I've been working on photoshopping the 600+ photos I took on the Trek. (And feeling grateful that I didn't take almost 2,000 like others I know!) I am a slow and hesitant photoshopper so it takes me awhile. I've just uploaded the first of the photos, those I took when we were at Independence Rock. (You'll see them when you scroll down past the "recent posts" on the left side of my blog.)  I have labeled all the photos with the names of people I know, but if you were on the Trek and know names I don't, will you please, please email me?

Because I rode in a car instead of the bus, we arrived about 45 minutes before the kids did. I grabbed the opportunity to sit in the silence near the rock, thinking about the people who had passed this way. You hear about the distances the pioneers traveled—nearly 1300 miles—but it starts to come into scope when you see all the rolling distances. Many of my own ancestors stopped in this same place. I wrote in my journal, photographed the landscape, and wondered how it really felt, making it to this enormous marker.

Later, after we'd eaten lunch, we climbed up to the top. The wind was fierce at the top. It was different than I expected; more conglomerate than smooth stone. The boys were running around, jumping over cracks, dropping their water bottles and shoes into the crevices, making me anxious. I finally just had to sit back and not nag, hoping no one got hurt. (No one did.) Somehow I managed to be one of the last of our group—not on purpose, but because the kids who left last went down a different route. I sat in the silence for a minute, thinking about a question someone else had asked me. "Why do you think those footsore and exhausted pioneers took the time and energy to climb this rock?" a friend asked as we huffed to the top.

I didn't have answer for her while we climbed, or even when the top was crowded with laughing teenagers. But in those few moments of solitude—alone save one lonely rabbit—I looked across the landscape. A few rolling hills, an enormity of prairie, a few mountain-ish peaks in the distance. High enough to watch the shadows of the clouds cast patterns on the ground. The wind tugging at my bonnet and telling its persistent secrets in my ear. I think they climbed it because it was a reprieve from the endless days of moving West, always West, the sun behind them and then glaring in their face all afternoon, the stretches of monotonous travel. Almost to me it seems like it might have felt like walking on the treadmill: always moving but never getting anywhere. Arriving at Independence Rock and climbing it (some pioneers also carved their name into the stone) must have been a relief to them, a change; an exhilaration of height and wind to keep with them.

Dear Dad:

Whenever I drive through Provo Canyon, a vague memory surfaces of you and me, scootching through trees down an angle of dirt towards Deer Creek. You’re holding a fishing pole and a tackle box. There is no context for this memory—I don’t know if we were there with others, or what we did before making our way towards the water. Did we catch any fish? Did we get wet? Did my young impetuousness scare away all the fish and make you crazy?

I can’t remember.

It’s just that image: moving down a hill toward water. The smell of earth: dirt, and growing things; lake, and sun. And emotion: anticipation, and a sort of fearful plunging-ahead (the sunlight, for a moment, nearly absorbed by the density of leaves), and innocent, utter trust that you wouldn’t lose me and that if I fell you would catch me.

I wish I could remember more of that moment. I wish I could call you up and ask you, "Dad, do you remember the time you took me fishing?" and then you’d talk about it for at least an hour. I wish—still—that we could share memories together again.

Like, do you remember the summer trips to Lake Powell? The hours spent skimming along the water, or sitting in the cool and shady overhangs, eating lunch while country music reverbed against the red stone cathedrals and sun shimmered across the water; the rough beauty of sandstone, summer sky, desert water. How can those memories be gone for you?

Or the day you taught me to water ski? It was in the marsh-murky waters of Utah Lake; you showed me how to slide the skis onto my feet, how to hold them up in front of me, where to put the rope, how to lean back into the support of the life jacket. In case it wasn’t enough, you stayed behind me, holding me up while the boat slowly dragged me through the water until I caught the feel of it, caught my balance, caught my breath enough to shout "hit it." What you told me was right: my legs really were strong enough. Remember that you forgot to tell me to let go of the rope when I fell, so I held on, tugged along with my face in the water until my arms couldn’t stand it and my swimsuit top had dragged down to my elbows? Remember that exhilarated and embarrassed laughter? How did I forget to tell you that you were the only person I ever completely trusted to pull me on water skis? Everyone else went either too slow or too fast, but you knew the exact speed to take me.

