Practicing to Have a Truly Thankful Heart

Once a year we are extremely thankful.

Once a year we sit around the dining room table and remark on all that we have been given and all that surrounds us. But...there are 364 more days of the year. One day of humility and warm hearts and pie can't hold enough hours in it to begin to pay gratitude to all that we have been given.

In the 1600s Pilgrims left England to find their "New World' where they would find the ideals of freedom and liberty. 102 passengers traveled for two months when finally... "Land!"

After arriving, these people suffered many perils. Half of them died of starvation and illness. But, they carried on with faith and planted seeds with only the prayer that in giving all that they had and humbling themselves they would flourish. Crops grew, and the first iconic feast was given. However, this feast wasn't driven by gluttony or commercialism and I highly doubt they ate until they felt sick. They didn't feast "even though" they lost many members of their clan. The feast was offered to give thanks for two simple things: sustenance and survival.

2013. Here we are, fellow Americans, living in the New World where we have gadgets and gizmos that would pretty much blow the pilgrim's minds. It's hard to remember how astounding these things would be in the 1600s when we've already got our eye on that new Ipad Air that we don't have (Poor us!). So we will eat our bountiful feast quickly so we can fight to the death at Wal-Mart for it. Our day of thanks has even been cut short to a mere "few hours" of Thanks, "thanks" -yes-that-was-a-pun- to Hot Black Friday Deals that actually start on Thankful Thursday.

Our nation is struggling with national debt, but again, that is just another monetary objective thing to worry about. What worries me most is the struggle we are having to find those morals upon which our country was grounded. Thanks to our Founding Father's belief in a "New World" we learned that only by unmaterialistic values of hard work, self-government, courage and unrelenting faith can we find it in our hearts to be truly "Thankful".

We may shout our thanksgiving proclamations around the dining room table, or as our Facebook statuses the month of November, but I want to learn to always be truly grateful. All year round. We have the world. We have freedom and opportunities and the power to choose. While our perfect "New World" America is far from what it was when our Pilgrims first dreamed it, or even what it was a few years ago, without our thankful hearts we will never be truly satisfied in what we have been blessed with and what we still have.

Our generation is known as "The Generation of Entitlement". Awesome. I'd much rather be a Baby Boomer. Baby Boomers learned hard work and value from parents who grew up in the Great Depression, the ultimate trial. Our Generation (Generation Y) grew up with impractical expectations. We think we are more deserving, more special...all that and a bag of chips. We're not. We are not Americans who grew up with much adversity, therefore we know no triumph. The grass is greener on the other side, we don't appreciate the flowers because there aren't any weeds and all that jazz. My generation thinks that by being born, we were given a right of passage to own the greatest cars, buy first homes the size of our Parent's long awaited dream homes, and suffer the greatest injustice when we don't get the latest Apple product on the first day it comes out because, you know, it's our right.

Well guess what. I'm going to stop being comfortable being the typical entitled Generation Y member. I'm going to try to live with the Pilgrim's values, the Baby Boomer's positive attitudes, and a Generation-um-Zero Christ-like heart.

I'd like to sit down to dinner across from the Wampanoag Indians back in the day. They wouldn't eat in a rush. Their dinner would be plain, but plentiful. They would laugh and share stories and I wouldn't even glance at my phone or rush to a sale because, well, they didn't have them back then. But also because how could I tell them of all the things incredible things I have been blessed with at my young age and not even simply sit for an hour of harvest feasting to thank the Lord.

I imagine us going around the table and each of us sharing something we are thankful for; them in their bonnets and me in my skinny jeans. Maybe through watching their simple, humble thanks I'd learn to make mine likewise. After all, this is the feast that would set off thousands of years of thankful traditions, I better do it right.

I would tell my dinner friends about my '96 Toyota Corolla. I wouldn't even tell them of the rust spots all along the hood or the squeal it sometimes makes, because only my generous would be proud to be thankful DESPITE of these things. That's not being thankful. I would explain to these sea travelers how quickly my car gets me to work, to visit family, and to many great adventures all with the turn of a key and the push of a pedal. I wouldn't glory in being thankful even though I don't have the latest most beautiful model. I would tell them I own one of this inventions for myself, not because everyone NEEDS or SHOULD have a car. I own one because I am BLESSED and I am thankful.

As we all celebrate Thanksgiving, not the commercial holiday with the parades and the sales, and the hurry-hurry, and the 5 cheese bacon pecan macaroni, but the       Act       of        Being      Thankful, I hope we can reflect the attitudes and simplicity of the first Thanksgiving dinner. As we take time this holiday to look at all of the things we have been bestowed, not because we deserve them, but because we are truly blessed, I hope we can practice to have a true and innate thankfulness for each and every thing we have and continue to receive. I know I am going to try a lot harder. I'd like to fit in at the first Thanksgiving dinner, not be embarrassed.

Maybe today, this ONE day a year, we were extremely thankful...

but 365 days a year we are extremely blessed.

I am a Candle

Life sometimes is tiring.

My words are a jumble in my head. My joints ache and I'm so tired that breathing is somewhat of an expended effort. Days like this, I wonder if what I do matters. I wonder if it is worth it to push myself so far and thin that I lose the steady being inside that keeps me grounded and whole.

You could say I'm feeling a little burned out. But writing is peace. I sometimes forget that it's my sanity. With every thought, every list, every bit of choreography claiming it's space in my head there leaves no room for moments of revelation, enlightenment, or moments of self discovery. The more that time is robbed without these cushioning effects, the bleaker it becomes. And soon, we begin to experience life as nothing but a trudgerey. I don't mean to trudge, but isn't that what living is sometimes all about? Still experiencing life even when you are simply plowing through?

Just as a candle burns, so am I. I start with a wick and a strike of a match. It could be a spark of innovation and creativity that ignites my flame. It could be a yearning and desperation so powerful it forces me into moving. Or it could be just a simple act of duty; I light the wick because I know I should.

