Seven Years Later

 Seven years??? It can't have been seven years since I have completed a blog post. That's 2019. Before Covid. (Which seems like at least 20 years ago.) I seriously cannot believe I haven't written here for seven years. And the two years before that I only published one and wrote a couple of drafts. Between 2011 and 2017 I completed over 30 posts and lost somewhere in cloudland are another 20 or so on a different site that I can no longer find. 

It shouldn't surprise me. I start so many things that I don't finish--quilts, scrapbooks, cleaning out closets. Not to mention overhauling my budget, my exercise plans, and my eating habits. I am almost positive, though, that my most impressive nonaccomplishment is the amount of writing projects I have not finished. 

Like almost every writer I have ever met, I have felt a (spend 20 minutes looking through an on-line thesaurus for the right word)  compulsion necessity requirement desire? to write. Hmmm. More than a desire. That it's my fate, destiny, raison d'etre? Hmmm. Less than my reason to exist. (Writing is hard. Even writing about writing is hard.) Seriously, without tapping into too much spiritual existentialism, I feel like the only regret I am hauling to my grave is a feeling that I have been given a talent to use words and I have wasted it.

Consequently, every few years, I dust off my resolve and start writing. I don't love the idea. I'm insecure about my writing, even though I have won a few contests/awards and have received critiques that say I absolutely should work toward publication. Whatever. Insecurity and fear of failure don't believe that sort of folderol. Nonsense. Malarkey. (My favorite way to procrastinate writing is to browse the on-line thesaurus.)

Fine. I'll stop messing around and get to the point. Because this blog post does have a point.

In January, 2025, I was prompted (or inspired or impelled or some other dramatic word) to sign up for a writing conference to be held in May. Furthermore, I decided to enter a first chapter contest that allowed me to have three judges critique my writing. I could even win prizes. So I registered. I found two first chapters of middle grade manuscripts I wrote 25 years ago, spent not-enough-time editing them and sent them in. And then in May, I attended the conference. I hated it. I did get to play fan-girl and attend classes some of my favorite authors taught, but that only reinforced my firm belief that I was too old to write anything publishable and that I didn't belong with the other attendees who were soooo young. Younger than my children, many of them.

I received my critiques back a couple of weeks later, and was pleased that the judges didn't think that I was a horrible writer, and that their suggestions seemed doable. Then I ignored any other inclination to write anything but a weekly journal entry.

Fast forward to January, 2026. The promptings returned. I argued with those promptings to no avail. So I registered. This time I sent three chapters in to the contest. I rewrote one of the chapters that I had sent the year before, worked on another middle grade manuscript I had also started 25 years ago, and then wrote something new. A memoir called When Our Family Was in Prison. It's been many years in the making, but I have waited for the miracle to write it. The miracle? My son is eight months clean and sober and it's time to tell the story of a generous, kind, intelligent, and humane person and how depression, addiction, and an imperfect judicial system can make life almost too difficult to manage. I received the critiques from this chapter last week. All three judges emphasized that this is the book I should be writing.

Also, the incomparable Jennifer Nielsen gave a keynote address that included so much encouragement and struck down so many of the excuses authors make that keep them from writing, that I have decided that since I am a writer, I may as well write.

Top Ten Reasons Not to Get Divorced

I haven't written a blog post for over a year and a half.  'Write more' has been on my list of things to do for the entire eighteen months (along with lose weight, eat better, organize my house, and be nicer).  Wait just a minute, that's been the same list I've had for 40+ years. Ouch. That realization stings a little.

Ah, well. Such is life, oui?  Seems fitting I should start again in a cynical, testy mood. A bit of therapy writing.  This one may or may not get published.  I'll wait until tomorrow.

So . . . top ten reasons to stay married:

1.  Divorcee is a horrible label  Trust me. People will always associate it with brokenness (accurate if referring to finances) and some antiquated notion that you are after someone else's husband (as if--seriously, maybe in movies from the 1950's, but not now--remember, we had husbands).  I really should have killed him and then I'd be a widow! And possibly a death-row inmate.

2.  House repairs, car maintenance, masculine-type (I shudder at the sexism here, but bare with me) odd jobs   I actually like mowing my lawn and shoveling snow is almost as good as cross country skiing for exercise!  I get quite offended when people offer to do those two things for me.  But I just paid over $300.00 for someone to spray earwigs because I hate pesticides. I paid over $500.00 to get my sprinkler system redone.  I can't even change a light bulb because I'm likely to fall off a chair (see my posts about Multiple Sclerosis). I know having a husband doesn't guarantee that he'll do these traditional jobs and heaven knows, given a choice and another paycheck, I'd rather pay someone else and have a husband do the cooking. For now, my son-in-law could use a break.

