Prayer and Meditation

Growing up Mormon in a small Midwestern town wasn't easy. One of my sister's friends--let's just call her Angie--once started a rumor about our family after spending the night at our house. No, it wasn't that my dad had horns but I had heard that one before too. The rumor was that she saw my dad standing on his head, meditating, when she went to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.

First off, my dad couldn't stay awake past the ten o'clock news, so the likelihood of that is not great. Secondly, although my sisters and I were quite acrobatic, my dad wasn't and I never so much as saw him do a cartwheel, much less stand on his head for any period of time.

Turns out, another friend of my sister's dad was taking the mormon missionary discussions. I don't know what she heard, but it must have been something about praying and then "listening" to God for an answer. Or maybe they even mentioned the word "meditation." Not sure, but I do know that several weeks later, this friends' dad killed himself. I don't know if learning about God was a last-attempt before the alternative. But I know his death must have crushed my sister's friend's world.

Nonetheless, the rumor was still flying around the small town of Columbia Illinois much to our dismay. Because in small towns, no bit of gossip is brushed under the rug. Everyone knows everything, even when it's not true.

I'm reading a book, "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert where the author went to India to stay in an Ashram with her spiritual guru to learn how to really meditate. It all seemed so weird to me. I mean, really, a room full of people closing their eyes, chanting, focusing on . . . none other than listening to God. After all, as she put it, praying is talking to God and meditating is listening to God. Of course, it all makes sense. To have a conversation with God, to really know God, you couldn't just have a one-way conversation, could you?

I realized though that I haven't listened to God in a long time. Since before the accident when Miranda died. I've been feeling like I could practically pat myself on the back for still going to church every Sunday, still praying, not hating God like I was tempted to feel. But I have been selfish, as grief usually is. And I haven't been listening to God.

So last night, I decided to close my eyes, sit very still, and say the words. Ham-sa. Yes, I felt like I was being weird. And almost felt like surely Susannah's friend Angie was looking in through the window, ready to spread the news that I was meditating.

The world has come a long way since the 20 years ago when this rumor started. Meditating is more accepted (maybe as its sister yoga came into the limelight and became not only accepted but the thing to do).

But as I told Eric last night in bed that I've decided to start meditating and started reciting the little chant, ham-sa, ham-sa, in bed, he said, "Just remember, Jeana, your meditation can very easily be my irritation. Please go into the other room if you insist on meditating."

So, I'm going to try harder. I'm going to start listening. After all, what is the point of asking questions to God if you're not sticking around to listen for the answer?

Sports

Picture this: There's a six-year-old girl sitting forlornly on the bench with her softball cap hiding her eyes. She doesn't care that the rest of her softball team is playing on the field and she's not. When she finally does get out to right field and a pop-fly is coming her way, she holds her handed-down-at-least-twice glove in the air, closes her eyes, and hopes that it will magically fall into her glove. When it doesn't, she hears where the ball plopped onto the grass several feet over and scrambles for the ball, throws it to the second-baseman just after the hitter rounded toward third base. Yes, this person was me as a little girl.

I don't know why my parents put me in softball every year, but they did and I dutifully went to practice and games each week and never got much better. I woke up thinking about my childhood sports experiences this morning, after Bianca's soccer game last night.

Our team this fall is actually good. We are on a roll and are actually winning. Not only winning, we're creaming the other teams. It's great. It's fun to cheer for the "White Tigers." Eric's helping our friend Paul with the coaching and he loves it. But I can't help but wonder why I'm so bothered by soccer this time.

I think I have it figured out, but am ashamed that these are my feelings. Bianca's just not very good at soccer. In the spring, I thought she was good because she was one of the best players on the team. (Now, I wish I didn't have to mention here that her team didn't win one game, but Bianca scored goals and had her foot on the ball many times throughout her games.) Now we're on a good team, and Bianca is just another kid kicking at the ball in a flock of children and never breaks away with the ball.

Is it against the universal purpose of sports to say that I wish Bianca were on a bad team so that she could stand out instead of on a good team where she doesn't?

I'm already starting to think: Okay, we tried gymnastics--not her sport; we tried soccer--not her sport. Am I going to keep going down the list until I find something she's good at? Or is the point not to necessarily be good at the sport, but just play it because you like doing it?

I don't know. But when I think back on my soft ball days, I don't remember liking it. In fact, I don't remember liking sports until I found something I was good at. I found gymnastics on my own and I'll admit that I was good at it. I was even fairly decent at track (I wasn't a stand-out on the team, but I managed to like it). But throw a ball into any sport, and I sucked and didn't like it.

Is it normal to only like things we're good at? Is it normal for me, as the mother, to only like my daughter to be in sports that she's good at?

I feel sick to my stomach

I finally did it. I actually submitted my short story, and I have the worst feeling in my stomach.

I had to do it eventually. After all, from what I've heard, you have to receive enough rejection letters to wallpaper a room in your house before you actually get published. At least I know that. At least I'm prepared, right?

I mean, I'm not actually expecting them to say yes. I feel like such a beginner.

It's funny though. How writers deconstruct their rejections too. Yes, I wouldn't have believed it either, but someone from my writing group said she found a web site where the writers actually categorize their rejection letters into "personal," "form letter," "form letter that sounds really personal," and so on.

But I'm just submitting it one place--it's actually a contest. I won't know for several months. And no, it's not the $15 submission fee that is making me sick. I've already accepted that I'm losing $15.