However your flame begins, it ends the same. A white candle, tall and proud and sturdy will inevitably begin to soften and relent. When it can't bear to hold the weight any longer, the wax rolls off its shoulders and down to the bottom of the jar. It sinks and caves little by little. As it burns, the very candle itself--this solid inanimate object--begins to disappear. It loses with nothing more than a wisp of carbon and perhaps a puff of artificial vanilla. It burns and glows until it is nothing more than a nub and there is nothing left for it to give. There is no more energy left to expend. A candle can only hope it did what it should in its melt; provide light, scent, and maybe a spectacle of soft lit beauty. Only until is cools, rights itself, and maybe is clipped of the blackened wick, is it ready to again glow brightly and cast its dancing shadows on the wall. It will burn again, because it is a candle. I am a candle. And I know I was meant to burn.

Grande Reverence

"Reverence"
Webster Definition: honor or respect felt or shown; a state of being revered
Ballet Definition: A bow or courtesy. The last exercise of a ballet class in which the ballet dancers pay respect to and acknowledge the teacher and pianist. Reverence usually includes bows, curtsies, and ports de bras, and is a way of celebrating ballet's traditions of elegance and respect.

Bone grinding on bone. The doctor said it was the worst hip he has seen in his twenty years of doing hips. He said it was Superior ++. I know these words were meant to berate her hip, but in many ways they described my mother. Superior ++.

She was scared, yes. But do you know what my mom, affectionately know as Miss Taunia, said wistfully like a child right before she went into surgery? "Maybe I will be able to do a Grande Jete again!". And asleep she went, with visions of Sugarplums dancing in her head.

How many years has she been dragging that bad leg behind her? I don't know. But it was long enough to train herself to walk in a lopsided fashion, a new way of walking to try and avoid the pinch and stab that took her breath away with every step. This was not the gait of a ballerina. And if anyone is a true ballerina, it is Miss Taunia.

An impeccably performed single Plie can bring her to tears. She no longer moves with grace exactly, but it emanates from her still, finding a way to seep into her words, her softness, her kindness. She points her toes when she watches TV. You can take my mom out of ballet, but you can't take the ballet out of my mom. It's her essence.

I wanted to love ballet so much. I wanted to love it because my mom loved it, and I loved her. As a child, I struggled. I was not born with natural ability, but with knobby knees and pointy elbows that did not seem to have the strength and curve to hold themselves the way my mother's did. But I was nurtured, I was taught. I was strengthened, I was primed. And then, I was a Ballerina. Thanks to Miss Taunia.

My mom looked so little in that hospital bed for a woman so mighty. The nurses and doctors said she handled the surgery better than they could have ever imagined. Strength. My mom would take a sip of water, flutter her eyelashes and dab at her mouth, still half asleep. Dignity. She would never fuss or push the button to call in the nurse because she wanted to be a star patient, and someone the staff loved to take care of. Grace. See? A true ballerina.

Time heals everything. Or so they say. I believe that when something is sacrificed, it's never given completely back in return. Instead it is shattered in fragments so generous and plenty, that when it is gathered and redeemed, the result is futile. The pieces never really come back together. They are misconstrued and lopsided, but they will have to do, for a sacrifice is a choice.

I watch Miss Taunia swing her leg out of bed and lean against her walker. I know we are both holding our breath. This is a big moment for my mom, one she has dreamed about for years but only recently had the means and the insurance to make it happen. She walked unsteady and unsure. I know in those few steps it is not what she had wished for. It's going to take time and practice to train a new ballerina.

Physical therapy, unbelievable pain, nausea, swelling, this is nothing compared to the years of teaching eight hours a day on a bone on bone grinding hip and a bad knee. From three year olds learning first position and not to pee their leotards, to trained dancers preparing to leave into the professional world, every day my mom works her magic. Her happiness and cheery attitude radiates and fills the hearts of students when they are feeling empty. Never does my mom complain. Never does she give less or hold back. So what is a little hip recovery to her? A small hill amongst mountains she's already overcome.

I feel hopeful knowing this. But in my heart I know something else. We were her sacrifice. I was her sacrifice. She has given her ballerina body to us, only keeping her soul. Generations and thousands of students have passed through her life, taking this and that, and moving on. Taking her joint lubrication, her good knees, her hips, her flexibility, her feet. Every hour she spent working her aching body, she lost something, letting us be the one to gain. Dance was her life, and she has given it freely to us so it could be ours. The only thing we can give back in return is to love it. To live it. To always have the strength, dignity, and grace of a ballerina. I can pirouette and grande jete like I've been taught, but I know that my time too will come when I have to sacrifice that. I have to wear my body down to be able to give of myself to my students and let them be the ones to live and be free. It's the debt I owe for the sacrifice my mother has given to me.

I know it will never be the body she had, but my mom is healing. And when she does, that just means that this makeshift body has more to give. And she will. I've learned that this is her calling in life, and her greatest joy. So I will let her give. I only hope that this new hip will bring her more happiness, more fragments to share, less pain, and more time seeing the fruits of her labor. I hope she gets to Grande Jete again and be free. She has earned it. Superior ++.



My favorite thing in the world is to see Miss Taunia step in front of the class and lead a Grande Reverence, a way to say goodbye and thank you. Her to us, and us to her. The movements are slow and simple, and don't require two good knees or a good hip. They are full of love and beauty, and respect for Ballet, things that can't be sacrificed, not even by my mom. Her arms flow like willows. She never looks at her self in the mirror, but at the top of her fingers, extending the beautiful line and lifted chest for as long as it will last, or until the Grande Reverence music has played the last note. These thirty seconds we get to see her dance are so sweet and beautiful like a poem, so I decided to close this blog post with a sonnet I wrote for my ballerina mother.

She gives her reverence dutifully, heart and body bowed.
It is to bend to fold, to surrender yourself to the art.
Walking stiffly and in pain she comes to do her part,
But when she moves transforms a swan, long necked and proud.
Every class is a test, a detergent of doubt, "Will she ever be dimmed?"
Yet every day she makes her way back to the floor to pay homage to her love.
When it's over she invariably glides, she moves, assisted by angels from above,
Like a ship plows through uneven waves and a lily survives the wind.
It is a feudal ceremony, she acknowledges herself the vassal of a lord;
Subordinate to the law of ballet, she is tested.
A ballerina, no glory, but a fighter whose title never rested,
Axed and hammered, bent and broken, but she will never fall to the sword.
Silence falls when this warrior dances.
A glint of applause, for a brief moment you see,
The world is her stage, the earth is her dance.
She will bow, but as she does her story enhances.
She is trapped but for a moment she is free,
This is her Grande Reverence, this is her chance.

