New Baby Farmer

Eric and Beth Farmer just had a baby. His name is Lincoln Eric Farmer. He was born 7 lbs. 6 oz., 20 1/2 in., at 10:36am on Sept. 29, 2008.

I don't know many other details. I just saw pictures on their blog, and I thought some of you might want to know.

(isn't he cute?)


Attention Recently Not-Pregnant Persons

Dear Leanna and other "baby-havers,"

Sister Morgan recommended to me that I ask you if you recommend the Baby Doctor, Dr. Crouch. My oldest brother Danny and his wife Naomi might be moving to Rexburg in order for him to go back to school. Naomi is currently pregnant with her fourth that is due late April or early May, they are trying to be here by Winter Semester. Each pregnancy has had a few complications because they were so close together (their oldest turns three next month). In order for me to deliver a healthy proposition (pun intended), I want to help them find a good baby doctor, a place to live, and a place to work.

If anyone has some pros or cons to Dr. Crouch, or other recommendations, let me know. I really appreciate your help.

(Sister Morgan advised me to not use the term "baby-havers," but I simply couldn't resist).

Thanks again,


We're bloggers

Brad and I put together a blog yesterday. It's still very empty. There's just mostly pictures as of yet, but add us to your list. It's goodsells.blogspot.com.


Just a little art, that's all.

I already wrote this once and it hurt and then it didn't publish right so I have to do it again. The title had a story I kept on the first try but it's not worth retelling. I'm keeping the title though.

While watching the video in seminar, I saw myself in that romantic kid with the hat and white spots on his front teeth. He said, "Writing has to feel a little bit romantic; it's feeling love. It's not about making cash or getting a grade, it's for yourself." (It might have been a different kid who said that last part.) Sister Morgan then asked us who we identified with, and the air around my temples became hot and humid. I began to blink faster and roll my lips into my mouth. A light tremble shook my hand from the inside. Looking around me, Ivor and Stephanie and Brittany's faces pointed forward at Sis. Morgan and not at me. I rubbed the tip of my thumb and the crease of my fingertip together; both were wet. Fear.

Sister Morgan stopped talking. A sense of honesty swelled up in me and I half raised my hand. "I really related to the romantic guy at the end with the hat and sideburns and really white teeth. I just see writing as an art... and... it's like I'm not a painter or anything but I can create something by writing like he said about the sunset thing... and... yeah." The thought, long felt and embraced, attempted to poorly articulate itself for the first time.

"We'll come back to your comment in a minute," she said. I felt my soul’s clothing ripping from underneath my skin. Vulnerability and fear, honesty and exposition revealing itself. Emotions, giant, hiding behind my eyes and being pulled from their hiding place. It holds on by the fingertips as its arms are stretched and slowly slipping free into the naked open, like a child being pulled from a swingset.

I don't know why I was afraid. Why would I not want to finally expose the artistic nature I keep quiet and secret, more intimate than anything else about me? I trust these people as much or more than I have ever trusted anyone and I even define myself as an artist. Still, I recognized the new fear of complete and absolute exposure of my most private self and it held me painfully tight in a strong, balled-up fist.

When Sis. Morgan ended seminar, I sweat a breath of relief and composed myself. I do not remember when I shook like that, deep to my soul and farther than I thought possible. I do know, though, that an honest force pulled at that self to rip it into sight; it failed, but a time comes soon when I'll gather the courage to completely be free of the fear of violating expectation. 

I have been seen by no man.


It's not about me.

Sis. Morgan gave me some great things to think about in response to my last post.  Unfortunately, since I did not have internet access to read her timely words, Heavenly Father decided to teach me in his own way.  I got much more sick.  As in, Monday I ran out of a class and puked over the second story balcony railing.

I couldn't even teach my last class that day, but I went so they would know I cared.  Two of the students proceeded to take me to the campus clinic, translate for me, and then pay for my visit and medicine.  These are kids with almost no discretionary money, but they were thrilled to pay for me.

