Maya Angelou knows why the caged bird sings, but I know something else about that bird.

I suppose by now everyone has at least scanned their requisite Contemporary African American Lit class copy of "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings". I have always really loved Maya's writing, but even more in person, the smooth hot chocolate over ice cream cadence to her voice just stops me. She has such dignity, such pause in her that it makes you listen, even if you have no idea what she's saying. If you wonder what made her that way then you probably better pick your copy of that book back up. Even though all of this probably seems random, it isn't. I have a confession to make. While we were moving last week, one of the last items was our lovely sky blue parakeet in her pepto bismal pink cage that belongs to my girls. As we we have only moved a brisk walk around the corner I decided to walk her over myself. Did I mention that having birds is a complete mess? They spread seeds everywhere, poop all over their cages, and if you coax them out(and by that I mean terrify them by sticking your giant human hand in there) of that little cage, well....total chaos. I don't love pets, its no secret. Its not because I don't love animals, but because mom usually is the one left with the mess of the pets when the kids stop caring about them, and their shiny new penny quality is gone. I do it for the love of my kids, who are simply mad about all God's creatures great and small, wiggly, crawly, slimy, all of them. So you can't blame me for having the thought, "Birds hate being caged don't they? That's why they have wings? They want to be free and wild, right?" Even if they've been fed their sustenance from a convenient tiny cup from birth, I assumed they would want their freedom if only for as long as it took for them to realize they had no idea how to fend for themselves.

I opened the door. I know its terrible, but I did. To my horror no matter what I did she would not move towards the open door, towards what I thought any bird in her right mind would want...her freedom. So now she sits quietly on Emma's shelf, she sits on her little perch, never tasting the freedom of unrestrained flight. Choosing wherever she wants to go, whenever she wants to go there, she didn't even try. I was disappointed to say the least.

I realized not long after this ugly incident that I was not much different than her not very long ago. It was enough to be fed three times a day, have a roof over my head, what did I need with wings? It took me some long ponderous thought this week to discover the reason why the caged bird flies, and I have thought about having everyone wait for the posthumous release of my autobiography to tell you all, but I think it may be too late then. This caged bird had three little baby birds that lived with her too, and when she could finally see them clearly she realized they were watching and learning everything by watching her. Before it was too late entirely it was time to fly. I can't wait to find out what each of them will do with their uniquely vibrantly shaded, each divinely beautiful, wings.

The Beautiful Vampire Diaries

Most of you are probably aware that my sweet hardworking husband has had to switch to the nightshift at the mental health hospital he is working at. Sadly the worst of people's nightmares often become waking realities during the wee and decidedly inconvienient hours of the night. The other night he called me sounding a bit weepy and had just gotten off the phone with someone who was a ways into the process of commiting suicide(note: he never spills any confidential details to me). Amazing therapist, but moreover truly empathetic human being that he is, he cried with her and kept her calm and on the phone until the police were able to arrive. I'm not sure I could take that kind of life or death drama without becoming a basket case eventually, especially if something ever went wrong and I couldn't save the person's life. Gratefully though he manages it with extreme grace, without ever resorting to numbing himself to the job in order to cope. I so admire that in him, as I just can't seem to strike a balance there. I'm like an emotional sponge for other people's pain, except that when I'm saturated and its time to wring myself out releasing that weight inside me, I don't know how. I'm working on it though, and having someone around who is a good model is very helpful to me.

As far as the hours go though I'm worried that its going to turn me into a vampire too if I'm not careful. Although come to think of it, I think vampires actually get to sleep during the day, and that is not a luxury I am afforded. My girls need their mother while the sun still shines. Some nights I can sleep without too much trouble from sheer exhaustion, but on other nights (such as this obviously) our empty bed looks too cavernous and cold to shut my eyes. We have been married a little over a year now, and its still painful to be apart. Actually if anything that feeling seems to deepen, rather than abate. So I sit here, wishing he was home to stumble sleepily into the living room where I am writing this, and tell me to come to bed. Since he isn't, I wanted to leave one last interesting thought I had earlier this evening.

I was catching up on replying to emails, when a commercial for Cindy Crawford's line of skincare called, "Meaningful Beauty" popped up on the add bar. What struck me was how at odds the product's name was with what was actually in the pretty packaging. How can something purely cosmetic be termed 'meaningful'? Now... those of you who know me well know that I actually have had a sort of lifetime love affair with cosmetics and all things feminine, of every sparkly kind and vibrant color. It would be silly for me to deny that I don't have a lot of fun playing around with it, like an artist with their canvas. I was just thinking though how sad it is that the world has gotten so far away from true ideas about what beauty is. I find meaningful beauty everywhere, but not at Sephora, hard as people may try to shop for it on those gleaming shelves that beckon us to buy in order to be beautiful. For me I find it dancing gracefully in my daughter Sophie's joyful pirouetting and gazelle leaps over sidewalk cracks, as we her less ebullient elders merely walk behind her down the street. I find it rising boldly over the flaming sandstone stacks, each cliff molded painstakingly into place by eons of summer rains, that I can see from my backyard balcony. I find it flowing unexpectedly as I witness the gift of forgiveness being freely and wholly given, by one who had been recklessly wronged to someone who was in no way deserving. Asking why the giver answered me,"It is the only thing that is truly my own to give, and I need forgiveness from God so often, how could I refuse another?" Lastly I find it ingrained deep and true in the oak trunk gnarls of my grandmother's hands, hands that my own mother's have started to resemble....worn by decades of canning ripe tomatoes, quieting fussy babies, wiping fevered brows, braiding flaxen and raven heads of hair, and stitching together the living fabric of a family. Hands like those, now that is meaningful beauty to aspire to.

Ok...here goes nothing.

Slowly and reluctantly I am coming forth into the blogging universe. Seems like my sisters have been at it forever, and even my 8 year old niece Lydia is ahead of me on posts. I was thinking though last night of the many times my mother has said to me, "You have to write that down!", and I have meant to but then somehow it slipped away in a tide of laundry, homework, grocery lists, and the like. I used to write letters weekly to my siblings on missions, which turned out to be a kind of diary of sorts, and I wish I still had all of them to go back to now. I am committing now though to do better at this if for no one but my beautiful daughters, who deserve to be able to later recount charming stories about themselves and their audacious adventures growing up as one of my offspring.

We are in the process of moving this week, something which always inspires a sort of self inventory in me as well as a physical inventory of things. What things do we carry with us, and what do we leave behind? Moving is such an immense physical task that it is actually rather overwhelming to me, and of course all the other daily tasks that have to be accomplished when you have kids. I really have to remind myself not to get lost in the details, and try to more thoughtfully hold onto my more spiritual core. My sister Ashley recently forwarded the church's monthly message, this time by Pres. Uchtdorf, and I thought it was quite profound. My goal is to let this thought sink in whilst in the middle of the temporal chaos of moving,

"May I invite you to rise to the great potential within you. But don’t reach beyond your capacity. Don’t set goals beyond your capacity to achieve. Don’t feel guilty or dwell on thoughts of failure. Don’t compare yourself with others. Do the best you can, and the Lord will provide the rest. Have faith and confidence in Him, and you will see miracles happen in your life and the lives of your loved ones. The virtue of your own life will be a light to those who sit in darkness, because you are a living witness of the fulness of the gospel (see D&C 45:28). Wherever you have been planted on this beautiful but often troubled earth of ours, you can be the one to “succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees” (D&C 81:5)."