"Oh, no," some of you are thinking. "I've heard those words before. I know what they mean." And you're partly right.

I've just gotten back from a ten-day trip Out West. I'm still re-adjusting to Eastern Daylight Time, not eating in restaurants at least once per day, and being a mom to more than one child. As I do so, I'm mulling over all I learned.

David Farland's Professional Writers' Workshop was worth every penny and minute invested. Dave is a guru, coach, talespinner, and incisive yet kind critic. I acquired much information that will improve both the quality of my storytelling and the quantity of my output. I got to know a group of writers whose skill sets, needs, and goals are very similar to mine, and I look forward to extensive interaction with them in the future. I left Saint George burning to closet myself and write, write, write. But of course, things are more complicated than that.

The garden needs to be planted (and weeded, oh yes, my precious). Baseball and lacrosse seasons are in full swing. We have concerts and recitals and birthdays, oh my! In other words, my real life is full and runneth over. How to fit in a bit more fiction writing time?

It's time for another round of streamlining of my daily schedule. Clearly I can't cut back on kid time or Patrick time or scriptures or exercise. The calling and the yard won't tolerate much skimping, either.

That leaves you, dear blogosphere. Both my reading and my posting have been erratic since Anne was born, so you've already gotten used to much less of my time and attention. I won't be gone forever, but don't expect a whole lot in the near future. This will be easier for you than it will be for me, I'm sure. I'm betting you won't even really notice.

We didn't have much money when we first got married. Patrick was teaching school at first, then began law school at Columbia the next fall. Our financial situation was of great concern to Patrick's grandfather, who I'm sure imagined us scraping out a miserable existence in some little hovel on the edge of Harlem. Grandpa would send us packages of vitamins on a regular basis; he was very worried about my health, as well as that of his future great-grandchildren.

One day, a package from Grandpa arrived that was much larger than usual. We found inside not the usual bottles of pills, but a double bed-sized bedspread. Grandpa explained in the accompanying note that he was worried that we would not be warm enough at night in the winter to come. He'd seen this very warm and durable bedspread on sale and had thought of us at once.

(Little did Grandpa know that nearly every night of our 11 winters in Manhattan, we slept with the bedroom window open at least a crack. Energy-conscious officials should put addressing the chronically overzealous radiator heating systems of New York City's apartment buildings near the top of their lists when looking for ways to cut consumption and costs.)

Warm? Yes. Durable? Without a doubt. But also: the most hideous thing I had ever seen? Absolutely.

The bedspread is a denim grayish blue, one of my least favorite colors in the spectrum. It's spattered with little black and white and gray splotches, sort of Jackson Pollock-style, just not as cool. It's machine quilted with that transparent, stronger-than-the-cords-of-death nylon thread. And it's got thick black piping running all the way round the perimeter.

(Patrick would insert here that it's not that bad. He's not mistaken very often, but in this case? He's dead wrong.)

But we didn't have a bedspread, or really any substantial blanket-type bed covering, so we used it. I was grateful to have it, and don't worry: I thanked Grandpa profusely for it and his thoughtfulness on more than one occasion.

I thought we'd surely replace it after law school, one P was pulling in the big lawyer salary and we had our own bed out of storage once more (the married student housing in which we lived was furnished). But somehow in the years that followed, there were always other things we needed, and the bedspread hung around.

Once I tried to throw it out, but I discovered that my analytical husband has a bit of a sentimental streak. "It was a gift," he protested. "It was from the heart." I couldn't argue; I have hung onto plenty of stuff over the years purely because it reminds me of the giver. Then Grandpa died, and getting rid of the bedspread altogether was no longer an option.

For a long time, it lived in the linen closet and only emerged when we needed something to put on the futon when guests stayed over. Once we got the cat, though, it enjoyed both a second lease on life and a new name: The Kevlar.

Goldberry, like most cats, enjoys attacking things that move under cover--like bare, vulnerable feet, for example. Having a brain the size of a small bran muffin, Goldberry can't differentiate between feet moved in play and feet moved innocently in sleep at three o'clock in the morning. I don't think she bears us or our appendages any malice, but her claws are razor sharp, and she is very, very strong. Her midnight ambushes did little to foster bonds between owners and pet, to say the least.

I can't remember how we discovered that her claws couldn't penetrate Grandpa's gift, but once we did, the bedspread rarely left our bed. We could waggle our ankles and Goldberry could attack to her heart's content, with no one getting hurt in the process. I believe it was Patrick who, with the cat furiously biting and rabbit-footing the blanket surrounding his legs, cackled gleefully, "It's Kevlar, cat; knock yourself out."