3.  Only one paycheck  I know,there's no guarantee that marriage provides two people who are gainfully employed either, but there's been no chance of two paychecks for me for the past 23 years unless I work two jobs.  Which I have. Often.  I do get paid twice a month now--retirement and social security! Not quite enough to support my estate sale/thrift shop habits.

4.  No one to complain about adult children with  (Yes, I know that I just ended that incomplete sentence with a preposition, but remember, I'm in a testy mood, so get over it)  Please understand that I have other people with whom  to complain about adult children. (happy?) Most of my friends have adult children. Most of those children are millennials. We sometimes vent. Most of my friends don't have a problem with any of them living with us--at least we'd see them more often. And all of us are remarkably fond of the grandchildren they provide us, but well, let's face it.  They think we're old and not smart.  It might be fun to complain about them with the other genetic donor.

5. Grandchildren bragging rights  I know that my grandchildren are superior in every possible way to any other child in the universe, but sometimes my friends dispute this. Maybe their grandfather would agree with me.  Maybe he does. He hasn't spoken to me in 23 years. (but I digress--that belongs in the "Top Ten Reasons to Get Divorced)

I need to take a break. I actually made something for dinner (my average is once a week) and it is 7:55. Also, there's a chick flick on Netflix I want to watch and my adorable golden retriever wants to snuggle with me.  Or I may just go to bed and read for however long I want. Uh, oh, I see where this train of thought is going. There may not be ten reasons. I'm not lonely--I bought a puppy.  I'm not poor; my needs are well met as are most of my wants. My son-in-law never complains (to me).  I have the best friends in the world even if they do have cute grandchildren and not one of them accuses me of potential husband stealing. My marriage was kind of a train wreck except for the incredible children it produced (who won't be millennials forever). Hmmm . . . being single kind of works for me, I guess.  And ever since George Clooney got married, I've sort of given up finding someone I'd consider.

One more thing.  I'm posting this tonight.  If I wait until tomorrow, I might have to ask my daughter for help. And she'll think I'm old and . . . well, you know!

Who Am I?

I'm a Leo and a Ravenclaw. I'm blue and yellow, green, orange and yellow, green, and never ever red. I'm INFP, tender hearted but insecure, and so right brained that someone once doubted if there was anything in the left side of my skull. I'm abstract random and optimistic to a fault, a wee bit Scottish, a whole lot British and an Idaho native. I've been called a conservationalist, but I may also be an environmentalist. I'm a Mormon Democrat and a devout Christian (no matter what some of my Evangelical friends think!), and last but not least a bit ADHD. 

The part of me who majored in Psychology until a math statistics class turned me into a Psychology minor loves to take personality tests. I love them! Rationally, I know the validity tests is debatable at best. (Except that I really am a Leo and a Ravenclaw.) 

Recently, I listened to a Hidden Brain episode on NPR and found out I'm not the only one who loves categorizing my personality and giving myself labels. Many people have been harmed by various tests and I take all of them with a proverbial grain of salt. And I think we all know how devastating labels can be. We don't need any more ways to separate and segregate each other.

So, who am I really? I am a Child of God. And so are you!

Our Better Angels

Yesterday, I attended a women's church class that was about Christ being the good shepherd. It was a lovely lesson. The teacher encouraged us to develop those gifts that would allow us to be good shepherds to those around us, and to stop the inclination we have to judge each other, which I am afraid we do all too often.  In our church we refer to our mortal selves having a "natural man" aspect wherein we have tendencies toward uncharitable habits ranging from gossiping to breaking any number of the 10 Commandments. It is that part of us that we try to overcome throughout mortality. We also believe that everyone born into this life comes with the light of Christ--our conscience so to speak.

Toward the end of the lesson, the teacher reminded us to listen to that part of ourselves that wants to do good and the phrase "Better Angels" popped into my mind. I naturally did what I always do--and right there and then, while listening to the lesson, mostly, I googled "Better Angels." (I hope none of my former students read this and remember my preaching about not multi-tasking within the language centers of our brain, because you can't read and listen simultaneously!) I read a few things and then decided to research it more later.  So I did! I love the internet when I don't hate it.