Remember the late-night shouting match you had with that boyfriend of mine, and how you told him if he respected me he’d make sure I was home on time? I thought I would die of embarrassment and anger, but now that I have a teenaged daughter of my own, I see your point.

Remember Jeramy? Remember? He was the topic of the last real conversation you and I ever had. You asked if I thought I would ever see him again, and I didn’t have an answer, and I was surprised (and thrilled) you hadn’t forgotten him. If I ever do get to see him, I will tell him all about you.

Maybe it’s good that you’ve forgotten the turmoil of my teenage years—the yelling and the rebellion, the moody music and the black clothes. I think you must have been completely bewildered by me. Sometimes I almost wish I could forget my dark years, except for the fact that they forged the person I have become. I wish I could explain what I understand about the darkness now.

And although the hours of sitting on a metal folding chair might not be worth remembering, I wish you didn’t forget all the gymnastics meets. I wish you could remember the version of me who could fly, who was strong and fearless. I wish you could know that while I never told you, your presence at meets always made me feel a bit more courageous—and more admired. I knew that no matter how I performed, whether or not I stuck my layout on the beam or chickened out on my roundoff dismount, or even if my vault was always the simplest one I could get away with, you’d still smile at me with that beaming sort of pride.

There are memories only you could share with me—how, for example, did you feel on the day I was born? The day you married Mom, or adopted my sisters, or Becky was born? How did you feel on the day your dad died, or when your son-in-law was killed? What was your first football game like—were you nervous? What was the last baseball game you played, and what did you love about the sport?

I cannot ask the questions anymore, because you can no longer answer them. You look at me, your pupils sharp dark holes in the universe of your eyes, and then you hang your head and wring your hands. Your body seems to say all that is left in your confusion is a sense of shame. I hold your hand, prying it carefully away from the other one it’s twined with. I pat you and I tell you: it’s OK. You are OK. We all love you. I hold your hand, knowing that you don’t know who I am anymore other than a vague concept of person-who-means-something. I speak words to you and I wish they could land like stepping stones in the dark waters of your wordlessness. I wish I could know that you know: I love you. And I won’t forget. As long as I can remember my experiences with you, I will.

I will remember.

Home from Trek. Wanting to sit down and write all about the incredible experience I had, but am way too tired this evening, plus I still have to go to the grocery store. I'm just trying to talk myself down from going to bed at 7:06 pm. Luckily Kaleb peed in my bed last night (wheeeeeee!) and I'm still washing the bedding. Otherwise I might just be asleep by now. At any rate, a Trek Teaser:

• 60+ mph winds and Amy (seriously claustrophobic Amy) in a blown-down tent do not get along. Serious and total and complete mental breakdown on my part, as well as a sudden rush of enlightenment.
• Wyoming is cold. And windy. In fact, the weather is so awful we should have named it Whinoming. (You know...because the weather makes even grown men whine.)
• Walking paths my ancestors also walked was a deeply spiritual and moving experience. I might not be able to frame it in words that are blog-worthy for awhile. (Read: there might be more than one blog entry about the Trek.)
• When driving six hours with women you sort-of know, don't plan on reading massive books. You'll more than sort-of know them by the end of the experience; you might not finish (or even crack open) the books but you will have new friends.
• Speaking of friends. At some of the most intense moments, I thought of several different people (my friend Jamie, and my sister Becky, and my other friend Chris, to name just a couple) and I felt as if just by thinking of them I had brought them along.
• Life is strange. I discovered I have a cousin—a man who is also the great-great grandchild of Levi Openshaw—who lives less than half a mile away from me.
• There are some experiences a camera cannot do justice to.
• Zyrtek is no match for Wyoming pollen.
• Kleenex during spring allergy season is an absolute necessity on camping trips.
• Bring next time: extra blanket, sack for dirty clothes, slippers for tent. SPRINGBAR TENT. (I will never camp again unless I have one. Ever.)
• I really, really hope there is a next time.
• The hardest things are also the best ones.