I've contemplated recovering the Kevlar, making some sort of duvet cover for it out of fabric I actually like and wouldn't mind seeing on the bed. Doing so is low on my project list, though; it seems like I always have ten things more urgent to accomplish. Though I still find it hideous, it evokes fond memories every day when I make the bed, and it remains much-needed protection from nightly feline aggression. After nearly nineteen years, I've made my peace with the Kevlar.

We don't choose much about our lot in life; sometimes our circumstances seem unappealing indeed. But with time, we often find that those things we'd most like to change turn out to be the things that are most useful in difficult circumstances. Patience and faith can grant us a new perspective on even the ugliest of gifts, if we will only cultivate them.

Today is Earth Day. I'm not going to preach to you, since half of you are in the 'choir,' and the other half don't care to be. Instead I'm going to give you some practical (and hopefully non-controversial) ways, big and small, that you can commemorate this world holiday. I'm sure that even the busiest among us can fit one of these into our schedules in the next several hours.

1. Clean up a local public area with your family. Members of our church did this on Saturday; many families, including ours, went out with safety vests and garbage bags and picked up hundreds of pounds of trash along a popular bike path near the chapel.

2. Buy reusable grocery bags and keep them in your car so that you remember to use them.

3. Figure out your local walkshed and enjoy using it instead of driving at least once a week. Thinking about moving? Figure out your potential new neighborhood's Walk Score. Our neighborhood is only average, getting 52 points out of 100. (Our old neighborhood in Manhattan scores a whopping 98.) That said, nearly everything I need on a weekly, nonexceptional basis--namely, the grocery store and the library--is within a half mile of home.

4. Buy and eat locally grown food. Find out where the nearest farmer's market is. Join a CSA. Patronize producers of grass-fed Real Milk. You'll make new connections in your community, and your taste buds, your waistline, and your local farmers will all thank you.

5. Read the fantastic book Food, Not Lawns, by H.C. Flores. Then plant a garden, even if it's just a couple of tomato plants in a bucket on your patio.

6. Read Michael Pollan's essay "Why Bother" from last week's New York Times Magazine.

7. Check out the funny, informative, and inspiring blog of Colin Beavan, a.k.a. No Impact Man. Colin is Walking the Walk, my friends; it's pretty great to witness.

8. Subscribe to Grist, the free online environmental news and commentary site.

9. Don't just recycle it; take steps to reduce the junk coming into your mailbox. Pay $1 to the DMA's Mail Preference Service to get off undesirable mailing lists. The Big Three credit bureaus have an opt-out function for the deluge of credit card applications many of us receive on a daily basis. Join Green Dimes! This service is terrific.

10. Just say 'no' to more stuff. Set at least a 24-hour 'time-out' period in which you consider whether you really need that new (fill in the blank). Use your library more. Share yard tools with your neighbors. Downsize your wardrobe and donate your excess to a responsible charity. To quote Emme, a prominent simple lifestyle blogger, "Living simply does not have to mean sacrifice or hardship. It means focusing on the things that are important to us and in our lives." Amen, sister.

The wondrously fine Bea and the ever-scrumptious Adriana both tagged me a while ago for the Six-Word Epitaph/Autobiography/Memoir Meme that's been floating around Planet Blog for a some time, and I've been trying and failing to define myself cleverly but succinctly ever since.

Here are some great examples of successful memery crafted by bloggers with bigger brains than I have: Bea of Bub and Pie (scroll down a bit); Veronica Mitchell of Toddled Dredge; and Adriana of What I Made for Dinner.

(If any of you other readers have done this meme, and I missed it somehow, leave me a link in your comment. I'd love to see what you've done with this.)

Anything I concocted sounded a lot like Adriana's or Veronica's, but not as good. Finally, I decided to borrow inimitable words from my favorite poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins. Here's what I would have carved on my tombstone (right after all the clear and accurate vital information courteously provided for genealogists of the future):


Someone wandering around the cemetery and happening upon these words might wonder about their context. Here's the whole poem:

AS kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:	5
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.
Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;	10
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

What I do is me: for that I came.

I love to write, read, visit with my dear friends, and play with my kids. I enjoy cooking, gardening, knitting, and family history work. I swoon over fabulous restaurants, great art and music, and my husband. I could define myself by any of these daily actions, and much of the time, I probably do. But ultimately, I hope that my life will be defined by my faith and how it comes into play in my every decision.

Here are two links to more words not my own that powerfully express how I feel about my faith: the audio file and transcript of the last public words of Bruce R. McConkie, an LDS church leader who died in 1985.

Elder McConkie died just two weeks after giving this gorgeous and moving address; I do not doubt that the statements of the final few paragraphs proved true. (Warning: if you are not up for something Deeply Christian, don't bother.)