The love from these kids is very powerful, and Heavenly Father decided to remind me just how strong love is, and just how strong he is.  And how being in China is NOT about me.

This morning I was very sick (I've been sick for a week, but this morning was the worst I've been in several years).  I was supposed to teach 6 classes today, but I couldn't even stand up unless I was running doubled-over to the bathroom.  Luckily, I married a wonderful man, and he was able to give me a blessing.  In the blessing I was told that I would be healed.  Not that I would eventually recover, but that I would overcome the illness, and be healed like people in the scriptures.  I was told I would be blessed with power and strength to teach these students.  And I was told that these blessings would come according to my faith, the love of the students, and the power of the priesthood.

The love of the students.  That line was in the blessing more than once.  Elder Groberg spoke about love, and how powerful it is.  He spoke of feeling the tangible force of love from his sweetheart thousands of miles away, and he said, "Never underestimate the power of true love, for it knows no barriers."  Here in China, I have learned a new lesson about the power of love.

I had to teach.  Heavenly Father said I could, and almost 400 students were expecting me.  I began to get ready.  I couldn't even stand up straight until it was time for me to walk out the door.  I opened the door and uncurled myself, and it was barely manageable.  I began to walk to class, shaking with every step.  I would have been sweating, but I didn't have enough moisture in my body to sweat.

With every step closer to the students, however, I gained a bit of strength.  When I reached the building, a student saw me, and her face lit up as she greeted me and told me I looked beautiful today.  I probably gave her a disbelieving look; after all, I was wearing dirty clothes (everthing I own is covered in chalk dust right now), no makeup, and my hair I had just pulled into a low ponytail to keep it out of my face when I was hanging over the toilet earlier.  But she thought I was beautiful, and she was glad to see me.  It gave me enough strength to get up the stairs.

In my first class the students were openly excited to see me, which made me a little more glad to be there (though I really just wanted to be curled in a ball in bed).  I sent the class monitor (one of the top students) with some money to go buy me some crackers, because I knew if I were going to make it through 6 classes I would need some sustenance.  

I made it through that class.  I explained to the students that I had been sick, and was very tired, and you could see in their eyes that they were rooting for me.  All day it was like that.  Every class was good for me today.  They paid attention, or at least sat quietly.  They participated.  They laughed at my jokes.  They looked concerned when I said I was only feeling "so-so."  They were grateful when I said I was glad to see them again.

This morning I was curled in a helpless ball.  There is no way I could have taught on my own.  But Heavenly Father is stronger than that, and between faith, love, and the power of the priesthood, I received a miracle.  I have seen miracles before, and I have a firm testimony of the priesthood, but never have I felt so strongly the effects of human love.  

I am grateful today for all who give love.

P.S. our blog should be cooleyandshannoncooley.blogspot.com; hopefully it will work.

16 hours on the bus

When the bus stops around 4 AM, I fish my glasses out of my purse and stumble into the bus station. I check my ticket – this is the longest layover. Almost three hours. No benches, just metal chairs. I sink down in one, put my head down, and sit back up after 30 seconds, too wide awake to fall back asleep now. A guy resembling Matthew Broderick on Ferris Buehler’s Day Off sleeps on the floor to my right, his head propped on a worn navy knapsack, while the girls next to him try to figure out who he reminds them of. A guy not much older than 17 slumps in a chair, talking about how much he’s missed his daughter in the ten months he’s been gone. A couple other guys kid him, calling him ‘Christmas tree,’ due to his faded green converse sneakers and red laces. Several guys, all wearing basketball shorts and t-shirts, complain about the cold. An old woman and a girl with a stud in her lip the size of a small marble sleep side by side. Another girl sits in the far corner, whispering into her cell phone. A big man with a goatee and tattoos quietly picks up a big box an older woman is struggling with and carries it for her. I read my scriptures, and the guy next to me asks if I am Mormon. I say yes. He looks at me sideways, and then away. “You don’t act like a Mormon.” I laugh and ask him why, but he just shakes his head. “She’s a Mormon,” he points to an older woman asleep behind me, “and she looks like one. But you don’t.” I still don’t know what he meant, since all I'd done was sleep and read.
A man in his late 20's pulls out a guitar and begins playing, asking if anyone in the room would sing. People smile, but no one responds. A few minutes later, an old man in the corner of the room begins singing “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” altering the melody and rhythm to fit the guitar. The man with the guitar laughs and keeps playing.