That's it until I catch up on some sleep. And go to the grocery store.

One of my favorite types of scrapbook layouts is a "Life Right Now." Within the the space of about a week, I do a photo shoot, process the pictures and get a few printed, and write down details. Then I put everything together on a layout. This isn't anything like Ali Edwards's "A Week in the Life" project, by the way. It's not as structured nor as intense. It's just a way to capture the details of right now. I love looking back on these layouts because they give a great sense of regular, everyday life.

99.9% of the time, though, the layouts are about my kids. (Which means: I've made a total of two "life right now" layouts about myself.) And while I am of the opinion that any layout, no matter what the subject is, is also really about its maker, I thought that, this morning and probably more times in the future, I'd blog my own Life Right Now details. You should too!

• I just finished reading and rereading a whole bunch of teen books to get myself ready for teen summer reading at the library. The books were all from the nominees for the 2011 Beehive Award.

  My favorites: ■ Chains (Laurie Halse Anderson's historical about slavery in pre-revolutionary-war America)

■ Flygirl (1940's historical about the Women Airforce Service Pilots and a woman who wants to join—except her blackness says she can't, so, since she's light-skinned enough, she tries to "pass" as white)

 ■ Eon: Dragoneye Reborn (Fantasy based on Asian dragon mythology).

Those two historicals are so good. I like historical novels that manage to uncover something I didn't know much about, and they both do that. Plus the writing is lovely, especially in Chains. That I liked the fantasy so much took me completely by surprise, because I've sort of been anti-fantasy lately. When I read a description that is something like "just like Harry Potter" I just roll my eyes. Why not just reread H.P. then? I am tired of fantasies that copy others, so I've grown fantasy picky. But Eon was, perhaps, my favorite from the list. It is about Eon, who is trying to become a Dragoneye apprentice. Dragoneyes work with the society's twelve dragons and are powerful men; Eon, though, is really a girl pretending to be a boy. Parts of it had me in literal tears of frustration as I bumped up against the age-old women-are-less-than-men belief. I fell hard for this book and will be recommending it like crazy.

The book I hated? Sarah Dessen's Along for the Ride. She disappointed me with this one.