Wishing you a speedy recovery mom. Love you forever!

Immensity

Sam and I pride ourselves in our spontaneity. Except for lately we haven't been very, you know, spontaneous. Sam put together this whole plan for a trip to LA just two days ago and pitched it to me like he was a salesman trying to sell his most overpriced car. Although, I didn't need much convincing. We drove through the night, stopping only to get gas and once for a rest. We stopped at a lone rest area in the middle of nowhere and turned off my poor overworked '96 Corolla. The hood was hot and smelled but we leaned against it to admire the twinkling stars in the darkness around us and the "galaxy dust" as I call it. After an hour and a half nap it was back on the road.

Lately, we have been obsessed with the T.V. series, The OC, watching it together on our lunch breaks and cramming in an episode or two late at night. For our "Orange County" vacay I was expecting green rolling hills, sparkling mansions, high end shopping, and a glittering blue ocean. Maybe even a nice breakfast at an adorable diner on the Pier consistent with the everyday picture painted by Ryan, Marissa, and Seth Cohan. L.A. was chilly and overcast when we pulled in. The ocean was no where in sight. There were pawn shops and .99 cent stores instead of posh boutiques. Sirens blazed passed us wailing and screeching and reminding us that, this, is really Los Angeles. Damp, smelly, and definitely not the pictures painted on a postcard.

We ate at a Jack-In-The-Box, pretty much the only restaurant with a sign in English. We had to speak to the cashier through a barred window and the bathrooms where we went to change and freshen up had to be opened by a security buzzer. As soon as we got our food my husband got a business call and had to leave me to go to the car to take it. I stared after him, mouth open, and watched him disappear out of sight. I don't know why I was being so skittish. I placed my elbow over my husband's backpack containing his MacBook and kept my eyes down. Now, as mentioned, I love the series Breaking Bad. So maybe I was living in this alternate universe for awhile, but a Jesse look a like in grey sweats brushed passed me with his hood up and his hand in his pocket. Gun? Knife? My back tensed as he walked by. It could just be coincidence, but then, there right in front of me was Tuco. Do rag, gold teeth and a permanent sneer. Every time the door opened I hoped it would be my husband. I didn't want to keep looking back towards the door so I watched people come in behind me from the reflection of the window and tried to busy myself with my hash browns and the book I pulled out of my purse.

Now as a young married couple trying to prove our spontaneity, we may not have been very thorough in our planning and hotel booking. We drove down the same part of Century Boulevard over and over as Siri announced that we had reached our destination. Maybe that's it? I point over to a building mere feet from the main road with a big hedge covering it and ivy crawling over the windows. We are not ostentatious or fancy in the least. I'm making it sound like I am a princess, but I am not. My theory has always been: Find the cheapest hotel or sleep in the car = have more money for adventures. But this place is a HOLE. We get our key from the front desk and turn past the leafy and rain watered small pool and start walking up the dilapidated stairs. My foot sinks as I hit the top one. I warn Sam about it. Sinking stairs, just like in Harry Potter! I joke, trying to make the best of our trip. We open the door to our room and a warm moist smell washed over us. It smells like R. Kelly's sheets, if you know what I mean. There are cords dangling from the ceiling, matted blue/purple carpet, flies circling all above us, and the bed covers are damp. We can't help but laugh. I tell my husband not to worry, I've had worse. He calls me a liar. I am.

Sam only has a few minutes to change into his suit before we have to drive to his business convention. I gingerly sit on the orange floral bed cover and study the tropical sunset painting above our bed and compare it to the green farm picture to my left. I can hear yelling and profanities in the pool courtyard beneath us, and sirens in the distance. This is when I start to worry. I had planned to shop and tan on the beach literally all day while Sam was at the convention. I even brought a cute work out outfit so I could work out on the beach. I created a special playlist to listen to and thought about the amazing Instagram photo opportunities I was going to get (Oh come on, we all think it!). Now I felt wary about the next 8 hours. I didn't feel safe here alone at the hotel, the driving here is so scary there is no way I could drive all over to find the beach, and I felt like I'd get mugged if I wandered down the street to explore. I had no more options.

I could tell Sam didn't feel comfortable about leaving me to fend for myself. He told me I could come sit in on the convention with him, but I wasn't dressed right and besides, what a waste of a California day! We turned to the small parallel-park-only parking lot in front of the hotel and find we are blocked in on all sides by cars. Sam is already late. He opens the car door for me then jogs inside to see what he can do. We wait and wait. I rarely see Sam so agitated. He is usually the cool calm collected one and it is me who is feisty. A man pulls up behinds us in a big van, blocking the only chance we had at escape. Sam gets out furiously. Oh no. I don't want him to be feisty! I'm eager for him to get back in the car and not get beat up by a thug. He looks so innocent and young with his suit and cropped hair cut. We are definitely not in Utah anymore.

 Finally, after a tense drive we find the fancy Hilton hotel and get out to switch spots. The valets are angrily hurrying us a long so I climb into the seat with a lump in my throat. I don't know where to go or how to get there. I adjust the mirrors and clench my jaw and wait for at least five minutes until I'm brave enough to gun it and pull out into the middle of traffic. I accidentally get caught in the flow of cars going to the airport and can not get out. My gas light dings on and my stomach drops. I drove past station after station, never getting a chance to get into a lane to pull into one. Cars are honking at me, fingers are flying. I feel like the whole world is whizzing by me and I am the only one in slow motion. A car is waiting on a little street in between two big streets. He looks left and pulls out in front of me without looking to his right. I yank the steering wheel so hard to the right I feel like my little grandma car is leaning on two wheels like I saw in an action movie once. My purse topples over and dumps the contents at my feet, getting caught under the pedals. Laying on my horn angrily doesn't even make me feel any better as I skid across two lanes. I try not to curse under my breath. I only have a few second to right my car out again before the car behind me is honking because I am not going fast enough. I see a Shell sign ahead and feel relief was over me. Gas is four bucks a gallon and I don't even know how to work the stupid pump.