In 1841, Charles Dickens (!)wrote, "So do the shadows of our own desires stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed." It was in his book, Barnaby Rudge. (entire quote listed below--amazing)

In Abraham Lincoln's (!!) first Inaugural Address given in 1861, William Seward suggested edits to the speech. According to an article on NPR.org, Ronald C. White Jr., an author of A. Lincoln: A Biography, Lincoln accepted some suggestions, but not all.

"It is Lincoln's final sentence that has found its place as American scripture: "The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave, to every heart and hearth-stone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

Seward had written, "the guardian angel of the nation" impersonal. But Lincoln invoked "the better angels of our nature" — deeply personal."

 I love this phrase even more knowing Charles Dickens and Abraham Lincoln used it so long ago. Apparently Shakespeare used it in Othello as well. It really is as close to scripture as it can get!  It may trouble some people that the term implies that there are less than good angels, but if you apply the natural man concept and realize that the term refers to our natures, I think it is completely acceptable to realize that within us is a complex set of character traits--good and bad--and that we have the choice as to which ones we choose to employ.

I find great comfort and courage in knowing that within myself there is a force, a light, an angel if you will, that will help me be better. If I choose to love, not hate, I will love.  If I choose tolerance over judgment, I will be a better friend and citizen. If I expect a better and higher aspect of myself to go forward, I truly believe it will.

There is an organization named after this quote as Lincoln used it at better-angels.org that is a bipartisan network of leaders and organizations that wants to re-unite our country in the way Abraham Lincoln pled with us to do so often. I wish them God's speed and best wishes.

For myself, I will concentrate on daily choices, calling upon my own better angels to help me as a mother, grandmother and friend, and ultimately a better disciple of the Good Shepherd.


The complete quote from Dickens:

"The thoughts of worldly men are for ever regulated by a moral law of gravitation, which, like the physical one, holds them down to earth. The bright glory of day, and the silent wonders of a starlit night, appeal to their minds in vain. There are no signs in the sun, or in the moon, or in the stars, for their reading. They are like some wise men, who, learning to know each planet by its Latin name, have quite forgotten such small heavenly constellations as Charity, Forbearance, Universal Love, and Mercy, although they shine by night and day so brightly that the blind may see them; and who, looking upward at the spangled sky, see nothing there book-learning…

“It is curious to imagine these people of the world, busy in thought, turning their eyes towards the countless spheres that shine above us, and making them reflect the only images their minds contain…So do the shadows of our own desires stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed.

A Plethora of Sisters--the Most Recent is German!

I really like my new blogging plan. A place for happy blogs like this one on this site and a place for complicated things on my other blog: mybeautifullymessycomplicatedstory.blogspot.com

Meanwhile--sisters! My parents didn't see fit to give me any. Also, I don't have a middle name. Those two omissions along with no pony in the back yard are the only things I hold against them. Well, and that they died too soon. Sigh. Pamela Rose Hunter. That's my imaginary middle name.

My brothers, who rock, gave my my first real sisters when they got married. Excellent choices--Iris and Sage are just like real sisters without the childhood fights. I'm lucky my brothers were careful and clever in choosing wives. Sage lives too far away, but Iris is close enough to quilt with, golf with and generally fulfill my extreme neediness to have an older sister.

But it was obvious that I was going to need a lot of sisters to keep me happy. I started in high school with Jeannine. Great start. Then I went to college and found Sandra. We were born 3 days apart, in Idaho, and each came home to two older brothers as youngest children forever. I think we could have been twins, but our parents each wanted one of us. We're awesome. And I still see her as often as I can.

*******Alert!!!!!!! I'm going to miss listing some very amazing women on this highlight reel. They know who they are even if I neglect naming them. Hawaii semester sisters Jacqui, Martha, Karla and Diane, I'm talking to you. Or would be if I had the slightest idea where you are! **************

So eventually, I graduated from college, got a job and moved on. I even got married and found out that is when you really need women in your life! Ah, Valley Forge/Yorktown. 10 newly married couples?  More?  All I really remember is that 30 babies were born in our ward in 1980. This is where I added Debbie and Karren to my list of sisters. A couple of years later, Janna and I met while holding our 8 month old babies who were born on the same day. No, I didn't name Jana after Janna but I would have if I'd met Janna a year earlier. We eventually made up 2/5 ths of a writing group with Theresa, Ann and Jill. What a rare privilege being part of that group was. I made lots of friends during pregnancy and child rearing years. Those I call sisters are the ones I still see as often as we can make schedules match. Gloria is the obvious one. Her family thinks I'm part of the family on her husband's side and his family thinks the opposite. That's how many family events I show up at. Her Kaysville ward knows me by name. The year after I graduated, I subbed for Lyn and we became traveling sisters--a kinder and gentler Thelma and Louise. I hope there's one more trip together. Judy and I clicked like fellow teachers often do, and when I started teaching in Nampa, Leslie became a little sister. Younger sister? She's in Montana now. Teachers make good sisters--both have qualities of love and nurturing. Add Alyce to the list, which reminds me--we are overdue for lunch.