Example No. 1: Several days ago, I read Ex Libris, a collection of Anne Fadiman's essays, and immediately emailed several friends recommending that they read it. Like a beautiful jewel in a simple setting, each essay shines; considered one after another, the pieces create an aggregate loveliness that is even greater than the sum of its parts.

How disappointing it is to me to admit that my admiration for Fadiman's talent is heavily tinged with envy. It's not just that her writing is superb; my jealousy extends to her person. I've never read Homer and Virgil in the original; I don't live in a spacious and bright SoHo loft. I didn't go to Radcliffe College. Worst of all, I've never been friends with Mark Helprin.

(Many of you know that Helprin is my hands-down-favorite living writer. After hearing him read once, I asked him to sign all my copies of his books, congratulating myself all the while for my restraint in not dropping to my knees and kissing his penny-loafered feet. My love for him as a person is now tempered by my knowledge of his political leanings, but his writing remains pure magic.)

Example No. 2: I'm submitting a short story for an anthology put out by Shimmer magazine, the theme of which is 'steampunk animal fables.' (Yes, it's exactly that kind of crazy obscurity that really gets my creative juices flowing.) As much as I love the steampunk subgenre, it's been awhile since I've read any, so I pulled out two pillars--Gibson and Sterling's The Difference Engine and China Mieville's Perdido Street Station--to get myself in the rhythm of that unique world. Such wonder and ingenuity; such marvelous stories told in liquid and transparent prose. Instead of the inspiration I was hoping for, I put the books down with a sense of loving despair.

The Case Under Consideration: At last year's Readercon, Eric Van said, "There are two kinds of books that a writer reads: those that make you say, 'I can do better than this [crap],' and those that make you want to throw the computer out the window and never write another word." Other writers agreed. Some said they couldn't read within their own genre while working on a manuscript, while others went further and said that they saved all their favorite authors for rests between projects. If they read books they admired while simultaneously trying to write their own, they found themselves hamstrung, hopelessly blocked by the indulgence of comparison.

Writers are not alone in the comparison obsession; I've witnessed people of all kinds doing it. Children, women, men; doctors, painters, knitters; athletes, musicians, writers of computer code; cooks, bloggers, and parents. Each says to him/herself, "I can't [x] like that one. Why even try?" Or, with a shot to the ego, "My [x] is much better than that person's is." Either way, his/her own work suffers, because its creator no longer sees it for its own merits, but only in the relief it casts (or doesn't) when considered against someone else's.

If the work suffers, why would we risk short-circuiting expressions of creativity by indulging in comparison? What compensation is there for the loss of self-esteem or the false gain of a short-lived high?

(I have some highly metaphysical theories having to do with universal forces of opposition and the adversarial components of creation that attempt to answer these questions, but I won't burden you with them. At this point in my blogging life, I have a fair sense as to what will cause my readers' eyes to glaze over and their index fingers to click onward.)

Discernment is an essential part of emotional maturation. Having a distinct yet open-minded sense of one's likes and dislikes is healthy. We are taught to judge thoughtfully, to compare and contrast. "Write a 2,000-word essay discussing the relative merits of Shelley's 'Ozymandias' and Horace Smith's 'Ozymandias,'" our English professor commands, and we do our best to comply (and are graded on a curve for doing so). After we see Joe Wright's Pride and Prejudice, all our friends ask how it compares with Simon Langton's. Was the clam chowder at Ocean House better than that at The Oyster Bar? Exactly why are Huggies better than Pampers or Luvs? Inquiring minds want to know.

When the comparison is removed from our own realm of expertise, we can be passionate in our discussion without taking it personally. Which is better: Ted Nugent's guitar work in "Stranglehold," or Stevie Ray Vaughan's in "Voodoo Chile?" I can discuss the strong points of each virtuoso animatedly, but with a sense of detachment; I'm not a guitarist, just an ardent fan.

In similar fashion, excellent blogs like Radioactive Jam and Ransom Note Typography inspire pure admiration in me; their posts are so very different from mine that there's not much basis for comparison. (If, on the other hand, you are the owner of a blog on my blogroll that is not one of the two mentioned above, have no doubt: I love you, but I envy you, too.)

Is there a way for me to evaluate my own writing in a vacuum; can I hand a story to a friend to read without adding the self-deprecating caveat, "It's not Tolstoy?" My friend and I both know I'm not Tolstoy; why is it so essential to my pride that I remind her of that salient fact?

In the realm of hobby: can I knit a sweater and enjoy it for its own sake without wondering what Eunny Jang or Amy Singer would think? Can I enjoy the neighbor's perennial border without wretched feelings of woe when I look at my own?

It is when comparison is turned inward that it poisons. I take absolutely no joy in a sense of competition with others (no, not even when I'm beating you at Boggle). It's my goal to get to a secure enough place emotionally that I can appreciate the work of others without compulsively analyzing how it stands up next to my own. How to get there? I'm still fumbling around on that key point of strategy; when I puzzle it out, I'll let you know.