My friend was asked once, wait it wasn't my friend, it was actually a character off of One Tree Hill. I always get those mixed up. Anyway, she was asked why she was so afraid of the ocean. She answered simply:

Immensity.

I sit in the car while the gas pump ticks. My arms ache from stress and my legs are still numb from my almost head on collision. How can L.A. feel so small and tight and confining, yet so exhaustively big? My eyes prick with hot tears. I am usually much stronger than this. I can't place what it is I am feeling but then I realize, it's Immensity.

I see how small my world around really is as the walls surrounding it tear apart and I am suddenly so exposed. Thousands of people I have seen today, and not one of them have been kind. I like to believe that people are innately good, and that the world is not full of doom and gloom. I guess to quote Tennessee Williams, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Then I wonder, is kindness really what I need, or a sense of feeling noticed by strangers? I wonder if I rely on others to give me strength and courage and depth, or is it really within me alone? In a world so immense, I realize that you can't rely on others. Maybe the kind ones are far and few, maybe the world is really busy, chaotic, and angry. Right then, at that moment, I feel so small and insignificant. I have always believed one person can make a change, but how much of that really rings true right now, as the state of California swallows me whole. I feel like I am Jonah, in the belly of a giant whale, sucummed to the fact that I have failed. I have been overcome by something so much bigger than me entirely. Maybe that is why L.A. scares me so. The thought that one person can really make a change is fading away from being so such a bold and vibrant hope in heart. That's what scared me the most.

I've been all across the U.S.A for dance mostly, a vacation once in a while to visit family, and to Mexico once for my honeymoon, but today feels so different. I think it's because I'm by myself. I have hung up a picture of a self rejuvenating day that I know will fall. I pull out of the gas station carefully. I head West, at least I think, because I knew that sooner or later I had to run into the ocean somehow. I pass skyscrapers and piles of cars and find a more quaint part of town. The one thing to cheer me up all day, and I know this is going to sound ridiculous, is T.J. Max. I flip a U and walk in. There it is, the kingdom of a queen "Maxinista" such as I. I walk in and smile as I notice items I have memorized from my Bountiful store. I see the dress I wanted to buy that my sister not very kindly told me was hideous. I pass a man in an aisle and bump into his cart. I wince and apologize and scamper like a scared squirrel as I expect him to glare or yell.

"Excuse me Miss,  that was all my fault. Let me move that for you."

This poor man will never know why my face brightened and I was at a loss for words. He must think I'm just another Crazy Craze from L.A. But what he gave me then was hope. He was the first person that talked or even responded back to me all day.

I didn't buy anything but left feeling much better. I drove with authority. Speeding up and changing lanes when I felt like it. I drove West until roads dead ended, then I'd find another road that led west. I began leaving the more commercial part of the city and found apartment buildings and a welcomed sight of grass. I saw kids riding their bikes, beautiful pots of flowers sitting in front of small squished California style homes. An Arab woman was beating a rug, a man was selling tacos on the corner. Individuals, doing their individual things. I accidentally got wound into a private drive into a cul-de-sac and had to turn around. I took a side street and went up one more hill and hit my brakes, frozen right where I was.

The ocean. There it was, in all it's glory. The day was still cloudy and overcast so the water wasn't a sparkling blue and there weren't many out on the beach below me. I got a lump in my throat for the third time that day. The grey water reached as far back and as far wide as I could see. The waves lulled onto the shore with rhythmic majesty. There it was. So beautifully immense.

 I stayed parked there right where I was, even as a man pulled in front of me and leaned out the window to jab his finger at the sign next to me that said No Parking. I had to laugh and shake my head as I put my car into gear. The world is immense. So much more than we even realize. So much more than just the span from Utah to Los Angeles. I was right about discovering that today, but about something else I was very wrong. When you look at the whole forest, you never see the individual trees. These individual trees make up a vastness so immense it becomes a green blur. When looking at humanity a whole, we may not think we can change the world. But it's the little things, the smiles, the service, the kindness, in our own small surroundings that really make up the tiny DNA strands of this earth. Today I struggled with being just a "1" in a 3.82 million tree city. But I, alone, helped make up that forest. I may not change the whole world one day, but I can spread warmth and love to those I meet. Maybe by doing so, we can remind others to do the same. The world doesn't need to see us or notice us for us to be effective in a certain transition. If even one person noticed it we were the change.

Now, I sit in my hotel room, shades drawn, doors and windows locked typing this post. I'm not confined here because I'm pushed out or scared by the immensity, but because I wanted to write to remember how I felt today. To the world you may just be one person, and I am, but I am ONE person in that world that refuses to be a stereotype or be overlooked. The flies are buzzing, I can hear pounding above me, and I literally just flicked a bug off the bed where I am sitting, but I'm going to make the most of this day. It's time to put on my big girl pants and climb out from the belly of this whale. I'm embarrassed by how overwhelmed I got today. I let the immensity wash over me completely. But today was also a defining moment for me. I will no longer rely just on the kindness of strangers. I can be bold and different and unique by myself in this immense, immense world and create that kindness because I am strong enough to do so alone. So now, I am going to put on my swimsuit, grab my sweet husband and take him to that beach. We are going to longboard and explore and eat at the cute Mexican food dive and buy a taco from the side of the road. We will be friendly and kind as we do so. Even though the water is freezing and today is cloudy, we are going to jump in. We are going to dive into the immensity, and most importantly, we will NOT get lost.

Swimming Through The Flood

Pre-storm.
The air turns thick with moisture and anticipation. The clouds loom ahead and threaten to pour down with intensity and foreboding. As the world outside dims, inside, the lamps are switched on so the light reflects in the window, inhibiting the view out into the uncertainty. One only sees their own reflection looking back, safe and secure in their happy homes.

Rain.
The tires splash on the road and the windshield wipers lull into a false sense of calm while the storm outside still rages. The drops slide down the window and connect into one steady flow that mazes and collects any drops willing to follow. The thunder outside rumbles either in rage or glory, depending on how you look at it. The electric current in the air is almost enough to spark a heart into feeling more alive than ever before. When the lightening cracks, for one moment the world is illuminated with such clarity everything feels too exposed. But then soon it disappears, and the world settles again into dark oblivion.

