My Mirror: Weeds and Grass

Life is a mirror. The things I experience in my environment are a reflection of the state of my soul.

The ongoing drought in the western U.S. has caused me some personal angst. All around my neighborhood, the weeds are flourishing while the grass lies low. And somewhat brown.

For a year or two, seeing the weeds in the grass bothered me greatly. I hated seeing the lawn sprinklers running, strengthening the weeds, while the grass made only a slight improvement.

There wasn't much for me to do about it. I don't own any of the property where the grass is growing. And even if I did, the idea that it would take years to rehabilitate the grass added another frustration factor. I felt so helpless to make any significant changes in this moment to my environment.

Finally, I had the idea to pray about the situation. I had an immediate sense of diminished stress over the issue. And as the months have passed, I have begun to appreciate the diversity of plants in the lawn, and the increased number of insects and birds present. Yes, weeds are pests. Bugs are undesirable. But it is life! And it is abundant!

But it is not acceptable to grow weeds in your lawn. And it's now my lawn.

Sports and the Outdoors - personal history

When I was 12 years old, Brockbank Junior High had gymnastics as an after school activity. I had been tumbling since I was at least 4 years old, and had been on the exhibition team in 5th and 6th grade at Webster Elementary. I was excited to finally be able to learn more gymnastics.

I quickly learned that my expectations for the gymnastics team were more grandiose than my actual abilities. I had watched the Olympics Gymnastics competitions multiple times. In my mind I could see myself spinning and twisting on the apparatus and in the floor exercises.

In actual gymnastics practice, I found myself unable to mount the low bar on the uneven parallel bars. I had no experience with the dance moves associated with the floor routines. At least the vault involved running really fast, which I could do. But my teammates teased me because I ran with my chin leading the way.

The balance beam was a completely new level of tumbling. I could perform the tasks on the ground with relative ease. Doing the same task on the balance beam required a great deal of precision, and the penalties for moving too far outside of one's ability included the possibility of serious injury. Or at the very least, the inconvenience of having to climb 3 1/2 feet into the air again and re-centering oneself before continuing to perfect the skill.

I had dreamed of being recognized and praised as a result of my gymnastics ability. When I found that even the warmup exercises and skills training were beyond my ability, I was deflated. I don't know why I continued to work on the team. Probably it was just something that I had already decided to do. I was a gymnast, so I went to practice. Having other people show up every day after school was a definite factor in my decision to continue. If not for the team, I am not sure whether I would have continued.

My mom somehow came by a practice balance beam, which she brought home for me. I could practice only inches from the ground, instead of several feet in the air. Being closer to the ground, and having it at home, made everything so much easier! The

 only real issue with the practice beam was that there was no place for it in the house. So it stayed in the driveway. It might have had a protective cloth covering on it at first. I don't remember exactly. I do remember that it was just wood by the time I was finished with it.

That my mother found, bought, and allowed the beam to remain in the driveway! of our home is a memory I treasure. It is evidence of my mother's dedication to helping me do the things I loved. She had many demands on her time, with 10 children, a toddler/preschooler with a congenital heart defect, a home, a church calling, and the hobby that would become her business. I think she knew how much it meant to have something you could do that you were good at. And when she had an opportunity to help me get better at something I was already good at, I am sure there was no question in her mind that she would help me. She never mentioned anything about the cost of the beam, b

ut in a family where there was never enough money, having that gift meant the world to me.

After 3 years of junior high, beam had become my best apparatus. I was able to place in the top 3-4 competitors at some of the competitions. I also improved greatly in the floor exercise, which was somewhat satisfying. But I never felt I had achieved as much as I had wanted to. Decades later, even after birthing my children, I would visualize myself doing my uneven parallel bar routine. I thought I was doing that visualization because I loved gymnastics so much. And I did, of course. But thinking about it now, I realize that visualizing the routine was almost certainly a part of the training my coaches had given me to do. And not having ever achieved the success on the bars that I wanted, my mind continued the visualization. As silly as it may seem now, as a 45-year-old mother of 4, I still sort of think that I could one day do that bar routine better than I did as a 14-year-old.

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In the backyard of our home in Magna was an oversized truck tire. I used to play on it, jumping from one side to the other. I climbed the scraggly trees that grew right next to the back fence that separated our property from the Trombinos. They had a trampoline, and the girls, Jolene and her older sister, were close to my age. I wished I could play with them on it, and think I only did a handful of times in the 9 years that we lived there.

