Learned Lesson Number Nineteen: Sometimes It's Best to Stay Down For Awhile

We have all heard that thing about how “it’s not important how many times you fall down, as long as you get back up again”, am I right? Well, yeah. But… Sometimes it’s ok to take a little time before you get back up. Sometimes you have to catch your breath. Or cry. Or just completely surrender to being down. Sometimes, if you stay down long enough, the oncoming train will pass right over you instead of knocking you clean out of your boots. I’m not saying always. Obviously there are times when you have to use everything you’ve got to get off the tracks poste haste. But I am not talking about those times.

It is very late tonight. I got maybe 3 hours of sleep last night, worked all day, have to work again in the morning, and have some homework that is not going to get done. I just do not have the mental, emotional, or spiritual fortitude to get it done. And the homework is not the only thing in my life that is not getting done. In fact, it seems like a recurring theme of my adult life has been managing the list of things that are just not going to get done. Maybe ever. And perhaps that is ok. The jury is still out on this issue. But tonight, writing this thing about staying down is the only thing that is going to get done. Tonight, I just need to stay down. And I invite you to take a load off and sit with me for a little while. Even if it means you have to leave something undone.

I used to work at WalMart. I was working at WalMart when I was thrown to the ground by divorce. To this day, WalMart still smells like divorce to me. While I was going through this experience, I kept trying to scramble back to my feet, only to repeatedly get bowled over, again and again. By things hurtling toward me from angles I never would have thought of. I knew I could survive it and that I would eventually be ok, but the process was exhausting.

I stood at my cash register every day in my cheery blue vest, watching all manner of colorful people parade their lives before me. Staring me in the face from the aisle next to the candy were the ever-present tabloid magazines, with their scandalous headlines. At that time, there was a rather high-profile celebrity love triangle playing out before my eyes in those tabloid headlines. It was there whether I wanted to see it or not. And I did not. Because the story largely paralleled my own experience, and that was painful to watch.

I alternated between thinking it was easier for them because they had money, (while I was struggling for every dime on top of everything else) and being horrified at the thought of having your every bloody wound exposed to the entire world as it was inflicted. At least I could deal with my stuff in relative privacy.

I remember reading an interview shortly after this, (NOT in a tabloid) with the very publicly jilted party in this trio of Beautiful People, wherein she was asked how she was handling the pain. (Original question, I know…) Her answer surprised me and has stayed with me. She said something to this effect:

“Sometimes I just have to sit in the middle of it and let it wash over me. Feel the reality of the pain. It hurts, and I cry, and then I realize I have survived it. And then eventually I can get back up.”

Which the world and I have seen her do often since then.

I would venture to add to this, “Repeat as necessary”. I used to fight back the painful feelings and the tears and the despair. Resist unhappiness at all costs. Be optimistic! Be shiny and happy when people are looking. Laugh instead of crying. This is my nature, this is what I strive for, and gratitude always gets me back there. Eventually.

But I have learned that this process cannot be rushed. Sometimes the best therapy is to sit on the bathroom floor and sob it out for a while. Or collapse on the couch and admit that you are blue, and tell some people about it. Perhaps even put it in writing. Then stay down long enough to steady and strengthen yourself. Long enough to heal, to recharge, or to get some sleep. Perhaps until an outstretched hand extends itself to help you up. Whichever of these things comes first. THEN, get back up.

Life’s “ups” would be meaningless without the “downs”. So it’s ok to stay down for a while. Really. Maybe the next outstretched hand will be yours, reaching down without judgment or condescension to help someone else up from that familiar place. Because you have spent time down there, and you understand.

Learned Lesson Number Eighteen: Choose to Surrender to Truth

We just celebrated Independence Day. For me, this particular holiday sort of marks my surrender of a great deal of my own personal independence, in that my first child was born on that day. And I use the word “surrender” for a reason. It is because I made a conscious choice to give up a certain level of freedom in exchange for the honor and opportunity of being a mother. That said, I certainly had no idea of the extent to which my life would change, and in ways I had not thought of. That little “parenting” exercise we did in high school where we had to carry around a raw egg everywhere we went was a weak representation at best. The first parenting lesson I learned was that a full night’s sleep and sitting down for an entire meal were things of the past. Not that I ever really got the full night’s sleep before, but that is another topic. It’s a different thing entirely when you are CHOOSING to stay up all night.