After the Storm.
The smell still lingers. The wet cement and soggy leaves remind us of what once was. The sun peaks out of it's solitude and reflects the light from the puddles and rushing gutters. A bird chirps, the signal of surrender. Windows open, umbrellas close, and heads peer out to watch and feel the blanket of peace tuck them in safely for the rest of the day.

Some feel the need to hide from the rain, but not me. I feel the need to find it, to dance in it, to revel in the cleansing of the earth and my mind. To me, rain means possibilities.

Desert rain comes far and few. Maybe that's what makes it so memorable. The red dirt turns to mud that slides smooth and thick into the road. The wet Sagebrush is like cologne, spicy and enticing. This Sunday night as I write, it is raining. And I couldn't be happier.

These last two weeks have been full of rain, making me reflect on some of my most treasured moments of surprise and clarity. My top rain memories are laced with lessons and things I will never forget.

•   My Sophomore year in High School, there was a freak storm the day of a football game. My drill team was supposed to perform at half time, but the superintendent came into the dance room as we were getting into our sequin costumes and told us it wasn't safe. My mom, our coach, asked him if we could perform a simpler safer routine. He left it up to us, so of course we marched excitedly onto that field. "LLlleft...Lefffttt..." our shivering captain called. The crowd in the bleachers turned and saw us walking through the pouring rain and broke into applause. With every step our dance shoes would disappear under six inches of water. We were cold and soaking wet but could not contain our smiles. We performed a very imperfect performance. We slipped and pulled others down with us. Rain flew off of our feet with every kick. We hit our end pose and took in the crazy cheers of the crowd. We left that field with ruined shoes, mascara running down our faces, and smelling like swamp monsters, but we held our heads high with dignity. United in dedication and passion for our sport, we weren't going to let a little rain stop us that Friday night.

• I was nine years old, and my hero in life was my sister Cheya. My best friend and I would follow Cheya around and fervently wish we were one of the teenagers. When we were invited to go play in the rain with my sister and her friends, my little fingers could not fasten the buttons to my bright yellow rain poncho fast enough. We tried to prove ourselves to the older kids with some Olympic games on the lawn and extreme bravery against the cold. I was having so much fun but I willed myself to remember not to whine, not even once. The gutter on the side of our house was rushing fast and went all the way out to the middle of the road. I spotted a fish and fumbled and slipped and finally grabbed the slippery gills right before it when down the drain that disappeared under the road. The big kids were so impressed. We had breath holding contests underneath the puddles. I was both really intrigued and really embarrassed when I caught my sister and her boyfriend sneak a kiss in the rain. I had a brilliant idea and went to the garage for a bright green sled we used as a raft to carry us down the flooded road. I was the only one small enough to actually make it work. The big kids were so impressed. I contently leaned back on the front steps of our porch and watched the teenagers laugh and play just like they were the same age as my best friend and I. Maybe being young wasn't so bad after all. Maybe you were never too old to play in the rain.

• My high school sweetheart and our friends made a plan. We were going to drive up to the mountain and spotlight deer ALL night long since that's when they were awake and moved around. We packed up our 4-wheelers, met at 7-11, and headed up Taylor mountain. We blasted music and sang and laughed in a way only carefree high schoolers could. We chose a spot thick in the woods of Roaring Fork and built a beautiful fire that snapped and cracked and mesmerized us with it's dancing orange flames. The Spaghetti-Os we heated in the can over the fire tasted like they were fit for a king. All of a sudden a sheet of rain came pounding down on us, distinguishing our fire and soaking our clothes. We shrieked in surprised and scrambled for cover. We pulled the blue tarp over the top of our 4-wheeler trailer and left the 4-wheelers in rain so we could take their shelter. The rain never let up all night long. We tried to stay awake all night telling scary stories and talking and laughing even though we could barely hear each other over the steady down pour. I snuggled up to my sweetheart thinking, THESE are the moments that make life so great. Around 6 in the morning the weather turned to a steady drizzle. We shivered and crammed into the cab of the truck to blast the heater. My phone beeped from the dash, 12 missed calls, all from my parents! Just then my phone died. I wondered what could be wrong and borrowed my friends phone to call my mom. She answered and relief filled her voice. She thought we were coming home that night and around two or three when we didn't show up she thought maybe we got stuck somewhere or slid off the road in the storm. She and my sweetheart's parents were up all night searching the mountains for us. I hung up and told everybody what had happened. We decided to stall a little bit and look for some big bucks before we went home to face the wrath of our parents. We slowly drove down the mountainside through the rain and stopped at any possible sight of deer. We were scared, but didn't want the adventurous night to end so we drove slowly through the switchbacks and kept the windows down so we could smell the mountain rain. We came home and opened my front door timidly. It's a good thing my parents are angels. They laughed with us and told us we were ridiculous but glad we were safe and had fun. Everyone went to their own homes to face their own parents. I took a hot bath to remove the chill that reached all the way down to my bones. I curled in a quilt for a long nap and smiled as I watched the rain and looked at the misty mountains from my third story window. 

• I was 12 years old, and school was cancelled because of a power outage caused by a huge rainstorm. My mom and I got to spend the day together, an unexpected treat. She took me to Wal-Mart to help her buy groceries and also bought me my two favorite things at the moment; a new book and strawberry lip gloss. The roads were scary to drive on. We swerved and hydroplaned and finally dashed into our home. Mom received call after call asking if we were still holding ballet rehearsal that afternoon. She said to still count on it. During her last call, the phone lines went dead and we lost power at our house too. We ate a feast of all the food in our fridge that would go bad, cottage cheese, milk and graham crackers, peaches, and lunch meat. I cozied myself next to the fireplace and read my new book. I could have stayed there all day. Nevertheless, at 3:30 we got in the car and headed to ballet class. The studio had no windows and was completely pitch black with no electricity. We fumbled and found matches and candles and all the dancers helped set them up around the room. I will never forget the way our shadows danced across the wooden floor, elongated and elegant and slightly spooky. There was no heater, so we danced hard so our bodies were warm with sweat even though our fingers and toes were still cold. Almost all of my dedicated team braved the storm to practice for our upcoming Swan Lake Ballet. At the end of class, the candles burned considerably lower, we took our Grande Reverance` and clapped for each other, and for the art of dance, always a beacon of light and hope when things felt unsafe or unsure. My mom told us we deserved to go frolic in the rain. I pulled on my boots and followed the other dancers outside. We danced, we skipped, we splashed and laughed in the flooded parking lot. We frolicked with happiness and joy. That day taught me that life can take many turns and unexpected twists but if you roll with the punches, you can find true happiness wherever you seek it.