I loved being outside. Hanging laundry was one of my favorite chores, probably because it involved going outdoors. The smell of sunshine-warmed sheets became dear to me. And the way I could pretend I was in a private world when I was "hiding" between the lines of clothes was satisfying to my imagination, my need for independence, and a sense that I was making a valuable contribution to the family.

My mom knew I loved being outside. When she planted a large patch of tomatoes one year, in the sizeable flower bed by the front door, I would wiggle in underneath the leaves of the tall plants and pick off the tomato worms that were always present there. I remember distinctly, one time, an incredible number of them! I had filled the container I had brought with me, and had to recapture some worms that were escaping before I had completed the task! 

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I would walk and explore the neighborhood. Webster Elementary School was a nearly straight line down the hill from my home. 2 1/2 blocks or so, from 3100-ish South to 2900 South. And then a block or so to the west and that was my daily commute. 

Sometimes on the way home from school I would walk by the irrigation ditch that bordered the fences of Kennecott Copper. I remember being warned not to play in the ditch, because water could flow unexpectedly down it at any moment. But I did -- a few times anyway -- feel brave enough to go down into it. I would run at an angle along the sloped walls, winding from one side of the ditch to the other. Such a simple activity, and yet so satisfying.

I wished I could have played soccer with the boys during recess at Webster Elementary. I didn't know how to play soccer. I didn't know how to tell the boys I wanted to play. I didn't know how to ask for someone to teach me to play. So it stayed a private wish until I advanced from junior high to high school. Cyprus did not have a gymnastics team, and I didn't even ask my parents about doing gymnastics elsewhere. I joined the soccer team because it was the sport that needed people, even if they had zero experience like I had.

I tried to find friends who lived nearby. I would knock on the neighbors' doors, looking for a friend to play with me. That only worked 2 or 3 times. I never understood, and still do not understand, why the children my age, who lived nearly next door, would not come play with me. I did spend a time or two in one girl's home -- her name was Trina, and we played barbies. Maybe I was the one who was not comfortable there? That is probably right. I may have thought that I was being a bother to the parents, so the wish to play stayed in my mind and I only rarely would ask if Trina and I could play.

As I got older and more familiar with the neighborhood, I would walk farther. I came to love the way the sky looks when a storm approaches. And the feeling of being sheltered among tall trees, even if it was a neighborhood with paved roads only a block or two from a main thoroughfare. No one came to Magna unless they lived there. The neighborhoods where I walked were mostly quiet, deeply shaded, and had a somewhat rural feeling. There were old, established homes with well-cared-for lawns and gardens. And there were other homes, apartments, or trailers, that were less-well-cared-for. 

Sometimes a dog would bark at me, or worse, chase me. I had been afraid of dogs for a long time. There was one little yapper that lived on the corner of our street. Every time I came near the fence of that home, it would bark incessantly until I was well out of earshot. On another occasion, as I was riding my bike, a dog zoomed out of its yard and bit my ankle! I made sure to keep both ankles on the side of the bike away from the dog when I dared to venture back that way again.

Earliest memories - personal history

My mom told me that when I was a baby, I squeaked rather than cried. At that time, I was the fifth child in what would end up as 8 girls and 2 boys.

One of the older children was responsible for me: diapering, bathing, etc. And I also had a sister just 2 years older than I was, and she also considered herself one of my caretakers. One time when I was in the church nursery, I was crying and the leaders were trying to find my mother to help calm me. The playmate sister intervened, and although she was only about 4 years old, she told the worker that I could join her in the older kids' class.

My playmate sister told me a memory that she had of me that I was too young to remember. She told me that one day I had been misbehaving and my dad was displeased with what I had been doing. The playmate sister stood between my dad and me and told him that it was not okay for him to punish me. So instead of me receiving punishment, she was punished for her lack of respect of authority.

A few memories my mom shared with me: while I was potty training, I was so excited at a step I had mastered. I was standing next to the training potty, with a puddle on the floor underneath me. My mom reported that I exclaimed, "I'm potty trained!"

Another memory: since my mom had a baby every 2 years or so for the space of 22 years, she was pretty worn out at the end of the evening after putting the kids in bed. I must have been quite young, with one of those cute faces and voices that is hard to say no to. I would come to her when everything was quiet and ask, "mama make brownies?" And she inevitably would oblige. Because brownies were her favorite.