• Next up in the reading department: The Lace Reader, Anthropology of an American Girl, and Private Life by Jane Smiley. Can't decide where to start! Have you read any of them?
• Yesterday we had a quickly-thrown-together fifth birthday party for Kaleb. He wanted to invite the entire world but I restricted the list to kids who had just finished preschool or kindergarten. Have I ever written about how much I don't like doing kids' birthday parties? I always feel like I am leaving out someone I should have invited (Jamie, I thought Mason would be bored and Becky, I didn't want to stress you out with another drive to utah county) and I end up spending too much and I worry that none of the kids have fun anyway because I go the simple route. Still, Kaleb seemed to love it and that is all that should matter, right?
• My hay fever continues to KILL ME. Last year I took Singulair and that controlled it much better. Last year I also had a doctor. This year, I am trying to find a new one, and so I'm taking Zyrtek instead, which feels like taking nothing.
• A plus to the hay fever: I have almost worked my way through the overwhelming amounts of Kleenex I have. I'm not really sure why, but suddenly I have approximate 2,877,119 boxes. Apparently sometime in the recent past I thought I needed Kleenex every time I went to the store.
• This week I swapped schedules at work so I could go to my niece's wedding this weekend. This meant three nights in a row I wasn't home—which is too much. My kids are barely holding it together, the laundry status is nightmarish, we are out of everything. The way I feel this morning has reinforced my decision that I am not at all ready or willing to work full time right now. My family needs me more than they need the extra money.
• That said, however: Novell right now is rife with rumors over a pending company sale. Meaning someone else has taken over the company, which will more than likely mean one thing: layoffs for a lotof people. My heart starts pounding and my stomach ties in knots when I think about this. I cannot stand the thought of enduring another period of unemployment. I fear it might just break me. I can't do it—that is the thought I keep sending out to the Powers That Be. Really, PTB: I can't. Please don't make me.
• Deepbreath. Deepbreath. Deepbreath.
• Lately I have been feeling exhausted. If I had a doctor, I would make an appointment. I feel like I am constantly on edge, like I'm being flooded with adrenaline. Honestly, what I feel like is what Bilbo says: like butter over too much bread.
• Today I am determined to finish getting myself, Haley, and Jake ready for the pioneer trek we are going on next week. One more bonnet, some "bloomers" (our bloomers are really just running pants with elastic at the bottom; when we get home from the trek I'll take the elastic out and voila: functional running pants) to finish, and a handful of items to purchase. I haven't blogged much about the trek but while I am looking forward to it, it is also adding to my general stressiness. I will be glad when it is finally just here.
• Haley is training with the cross-country team at the high school she'll be attending in the fall. I am SO proud of her—she gets up and goes, every morning, with her friend. She isn't sure she wants to be on the team and I am trying to not be pushy, but I am secretly hoping she tries to make the team anyway. I am all sorts of anxious about her starting high school (just because my own experience was so difficult) and I think having teammates might smooth the way. (I keep reminding myself that she is not me and she is not destined to have my high school experience.)
• One of my nieces, Brittany, is getting married this weekend. Another niece, Kayci, had a new baby a couple of weeks ago. I should have made both of these into Reasons to Sew, but so far I haven't. Dear nieces: don't let my lack of sewing seem like disinterest. I AM happy for you! ;)
• Speaking of sewing: I am in the throes of purchasing fabrics for a quilt for Kaleb. I have got to do something to keep that kid in his own bed. He is FIVE and still gets into my bed almost every night. Plus, he snores. So it's stereo snoring all night long. I don't think I've had a good night's sleep in, like, eight years. Or maybe 15. At any rate, I am making him a magical quilt. I keep telling him that: "it's magical. It will help you sleep so good and keep away the bad dreams." So far, I have only bought supplies. The purchasing thing is shaping up nicely. (You can see the main fabric, Michael Miller's Dino Dudes, here. Isn't it cute? It also comes in flannel!!!!) 
• Yesterday I talked to Becky for a few minutes while trying to shop at Costco. I had to hang up when Kaleb fell in the cart and scraped his back. Miss you, Beck! She has a new house and I still haven't been up to see it. Dear Becky: don't let my lack of coming to see your new house seem like disinterest. (or jealousy!) I AM happy for you! ;)
• Jacob has a toothache. Seriously...seriously? He is 12.5 and hasn't ever had a cavity, and yet he keeps complaining. So, we're off to see the dentist today.
• It has been so nice to have Nathan's cast off. He is much happier. And cleaner! (It is impossible to keep the casted body part clean. That inside-the-cast smell is horrid.)
• Every time it's windy, I get anxious about my sycamore tree. The wound on it is HUGE. I'm not sure it will make it. It's been windy here a lot.
• The oil spill continues to stress, sadden, and frighten me. I can't stand it.
• We are contemplating a trip to North Carolina to visit our friends Paul and Becca. If it weren't for all the impending Novell doom, we'd have already planned it by now. I really  want to go.

One cool thing about the "life right now" thing is how it shows you patterns. Writing this morning has helped me see more clearly why I am in my state of constant anxiety. There is a lot going on in my life. What's up in yours?

I've not blogged about quilting in awhile. Mostly because I haven't quilted in awhile! But last week was Kaleb's preschool graduation, and I couldn't let the day pass without a quilt for his teacher. She taught three out of four of my kids—only Nathan didn't get to go to Miss Cathie, because the year he was four was the year I was teaching, so he went to preschool somewhere else. I love Miss Cathie. She was the perfect preschool teacher, grandmotherly and gentle but with just the right amount of backbone. She gave my kids a great start at learning. Here's the rag quilt I made for her:

(I am so grateful this branch didn't break during the storm; it's become the place I photograph quilts!)

