean your windows more than once every year (or two, sheepish grin). If so, you may not see as great an effect. But I've found that taking a moment to thoroughly clean just one window, even if freezing temperatures make it impossible to address more than the inside of the glass, quite literally improves my outlook. On Wednesday, on day three of a self-imposed sick-child quarantine, I pulled out a stool and washed my kitchen window while I waited for the water to boil for lunch. I couldn't stop gazing through that clear, bright glass for the rest of the day. I had been looking at the world through a blurry, build-up of film for I don't know how long. I can't quite describe how I felt after that simple, 2-minute Windex job—cleansed, refreshed, lifted somehow.

 

4. Wear Bright Socks
I have a pair of blindingly bright orange socks with lime-green toes and fuschsia polka-dots. I'm fairly sure they were a gift, because I can't imagine picking them out. They are the softest, coziest socks ever darned. I wear them incessantly in the winter. Artist and blogger Kelly Rae Roberts talks of getting #dressedupinjoy. I love that idea. Many days, I dress in what fits well and feels comfortable. I haven't yet taken the leap into dressing intentionally each day in joyful colors and fabrics, head to toe. But this is an easy feat to accomplish on one's feet. Even while wearing my current favorite black leggings and gray-and-white striped sweater, the splash of color on my feet makes me happy. (Is it weird that I love the color gray? Is it even a color at all—or is it the absence of color? I have to physically restrain myself from buying every article of clothing in gray.)

 

 

5. Have Something to Look Forward To
Plan something, anything, to pin your hopes on and pull you through doldrums. On our Sunday road trip, Travis and I decided that we need to do this way more often. We made a goal to plan an intentional (not last-minute) weekend adventure every other month, and to take turns doing the planning. Trav is in charge of February, and I'm in charge of April. On his months, we will probably end up in Moab or Canyonlands, crusing through miles of open desert, hiking through the red rocks, and photographing the stark, incomparable landscape. On my months, we may end up in a quaint little bed and breakfast, with window-shopping, antiquing, and sightseeing nearby. We have both agreed to go along with the other person's plans, knowing that we'll have a chance to be in charge next time. Don't get me wrong; I do love our southern Utah adventures, but I wouldn't necessarily plan every vacation there. Travis would. Whereas I dream of seeing the wide world beyond our little borders, Travis wants to know every miniscule corner of the great state in which we live. It's another way that we push and pull each other and keep each other in balance. I'm glad I married my opposite in almost every way. My life is richer because of it. 

Note: Image at the top of this post was snapped from my iPhone on Christmas Eve at the top of the Snowbird Ski Resort tram, looking west over the Salt Lake Valley.

 

Your Turn
What are your favorite ways to beat the winter blues? I'd love to hear them!