I was told once you're supposed to start at the top--meaning, The New Yorker? Yeah right. I was so nervous just pressing "enter" onto my keyboard to get the The New Yorker's web site that I simply fled the web site, my heart beating so loudly it almost woke Portia up in her room. Maybe that's why I'll have enough to wallpaper a room, though--from starting close to the top. Because I'm definitely not getting into The New Yorker.

Let's face it, I'm not tough enough for all this stuff. I don't market myself well. I just like to sit in a room all alone and feel completely okay because I am alone. No one is reading what I'm writing. That's the only reason I have enough courage to even write.

Agh, how did I get into this?

Maybe I'll just be that person who puts a completed manuscript into a cedar chest and waits until I die, then my daughters can find it, submit it, and I'll be famous, once I'm safely four feet underground. Okay, so I'm not honestly thinking I'll be famous. I just would like one person to feel better off for having read my thoughts. That's it. Maybe there's something to say for humility, I guess that's one thing I do have.

I'm off to shop online. Maybe that will settle me down. Well, maybe not, the "rope dress" from Gymboree that I've been waiting to buy for Bianca until it went on sale is gone.

Just spending the morning torturing my dog

It's almost Halloween again, so it's time to start thinking about what we're going to be. I don't know why I love Halloween so much, but I do and I love coming up with cute, original ideas for Bianca. This year, we decided on a theme based on a cute kids book called "Skippyjon Jones." He's a siamese cat who thinks he's a chihuahua.

Well, it just so happens that our dog is a chihuahua, so of course, he'll be El Skippito the great sword fighter (a.k.a. Skippyjon Jones). Bianca will be Mother Junebug Jones and Portia (Bianca decided) will be Jilly Boo Jones--both Siamese cats. I don't know what I'm going to do about Siamese cat costumes. I just spent the morning scouring the Internet and nada. But maybe I can play around with a black-cat costume and make it look Siamese, I don't know.

Well, anyway, we were able to produce a make-shift Skippyjon Jones costume. It's almost like he knew we were measuring him up as I crafted the mask out of felt. He got nervous and started spending a lot of time underneath the kitchen table, then when we lunged toward him he tried to do everything he could to get away from us. But alas, it was two against one and we finally surrounded him and put his costume on. What do you think, does the costume work? (By the way, if you haven't read this book to your kids yet, you really need to.)

House Hunters

So I'm an HGTV junkie. I used to watch House Hunters all the time. Bianca and I would run around the house singing the little doorbell-ring song that they have at the beginning of the show. But that's the most I've ever known about buying a house. Eric and I never had to do that when we built our house. We walked into a model home, signed some papers, picked out some tile and paint colors, and voila! our house was ready to move in.

But I like to watch for houses that go up for sale. I'm not really interested in moving, it's just interesting to see what's going on around us. That is, until last week, when I had an afternoon with a realtor. So, we weren't looking for houses for us to move into; we're looking into buying a rental property. We thought maybe around the U or the Y. The U seems a little more expensive, so we found a couple at the Y. After all, my children very possibly could go there, along with all their cousins.

So, we found our house. It's a triplex and the rent pays for the mortgage, and seems to be "the one." So, we put on offer on it Wednesday, along with someone else. I got off the phone with Eric and I felt suddenly like there were cameras on me, and the way I spoke seemed so distant and cliche, just like the people on House Hunters. "I hope we get it, Eric." It was a little surreal.

Well, the seller came back and said whoever can put in the best offer by Friday at six wins. I've already accepted that we're not going to get it. It's okay. I haven't attached myself to it (not the way you actually move into the house in your head when it would be where you live; however, I have imagined myself going around to pick up the rent).

Who knows what will happen?

Well, I guess I will tonight a little after six.

I love my job

Yeah, okay, so it's hardly a job. I maybe put 4-5 hours into a month, but that's part of the reason why I love it so much. I get to do everything I need to with my girls--stay home with Portia, pick Bianca up from school; I can leave the state for six weeks; not think about it for weeks if I can't; and there it is, waiting for me when I get back.

I get to do tons of stuff I wouldn't normally do. For example, I dragged my entire family to the West Jordan Days a couple weekends ago. There was free stuff all over, so many activities for kids to do, and I wouldn't have been there in a million years if it weren't for my "having" to be there.

Last night, I had to go to the W. Jordan police department where they were training a new police dog. As I was getting ready to leave--quotes safely in my notebook and pictures stashed away in my camera--one of the police officers asked me if I wanted to put on the "bite suit" and let the dog attack me. Of course not, but then I thought, why not? Hopefully, and I do mean hopefully, I'll never have another chance to be attacked by a police dog. So I did it. I put on the 50-pound outfit and whinced in fear as the dog came barking and barreling at me, knocking me off my feet twice. (see picture below)

Another reason I love it: my editor Mark actually tells us what a great job we do. Although I am getting paid, just to get compliments on my writing is worth more to me than the money. After having some of the worst bosses in the country--no wait, the world--I can definitely appreciate being appreciated.

I found out last week that the Deseret Morning News got rid of their zones, eliminating their section which is equivalent to the Close-up section for the Tribune. It was rumored the Tribune was doing the same. Fortunately, it didn't but they reorganized the zones to make five, instead of eight. I nearly lost my job and as I was reading the email from the editor, I realized that I cared about my job a lot more than I let myself believe. I love putting the words of my articles together, talking to people about different subjects, and especially seeing my name in print. I don't mind the paychecks either.

At the end of the traumatizing email explaining close-up's destiny, Mark acknowledged each one of us. Mark said to the entire group that I was (and I quote here) "a fine writer." Embarassingly, I kept returning to the email that night, reading it over and over. I never look at my paychecks that much.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm grateful for my job.