Agency is kind of a Big Thing. In the religious faith I was raised in, we believe that there was a war waged in Heaven over the right to choose, and that those of us who are here on the Earth are here because we opted for free will. Having said this, the question arises, WHY is the right to choose for ourselves such an intensely important thing? And if we all chose free will before we came here, why does the battle over freedom still rage? I think it comes down to what we believe to be true. And Truth is a tricky subject. Many people have lost their lives over the inability to agree with others about what is true. Every war has roots in that debate.

I am not here to define truth for anyone. Although I do believe that certain things are true no matter what any of us think. I also know there are those who will disagree with me. But I’m pretty sure that the Earth is round, and that we need oxygen to breathe, that fashion trends will always repeat, and that God exists. I also know that there are a great many circumstances in this mortal existence wherein the “truth” varies in the extreme from one individual to the next, based upon individual experience and perception. Which is REAL and VALID, and should never be dismissed. I believe that truth can be found everywhere, that it stands up to any test, and that those who actively seek it will ultimately find it. I also believe that if we love unconditionally and attempt to see things through the eyes of others, MORE truth will become clear to us.

Awhile back, I took a World Religions class at a community college, taught by a professor who had multiple degrees, (a couple from Harvard) and who was very passionate about what he was teaching. He was in his late 70’s and had this deep, booming voice that commanded attention. I was completely blown away by the depth of his knowledge on the subject of religion, and I hung on every word. I was amazed at the thread of common truths that wound through all of the major world religions, and in a class that only barely scratched the surface, I could not get enough information.

Not everyone felt this way. There were a couple of young students in the class that just really did not care about the material, not because they were irresponsible kids, but just because they did not have the age and experience to truly appreciate what this man was trying to teach them. I remember one particular class where the teacher had reached the end of his rope with these kids and he slammed his book down on the table they were sitting at and kind of lost it a little with them. They were obviously shocked at this response, and they did not come back to the class after that. I felt bad for them, for what they were giving up, and for the teacher, who had spent years fighting to obtain the knowledge he had. Because he chose it and fought for it, his knowledge of the truth he was teaching had great value, and he wanted to share that.

A favorite movie scene of mine, (and, ironically, of my former husband) is from “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade”, where there are a certain number of tests that must be passed by certain characters who are trying to obtain the Holy Grail. The respective success and failure of these men was directly connected to their motives and also their knowledge of the truth about what they were seeking. The one with the self-serving motives, who had no knowledge of or respect for Christ, and therefore no clue about what type of cup He would have used at the Last Supper, was literally dissolved away, movie-magic style, after drinking from the wrong cup. The guardian of the Grail then observed, “He chose... Poorly”. The beauty of God’s plan is that we are allowed to choose poorly. And He loves us enough that we are also allowed to choose more wisely the next time around. We also need to allow others that same right.

Years ago, my husband and I attempted marriage counseling. In one particularly memorable session, the counselor asked me what my favorite candy bar was. I told him “Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, of course.” He then asked my husband how much he thought I would enjoy a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup if he took it and jammed it down my throat. If it was my favorite, why wouldn’t I appreciate that? After that session, my husband chose not to return because he felt like the counselor was “taking sides”. He had the right to choose that. And now we are where we are.

The rewards and the consequences of our actions are meaningless when we are compelled, and they are priceless when we have chosen freely. This is true whether the choices we make are good ones or bad ones. If a decision we are compelled by someone else to make turns out to have negative consequences, we tend to blame the other person and learn nothing from the painful experience. And even if the choice is a good one, we cannot possibly appreciate the value of it because we did not choose it.

This particular principle is a challenging one to practice and remember when we find ourselves faced with allowing our children to use their agency. I don’t know if that ever gets easier! Most of my children are legal adults now, and I still feel like I want to make some of the tougher choices for them. Give them the benefit of my experience. But one of those things I believe to be true is that everyone must learn by their own experience, and sometimes that can be tragic. This is where my belief in God and my choice to surrender my will to His comes in.

It might seem contradictory to fight so hard for freedom of choice, only to surrender it again. But I have come to learn that He knows far more about what is ultimately best for me, for my children and for those who I love in this life, all of whom I have zero control over. So I love unconditionally and I lay the hard things at His feet. I trust the truth that He lives and He loves me, which is a truth that I have found enough occasions in my life thus far to test thoroughly. Enough that I am willing to surrender my own will to His.