On the bus again, I notice that I have never once see any headphones. Everyone is quiet, though I occasionally hear the low murmur of voices. The sound of the bus is louder than anyone riding it. I watch the woman across the aisle. She’s been reading a mystery all morning, her hair pulled back into a tight bun with a lime green scrunchie. She’s wearing Bratz doll sneakers and black socks with cat faces on them. Every so often she pushes her glasses back up her nose, or sets her book down to gaze out the window. The man in front of me has pale hair and eyes, his flannel shirt a faded gray. He has no book, no headphones, nothing. He does not sleep. He sits and watches the trees through the window of the bus, and I wonder what he is thinking that he never once turns his head away from the window. And I feel guilty listening to my music, that I can’t seem to take the immobile silence of the bus as well as everyone around me.

I turn off my music and watch the trees bringing me closer to home. Home is filled with trees. Some keep to themselves, not touching even when close together. Others stand alone, but reach out as far as they can in the hope they’ll eventually touch something else. Some form walls, packed close together like a box of toy soldiers. Some tower over every other living thing, glorying in their height, while the trees around them sit, content to stay small. Some are at the gawky adolescent phase, past their first years, but still not having attained the grace of the sweeping older trees, with their thick branches and thicker trunks. Most have seen more than I ever will. I wonder if I were a tree, would I be domesticated, living docilely in the suburbs? Or would I be like the giant tree planted by itself on the side of the freeway, surrounded by dry grass and stretching fiercely in every direction?

A petite German woman named Herta gives me two mini cartons of apple juice, and tells me about how she left Germany in 1952, her still thick accent sometimes hard to understand. She smiles when I manage to pronounce her name correctly, and asks if I have any Austrian blood. I don’t. She smiles again and talks quietly about different forms of yoga, and the power of positive energy and thought. She says there is power in words, and if we think negative thoughts, they’re more likely to happen - “We can never have a single negative thought, without it hurting us.” She gives me a card with a quote on it, part of which reads “I am the Light of God, shining every hour.”

I sip my apple juice and contemplate trees and words and people.

When I reached Yakima, I was almost sorry to leave the bus.

I already miss all of you. But it’s nice to have my own bed again.

Speaking of which, Sis. Morgan, go to bed.


Hazel Lynn Howard

I stole this directly from their blog because I'm sure they're pretty busy at this point:
Well everyone, little Hazel Lynn Howard has arrived! She made her entrance at 3:18am on Saturday, September 13 (her due date, too, of all days!). She's 8 lbs 3 oz, 19 and 1/2 inches long, and she looks Chinese. Okay she doesn't look quite as Chinese as she did when she was first delivered, but you'll see what we mean when you see the pictures.
Mom did just fine during delivery. She ended up going natural because she was 8cm dilated already when they got to the hospital, so she figured if she had made it to an 8 without much pain she could make it through the rest without an epidural. Lance did a great job coaching her through, and she was very proud of him for not passing out during delivery and actually cutting the cord as well. =D

See the link to the side for more pictures. Leanna was in awe of her mother who had delivered naturally (not by choice; she was in a Navel hospital, who didn't give pain medications for deliveries). Then, Leanna gave birth naturally to a pretty big babe. What an experience. CONGRATULATIONS LEANNA AND LANCE! All these babies. What miracles.