We moved a lot while I was growing up. I was born in the high desert in south eastern California, by age 2 we had moved to Salt Lake, and at age 4 I lived in a tent for a summer in Minnesota before we found a home to stay in there. 

Shortly before I turned 5, we moved back to Salt Lake, where the age requirement allowed me to begin kindergarten at the tender age of 4 11/12ths. Some of the kids played pretty rough, and I genuinely did not understand why they were so cruel. One time I was hanging from some metal bars that we called a "spider web". A boy was above me, and he pried my fingers off of the bar. I couldn't fathom it, and was unprepared when I fell. I hit my head rather sharply, felt nauseous and laid down in the nurse's office for some time.

I don't remember if it was the same visit to the nurse's office, but I associate my chicken pox experience with this same playground accident. I stayed home for several days, a little bit itchy with red spots. I was probably bored, but it was not so bad, because I was home, quiet, with my mom.

As kindergarten progressed, I made a friend. Her name was Sherry, and her birthday was exactly the same day as mine. I was so excited. I was a very young kindergartner, and it felt really good to have someone my age in class with me. I felt like it was fate. 

I asked my mom if I could go play at Sherry's house. I remember going at least once. Sherry lived too far away for me to walk to her house, and for my mom (who had 7 kids at this point), driving me to play at a friend's house on a regular basis was not a priority. 

I hoped, at least, that Sherry and I would get to celebrate our 6th birthdays together. So, when we moved again during the first month of my 1st grade year -- before my birthday -- I was crushed.

Count Your Many Blessings

My mom sent me a text message this morning.

"Can you come to my house?"

I didn't ask why or what she wanted. I just texted back, "Yes. I can be there in 30 minutes."

As always, songs started flowing through my head.

"Make all my wants and wishes known."
"And oft escaped the tempter's snare by thy return, sweet hour of prayer."

"Count your many blessings see what God hath done."

The blessings flowed quickly and intuitively, ideas encompassed by a single word or phrase, without much form or structure. It felt unfinished, but I was driving and it was sufficient.

I visited my mom. She just wanted to talk about how things were going. I'm trying to find a house, a job, deal with the divorce.

When I left her home, within 5 minutes I had been pulled over. The driver's side brake light was out. The police officer spent a long time checking over the license and registration. I wondered how many of my recent encounters with the police had appeared on his little computer screen, and worried what he might do or say when he came back.

"How did this happen?" The officer asked as he handed back my registration. He was referring to some damage to the frame of the back window.

"It's a beater car," I said automatically, without thinking.

"A beater car?" he questioned.

"It's a junker. It's my sister's car. I don't know what happened, but I imagine they locked their keys inside and tried to open the door somehow and damaged it."

"Okay," said the officer. "Well, tell Dorothy she needs to get her brake light fixed."

He got back in his car and left, and I just sat in the car, shaking a little and putting away the registration and insurance cards. I had messaged Jon when I had been waiting for the officer to come back, and I sent another message again to tell him that it was just the brake light.

Jon's message back was cool and calm. He offered to fix the brake light when he came to pick up the kids later.

"That's the blessing," I thought to myself. "Jon wants to help. Changing a brake light's not a big deal for him, but for me it's just one more thing on my plate. And it was s a small thing. Just a small interaction between the two of us that would take us one tenacious step towards re-building trust."

Later, as I was driving again, feeling that the immediate threat had passed, I could think clearly about the implications the law enforcement officer had been making. If I had been really guilty, I would have been immediately offended at the implication. Thank goodness I'm innocent!

Fred

My brother committed suicide when he was 29. It was three months before his 30th birthday.

His death taught my family and me the importance of caring for one another. And, most importantly, it taught us the necessity of caring for our individual selves.

It was the worst way to have to learn that lesson. But even worse if we didn't learn.

Deaf Poem for Upworthy

"Speak!"

Slap

Angry faces

Wordless voices

Kind fingers

soothe purple mounds

of tortured flesh

Where is the love at home?

New faces

Finger speaking

Crying joy, shame

I don't belong here

But I didn't belong there

There it was family love

But here it is true love

I can't accept

Official faces

open mouths

moving hands

Tender smile

patient

It's not your fault.

Come play a game.

It will be okay. 

Come home with me.