It has not been easy getting here. And I have to reboot on a daily basis. Work on my relationship with Him. Make that choice to surrender anew, every single day. And the more I practice this, the more I realize that I am not giving up anything. He will never force me to turn to Him. And His plan is so much better than mine. Trust me, I have measured my plans against His, and mine are far less satisfying. What He can do for me is FAR cooler than anything I can come up with on my own. So His is the Truth that I choose. I choose it every day, and I wait with faith and anticipation to see what He will bring me in return.

Learned Lesson Number Seventeen: Repetition Bears Repeating

OK, I know this title sounds like a quote brought to you by the “Department of Redundancy Department”, but bear with me. And know that I will be repeating myself. I am suddenly reminded of a song by “Toad the Wet Sprocket”, wherein the lyrics “I will not repeat myself” are repeated several times… Don’t know why I remember this. Perhaps because I used to play that particular song often. REPEATEDLY, even. Repetition makes things stick. And repetition in combination with music is an unbeatable memory tool. How many silly TV commercials from your childhood do you remember because of this combination? That’s what I thought.

As powerful as repetition is, it can also be frustrating. In fact, it can drive you downright bonkers, depending on what is being repeated. I was just over at My Three Sons’ house, and one of them had written, in marker, on his brother’s mirrored closet doors, the lyrics to “The Song That Never Ends”. Over and over, top to bottom, on both doors. This really made me laugh. And now that stupid song is stuck in my head. Thanks, guys. But my point is taken, right?

Having said that, most, if not all, of the basic spiritual laws that I live by in my adult life, I learned through repetition as a child. Often in conjunction with music. That is how I know that “I Am A Child of God”, and other equally precious truths. In my job as a teachers’ aide this past year, I was reminded first-hand of the power of repetition as I did phonetic drills with small children learning to read. At the end of the year, I got to see first-hand the amazing results of their progress.

There is a character in Greek Mythology by the name of Sisyphus. Sisyphus was a king who thought he could hang with the Gods, and consequently got himself condemned to push a rock up a hill for Eternity, only to have it roll back down every time he got it near the top. I have been intrigued with the story of Sisyphus since the first time I heard it. This was sometime during the early years of my marriage, when my days were full of the repetitive tasks that come with having small children and running a home. No matter how many times you change a dirty diaper, there will always be another one. No matter how many times you do the dishes or the laundry, there is always more. I could feel for Sisyphus, even though I have never done any of the evil stuff he did to earn his punishment. Still, I really felt like I was pushing that stupid rock up the hill every day of my life.

Although I have managed to advance beyond dirty diapers, (except in my role as Grandma, which only occasionally requires this of me) I still can relate to Sisyphus. And my interpretation of the story has moved beyond just being able to relate. I now feel like I am a bit closer to accessing the deeper meaning. On its own, the neverending task of pushing a rock up a hill seems tragically pointless. Yet, it follows that the process of doing this over and over again builds up an amazing amount of strength.

One of my favorite movies is a little gem called “Groundhog Day”, where a cranky and selfish Bill Murray finds himself repeating the same day, Groundhog Day, over and over again. Trapped in Punxsutawney, PA, awaking over and over to Sonny and Cher on the radio, he tries every extreme thing he can think of to escape the torture, eventually coming to realize that the only way to break the cycle is to embrace the day and keep trying to get it right.

In assessing the path my life has taken, particularly over the past 5 years, I am seeing the repetition of painful lessons that I keep thinking I have learned, only to have them surface yet again. In many ways, I feel like I have been trapped in Punxsutawney for the past 5 years.

As a single mother facing the sometimes staggering fallout of managing a family split by divorce, (and the very real prospect of remaining alone) I have gained peace and perspective from the repetition of basic truths that I hear when I attend church and go to the temple. Some of these things are repeated word for word, every time, and after years of hearing them this way, they are seared into my soul, and I find I can more readily access them when I need to.

I have found myself, more than once, on my knees, pleading with God about why this crappy stuff keeps happening. Asking Him, “What am I MISSING? Why do I have to go through this AGAIN? How long will this agony last?” If you have been following this blog, you will have already read about some of these experiences. The answer to this series of questions is, of course, that the lesson will repeat until the message sinks in. Until I really embrace the day and get it right. This “day” can take a lifetime, and I know I am not alone when I say that sometimes this is spiritually exhausting. Endlessly repeating the same pleas to the Lord can be emotionally draining. But I do it anyway. And I do it again. And again.