Some of the woman I grew to love moved and I didn't do the work needed to stay close, but when I see them, the warmth and sisterhood is still there--Jeanette and Mary come to mind. Lora Dawn and Anne-Marie as well.  Bonnie and her mom made it into scrapbooks and Bonnie is still my favorite driving partner to Utah and generous to a fault. She also makes really good candy!

I moved to Nampa and mourned the loss of sisters. Thirty minutes away might as well be three hundred I feared. And where would I find sisters in Nampa? No one in Nampa could possible like me or be kindred. I didn't even know if Nampa would allow me to live there. And in many ways those fears have been borne out. Thank heavens, literally, for Pamela and Sheila. I probably would have found a way to move back to Boise and live in a hut if I hadn't met these two. I'm serious as a heart attack here.

And now I come to my latest sister. Working at the Temple brought me dozens of women who I refer to as Sister Adams and Sister Howell, etc. Wahoo! Best part of the Church I love is the knowledge of a Heavenly Father and Mother and a whole earth full of brothers and sisters.

When I met Beate Cook, I was immediately impressed with her gentleness, graciousness and beauty. She's self-conscious about her accent, but President Uchtdorf has made having a German accent pretty darn cool. Not to mention she speaks perfect English. I've studied a fair amount about the history around World War II, the Holocaust, and many aspects of American and European events of the thirties and forties. I started asking Beate, who married an American serviceman in 1959, years before either one joined our Church, about her family's experiences in Germany. Had she written her history? Had she written about her parents and grandparents experiences? I was pretty nosy. She was very kind. But no, she hadn't.  I asked her if I could. Write her history. Not a question I ask people on a regular basis. In fact, she is the only person I have ever had the desire to ask that question to. It wasn't until later that I realized that if she had wanted to write her history, she would have written it in German. Not a lot of use to her children and grandchildren. Or to me! I mean, I wouldn't want to write my memoirs in a second language, even if I had one. (What do you call someone who speaks two languages? Bi-lingual. What do you call someone who speaks three languages? Tri-lingual. What do you call someone who speaks one language? American.)

Beate agreed and it took us two years to make the time together happen. I think there were reasons for that, but finally, this July, I spent almost a week at their ranch in Riggins, Idaho. It was heaven. A very warm heaven due to Riggins being in a canyon, not cooler like the mountains in nearby McCall, but heaven just the same. Her house is beautiful and full of those characteristics of the British houses I came to love a few years ago. Lace curtains, lovely table linens, pretty dishes and so clean. Gloria lived in Germany and has told me about a work ethic she observed there. Beate is a little older than I am and works circles around me in every possible way. She irons her slip and her husband's levis. I iron . . . hmmm. Quilt blocks once every ten years when I start a quilt never to be finished? We worked on family histories a bit and I interviewed her about everything I could think of.  I'm not done. I haven't written her history yet, but I'm getting ready as soon as I have another visit to firm details up. She thanked me for coming; I thanked her for letting me. Believe me, I got the best of the deal. I better write a very good history. She had an interesting childhood--there are details that should definitely be recorded.

She called last week and we talked about October for my next visit. I'll be there! I mean, I already love her like a sister!

Gardens Take Time: The Joy of Weeding

A while back I wrote a post about gardens as an analogy of life. I love analogies! I mentioned in the post that I felt my life garden was being pruned, weeded, replanted and improved by my Heavenly Father and that it wasn't always appreciated!  Turns out that whatever analogy you use for change hurts--a refiner's fire sound appealing to anyone?

After neglecting my back yard for a month while I flitted (drove endlessly?) from Nampa to Utah, Nampa to Boise, Nampa to Utah, Nampa to Riggins and Nampa to Utah, I was greeted with sad flowers and triumphant weeds. Tall, towering, terrible, triumphant weeds. After one hour of weeding yesterday, I wrote a facebook post that was meant to be funny but truthfully must have sounded like I was about to consider killing myself with a gardening implement. Friends came out of hiding and offered me love and encouragement, advice and good wishes, and from one much loved friend, "Real friends pull weeds together." No, Sheila, real friends go to lunch together!