the thing I love most about rag quilts, aside from the fact that they are made from flannel, which is my all-time favorite fabric EVER, is how quickly they come together. Since you're assembling the front and the back at the same time, you don't have to actually quilt them, unless you also put in batting. I just do an extra layer of flannel instead of batting. Quick project! This one took me two days of random time to put together. If you wanted to make something similar you'd need:

• 3/4 yard EACH of fabrics A and B (the polka dot and the stripe in my quilt), cut into four 6" x width strips
• 1 1/3 yard of fabric C (the brown in my quilt), cut into 15 3" x width strips
• 1 1/2 yards of fabric D (the fleur-de-lis in my quilt), cut into 8 6" x width strips
• 4 1/2 yards of backing fabric and "batting" flannel, cut into 16 6" x width strips and 15 3" x width strips

Assemble as shown, using a 5/8" seam (you have to piece the outer borders), snip the seams, and wash. Voila: you'll make your beloved preschool teacher cry, too!

I have been feeling all morning like I should sit down and write about fasting. I've written before about growing up almost Mormon; one of the topics I didn't really learn about as I grew up was fasting. In the LDS church, we fast—skip two meals—once a month, usually the first Sunday. We do this for a couple of reasons; one important one is to help others, as the money we would usually spend on those two meals is donated as a fast offering. Also, we fast so that our prayers might be more effective, and to show obedience and willingness to sacrifice. Quite often, we fast with a certain person or event in mind, someone or some experience we think might need more help. But what I have learned is that fasting is also an enormous personal blessing. Or, more specifically, a tool by which I can be blessed.

I know I have been blessed by trying to fast.

I had to learn how, though. I was well into my 30's before I even considered fasting as something I should be doing. It always seemed like something other people did. But one January a few years ago, I felt very strongly that one of my new year's resolutions should be related to fasting. So, that year I set a goal to not miss any fast Sundays, and it was one of the few resolutions I actually stuck to. That year, I learned how to fast—and then the next year, the blessings began to be heaped up.

But as I've thought about writing this post, I have bumped up against the thing I always bump up against when I try to write about spiritual things: they are the things I have the hardest time putting into words. This is odd for me, as I tend to process almost all my experiencing within the realm of "how will I write about this?" But many spiritual experiences I cannot write. Partly it is because of my fear of sounding maudlin and insincere. Mostly, though, it is because the experience is beyond language. Or at least, beyond my ability to put into language.

Yet, here I am, fasting, and wishing I could explain how I know the principle to be a true one. It isn't the most pleasant experience, fasting. I am really OK with the food element of it, but the water? Going without water for 24 hours is difficult. Sometimes I forget I'm fasting and take an accidental sip at the drinking fountain, and then I start to question myself: does this even count now? Should I keep trying? For me, personally, fasting is made more difficult because of knowing what it will do to my heart—flay it. By the end of a fast I am an emotional wreck, more self-doubting than anything else.

Plus, it gives me a headache.

But then, there is that moment when it is time to take a first sip of water, and nothing has ever been so delicious—ice cold, clean, shimmering in the cup, reviving your cells as you swallow. The way that fast-Sunday dinner tastes, no matter what it is, like an unparalleled feast. (The only time food tastes better than on fast Sunday is during pregnancy.) The feeling that, by doing without, you have accomplished something for someone else.

Those are the immediate blessings, the fast pieces of knowledge. But there is something deeper, and that is what I cannot put into words. I can't say: I received this specific blessing because I fasted on this specific Sunday, and I know that because of ____________________. That blank space—I know because of—is not empirical. I cannot give you any proof the two are connected. The only way I can say I know is because of how my flayed heart is drawn back together and made stronger by its stripping. The strange thing is that the "stronger" part doesn't really mean more muscular, more able to bear hard things. Instead, it is more able to bear good things—hope, joy, sweetness. That specific goodness tinges the blessings that come from fasting, and that is how I know—even though I know it might not make sense.

There is, it seems, a universal creed: summer is wonderful! summer is awesome! we all love summer! It must hark back to those endless summer days during childhood, when you had nothing more pressing than trying to finish all of your library books before the due date.