Hazel Lynn is Here!

Well, you guys can stop wondering now--Hazel has finally arrived! Go to lanceandleanna.blogspot.com for more details and pictures. =D



A Cry For Help

All you Writing Center teachers (those who want to be or not), I am in desperate need of help!

I'm not a teacher. I love teaching, but it's not something I've been trained for. Now I'm in the middle of a foreign country, teaching app. 1300 students (yes, that's one thousand three hundred - 60-70 per class, remember?), and I have no idea what to teach them. Here's a basic breakdown for the level of my classes:

10-15 students will understand me.
20-30 can scrape by thanks to certain phrases and my very exaggerated hand motions and facial expressions.
The rest have somehow managed to come through 4 years of English classes, including one year of Oral English, and can't say or understand more than "Hello." They can read English if I make them, but actually trying to get them to speak is laughable.

Now, how do you tailor a lesson to suit 4th graders, kindergarteners, and preschoolers, but make that lesson work for teenagers? And keep in mind that there are 60-70 of them, so group activities are really interesting...

I'm lost. This last week I taught money and shopping, and a little about culture differences for American restaurants. It went pretty well in most classes, but now I have another week staring me in the face, and no ideas.

Please, please, someone help me out! If you have random topic ideas, it would at least be something to work with!

(In case you couldn't tell, I'm a little overwhelmed this week. It doesn't help that I've been sick for the last 4 days; can I just tell you how hard it is to make yourself stand in front of 70 Chinese teenagers when you're sick?)



I saw Jami in the DC temple on Saturday. It was completely random and unexpected. But so beautiful. We didn't have much time to talk. But when we saw each other it was like it would be in the celestial kingdom when we all see each other again. We both started to cry with happiness. To see a face that I trust and just feel like someone knows me--and understands me. I am so grateful. For the writing center, for my friends, and for a Heavenly Father who made that happen. I know that sounds cliche, but I have no other words. Sometimes a person really is just grateful. I needed to see someone who understood me--who knew what was going on with me and wasn't repulsed by it. I needed to feel that, for just a second. I think that that is exactly what heaven will be like. All of us laughing and laughing because there is just no other way to express the happiness of us being together again. Thanks Jami.

State Fair 2008--Matt rides mechanical bull


I walk down the street. A simple, everyday occurrence, right? But no, not when you are a celebrity.

You see, when I walk down the street, people stop and stare. They whip out their camera phones and take pictures. Everyone wants to say hello. They tell me I am beautiful, and that my skin is so white, and my smile so pretty. Teenage boys blush and lose their breath or miss their step if I smile at them.

I paid $675 for instant stardom.

I am in China.

Why haven't more people caught on to this? It costs less than living in Rexburg for a semester. Food is dirt cheap (dinner for my husband and I at a restaurant comes out to about $1.50 in American money; in the touristy areas we might pay $2 each), and is included in the program fee. Staying in a hotel in a touristy area costs about $25/night.

It does have its downsides. Our running water just came back on after being MIA for three days. You can't drink any water without boiling it first. The food is good, but in our area so spicy we often can't eat it. And sure, it gets tiring saying hello every 2-5 seconds, but hey, you give up a few things in exchange for fame, right?

Honestly, I love it here. I'm teaching 15-17 year olds, and they are SO excited to have me here. None of them have ever seen an American in person. They want to learn English, and are thrilled with everything I say. Some students are better than others of course, but even the rowdy ones are thrilled to have me here. I teach 24 classes a week, with around 60 students per class. A bit overwhelming, but I'm getting better at it.

It's fun being able to understand a bit of Chinese. For example, I know when the boys are talking about me under their breath. Having a bunch of 15-17 yr old guys going gaga over me is funny, but my fanboys are nothing compared to my poor husband. He’s teaching the 14-15 yr olds, and the girls are absolutely CRAZY about him. They mob him in packs to get his autograph. They tell their other teachers how handsome he is (the teachers think it's funny, so they tell us). They come up and tell ME how handsome he is (like I need them to tell me…).