And if you figure it out first, please share. I'll be disappointed that I wasn't the one for only a minute, I promise.

I struggled with depression for many, many years, but about year ago, I kicked it in the teeth and banished it from my presence for a good long time (I hoped forever).

Oh, I've had sad or frustrating days since, days in which things have gone wrong, or in which I think I'm a bad writer or mother or laundress (or all of the above), but those have been just normal dips in the ride we call life.

Depression is palpably different. Today when I wasn't looking, it came back and snuck in the back door like a mangy dog, laughing, drooling, and reminding me what a black plague it is. And I hate it, because even a whiff of it reminds me of what a constant, unwelcome companion it once was. I don't want it back in my life again.

I'm hoping it's just a hormonal thing. I hear pregnancy plays havoc with hormones (yes, my somewhat atrophied sarcasm muscles get a bit of exercise when I'm depressed).

Here's how I know it's depression, and not just temporary doldrums:

The house is full of terrific books, but I don't want to escape into a single one of them.
The house is stocked with a variety of good food, and I'm hungry, but nothing looks appealing enough to eat.
Rowing to the song stylings of the Black-Eyed Peas and Lenny Kravitz doesn't cheer me up.
A long bubble bath doesn't cheer me up.
A long snuggle with Daniel doesn't cheer me up.
A long nap doesn't cheer me up.
The idea of popping in Persuasion, Fanny & Alexander, The Magic Flute, or A Room with a View and knitting for a couple of hours doesn't cheer me up.
The prospect of dinner with my hot husband at a great restaurant for Date Night tonight doesn't cheer me up.

This is not good. Not good at all.

First things first: join me on January 10th for Reading Day! (I know; as if I need an excuse to read.) It'll be fun!

I skipped a few Scavenger Hunt items Thanksgiving week, so today I'm going to try and combine a few so we can end this whole NaBloPoMo thing gracefully tomorrow. I think it will work out. I apologize in advance the contributors; I certainly don't want anyone to feel like I have given them short shrift.

One of my BBFFs (Best Blog Friends Forever), Brillig, thought I should write about being both active LDS/Mormon and politically liberal, which is a somewhat unusual combination, for some unfathomable reason.

Goofball, a darling Dutch friend who has given me invaluable help with research on one of my novels, had two requests: 1) give the details of my weirdest travel experience; and 2) tell more about my faith.

And Jenna, my fellow recovering Mary Kay Sales Director, and one of the best women I know personally, wanted to read more about my church mission experience.

I can see a bit of a pattern there, so work with me as I answer in rather non-linear fashion.

Members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (nicknamed 'Mormons' over 150 years ago) are Christians. It's very important that you know that; apparently there are groups out in the world who claim we are not Christians. But Jesus' name is in the middle of the name of our church for a reason: He's at the center of every aspect of our religion.

We believe that God speaks to people today through prophets just as He spoke to prophets in ancient times. Joseph Smith was the first of these latter-day prophets; he organized the church in upstate New York in 1830.

Here are our official Thirteen Articles of Faith, written by Joseph Smith in 1842 in response to questions from John Wentworth, the editor of The Chicago Democrat.

Here are other facts about our religion and members of the church.

Here's a great explanation of the LDS view of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

Goofball, if you have any other questions, please email me. I can go on and on about this subject; it's very dear to my heart.

My 'weirdest' travel experience was definitely my mission for our church. I've done a fair bit of traveling, all of it very positive (except for our family cruise a few years ago; we'll never do THAT again). But my mission was unusual for many reasons.

LDS missionaries are mostly young men and women. 19-year-old boys are strongly encouraged to go on two-year, full-time missions; if they choose, women may go for 18-month missions when they turn 21. Missions are a highly structured, ascetic experience. Missionaries are expected to forgo dating, television and movies, most music, and reading of anything other than the scriptures. In addition, they are expected to be with their assigned companions all of the time.

Missionaries have one day off per week, called 'Preparation Day' (or 'P-Day'), when they do all of their housecleaning, food shopping, and laundry, with a little time left over for limited sight-seeing and physical recreation. At all other times, from 9:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m., they are supposed to be sharing our faith with people in their assigned area. They may be knocking on doors, holding street meetings, or meeting with people referred to them by other church members. They also spend significant amounts of time every day (they wake up very early) engaged in prayer, meditation, and scripture study.

You may wonder how many young people could possibly be willing to take up such an arduous and monkish existence in this day and age. Well, in 2006, there were over 53,000 LDS missionaries serving all over the world.