It is often in the repetition of something I have heard so many times before, but never internalized, that I find my answers. I will read a familiar scripture, and it suddenly has personal application to me and whatever I am dealing with. The older I get, the more this happens.

It is starting to sink in for me that repetition is how we keep the good things in our lives, and it’s how we make them better. Including our relationships with the people we love. If we don’t interact with them over and over, love them and tell them, serve them REPEATEDLY, then nothing sticks, and life is empty. We all have to do our time in Punxsutawney. So push the rock up the hill, whether you feel like it or not. And sing along with that annoying song until you find a reason to like it. Then repeat the process.

I have one more parting thought to share with you. There is one thing in life that many people think needs to be repeated that in fact does NOT. When shampooing one's hair, it is NOT, I repeat NOT necessary to repeat after lathering and rinsing. This is just the shampoo companies trying to up their profits. I learned this from David Letterman, and it has saved me maybe hundreds of dollars over the years. Someday I hope to thank him personally for opening my eyes. And now I have opened yours. You're welcome.

Learned Lesson Number Sixteen: Gratitude Is Its Own Reward

I have noticed a pattern in the writing of these things I believe to be true. They always get tested. I write about Faith, and Fear rushes in. I write about Hope, and Despair rushes in. I write about Home, and Emptiness rushes in. I find myself in a position of having to prove and re-prove in my own life these lessons that God is trying to teach me. I have to earn the blessings that come with the learning of the lessons over and over again. God is big on repetition. But that is next week’s message. Today I want to talk about gratitude. I NEED to talk about gratitude. Because I need to FEEL gratitude. I know that when I am overwhelmed by gratitude, there is not so much room for the negative and scary stuff.

This morning I have been unable to get off the couch. I awoke to an emotional weight that brought me to tears and would not let me up. The sense of loss I was feeling for people and places that are suddenly gone from my life was overwhelming. I am sleeping on my sister’s couch because I just returned from a year in Utah, staying with my parents and spiritually “recharging”. I will be moving into a bedroom here, (as soon as I can force myself off the couch to do the work required to set up my space) and I lived in a bedroom in Utah, after God decided I could no longer be trusted with a whole house. As painful as this reality is, I also know it is a gift. One for which I am grateful. At the place I am in my life, it is good to be relieved of the responsibility of maintaining a home. I am grateful to my parents and my sister for offering me a bedroom. That said, I am feeling somewhat impatient about reaching that place where I can finally sustain myself and do for my children the things I have been woefully unable to do.

I am blessed with some unbelievable kids, whom I have missed terribly. I have anxiously anticipated getting back to Arizona to be with them, and the past weekend has been filled with celebrations that did not disappoint. My youngest son turned 13 and my youngest grandson celebrated his first birthday. It was Memorial Day, and my boys are fortunate to have a roommate who has safely returned from 2 tours in Iraq. He grilled burgers for us yesterday. My heart has been filled with thanksgiving and love for all of my children and their friends, (whom I consider my honorary children) as I have been able to laugh with them, eat cake, and listen to them play and sing for me. Four of my kids have been writing music together lately, and could not wait to show me what they have been working on. It gave me chills and brought me to tears, honestly. Writing this down and sharing it with you helps me allow the gratitude to wash over me, and moves me toward healing from the loss of what is missing.

Thursday was my last day as a Teacher’s Aide at Timpanogos Academy in Lindon, Utah. I started this job the day after having spent the night in the ER with a nasty gallbladder attack. I was grateful for the job but not anxious to do it at the time. For the first week, I was miserable and in pain, and extremely fearful that I would let down my mother, who got me the job and had faith in me to do it well. As time went by, I started to create some real friendships with the other aides and the teachers, and also to get really attached to the kids I was working with. I began to look forward to every day, and it started to not feel like a job.

On Thursday, the other aides and I performed for the kids at lunchtime, a version of “We Will Rock You” that I had rewritten the words for, and it was a BLAST! We donned our psychedelic Rock and Roll trappings, slapped on some sunglasses, and just cut loose with it. The kids went nuts, and I cannot remember the last time I had that much fun. There were many heartfelt goodbyes, and a couple of my favorite 4^th-grade boys actually followed me out to the car, hugging me and begging me not to go. It was an overwhelming outpouring of love, for which I will always be grateful. This made my all-night drive across the desert a bittersweet one, but I was blessed to have the strengthening influence of two inspiring audio talks given to me by one of my friends before I left. A friend who has experienced loss on a level I cannot imagine, and yet faces life with gratitude and humor. Thanks, Lori.