Basically what it comes down to is this: China loves us, and we love China. More of our adventures will be chronicled at our new blog, cooleyandshannoncooley.blogspot.com. I love and miss you all, but hey, the world is waiting, and I only paid for a small amount of time on the internet...

Oh Idaho...

Idaho has changed me.

It's been five years since I was dumped in this town, a lonely, angry, and depressed freshman, bitter that I was in a small town in the middle of nowhere America. I remember looking at the giant billboard that used to sit outside of Rexburg that said, "Rexburg--America's heartland" or America's family community. Something like that. America's heartland? This empty nothing is the heart of America? Give me back my Canada. Give me my home and native land. Anything but this. But I wanted out of Canada, and this was what I got.

Back then I hated Idaho. I hated the tumbleweed that rolled down the street to show that I was alone in a desolate country (funny enough, I haven't seen any tumbleweed roll down any Rexburg streets since then...God's humor...). I hated how there were no malls in Rexburg. I hated how foreign the campus was. How there were no other Asians, and that the only reason the Japanese kid and I waved at each other was because we were both Asian. I hated the way the doors in the McKay library opened the wrong way, and the taps in the washrooms there didn't turn the way they were labeled. I hated how no one understood what I meant by washroom, and how I had to start speaking "American". I hated how I started saying "yup" and "uh huh" instead of "you're welcome". I hated ward activities. I hated how girls would be shocked that I was still 17 and then not take me seriously because of my age and because I wasn't an RM. I hated how everyone would pester me about going on a mission. I hated it all. I tried to find beauty here but was so caught up in my own misery that I couldn't see any of it.

The years have passed, and I'm something a little different. I won't deny that the darker side of me is still there, perhaps biding its time for a return. I see its head everytime I rant and criticize but something is different about how I feel about Idaho.

In late May of this year I had the option of going home for the seven week break, but I went against everything and decided to stay in Idaho, in Rexburg. At first it was the five of us in our new apartment--Dan, Eric, Nathan, Chandler and I-- and then Chan left, followed by Nathan for a while, then Eric. By the time it was just Dan and I sitting around the TV watching Michael Phelps win gold after gold, I had gotten used to the quiet of the town, the emptiness of campus that was strangely satisfying. I didn't want to admit it, but I liked the slowness of my life.

Then the unthinkable happened. I returned to "civilization", going to LA to enjoy the sun baked beaches and to look for America or myself in America through my wandering. But while I was there, I found myself missing Rexburg, missing Idaho and the nothing, the stillness of it. Why I don't know.

When I got off the bus in Rexburg, the air was familiar, comforting in a strange way. My home away from home--wherever home is now. Now the town fills up with college students continuing where they left off, or to start brand new from High School. I look at the freshman and think back to myself, scared and angry those years ago. Now I'm older, half adopted by the Rexburg I hated. I look at the returning students with a hint of disdain, irritated by their moving in, irritated that their movement ushers in the semester will begin again and that satisfying emptiness of the town will be disturbed. I almost want to shout at them, "GO AWAY! THIS IS MY TOWN! GET OUT OF HERE!" as though they would hear, as though they would realise that they were ruining Rexburg for me.

Oh Idaho. What have you done to me?

I finally finished my Blood Essay. It still needs some work, but tell me what you think.

I cover my eyes with my right arm as I lie in bed and hope God hears me. I want Him to hear me. I feel like Naaman expecting a great manifestation from an angel saying, “Eric, God is real. He does love you, and wants you to be whole.” I know the things I should do in order to gain my faith, but I can’t. I would have to expose myself again and hear the answers I already know. I wish I really was like Naaman and had the courage to ask for help, but I can’t because I won’t.