When you put in your paperwork for a mission, you have no idea where you will be sent. You could end up in Hong Kong or Helsinki, Guatemala or Ghana, Connecticut or Korea, Uganda or Utah. If you'll be learning a foreign language, you typically spend two months in one of several Missionary Training Centers (MTC). If you are going to an English-speaking country, your time in the MTC is just two weeks.

In addition to proselytizing missions, there are also humanitarian missions, family services missions, family history missions, temple missions, and church historical site missions. As I mentioned before most missionaries are young single men and women, but senior couples and senior single sisters are actively encouraged to serve as well.

Missionaries pay their own way as much as possible. When they have not saved enough to support themselves for the length of the mission, their families and congregations (called 'wards') contribute as well.

Why did I go on a mission? I had been wanting to all my life; I had been raised thinking that it was the right thing to do. I thought I'd probably be pretty good at it. It's a concrete, measurable way to serve. For Mormons, it is a rite of passage, one of the ways we come of age. Like running a marathon, it's a significant accomplishment. But the biggest reason I went is because I wanted to share the good news of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ with as many people as possible.

I was called to go on a French-speaking mission to Montreal, Canada. I was thrilled; I had studied French since first grade and was anxious to put it to good use. At the end of March 1989, I entered the MTC in Provo, Utah. After a great learning experience there, members of our group flew to Montreal and were assigned to various areas throughout the province of Quebec.

My area was Laval, an island suburb of Montreal. My senior companion was fantastic; we hit it off right away. She'd been out for over a year, and she was the perfect mix of enthusiasm and energy tempered with a lot of experience and wisdom.

I met people from all over the world in Laval; Quebec takes in many French-speaking immigrants, so we talked to people from Haiti, Lebanon, Syria, Morocco, and Egypt, as well as many native Canadians.

I woke up every day excited and happy; there is something unique about giving up worldly concerns and devoting yourself as fully as possible to serving in a cause greater than yourself. I learned new things about myself, my relationship with God, and the world on a daily basis; it was the greatest spiritual experience I'd ever had up to that point in my life.

Unfortunately, in October of that year, I got horribly sick and had to return home from my mission. Doctors determined that there was no way to know when I would get better, so I was honorably released after only six months of service. I was crushed, but I believe these things happen for reasons we sometimes can't see for a long time. It took me over a year to convalesce fully.

I would go again in a heartbeat; in fact, Patrick and I plan to serve as many missions as possible once the kids are grown and on their own. I very much hope all our children will decide to serve as well. It's an experience I recommend highly.

As for my political beliefs and how they mesh with my religious beliefs? Let me be as tactful as possible; I have no wish to alienate the very large portion of my readers who belong to the party I actively oppose.

God gave us the earth and commanded us to take care of it; therefore, preserving the environment is a crucial issue for me.

Jesus asked us to take care of our fellow man; social and governmental programs that make taking care of the poor and disadvantaged easier and more efficient are a natural outgrowth of that admonition.

Our eleventh Article of Faith allows all men the privilege of worship according to the dictates of their own consciences; therefore I believe in a clear separation between church and state.

The Book of Mormon (which I believe, along with The Holy Bible, to be the word of God) clearly teaches that defense is the only reason sanctioned by God to take up arms; I have never believed that the conflict in which my country currently finds itself embroiled can be rationalized as 'defensive' in any way.

Whew! We've covered a lot of ground today. If you're still reading, thanks for sticking with me. You're the best.

Today's post topic is brought to you by Christine. Christine is a close personal friend of mine, and also happens to be the stalwart mother of the award-winning Torie of the War Hammer. Though she does not blog herself, Christine is that rara avis who recognizes how welcome comments are to the blogger. She's great.

Christine asked, "What would you do if you knew you only had five more years left to live?"

After going through the Kübler-Ross stages of grief, I don't think I'd change very much at all about my life. I'm no paragon, but I do think my life is pretty great the way it is. (Delusion can be a wonderful thing.)

And maybe the silver lining would be that it would give me an angle with marketing my novels. "Dear Agent, I only have five years to live. Please consider my manuscript for publication before I go the way of all flesh...." Hmmmm.


* I've been wanting to use that line as a post title ever since I first heard The Shins' "Australia." Today seemed as good a day as any.

The Mets lost a heartbreaker to the Braves yesterday. (The fact that it was Thursday, and thus Date Night, kept my bad mood from lingering; an excellent dinner at Café Maya and a viewing of The Bourne Ultimatum brought me right.)

My slumps are often like the geological kind. The surface of my life will look great; friends will even admire different facets of it. But internally, I’m a mess, and it’s a long time before I can sort everything out. Hopefully I do so before any dams I’ve created are too destructive.