Beer, Parties, and Young People

Birthday parties in Santiago generally consist of family and friends sitting down together at their home. They listen to music, sit together, eat cake, and drink. Seriously. They don't really stand up and mingle or mix. They literally sit in one place for hours at a time, talking to whoever is sitting next to them, and partaking of whatever refreshment the host serves.

In my mind's eye, I can envision these natives doing much the same thing for generations -- sitting together in a circle, not having any reason to stand up and move around. Just sitting and being content to listen to each other and just be together.

So yesterday, as I was walking down the street, I saw my neighbors outside having a birthday party. Martha and Reynaldo were visiting his sister in her home. I've visited all of them often, since his sister is frequently at Reynaldo's house and I often stop in to say hello there.

I really should know this lady's name but it's 2 a.m. as I type this (fell asleep, woke up at 1:30, decided to write). Anyway, her son, Fernando, was having a birthday party. I was somewhat hesitant to join them this time, because of an experience I had a few weeks ago.

I went by somewhat later in the evening because I had an urgent concern I wanted to discuss with Martha. The family was outside in the years, socializing and drinking. I didn't fully appreciate how drunk Martha was until I had already committed to stopping to talk, which meant I'd have to stay at least a half an hour.

Every time I visit, if they are drinking, they always offer me some and I always refuse. But on that occasion, they wouldn't take no for an answer. Martha was literally trying to pour beer into my mouth!

So this time when they offered me beer, I used my strong "no." I changed the subject and talked about how important her friendship was to me, and how I get drunk on the joys of life and friendship. She just was not letting go of the need for me to drink with her. But thankfully, I got the idea to turn to her son, who was next to me, to start a conversation. And Martha allowed herself to be distracted.

Dito (Reynaldito, a.k.a., Reynaldo Junior) is 18 years old. He graduated from high school last December, and pretty much on graduation night began his journey into true adulthood by getting his girlfriend, Flavia, pregnant. They're married now and living in his parents' home. His dad is away during the week because he has to work pretty far from Santiago and can't travel back and forth daily. So Dito and his young wife and baby live in the home. His mother is often there with them, taking care of the baby so that Flavia can finish her senior year of high school.

Lately, Dito has initiated conversations with me. When I'm out of town, they notice, because our chicken coop is right behind their back yard. So he started messaging me when he could see the chickens were being neglected. I've asked him for help on several occasions. His mom, of course, is generally in charge of the whole affair. But I communicate through social media with Dito.

I don't know why he started messaging me for no apparent reason a month or two ago. Maybe he feels sympathy for me being in a difficult situation with my marriage. I think he can sympathize being in a marriage where one or both of the partners aren't in love with each other. But when he messages me, he doesn't have anything to say. We don't exactly have a lot in common!

So when he texts, I just talk about what I always talk about when I visit my neighbors. I talk about my life, which lately has had a lot to do with finding God in the everyday routine and challenges that I face. I suspect that has struck a chord with Dito, seeing how I've weathered the difficulty that I'm going through in my marriage.

I'm guessing that Dito feels something when I talk about God, and he probably doesn't understand very much of what I say, and can't really fathom why I do what I do. It really seems to be beyond his comprehension - and not just his. I've tried having these types of conversations with others. I guess I have to learn a different way of communicating. Maybe just my refusing to drink beer, and always talking about God is what they need to help them understand.

So trying to evade Martha, I felt confident in turning to Dito for a conversation. I asked him why he wasn't drunk like everybody else. His reply was surprising - if Mary Lynn isn't drinking, neither am I. Or something to that effect. I really can't understand everything people say.

His meaning was evident, though, since, as we talked, I could see that he had punctured the bottom of the can that he was holding and allowing the beer to spill out onto the ground. I'll have to remember that tactic. I'm not sure I can always avoid going to the parties. And once I'm there, they'll expect me to drink with them.

I learned today that as long as I am holding something in my hand, they sort of leave me alone. Sort of. I had a glass of water in the beginning, and I think they were kind of okay with that. But, silly me, I drank it all. And when my glass was empty, they had to fill it up again! With beer!! That's the point I was using all my powers of diversion and evasion to avoid drinking it. But for the rest of my stay there, I held a cup of beer in my hand.

I thought how opposite that situation was from what I've been taught -- avoid the very appearance of evil. Holding a cup of beer in my hand would certainly seem to fall into "the appearance of evil" as I was taught. But here in Santiago, with my neighbors, refusing to drink with your friends is the greater evil. So, in order to avoid the appearance of evil here, I had to hold a cup of beer in my hand.