* * *

I sat in another Fast and Testimony meeting on Sunday. My neck was bobbing back and forth as I listened to a blonde girl testify of her life changing experience because of a boiler that caught on fire. When she finished, there was a pause, I thought of this essay that I had worked on for weeks. I got up and walked to the front of the west ballroom and gripped the sides of the podium.

After explaining the concept of the Writing Center “Blood Essay,” I told the entire congregation about my “missing faith.” I related to them my redefined concept of faith.

“Faith is a hope. I do not know if it is real, but I hope that it is. I hope God hears me. I hope Jesus is the Christ. And I hope Joseph Smith saw them.”

The next day was our closing ward social. I was the activities coordinator, so I was required to be there early. The tables and chairs were set and the food ready to go. I arranged for the bishop to bring a whole roasted pig as the main course. I stood in the back admiring the reactions of the people who took picture after picture of the roasted pig with their cell phones. Suddenly, I felt an arm resting around my shoulder. I looked to my left and saw Bishop Scott smiling at their reactions too.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I think it is going to be a great party,” I responded.

He looked at me in the eyes and said, “I meant with what you said in your testimony yesterday.”

“Oh that. Well it is something I have struggled with for the past year.”

He began relating to me a life story and talked about Moroni’s definition of faith found in the Book of Mormon. I don’t remember exactly what he said; I just smiled and thanked him for bringing the pig.


Seriously, check this out

I laughed so hard. And then cried because it's me & my friends. Blah!


Addition: Can you say Satire? It's a spoof Mormon Mommy blog.


Embracing myself

Doesn't isn't a word on the spell check in the post section. Neither is isn't. I guess they don't like contractions. Wait, the spell checker likes don't. Can't, isn't, doesn't, shouldn't, couldn't, wow. It only likes can't and couldn't. But wait, the red lines just went away. It must like all of them now. Strange.

Yes, I am writing around the subject.

Sis. Morgan asked me what caused my nervous breakdown, how it ended, and more importantly what it was like in the middle.
That's a great set up for the thesis statement of the following blood essay.

Thesis: My nervous break down was caused by my first day teaching kindergarten, it ended at the doctor's office, and there was a lot of vomiting, dry heaving, and hyperventilating in the middle.
The sad part: I'm not joking.

I get a job as a kindergarten teacher. I never wanted to be an elementary school teacher in the first place (see previous posts) but I never in a thousand years thought I would ever even consider kindergarten. I thought if I had to do it, 6th grade would be where I would end up. Can we get more opposite.
I work constantly for the 2 weeks before school starts getting my classroom set up. Long hours. Long hours listening to Gordon Lightfoot on my laptop singing about the Canadian Railroad. Gordon even inspires the theme for my very cool classroom: Railroads. I have trains everywhere. Train cut outs, train posters, my posted rules are the "Railroad Rules." I'm known as the Conductor. I even found a little train whistle to blow to get every one's attention. I laminate, I cut, I color, I paste. All the while Gordon's singing, "There was a time in this old land when the railroad did not run."

The first day of school: Nervous breakdown begins. I don't know what to expect from kindergartners. They come in nervous; they don't realize that I am more nervous. The girls are dressed in dresses and the boys in little khaki pants. One little girl is in a navy blue sailor suit with bright red Wizard of Oz shoes. I move and talk as if I'm dreaming. I play them a song on my guitar that I wrote myself about how "School is great, we're all ready to celebrate!" They stare at me, with what I perceive as boredom, but what was probably nervousness. I start talking about classroom procedures, but I'm too nervous to be happy, to be fun, to show kindness. I am not like my father... and yet. I'm gasping for air, but 20 other little entities are taking it from me.

Three hours later: Crying at my desk for the entire school to see. None of them are surprised.