Sometimes I’ll slump in one area while enjoying a streak in another: I’ll have a clutter-free house but a weed-filled yard. Or for weeks I’ll make my 1,000-word-per-day novel-writing goal while ignoring the dreadmill the entire time. Or I’ll indulge in a genealogy binge while skimping on my scripture study.

Sometimes a slump can be a time of retreat and regrouping. When I started this blog almost a year ago, I thought I had things to teach. I’m pretty good at a few things; the blog format seemed ideal for dissemination of some of the wisdom I felt I had gained in various areas over the years. After exactly two posts (one of which I later deleted), I abandoned my new endeavor for three months. I’d had an abrupt and humbling realization that sent me into a regrouping slump for the entire autumn.

When I started posting again in December, it was as a changed person. My focus was no longer on teaching (although, as a Brocket wannabe, I still like to publicize my domestic successes), but on honest expression and learning from others in the blogging community.

Running my life the FlyLady way helped me with consistency for a long while. But I am in a FlyLady slump right now (though the house is pretty clean, and my gorgeous soapstone kitchen sink is a joy to keep shiny: it's a mental thing). Maybe I need to get back in her groove and focus on Baby Steps in the essentials of my life so that I can build up steadiness once again. But I wonder whether, as effective as her methods are, FlyLady can only address the symptoms, and is not a cure for the root disease.

In his excellent book Pure Baseball, Keith Hernandez writes,

When I first came up to the big leagues, pitchers had all too much success worrying me inside. Lou Brock, who worked with me a lot, sat me down one day and asked, “Where do you like the ball?

“Inner half-away.” That’s the lingo for the outer three quarters of the plate.

“That’s right,” Lou agreed. “But worrying about your weakness—the inside corner—is taking away from your strength. Don’t let it do that. Look into your strength.”

Baseball really is profound. The key to overcoming the weakness is not to focus on it, but to look into your strength instead.

I tell people on a regular basis what I believe my Strength is. Perhaps the real question is whether I truly live what I say I believe, whether I can apply the Word to the mundane struggles of my daily life.

And what shall I more say? For the time would fail me to tell of … prophets:
Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions,
Quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the armies of the aliens.
(Hebrews 11: 32-34; emphasis added)

Neither Patrick nor I is sure how it happened, but for the past several weeks, we both have been utterly sure that today was Father's Day. I can point to only two factors that could have led to this misapprehension: 1) Tess's Kindergarten class had their Father's Day Brunch this past Friday; and 2) today is the second Sunday in June. (You know how Mother's Day is the second Sunday in May? Yeah.)

Earlier this week I shopped carefully for Patrick's gift. I planned a special breakfast and dinner for today. And weeks ago, we planned to have a church youth fireside meeting at our house for next Sunday evening, not wanting to have it on Father's Day.

There were a couple of clues that could have been picked up on by someone slightly less sure of herself. Example: when I realized that the gifts the kids had purchased through the PTA fundraiser wouldn't be delivered until next Friday, I actually said to Patrick, "I think the PTA thinks that Father's Day is next Sunday. I'm sorry that you'll have to wait for some of your gifts." Example: when I looked at my page-a-day calendar and noticed that Father's Day wasn't listed for this weekend, I thought, That's weird. All kinds of obscure (from an American point of view) holidays, from ANZAC Day to Armistice Day, are usually listed. Why not Father's Day?

This morning, as the kids and I came into church, Patrick walked up to me quickly and said, "It's not Father's Day." I'm assuming he did this because he didn't want me to get my nose all out of joint when I realized that the speakers and hymns for the service were focused on a subject entirely other than fathers. (Patrick, as the Bishop of our congregation, is always at church two hours before the rest of us; someone had alerted him early on.)

So we split the difference. Patrick has already sent his father a gift; it's better to be early than late, right? And I still have time to shop for my dad without having to apologize for my tardiness. We had our Father's Day breakfast and I gave Patrick his Father's Day foot rub and homemade chocolate shake (yes, he does get those treats more than once a year). But I'll keep the racks of lamb in the freezer and all of the gifts in an undisclosed hiding place until next weekend. We'll still have the fireside next Sunday evening as planned. No real harm, no foul.

But here's what's still troubling me. It never occurred to me that I might have been wrong. When confronted with indicators that this might be the case, I blithely found ways to explain them away. It makes me wonder how often this kind of thing happens without my realizing it. I do think I question reality in general a lot more than the average person. But what else am I walking around mistakenly assuming is true? And am I alone in this? What about the rest of the world? What about you?

I’m a bit nervous about this post. There are many bloggers who are open about their faith. While I admire these people and am often inspired by what they write, my own spiritual life is an intensely personal experience that I find difficult to articulate and share.