That was the first time I learned to frolic in the rain, but certainly not the last time. Last week I took my own ballet class out into the rain and taught them the same thing. We danced in a giant puddle outside our studio. We laughed and soaked our pink tights and black leotards. We grew closer as a dance company, our hearts pulled together by our love of dance and rain and feeling so free.

As I danced with my students in that freezing cold water I thought about growing up. Will I always be the first one to jump into a freezing puddle? Will I ever become that person that will scowl and wish for sun when it starts to rain? Or will I continue to seek the magic that rain brings? I drove home that night, my car seat soaked and my fingers stiff and stuck around the steering wheel. I walked in to our apartment slopping puddles all over the floor. My husband saw me and laughed at my soaked dance clothes and happy, rejuvenated spirit that only a night like that night could bring. He kissed the top of my naturally curly head and started me a hot bath.

When it rains, it pours. But together, through thick and thin, I know we won't sit idly by waiting for the storm to pass. We will always dance in the rain! It's who we are. When life happens and things are sometimes difficult, and trust me, they will be, I hope that we will never sink in the depths of the water and fear the trials that come as quick as a crack of lightening. I hope we will never turn on the lamp and hide from the storm, but go out and experience it, really live it and take it in. We will have some successes in life, some failures, some sunny days, some stormy. But it isn't the sunny days we remember the most is it? It's the unanticipated deliverance of rain and what we make of it that really defines who we are. I take comfort in the fact that every time life gives us a down pour and thunderous storm, we will practice to tread the water and keep our chin up and smiling while we do so.

Because I know that life will be marked by the number of times we have swam through the flood.

A Bittersweet Symphony

My husband, Sam, got dressed and ate three pieces of toast. Today was a big day for him, he gets to reinvest his love in his high school sport, baseball.

I knew we'd be meeting a lot of his high school friends and their families at this alumni game today so I wanted to look, you know, hot! I threw on shirt after shirt as Sam paced around the house ever so patiently. I settled on cheetah leggings and lemon yellow wedges. Maybe I shouldn't have.

Growing up in my small hometown everyone knew everybody for the most part. Or at least we knew OF them. My school didn't have much diversity and I felt completely safe walking along the side of the streets at night. Stark difference: West Valley, Utah.

Sam excitedly led me around the grounds of Granger high in West Valley. We parked by annex buildings with rusted trailers next to some sort of scrap yard. There was an assortment of cars there already, a bullet bike, a battered grey Camry with flames, a new red Lexus, a white "kidnapper" van with the windows blocked out, and of course, our green '98 Honda civic. Sam chattered about this that, his voice deep with sentiment. I could tell he was really happy to share with me where he went to high school. High school is such a defining time in your life and honestly, I couldn't believe someone as kind and gentle as he could come out of a place like West Valley city. I could have been a tad dramatic, but the school grounds looked like a school shooting scene in a movie. That is until we rounded the bend to the brand new baseball field. Granger's most recent pride and joy. Deep green fields, shiny new bleachers and a brand new brick snack shack built right next to the old dilapidated one. This, I could tell was the focus of the school. Baseball.

Sam kissed me for good luck and jogged to the dug out with a certain spring in his step and a swagger in his shoulders. He was back.  I chose a very unintrusive seat in the top left corner of the bleachers  in front of what I assumed was home base. It was the very tippy top of the diamond at least. I had to pass some teenagers who were prepping the field for the game. I heard them whisper and collectively turn and watch me climb the bleachers in my heels. I had to smile. I've still got it!

A lady wearing a Granger high T-shirt and tennis shoes smiled up at me as she climbed the bleachers as well. She asked if I was Sam's wife. Good ol' Facebook, she recognized me right off the bat. She said she was the mother of a boy who was on Sam's team in high school and told me Sam was a "good boy", as the older generation of adults tend to call him. She gestured over where the men started a circle warm up game involving using a baseball like a hacky sack. They were in all shapes and sizes, but they were all hooting and hollering as if it were '05. My husband even had his baseball hat turned sideways. It struck me that besides today, you probably would never see this group of men being friends or having anything in common.

A latino girl with short shorts and a floppy hat eyed me down and chose a spot in the shade. I tried to smile at her but I couldn't catch her eye. I don't know why I felt so self conscious there. Maybe it was because I was definitely the only blond, and the only one wearing heels. The crowd swelled and the number of Granger shirts and baseball hats increased. There were boys with long shirts and chains, and pregnant girls with poofy hair and lots of eye makeup. There was also a little old lady to my left eating salt and vinegar chips and a baseball fanatic one row down from me that has probably seen a thousand games. I felt like an outsider.

I don't know much about baseball. I've gone to two Bee's games but I couldn't answer any questions about them unless it was about barbecue sunflower seeds, the most amazing hot dog I've ever eaten, or about the firework display at the end of the game. I was determined to watch this game and understand it so I could rattle off details to my husband on our drive home and thoroughly impress him. The announcer man announced: "Your olllllld team Ladies and Gentlemen!" and we watched a very mismatched team file out from the dugout. "And your youuuunnnng ones and ! Still dreamin', still dreamin'" A much more lively bunch came out onto the field. I spotted Sam's face shinning with excitement and glee. What a gather, (well actually I had to ask the baseball fan-man in front of me) is that depending on the year of their graduation the men were either on the old alumni team or the young alumni team and they would be playing each other.

The game started and music came on from above. The notes to a classical song confused me at first, and then the song broke into the chorus. "Bittersweet Symphony" by the Verve. I listened to the lyrics of the song and watched the men start playing. I looked around the crowd and I felt my heart warm as hot as my forearms which were frying in the sun. This was a special moment. A moment we all shared together. On this day we all had one common denominator: Granger High Baseball Where else would this strange crowd all be united together?