I have described this experience as feeling like being “driven out of Eden”, and I think this is a fitting analogy. Adam and Eve would have certainly been comfortable and safe, had they stayed in Eden. But they could never have been with their children. They never would have been polished by the refining fires of adversity, and they never would have truly appreciated joy without experiencing sorrow.

So I am grateful for the sorrow I felt this morning on the couch. It makes the joy, when it comes, so much sweeter. I am grateful for the kind of friends who sense when I need them and call. I am grateful to be able to go babysit my grandsons tomorrow. I am grateful I was able to wash dishes for my boys yesterday. I am grateful for a sister who has opened her home and her heart to me and my son. I am grateful for my white kitty, who has missed me and won’t leave me alone for a minute. I am not so grateful for her white kitty hairs, which are now clinging to everything I own. But I will take it, as adversity goes.

I feel better now. Gratitude is its own reward. Feeling it makes everything better. But to truly feel it, you have to specifically acknowledge it. There’s a reason that we are taught to express it FIRST in our prayers. BEFORE we ask for what we stand in need of. So count your blessings. Name them. Get grateful, and get off the couch.

Learned Lesson Number Fifteen: Be Careful Where You Hang Your Hopes

Hope is a precious thing. Without it we cannot endure. Anything. When we learn how to properly access it, we can endure. Anything. So consider very carefully where you look for hope. And where you choose to put it, once you have found it.

When I was 9 years old, I wanted a horse. Really badly. I fervently hoped I would get a horse for Christmas. It was pretty much all I thought about. It was an impossibility. We lived in the suburbs, in a rental, with a tiny back yard. In spite of my mother’s very rational explanations of why I could not have a horse, I still hoped. In my logical little 9-year-old mind, she was just trying to throw me off with her reasoning. Horses eat grass. We had grass. A horse needs a fence. Got one of those, too. I could take care of the horse, I had read all the books, knew what they ate, how to groom them, and certainly how to love them. And besides, I had been praying for a horse. God would not let me down.

I did not get a horse. I still do not have a horse. My hopes were dashed, and have been many more times since then, and in much harsher ways. Yet I still believe in hope. And I still believe in God.

This is how the dictionary defines hope: “ The feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best.” I kind of like this definition because it includes an “or”. So often we feel like our hopes have been destroyed because we did not get what we wanted. It is much easier to hang onto hope after not getting what we want when we can believe that the outcome might still be in our best interest. Even if we don’t see or feel that right away, due to our disappointment.

I also found that “expectation” was listed as a synonym for “hope”. I am not sure that I completely agree with this assessment. I think that expectations are closed and hope is open. Expectations are “It needs to be this, and it will be this”, while hope is more “I want it to be this, but if it isn’t, then something better will come”. I think that expectations are Earthly, and hope is Heavenly. This is where God comes in.

Recently while struggling with a rather painful loss of hope, (familiar territory for me the past few years) I looked up “Hope” in the topical guide of my scriptures. I found many inspiring references, but this is the one that linked to my soul, and made me sob just a little:

Romans 8:24-25 “For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.”

This connected with me on a visceral level, because I was in a place of desperately wanting to see evidence of what I was hoping for, and it was not coming. I had prayed for an answer and was led to this scripture. I realized that I was hanging my hopes in the wrong places. I was attaching them to humans and events. Events change, and humans are weak and imperfect, and cannot be trusted with my hopes. I likewise cannot be trusted with the hopes of others. No matter how much I love and trust them. No matter how much I want them to love and trust me.

Real hope, while often delivered via other humans, comes from God, and God alone. He is unchanging and immoveable. He is the only one who can see what “we see not”, and deliver it. And He does it on His timetable, not ours. To truly access real hope, we have to get our lives aligned with God so that we can see the signs He sends to give us hope. If we are aligned with Him, the signs appear where we are looking. I have tested this, and I know it to be true. I hope for many things in my life that are not yet seen. I still hope for a horse. And for much bigger things than that. So I keep the channels open. I look for the signs. I roll with the disappointments in my life, and I forgive the weakness in myself and other humans. My hopes are hanging in a solid and immoveable place. I work daily at keeping them bright, while anxiously awaiting the time when I will be shown what I hope for, but do not yet see.