Last week I heard something in church that lit up my brain like a neon sign. The speaker said simply this: “Prayer should be the highlight of our day.” Really? I thought. Well, yes, of course. Prayer is a conversation with God, after all. It should be the highlight of my day. I must confess that this statement rattled me so much that I couldn’t focus on the rest of what was said. I’ve been mulling it over ever since.

I do hear God whisper to me often. There is certain music that always opens up a heavenly conduit for me. The beauty of our natural surroundings, the light that emanates from the faces of my children, many passages of scripture—all these things and more have been sources of revelation and inspiration for me. I pray regularly: morning, evening, over meals, little missives sent up into the ether during the day expressing thanks or need. But I am sorry to say that these moments have often occurred out of habit and have not been the highlight of my day.

I can think of many conversations that have been highlights: moments of shared experience with close friends; quirky turns of phrase my children come up with; good news rejoiced over, bad news commiserated with. The best interchanges are those I have with people with whom I have a long, shared history built on the foundation of love and mutual respect.

It would be a highlight of my year to talk to certain people: various ancestors, any of a number of Dead British People, one or two intelligent-seeming celebrities. I imagine myself gearing up for some one-on-one time with, say, Toni Morrison. What would I want to ask this wise, talented woman? What would I be willing to reveal about myself? How would I prepare so as to make best use of her time?

Toni Morrison is amazing, but let’s face it: she’s not God. The King of the Universe, who happens to be the Eternal Father of my spirit, is willing to be in communication with me at my convenience. Shouldn’t I put a little more effort into enhancing the quality of the time I spend with Him? Why is it so easy to forget how important God is to me, and how important I, one of his daughters, am to Him?

The growth and maintenance of a successful relationship is work, an aggregation of small daily choices that can become more than the sum of its parts if allowed to reach critical mass. I’m quite vigilant about remembering to make those choices with the people who live in my house—I believe with good results. It’s clear to me that I should expand those choices into my relationship with God. I now believe that I need prayer to become the highlight of every day.

This morning I walked down to the graveyard to pick up James from the Memorial Day Parade. The cemetery gates are about a quarter mile from our house; the whole way there, I could hear the local pipe and drum corps skirling out a patriotic hymn. I’m not a real flag-waver, preferring to consider myself a citizen of the world, but a good bagpiper does get my blood stirring. The air was fresh after last night’s thunderstorm, and I could smell wild roses and mountain ash blossoms. God gently reminded me of His grandeur and mercy; I answered Him with a resolve to keep His glory closer to the forefront of my mind, days, and prayers.

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
—Rudyard Kipling, “Recessional”

Tess-Tess, the Tester, our own Tesseract, my little Tesla Girl. Here she is in a photo I took last fall; it captured a rare moment of stillness for our sweet cyclone--raincoat, Tinkerbell tutu, and all.

Tess is as smart as a whip and has near-perfect musical pitch. She is incredibly kind, with a gift for empathy that belies her tender years. She is the happiest child I've ever seen, almost always with a 500-watt smile on her face. She will swing and jump and spin until the cows come home. I don't know whether 'whirling dervish' is a politically correct way to describe her, but it certainly seems accurate. Capricious? Volatile? Precious? Maddening? After almost six years, it seems like I am finally understanding Tess.

Tess is the fourth of our five children. When we found out I was pregnant with her, we realized we could no longer make life in Manhattan work. We lived in a 900-square-foot, two-bedroom apartment; the five of us did okay, but we knew another baby would bring us to critical mass. For one thing, we wouldn't all fit in a taxi anymore. We found our lovely house in the Hudson Highlands and began preparations to move.

During my pregnancy with Tess, I had amazing help in the form of several angelic humans, but there was still a lot of work to do. Was it the stress of moving? The packing, sorting, and lifting? Or just a timetable other than my own? Whatever the cause, and despite midwife-mandated bedrest (with three little kids? really?), I went into labor with Tess five weeks early.

We hoped that at 35 weeks, her lungs would be past the critical point. However, Tess ended up having to stay in the NICU at St. Luke's-Roosevelt for 10 long days. I couldn't hold her for the first week of her life; even my touch through the incubator gloves seemed to distress her. After what seemed like forever, she was disconnected from her breathing tube and all of her IVs, and she came home to a relieved and grateful family.

Tess was a great nurser, and I wore her in my sling almost constantly. She quickly gained weight and thrived, but she was much more difficult to soothe than our other three kids had been. Through trial and error, I discovered the best way to calm her: a) firmly wrap her up in a receiving blanket, burrito-style; b) hold her tightly and vertically against my chest, with one hand cradling her neck and head; and c) bounce hard, sitting on the corner of our bed, for as long as my thighs could stand it.

When she was about 18 months old, we realized she was having some vision problems, and Tess embarked on a long course of patch therapy and glasses. When she was 3 1/2, surgery on the muscles of her eyes was necessary; she came through it like a trouper.