 I listened to this group of ladies chatter about their days fundraising for the team, and the sacrifices they made for their sons to show their support. They still volunteer for the 2013 team. "Once a Lancer always a Lancer!" I heard them quote. Fathers, much older than normal were cheering on their sons from the stands. Trash talkin' the Ump and calling out plays to their boys just like every good father should. Except these men were 60 years old. I hear them catch their other baseball parent's up on their son's lives. Ryan "the Gunner" gun is married and now lives in his parent's basement. He used to be a killer short stop. Jake "the stringbean" has a giant red beard and is a computer programmer. None of the players had amounted to anything particular outstanding, but simply had moved on to adulthood. But that didn't stop the parents from bragging up their best plays or funniest sports moments. I stared ahead and watched my husband rock being that 1st base-tagger guy.

This announcer was born to entertain. Joke after joke, most involving things along the lines of hip replacements, Viagra, ice, and pulled hamstrings. He announced a man from the class of '67 step up to the plate. He took up a perfected baseball form and wiggled his bat menacingly. The 19 year old Mexican boy with no hat and baggy shorts from the class of '12 wound back and threw the ball callously. CRACK! I gave a "whoop" as this man in his mid sixties made it to 2nd base. He pumped his fists in the air as if he had just won the Quidditch cup.

Because they were all wearing Granger red, I could not tell who was on which team so half of the time I didn't know who to cheer for. Literally and figuratively. Who would I rather win, the 25-30 year team my Sam was on, or the man from the class of '67 who was still rocking those tight pinstripe pants?

All around me people are holding their own private conversations. We all collectively look up and cheer and clap. Children beg their moms for quarters to buy giant pixie sticks and treats. Adults hold extra large Maverick soda cups (there must be one nearby). They chat about their children, their lives, and whatever they might find in common. The two primary presidents to my right really hit it off. A guy runs up to the cage and slips his elderly mom his Iphone and demands she takes lots and lots of pictures. The mothers top each other with story after story of their children's success until I'm sure the pile will topple over and soon one of them will run out of things to say, but they don't. The kid's yell "Go daddy Go!" and fathers stand a little taller and wave back.

I squint in the sun and look for my husbands red long sleeve shirt. That's when I know to pay special attention. I don't know if he's a good player or not, but I know I love the way he crouches down ready to pounce at a fly away ball. He swats other player's bums as they pass for a job well done. I notice he keeps kicking his legs back and stretching out his two bad knees. Sweat drips down the back of my leg. We've been out here for two and a half hours now.

A fly ball sails over the chain link and the crowd yells, "Heads!" My face scrunches in terror and I lean as far to my left as possible even though the ball is probably 100 feet away. I just keep picturing the scene in "Simon Birch" where he finally hits the ball and WHACK! it knocks the mother dead and Simon yells, "I'mmmm soorrrryyyy!!!"

A lady with a blue scarf hat makes a scene as she enters in, calling out to people and stepping over bleachers. She is overly nice in a silky sweet voice that never has anything mean to say. For some reason, maybe it's because Sam is not on the field and I'm getting bored of baseball, she intrigues me. I listen in on her conversation. Children are climbing on to her lap and she turns down offers for a taste of their suckers. She is Jessi's mom and is sitting by his wife and kids. She points Jessi out to the lady next to her (see, already bragging up her son). I follow her finger and squint to see Jessi, a 30 something slightly overweight man. This blue hat lady keeps cheering things like, "Ok, enough chitchat let's play!" or "Come on, we're getting hot!" and "1 2 3 let's go!", which I find really rude considering a lot of them are older men who can not make spectacular plays or run very fast. I find it odd for her to yell these things when every other word she has chosen so carefully and kindly. And then it all made since. The blue hat, the blue veins standing out against her pale skin in the bright sun. She continued her conversation with the lady next to her and I heard the words "Pancreatic Cancer". She introduced her daughter-in-law to the stranger sitting next to her and explained that she was pregnant and she hoped that she'd live long enough to see her baby grand daughter. She wasn't going to come to the game today because she wasn't feeling well. She knew that she would only be strong enough to stay for a little while. I suppose that's why she was trying to hurry the game. I immediately felt guilty.

Jessi was up to bat. The woman stopped mid conversation and turned her focus on her son. She whooped and hollered and yelled until Jessi, a grown man, was squirming with embarrassment. She continued talked to the lady next to her, never taking her eyes off of her son as Jessi had two 'ball" errors thrown at him and got to re-bat. A son on Varsity football, one on JV, football, and 2 that played baseball, she had been to a lot of games. "This is probably the last time I will watch one of my boys play. I better give one last yell for him". She paused and yelled a fervent "GO JESSI!" and I heard her breath catch in her throat. When she spoke again her voice came out shaky. "That's a little hard when I think of it like that." I'm so glad my aviator sunglasses were hiding my tears. They mixed with sweat as a few of them ran down my face. Please Jessi, I prayed. Hit the dang ball.

As midday strikes the heat increases, the game drones on and the bleachers start to empty. The shade slowly disappears, pushing spectators and families further and further away. They huddle against the brick snack shack looking for any possible sliver of refuge. I'm still in the top corner of the stands, soaking it all in. I look and see the girl with the floppy hat also remains.

Sam hits the ball and gets to run. I'm so excited I forget to even cheer. I just watch with wide eyes, not wanting to miss a second. I fumble with my phone and take as many pictures as I can. I have one of him on each base. I know how much this day means to him. The game they play, they still love it.

The game ends and the group comes out and kneels together in the center of the diamond for a picture. The families that are left comment on each of the boys they remember from their son's high school team. The players don't know they are being talked about and reminisced upon. But it is all of us who are missing out. We are all just outsiders on this side of the cage, talking and observing the players within it.

 I get up and stretch. My skin feels tight and hot and my clothes cling to me after sitting in the sun for four hours. A lady passes me with a hot dog. Seriously? WTHeck? Where was that 2 hours ago?!

I lean against the wall of the dug out in the thin shade and wait as the players file out holding commemorative t-shirts. I hear someone say "Those were great days man, I'd give anything to go back."  I smile as "Eye of the Tiger" comes on. For a minute these men feel like champion boys again.