Because of the outpouring of well-wishes, I went outside with a lighter heart today. I noticed yesterday's progress and by the time I went back inside two hours later, I felt wonderful. I started weeding by kneeling down near my lavender plant and breathing in its wonderful scent while freeing it from weeds that were trying to choke its life out. I emptied basket after of basket of wild morning glory vines winding around everything in reach, common mallow (I just did a weed image search so I can call these weeds out by name!), dandelions with stickers, crabgrass, and goat head weeds--all the while contemplating the blessings in my life. And believe me, two hours is not nearly long enough to contemplate all the blessings I enjoy.

So one more garden analogy that fits with life--friends make burdens lighter and tackling tough weeds and winning one battle at a time feels really great!

Not All Diseases Are Created Equal

I have a disease called Multiple Sclerosis, MS. It's an auto-immune disease which means the body attacks itself. In MS, the myelin sheathing around nerves is attacked by anti-bodies that think they are protecting me from an outside infection.  When I was diagnosed, the prognosis was anything from very few exacerbations to a constantly worsening that would leave me in a wheelchair.  Twenty years in, I am happy that the course of the disease is only moderately disabling for me.  I did have to retire early from teaching, but I will walk a 5K next week with my grandchildren with few difficulties. Summer is wretched because of the heat, which makes all former symptoms come back for a curtain call and I am more tired than I was even in the first trimesters of pregnancy, but all in all I have been very lucky.  As diseases go, I'll take MS.

My parents both died of cancer, so obviously, that particular disease scares me, but in true Scarlett O'Hara fashion, I choose to not think about it.

There is one disease that I am incredibly grateful is not likely to visit me--addiction. Aside from a sweet tooth that has plagued me, I have had no affinity to addictive substances.  I never started drinking, so I don't know if I could have stopped. Likewise for cigarettes, which I watched my father struggle with his entire life.  The few pain killers I took as needed left me pain free, but not addicted, but that may be because of the short duration I took them. I guess I'll never know if I could have been an addict, but I love someone very much who is one.

My oldest son started smoking when he was 14 or 15. It was during the time that my then husband and I separated and eventually divorced, and drinking alcohol followed soon thereafter for this teenager who felt confused and betrayed. Illegal drugs came next and while he tried several, the only one that held on was marijuana. Only about 8% of people who smoke pot become addicted, but Cody is one of them. By the time he was 18, he was stealing things out of cars to pay for the substance abuse that was quickly stealing his future. He was caught, pleaded guilty and I was the mother of a felon.

Two disclaimers here. The universe has convinced me that I am an enabler and that Cody and I are co-dependent. Guilty as charged. All I knew for years was that I loved this boy more than words can express and he was in 97 kinds of pain and trouble. I tried to protect him. I tried to save him. It didn't work so I tried harder. I nagged. I begged. I tried to be perfect in the false belief that any blessing due me could be transferred to him. I prayed and prayed and prayed.

The second disclaimer?  I absolutely positively believe that addiction/alcoholism is a disease.  I didn't always believe that. At first, I fell in line with the attitude that Cody just needed to make better choices. He did. But the bottom line is that he needed treatment. His addictions are accompanied by ADHD, depression and anxiety. He's never been to rehab, but he's been in jail--a poor person's rehab to be blunt.

Two of the groups that inspire little to no compassion are addicts and felons. Cody is in jail right now for drinking and smoking pot--both parole violations. Of the poor choices he has made while on this journey through hell, I am happy to say violence has never been a road he has taken. Unfortunately, theft has, and since stealing is a definite 'no' in the 10 commandments, I'm left with little credibility to defend him. And frankly, I'm learning not to defend him. I get treatment for my MS; my parents sought and received medical treatment for cancer. Cody has not always been compliant when offered treatment. In fact, he has rarely been compliant.

I visited Cody today in prison. He is very depressed. I don't mean he feels crummy. I mean he is clinically, severely depressed. He started taking anti-depressants again, but on the second day, the guard said something snarky so he didn't go back the third day. I encouraged him to reconsider, trying hard not to enable or be co-dependent. (I truly hate those terms.)  He said he can't find any hope, any purpose. The only thought that brings any happiness is his nieces and nephews, but then he crashes into despair thinking he has ruined any future relationship with them.

And so, I look across the table and see a still handsome 37 year old who has a disease. I will try not to be too sad as he continues to struggle with his choices and his lack of choices. I will try not to be too frustrated with a system that gives little care or hope to those similarly afflicted. And I will pray for a cure.