Now that I am a grown up, though, I dare confess: I don't love summer. The first post-school week has found me grumpy and annoyed and irritated, and I know exactly why: there is always someone home. I know that sounds horrible for a mother to say. But during the school year, I can carefully arrange my time so that I get a little bit of solitude. Selfish or not, I am renewed when I am alone for awhile. It helps me control my moods and feel rejuvenated.

I'm not sure—probably there is something wrong with me. Shouldn't my motherly instincts override my craving for solitude? Honestly, it's not as if I don't ever want to see my kids. I love them, and I love spending time with them. But I have grown used to having a few minutes to myself sometimes.

And it's not just the lack of solitude. I don't love summer because it is hot. Hot makes me grumpy and prickly. We recently did an energy audit, and one of the suggestions was to keep the air conditioner at 78. Seventy eight? really? I usually keep it at 74. Or, OK, 73. I took the energy-audit guy's word for it. I turned up the thermostat. I thought that four-five little degrees wouldn't make that much of a difference.

It does.

Even with all the ceiling fans spinning, I am hot and bothered. And not in a good way. I keep standing in front of the (new! programmable!) thermostat, my I'm-so-hot-I-could-melt frustration fighting with my I-should-be-a-responsible-user-of-energy desires.

Plus, there's the sudden attack of hay fever. Why is it that we can engineer spacecraft that can whisk a human being to the moon, but no one can make a hay fever medication that actually, you know, works? My eyes—already irritated from my new contacts which are not right in an indefinable way that my eye doctor can't seem to fix—are itchy, that deep-down-in-the-corner itch that's impossible to reach. My throat is scratchy and my nose is stuffy and itchy, and if I dare take a deep breath I sneeze. I've taken everything you can think of and all that any allergy medication does is A---make me uncontrollably sleep (even the non-drowsy stuff) or B---nothing.

Plus, there's shorts. Am I the only Mormon woman who has issues with shorts? I'd almost rather shop for a swimsuit than shorts. It's impossible.

But you know, writing down all my anti-summer arguments has had one unlooked for benefit: I just realized that it isn't only the lack of solitude that's making me crazy. It's just this entire season. Which really is sort of lame on my part, because do I really want to spend 1/4 of my entire life being annoyed, irritable, grumpy, and overwhelmed by the need to scream like a fishwife over a lost flip flop?

So, I am taking a deep breath. I am hoping someone will understand my need for solitude and tell me I am not as horrible a mother as I feel. I am reminding myself of summer's great qualities: flowers. Trips to the park and the other activities we are planning. Unfettered attraction to Sonic's happy hour. Being able to go running in the mornings without worrying about the carpool schedule. Never having to say "did you do your homework yet?" Not having to deal with school-uniform laundry. Mowing the lawn. Fireworks.

Plus, there's this idea: If summer comes, can fall be far behind?

See over there ---> on my list of "scrappy sites," there's a link to Write, Click, Scrapbook? I've been an admirer of the site ever since it was created. It's built with the work of scrapbookers who follow a certain scrapping philosophy. To those of you who don't scrapbook, I know that sounds strange. I mean, really: scrapping philosophies? But, yes, definitely; just as there are scrapbooking supplies and murder mysteries (remember those?) and websites, there are scrapping philosophies. It depends, I think, on what motivates you to scrap. The girls at WCS are proponents of the ideas that used to be developed in Simple Scrapbooks magazine, which doesn't exist anymore: telling stories on your layouts, understanding and using design elements to craft strong layouts, and having fun exactly the way YOU want to.

I love these ideas. When I wrote (as a freelancer) for Simple, it was one of the happiest experiences I've had. I was sad when it stopped being printed. And I've read WCS ever since. So you can imagine the squeeeeeee when I was asked to be part of their "collective." This means I'm part of the WCS team! How cool is that?

This week is WCS's first birthday, so there are tons of give-aways. Make sure to check it out! Also, watch with bated breath for the day I finally figure out how to get a blinkie onto my blog...it'll happen eventually!