I kiss my husbands salty cheek. I am exceptionally glad to see him. I think it's because I learned a lot in those four hours I soaked in the sun and the environment around me. I learned about diversity and unity. I realized things that I have been unknowingly sheltered in. I'm beginning to understand what made my Sam turn out so great. He tells me we are giving "The Gooch" a ride home, a man with piercing and tattoos who walks with us to our car and talks with Sam like they were still in high school and their lives hadn't drastically gone in two separate ways. I'm quiet as I observe the people around me getting into their various cars, speaking their various languages. Each sound different, each person's life plays a different melody, but joined together for this one hot, hot Saturday morning we sound beautiful. A bittersweet symphony.

I don't know the final score, but I do know that one of those points was my husband's.

The Roles We Play

This is it. My first blog post. I've always wondered why people blog. Is it to tell the world everything, or nothing at all? I may not ever have anything important to say, but at least I will have a place to say it.

I've been fired up and on a rampage after coming to terms with my latest obsession: I love to write. Is that something you did not know about me? Probably, yes. I am sitting with my husband in my small apartment living room watching Breaking Bad Season 1 -again-. I'm in my PJs, my hair is in a top bun with deep conditioner in it (Sam told me once that I look like a princess when I go to bed with it like that. Maybe that's why I top-bun-it so much), I am kicked back on the couch, and I have nothing special to say. Except for this, "I want to be a writer".

You have to understand that boldly declaring this to the world wide web takes quite a bit of courage on my part. No, it's not because I have a thousand readers to impress (I actually think I have a whopping two so far. Hi Mom and Havana!). It is intimidating to me because I have finally dared to dream those 6 words out loud...well actually loudly hitting the keys on my keyboard to be exact. So now I officially have that statement on the record. "I want to be a writer". There it is again in case you missed it.

Who I am has always been so defined and drafted and being a writer was never, ever in that description. I do not have a college degree, I do not have anything close to published, but I do have DESIRE to write and to call myself a writer. It's something that I just found out about myself, and I'm actually quite pleased by it. There is a little orb inside of me growing brighter and brighter and warming me to the very thought of being labeled and stamped with the description, "Writer".

 I love to write, yes, but what I find most thrilling is rewriting the role I once wrote for myself to play. I am McKenna. I'm a dancer, a wife, a sister and an aunt. Nature is my oasis. I'm obsessed with Holidays. Guns and puzzles are my hobbies. I was almost a NBA Jazz Dancer. I was almost Miss Utah. I was almost on So You Think You Can Dance. That is who I am. But that is not all I am or all I could be. That does not define me. The role I play is so much grander than a few lines or lists of defining moments in my life. All this I am realizing as I'm "growing up" and waiting to become all I wished of being when I was young. No matter my age, one thing has always stayed the same. I have an innate desire to create. I create dances into stories of art, I create beautiful delicious cuisine to serve to my family, I create words put together to tell of heroism and love and life. My creations might not be the most profound, or blazing with sharp perfection, but they are MINE and it is so satisfying to say that.

When I was young I would write chapter books. My Mary-Kate and Ashley inspired "The Secret of the Scoreboard" and the "The Hunt for the Headless Ballerina" were never going to be bestsellers. Let's face it. But everyday I would type up a few more paragraphs and print all the pages out again, re-staple them, and read them to my mom every time we were in the car (bless her).  She loved them! I would glow with pride and accomplishment and settle back into my seat to reread my story all over again. My mom couldn't wait to hear the next part and I couldn't wait to deliver that to her. I've always wanted to write someone's "favorite" book. A task that was so urgent and definite to me then became squandered and hidden until just recently. So I am asking myself this, when in our lives do we stop dreaming of the impossible and start settling for the attainable? When did it become OK to be so afraid of failing or putting in extra effort that we stopped even trying?

I am not a shy girl but I am SO shy to tell people I want to be writer and I want to start writing a book. There are few people in my life I've told this to and when they start BLABBING about it to anybody and everybody I get all awkward and change the subject.  And then, when the unassuming third party isn't looking, I give my loved ones the biggest stink eye they've ever been served. Last date night we were sitting in the movie theatre waiting for Iron Man 3 to start (totally awesome, go see it), and Sam started chatting to our friends about how I was writing a book. I practically had to shove popcorn down his throat to get him to shut up about it. That is so unlike me. I usually love talking about myself! What I think I'm the most afraid of is for people to scoff at me and tell me that I am not a writer, and it's a ridiculous notion. I'm afraid their reaction will turn me off from my born-again desire. I'm afraid I will fail in trying to be true to my young self with that young dream of writing someone's favorite book. I think that's why I avoid the subject all together. Since when have I become such a pansy?

My hubs is part of a course called "The Conscious Creator" which is sort of like The Secret on steroids. He asked me if I wanted to watch a webinar with him. I obliged and he was completely surprised. I'll admit, I snuggled into the couch cushions and played Tetris on my Iphone most of the time. BUT I did actually get quite a bit out of it. I used to think The Secret was a load of crock. Tell the Universe what you want and you will get it? Oh Puh-lease. As far fetched as it may sound though, I've realized that there is undeniable power in positive thinking. This course was on how we consciously create the success or failure we have in our lives. When I heard this my head perked up from the colorful shapes I was zapping into lines and I put my phone down. I couldn't stopping thinking about my grand book writing plan. By being shy and embarrassed about adding "writer" to my title description, I was shunning away any hope of success. I listened to the end of the lesson with real intent and I came to a conclusion. I have decided not to write apologetically. Or do anything apologetically for that matter. I am going to be proud of what I do. Imperfect and unofficially educated, sure maybe, but I will write my story and not be timid in the attempt. I will write it well and someone out there will like what I have to say. I am sure of it! (Again, Hi Mom!)

One of my favorite writers said that if you don't write every day you are not a writer. So as I dabble in the world of writing, whether it be on this blog or fictional writing, I am going to try. I am going to consciously create the new role I have written for myself. I am not going to be so afraid of failing or stepping outside the "genre" of McKenna that I never try. I'm redefining me and losing the bands that hold me down to that definition I have unconsciously made for myself and I urge you to do the same. All it takes is realization, desire, and a little courage. What role were YOU born to play?