Rambling

I watched a documentary last night about James Christensen, the LDS artist. I find his work engaging, but a little strange. Fantastic, in it's true definition, I think. But I also saw how much of an influence the European masters had on his work. Some of it is quite traditionally beautiful, which I like. I enjoyed the program (on BYUtv) because I got to see a lot of his work, as well as getting some commentary from the artist (and others) to explain the themes. Many of his pieces really touch me. My favorite is "The Widow's Mite," but there are many others I didn't realize I liked until I saw the show. (I recommend this program if you have time to watch it.)

The thing that touched me most about the show, though, was something Mr. Christensen said when he was talking about reading The Lord of the Rings in college. He said,

"I wept when I was finished because I could never read it for the first time again."

Wow. That's exactly how great literature should feel. I wonder if I ever felt this way. I do recall feeling sad as I finished books that I liked, because they were over. I think that may have been some of the same emotion, but I failed to recognize it in the same way. Alternatively, though, there is great joy in becoming familiar with a piece of literature, as well. There are books that are like old friends, books that I love to read them again and again, because they move me and comfort me and have a wonderful familiarity. In my mind, a relationship with books is like a romantic relationship. First there is a thrill of discovery and an excitement of something new. A lust, if you will, that fades as familiarity increases. But with that familiarity comes a comfort, a closeness that you can never have when the relationship is new. With my husband, sometimes I miss that thrill, that emotional flush of first falling in love, the tingling excitement of exploring untried intimacy. But I would never trade it for the solicitude, the mature passion, the depth of emotion that comes with a relationship that has had time to truly flower. There is a poem by Carol Lynn Pearson that speaks to this dichotomy.

Spring Is Only for Beginnings

Our love
Was a blossom,
Full and faultless
On the tree.
But when the petals
Began to fall,
All
You could see
Were the sad
Leaves scattered
On the ground.

You did not
Think to watch
For autumn
When the fruit
Is found.

There is value and pleasure on both sides, new and old. But you can't have them both at the same time. You have to give up the one to get to the other. Everything in it's time, I guess. A lesson for life.

So. Art, literature, relationships, and poetry all in one blog - I've run the gamut. Definitely a ramble. Thanks for sharing it with me.

Blog 2x per week?

Sometimes I just don't feel like saying anything.

The OCD spectrum: More fun than the color wheel.

I'm a list maker. Love to make lists. They help me function. They help me think. So the other night in bed, I started making a list of my OCD quirks. I believe that OCD works on a spectrum, like autism. In autism you can go from the mildest Asperger's Syndrome on down to non-functioning, full-blown autism. Well, in my humble, non-medical, never really researched opinion, OCD is the same. There are those with a few little quirks, like me (over on the lovely red, perhaps slightly orange, side of the spectrum), and there are those who cannot function in society because of their compulsions (way down in the nasty purple end of things.) Somewhere in the middle but a little more towards the blues are those people who could be on the A&E show, Obsessed. I saw that show several times. It freaked me out a little. There but for the grace of God, you know? Here is a little list of my OCD issues:

• I only like to sleep on my own pillow case. Even after laundering. I label mine and Russ' so they don't get mixed up. Hey, keep your body oil and your dead skin cells to yourself, right? I will wash my sheets if anyone else sleeps in them. Even my kids.
  
• Same with bathroom towels. I have my own color, and no one gets to use them but me.
• My toothbrush is not allowed to fraternize with anyone else's. If they touch, it's gross. Russ must keep his tooth cleaning items in his very own cabinet. (Yes, I realize we have committed the act of making children together, with all it's attendant bodily fluid swapping. Different brain compartment altogether.)
• Animal fat is gross. But I can touch it if I'm cooking so long as I wash my hands about 10 times while dealing with it.
• I will not milk the cow. Unless my husband is dying. And now that Aubrey knows how, not even then. Cow udders freak me out a little. OK, a lot.
• The volume on the TV is best when it's set at a number divisible by 5.
• My closets are fairly well-organized. Shoes must snuggle up only to their mates. Clothes are hung in a logical order (sweatshirts, long-sleeved exercise shirts, short-sleeved exercise shirts, short-sleeved casual shirts, long-sleeved casual shirts, dressy shirts [long- and short-sleeved together], skirts, dresses, and not-currently-worn-things at the end.) But, they are not color coordinated within their categories. See? I'm totally in control.
• Finally, I make lists. Lists are how I control the world. If I put it on a list, I can deal with it. When I don't use lists, I find I get stressed very easily. You see, if I forget an item that's written on a list, I can blame myself - faulty memory, whatever. But if it's not on a list and I forget it, the world is out of control and I have no power. So I make lists. Make sense?
  

Turns out my list is not nearly so long as I imagined it to be. Nor are the items particularly peculiar. Which is a comfort, because I worry about my kids. JR has issues with people touching his food, and he will not eat dairy unless it's pasteurized. And even then, he won't touch butter. Or plain milk. But he will touch dirt, and his room often looks like a tornado went through. So he's probably a lot like his mom. A little quirky, but far to the left of any problem amount of OCD. What a relief.

Goals and failure.

So each year I make myself and the kids a bookmark with yearly goals on it. Things we want to end the year doing better, or not doing at all, whatever. My bookmark has a few general goals for the whole year, and then a new goal for each month that I only have to accomplish for that month. I figure that gives me time to establish a habit if I want, but if it doesn't work out for whatever reason, I can leave it behind and not feel guilty about failing for the rest of the year. Make sense? So my goal for the month of April as to blog twice a week. Hmmmm. I'm obviously having a hard time with that one. There is a lot going on in my life, but I don't feel like typing it up. I'm not sure if I'm just lazy, or if life is frustrating me so much I just don't feel like sharing. Both, I think. I do have another blog these days, Morning, Noon and Night, which is just a repository for recipes. But if I count the entries on that blog (which I am definitely going to do), then I've kept my goal. However, I do want to keep up on this blog as well, so I'll do a quick recap of life these days.

Aubrey has decided she wants to try home school, so we pulled her out of school and have had her at home for a week now. She's a teenage girl, which means every action must be accompanied by much drama, either in the form of childlike (childish?) enthusiasm for things she likes, or conversely, sighs and pouting (tears even, occasionally) for things she considers horrendously burdensome. She does seem to be getting the work done faster than she would at school, but I do wonder how thoroughly she is learning the subject matter. It remains to be seen how well home schooling serves her. I know it's giving me plenty of opportunity to practice those patience muscles.

Due to some female-type issues (regarding which I will be happy to give you details if you ask me in person), it looks like I will be planning a major surgery within the next month or so. Yes, that major, female-related surgery. The issues and subsequent surgery plans have put a little dent in my fitness efforts. I've gained back quite a bit of the weight that I lost over the last few years. This causes me much stress, as well as the psychological baggage that comes with giving up such a huge part of my identity. I really will be glad to put things behind me and get back into the swing of things again. I want to do some serious running and biking. Soon...soon.

Not to mention (stupid phrase, because hey, I'm going to mention it), my birthday is this month. Yep. 42 years old. Most days this doesn't bother me at all. But there are some days it scares me. Not because I'm getting old, per se, but because it means everything is going to change. My baby will go to kindergarten next year, and I'll have to look at being a different person than "mom of little kids." I like who I am. I don't know if I want to be that older lady, "mom with kids all at school." And that's another step on the path to "mom of grown-ups," which is a place that really scares me. I am happy. I love my life. Maybe I won't love my future life as much as I love my present life. How sad would that be? Always remembering the good old days when I was truly happy? Scares me.

So, I think these are the reasons I yell at my kids too much these days. And why I don't blog. So there.