Learned Lesson Number Fourteen: Be Fiercely Yourself

Who among us really knows who we are? Even when looking in a mirror, what we see is not exactly what others see. The mirror-image is a slightly altered one from the actual image. And then that whole complicated subject of perception comes into play. Two people can view the same person, thing, or situation, and give completely different descriptions, when both are seeing supposedly the very same visual. It’s enough to make your head spin. I recently turned 50, and since I am shooting for the century mark, this means I am only halfway through this earthly journey, and the older I get, the more I realize how little I actually know. Even about myself. Having said this, I also am reasonably certain about the things that I DO know. Thus this “Blog’o’Stuff” that I think I know for sure.

So. Here is what I know about who I am. I believe that God created me with certain basic elements that make up my soul in its original, barest form. In my mind, this original form of Peg is a little girl who looks something like Pippi Longstocking. She is unique and I love her. She is the last version of myself that I remember in her purest form. Before the floods and fires of life began to alter my view. She wears braids and has a pet monkey and keeps a horse in her kitchen, and nobody tells her what to do. She is a grand storyteller, and she does not suffer condescension or those who would be cruel to children. She has superhuman strength, and she is fiercely herself.

This original child is the part of ourselves that God has charged us with protecting and preserving as we bounce through this mortal existence. Each of us is subject to the buffetings of negative circumstances and difficult people. These things alter us, sometimes harshly. It can be scary and lonely. But we are given people who recognize us, along the way. These are our soul mates, and they come in many forms. We need to value and keep them close. They are the ones who love us most and know us best; who retain the ability to see only that original soul when they look at us. I am fortunate to have a number of these people in my life. The ones who have always seen me, no matter how deeply hidden I was.

When I was 20 years old and just getting to know the man I would marry, I found myself wanting him so much that I kept mostly silent. Letting him do the talking, subconsciously hiding the parts of myself that I feared he would not like. Hiding Pippi, who I loved the most. Making her disappear. I cannot blame him for this, I chose to suppress myself, and I must be accountable for that. But the consequences of that choice have been far-reaching and painful. I remember going out for a burger with one of my aforementioned “soul mates” while trying to decide whether to get married. He told me I had changed, and that I even “blinked my eyes differently.” I asked if this was good or bad, and he said, “Just different. Not like you”.

In the movie “Runaway Bride”, a woman becomes somewhat infamous for continually bolting from the altar, and a reporter attempts to discover why this is. He interviews each of the jilted grooms, and asks them all “how does she like her eggs?” Every man’s answer is different, all followed by “She likes them just like I like them.” Ultimately this woman needed to figure out how she really liked her eggs. I should have been bold about how I liked my eggs. It might have saved me a lot of grief. Once you are married and living with a person, it is pretty much impossible to hide your real self. And once the guard came down, my fears that he would not much care for the uncensored, raw version of me were realized. I tried for 23 years to correct this. Decided to start truly being myself and hoping I would grow on him. But alas, he was not a fan of Pippi.

I am not interested in recounting the sad tale of divorce yet again, nor am I interested in placing blame. Part of learning who I am is taking responsibility for my part in how it all played out. I struggle far more with the forgiving of myself than with the forgiving of him. And as far as I think I have come in recent years, there is still a big part of me that is terrified of being me. It is risky to be fiercely oneself, but the alternative is far worse. Trust me.

In finally letting people see who I really am, I risk rejection, and recently I have felt some of that. It is not fun. But in the holding back of my raw self, I assure rejection. Maybe not right away, but eventually. It is far better to put yourself out there and know you have been honest. As the Good Doctor Geisel says, “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”

A wise bit of advice my mother used to offer me in the rapids of my marriage was to “pray to see him through the Lord’s eyes”, and that always helped. It is a practice I still use, any time I struggle with anyone. If I can see them as I think God sees them, then there is no judgment on my part. It is while trying to see myself through that lens that I often lose my footing, and sometimes I stumble. In fact, lately it has felt like I am face-planting into the pavement on a regular basis. My view of myself is still somewhat skewed, and those pavement-bonding moments do not help with that. But my approach is to actively strengthen my personal relationship with God, in order to better see myself through His eyes. It is a tedious process, but I think it is working. When I look in the mirror, I am recognizing at least an outline of myself again. Because the way that God sees us all is as His children.