That night: I cry. All night long. I feel as if I will throw up. I find myself running to the bathroom, but there's nothing to come up. But I go through the motions anyway. Maybe some of these feelings. These horrible, wretched, no-business-crowding-around-my-heart feelings will come out instead and dispel into the toilet. But they don't. The next day begins to loom. I panic. I can't go back. I can't. I physically can't. I cannot go back. It spins around mixed with the pathetic song that I composed myself, "School is cool, school is great." I am not like my father... and yet. I can't breathe. David is telling me to take deep breaths. That I'm hyperventilating. That I have to stop or I will hurt myself. Deep breaths.

I don't sleep.

The next morning: More throwing up. Trembling in the kitchen in my blue bathrobe. I can't move. David takes me to the couch. I tell him to go to school. He's already late. He has a test that week. I hear dialing on the phone and talking. I finally doze off.

45 minutes later: David wakes me up. He says that we are going to the doctor. I don't even care. We drive and I begin to feel sick again. I tell him to pull over. He says there's nothing to throw up so it doesn't matter.
We wait in the office. I recall all of the horrible doctors I've had in this place. The insensitive, know-it-all, I'm-too-busy-to-actually-care-about-you-or-your-problems doctors in this place. I shudder to appear before them in this state. I don't have another option. 20 five year olds are waiting in less that 2 hours.

A medical assistant checks my weight. For once, I don't even look at the scale. For once, I don't even care. He takes me into the room and we wait.

The part where it gets better: The doctor comes in. He has blond hair and glasses. He looks like someone I know, or he reminds me of someone. Somehow that makes me trust him. He sits diagonal from me. Not across, but diagonal. For some reason, that makes me feel better too. He asks me how I am feeling. He asks me about my first day of school. As I talk, I begin to cry. He puts down his clipboard and pen and looks at me. He looks like he actually cares what I am saying. He looks sad when I tell him about how I am feeling. All I can think about is, "I hope that he doesn't have any children who are about to go to kindergarten, or else he'll never want to send them to me." But let's be honest; I wouldn't want to send my children to me right now.
The doctor asks me more questions. He explains what he thinks should happen. I find myself agreeing. Agreeing to something I thought I never would. Agreeing to something I fought against for years. Agreeing that there really is a problem.
I walk out of the office expecting to feel defeated, horrified, and humiliated. I am not like my father...and yet.

There are parts of me that are. And I found myself finally embracing them.

Conclusion: I've always been terrified of myself. I denied that there was anything wrong--or even remotely resembling. When I realized that that was not the case, I fought. And I fought hard.
I fought against myself; I raged against myself. But really it was like driving my fists against brick--eventually only my skin cracked.

I realize now that there is a problem, but to realize for the first time that there is a problem was beautiful. To realize that it is a problem, but that I don't have to burn it out of myself like a wart or cut it out like cancer. It will be fixed, yes, but only if I take care of it. Not declare war on it.

And now I am trying to heal the cracked skin and hope that it doesn't scar. Because scarring, I think, is worse than the wound.

(Yes, the conclusion needs work)


To get our minds off spiders--Antibiotics Anyone?

Just for the heck of it, play this song "Thank You" as you read the lyrics.(Beau (son) and I saw her do this in concert. I know she's brash, harsh, arrogant, and angry, but I LIKE her honesty. She was worried that the charity money she sent to India wasn't getting there, so she flew over to check. Wrote this song when she got back. Try it--but it's not the same unless you HEAR the music.)
How about getting off of these antibiotics
How about stopping eating when I'm filled up
How about them transparent dangling carrots
How about that ever elusive kudo

Thank you India/ Thank you terror/Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty/Thank you consequence
Thank you, thank you, silence
How about me not blaming you for everything
How about me enjoying the moment for once
How about how good it feels to finally forgive you
How about grieving it all one at a time
Thank you India/Thank you terror/Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty/Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence
The moment I let go of it was
The moment I got more than I could handle
The moment I jumped off of it was
The moment I touched down
How about no longer being masochistic
How about remembering your divinity
How about unabashedly bawling your eyes out