It wasn't until last year that I finally admitted to myself that perhaps Tess's dramatic mood swings--from wild joy to prostrate frustration--were a little off the normal scale. I confided my fears to just the right person; my dear friend's son had just been diagnosed with Sensory Processing Disorder, and this friend suggested I look into it.

I bought and read a book called The Out-of-Sync Child, instantly recognizing Tess in its pages. There are several subcategories of SPD; Tess is hyposensitive. This subcategory is also called 'sensory-seeking.' She has three challenges: her vestibular and proprioceptive senses both need extra stimulation (thus the constant spinning, swinging, hugging, etc.), and she has a hard time self-regulating when it comes time to make a transition (going to school, leaving school; starting an activity, stopping an activity; any change is hard). Tess is on the mild end of the SPD spectrum (her OT diagnosis at school was at the low end of the normal range), but SPD can also occur concurrently with ADD/ADHD or autism.

What a relief it was for me to have a framework for our experience. And how great it is that Tess's condition is entirely treatable. We are very blessed to live a half-mile away from a skilled and intuitive dance therapist named Suzi Tortora. Suzi wrote a book outlining her highly successful method called Dancing Dialogue. Her work with Tess and the things she has taught us to do at home have helped us tremendously.

I'm not a big fan of bringing more 'stuff' into the house, but tools are an exception. We've found a few things that help Tess be more aware of her body in space: we already have a tire swing and are looking into getting a trampoline. Rocking horses are also a safe outlet for kids who crave motion. Chewy tubes and weighted vests like the ones at Pocket Full of Therapy help calm sensory seekers as well. (A chewy tube is worth its weight in gold; our pen and pencil supply is now safe from constant munching and mangling.) Suzi also recently recommended that we get Tess something called a Body Sock; it looks like so much fun that I'm sure the other kids will beg to borrow it.

Toys and tools aside, Tess is not too big for me to roll into a blanket and hold on my lap like a big, smiling burrito; this helps us both take a moment and calm down. Tess's future is bright; her fondest dream is to become a pediatric ophthalmologist, so that she can work next door to her beloved Dr. Steele. She certainly has both the brain and the energy to become anything she wants to be.

Which reminds me: we saw Dr. Steele last week and determined that Tess needs another round of surgery on her eyes; this will take place on April 19th, and your prayers on her behalf are very welcome.

The party seems to be winding down (or at least passing me by). But I'll keep with the theme until it's officially over tomorrow. As I've traveled around the bloggerhood for the first time this week, I've noticed that many people post lists from time to time. It seemed like a worthy exercise, so I thought I'd give it a try (well, I tried it for the first time yesterday).

Bothersome:
1) No one seems to know the difference between 'lie' and 'lay.'
2) No one seems to care. This is far worse than 1).
3) No one understands my love of the smell of skunk.
4) I have acne at the age of 40.
5) My basement is a dungeon, yet I don't clean it.
6) Hobo spiders
7) FlyLady is great, but I'd rather do housework the Samantha Stevens way.
8) The food at Taco Bell doesn't taste good to me anymore. Has it changed, or have I?
9) Though I am a fast reader, writer, and knitter, I wish I were much faster.
10) The abominable smell of the otherwise miraculous cream that healed the cracks in my fingertips overnight

Rantworthy:
1) The mess that is the war in Iraq
2) Aspartame, sucralose, and the entire diet industry
3) Socially acceptable addictions: careers, coffee, shopping, TV, etc.
4) No one, not even the Left, realizes that there is a Religious Left.
5) Muffin tops--why, people why?
6) Rampant consumerism-my own included-(a subset of 3))
7) Not enough people are listening to what Al is saying.
8) Not enough people are doing anything about it.
9) Not enough people believe that what he's saying is true.
10) The prime directive of an overwhelming number of businesses has gone from providing goods, services, and/or civic functions to kowtowing to shareholders.

Funniest ever:
1) The people who live in my house
2) Carmen Trevino. And Jen Klonsky. Especially when they are together.
3) Jon Stewart
4) Will Ferrell
5) The Upside Down Show
6) Monty Python
7) The Freshman
8) The Kirk Poland Memorial Bad Prose Competition
9) E.F. Benson's 'Lucia' series
10) Jasper Fforde's 'Thursday Next' series

Things that make me whisper, "Allahu akbar":
1) Grace
2) Patrick's smile
3) The light in my children's eyes
4) The gloaming
5) Chocolate lace cake. Mrs. Leibowitz's chopped liver with gribenes.
6) A new book by an author I love
7) Cold water for drinking, hot water for bathing
8) Symphony No. 5 by Ralph Vaughan Williams
9) My garden
10) This poem. And this one.