One of my assignments while in post-divorce therapy was to write a letter to my childhood self. It was an excruciating task, because I could not find her. At that point, even superhuman strength could not help poor Pippi dig out from under what I had piled on top of her. Finally getting the dirt to loosen has taken coming to Utah and moving into a bedroom in my parents’ house. It has taken getting sick and letting them take care of me. And it has taken going back to the beginning. To elementary school. Where, in my job as a teacher’s aide, I have been blessed with a group of vivacious 4^th-graders who somehow recognize me.

They “high-five” me in the halls and they call me “Pegster” and “Pegasus”. These were my nicknames when I was their age. They figured this out without my having told them. Lately they have taken to pounding on the desks or the lunch tables and singing “We Will Rock You” when they see me coming. I did not instigate this, and while I find it amusing and somewhat gratifying, I am sure the teachers do not. It’s a good thing school is almost out. But I will miss those kids who recognized Pippi in me, enough to help me dig her out. I need her. She is my ticket Home.

The Savior Himself said, “Unless ye become as a little child, ye can in nowise enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” So if you have lost touch with who you really are, find a way to go back to the 4^th grade. Hang out with some 9-year-olds for a while. Find a way to get back there and retrieve your childhood self. Then defend that kid. Fiercely.

Learned Lesson Number Thirteen: Get Schooled

I started college in 1979. Oldest of nine children, I went off to Brigham Young University with high hopes, in clothes I had made for myself and with money saved from three summer jobs. The eight kids still at home meant my folks could not help much financially. I worked in the college bookstore, and majored in art. This was a poorly-considered choice, but it took me a year to figure that out. Art was a highly-competitive major, and I was just not that good at it. I chose BYU in the hopes of getting into their song-and-dance group, “The Young Ambassadors”, and when I was not successful at this, I decided to return to Arizona for the summer and regroup.

I secured a full-time custodial job at Arizona State University. As an employee, I could take classes for next to nothing, so stayed at ASU. I took French and Weightlifting. I stayed up too late and could not choose a major. I leaned toward Photo-journalism, although music was my first love. After a year at ASU, I decided the 4pm to midnight custodial job was interfering with my social life, so I quit and enrolled in Mesa Community College. Working my way backwards, high school was sure to be my next stop. Instead, I met a drummer. He had a band. I wanted to be in it, and I wanted him. Going back to high school might have been a better idea. But I was sold. Quit school, sang in bars and hotel lounges for a year, and married my drummer. Six kids and twenty-three years of marriage boot camp later, I graduated from the School of Dwindling Self-Esteem and found myself in a world where that particular education held no earning power. I knew I needed to go back to Real College. I had enrolled in a couple of classes at MCC a year or two before divorce, but that was quickly halted. I was “using too much gas” and “neglecting my duties at home” in this silly pursuit.

While working out the post-divorce financial arrangement, I quickly learned how fast $300 an hour in legal fees adds up, so naively settled for only four years of alimony, in spite of the guideline for a marriage as long as ours being three times higher. Divorce Math 101. I knew my soon-to-be ex would fight me on the higher numbers, and I figured I had a year of school under my belt, so I would be done in three, giving me a full year to secure a job, and then I would no longer be reliant upon a man who hated me for my support. It seemed logical, and it speeded up the process considerably, while eliminating legal costs.

I had no idea that I would have to withdraw from two semesters in a row because I could not keep my youngest son in school. Or that my 15-year-old daughter would require major spinal surgery, and that her father would use this surgery to try and take possession of both her and her younger brother. After two years of not sleeping at night because I dreaded the morning, which usually greeted me with a kicking, screaming, anxiety-ridden child who had to be stuffed into the car by his brothers and then relegated to the Principal’s office where he would kick the walls all day, I finally opted for an online K12 education for him.

I found some irony in the fact that twice I enrolled in Psychology 101, and twice I had to withdraw from that class to deal with the real-world psychological issues taking place in my own home. And this was upper-division stuff. But I got no college credit for it. What I had learned in two decades of raising children was only marketable in the form of child care, so I took a nanny job for a year, working for a very wealthy blended family. This was an education in social class and morals, and did not end well. Again, no college credit.

After four years of trial and error, I have become most creative in the balancing of my real-world education with my academic education, both of which are ongoing. As I have learned to navigate the world of Financial Aid and online possibilities, and also with the help of family and friends, I am finally within a year of securing that elusive Degree. If asked to sum up what I have learned thus far, my answer would have to be that I have learned that no one is ever fully educated. The lessons will continue to come long after the cap and gown have made their walk.