News Trend My Definition Of Resting|Actual

^Welcome to my freshly pressure-washed front porch.

^ Yes, it's still damp in places, and there are plenty of errant leaves and wandering clumps of dirt. But you can now clearly make out the stones in the paving - whereas before you saw only shades of grey - and that is dramatic improvement.

^ This whole messy project owes its timing to this green sculpture. I caught sight of it while wandering around a store over a week ago, and resisted at first its siren call. Using one of my tried-and-true anti-impulse shopping techniques, I went home empty handed and tried to forget about this forbidden love. When Monday morning came, and I was still obsessed, I knew I was ready to commit to the purchase.

I have no regrets.

^ Someone who hates loud machines and spraying water suffered through a long afternoon. Of course, he was duly rewarded with a nice long walk, though he had to cool his heels through this photo session to boot.

* * * * *

Saturday morning:

10 a.M. Wake up feeling like crap. The cold I've been fighting off all week has taken hold and my head feels full of concrete. I need more sleep.

1 p.M. Still feel terrible but I'm missing out on Saturday. I need to get up but I'll be sure to take it easy.

2 p.M. So far, so good. I'm dressed and fed, and I cleaned the bathrooms. As long as I'm up and moving, I might as well do something productive.

Pressure washes the driveway and sidewalk for five hours.

7 p.m.  Wait. I'm muddy, soaked to the skin, and pretty sure these chills I'm getting are not a good sign. Even though I haven't finished the job, maybe I should call it a day.

8 p.M. Showered and wrapped in a blanket, drooping on the couch. Someone please bring me dinner.

Hamburgers, movies, intermittent naps and rib-rattling coughs ensue.

1 a.M. Awake again and feeling fresh. Hey, I think I'll finish that pressure washing job tomorrow.

* * * * *

P.S. Sunday evening:

This cold is still getting the best of me. But I managed complete my soggy task and that sweet success makes me feel on top of the world.

I didn't get much rest over the weekend. But I have absolutely no regrets.

News Trend On Writers and Talkers|Actual

"Writing is really very easy. Tap a vein and bleed onto the halaman.

Everything else is just technical." - Derrick Jensen

Some people are natural-born talkers.

Fluidly and fluently, they express their thoughts out loud, reaching for words only to find them waiting on the the tips of their tongues, setting them free on a spoken breeze.

These types generally find the process of writing things down to be a bit cumbersome. Too slow. Too unwieldy. The words stick to the page - physical or digital - in a weighted-down way that loses their shimmering qualities and takes the fun out of discourse.

I think this is a lovely way to be.

"Writing is a socially acceptable form of getting naked in public." - Paulo Coelho

But different are the gifts of the writers. We - for I dare to count myself among them - come at communicating from a divergent angle. We find our words not at the tips of our tongues but from a place much deeper inside, and we need time to let those thoughts slowly bubble up from within. Kind of like a good burp.

Putting our ideas down on paper is a vital step in the process of communication. We need to look them over, rearrange this bit and that, make sure that the pieces fit together just so. To blurt them out prematurely is to lose control over our meaning - there's no way to take back a spoken word and reshape it properly. Our writer's hearts feel a strong responsibility to get the word, the sentence, the whole paragraph right the first time.

This, too, is  a perfectly nice way to be.

"To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about but the inner music that

words make." - Truman Capote

Now, certainly there are some ambidextrous types are clever enough to do both well. They find writing and talking to feel equally agreeable, and my hat is off to them.

And perhaps there are some interesting ways in which talkers feel misunderstood by writers. I'm open to that idea.

But what's on my mind today is the notion, often held by talkers, that writers should be able to talk in the same way that they write, if only they would put down their pencils long enough to do so.

Mmm. I see the logic in that idea. But we just don't work like that.

(And it's not that all writers are introverts, and all talkers are extroverts. The spectrum of social engagement preferences is a whole nother kettle of fish which I will not attempt to fry today.)

The simple truth is that writers talk differently than they write.

"Write a wise saying and your name will live forever." - Anonymous

We can't help it. Oh sure, we can carry on our fair share of chit-chat and conduct business just fine. But if you really want to pry under our hoods and get our thoughts about the deeper, more intricate aspects of life, we might not offer up a spectacular conversation. It's not that we aren't interested; we're just built for something different than the fire hose of oral speech.

So talkers, please don't take it personally when the writers in your life clam up a bit in face-to-face conversation. We're just wired that way.

And if you really want to know what a writer is thinking, you can always drop us a line.

News Trend Spring Break|Actual

Fresh.

Sweet.

Juicy.

Unexpectedly delicious.

If there is a day that tastes just like a bowl of red, ripe strawberries, then it must be the first morning of spring break.

News Trend Holes|Actual

Lately I've been arranging for men to put holes in my walls, and then other men to come and patch those holes up.

The hole maker is my long-time friend, Darrin, father of my favorite boys and electrician extraordinaire. He graciously moved my ceiling fixture so it now hangs properly centered over my table, and scooted up the light switch by a few inches to allow for my new marble back splashes.

I paid him not in cash but in a bottomless pit of grilled cheese sandwiches, apple slices and cookies for his six growing boys, who came along to supervise the work.That's what I call a win-win.

The hole patcher is my new painter, Marty, who came to me recommended by one of my math families. Small world - he's a pastor at a local church and we discovered a surprising number of friends and acquaintances in common. He tells me that he has six kids and ten grandchildren, though I served grilled cheese sandwiches to none of them. Maybe next time.

Now with the help of these two fine gentlemen, the necessary holes in my walls have been both made and repaired. And you'd think I would be ready to leave well enough alone.

But now we have discovered water damage behind the family room wall, and I've begun the process of taking bids for new men to come and make new holes in my walls...These men are called moisture mediators and they will undoubtedly make a mess of things. So I'm also looking for construction guys to eventually come and put my walls right again.

Looks like my game of Holes isn't over just yet.

You've got to gooo and dig those holes.

Dig it uh uh oh. Dig it.

News Trend Heart-Shaped Happiness|Actual

I have always been a sucker for heart-shaped things.

Ever since they were tiny, my girls clued into this love of mine and during their childhood, were forever bringing me heart-shaped things.

Heart-shaped rocks.

Heart-shaped cookies.

Heart-shaped art.

Heart-shaped shells.

Heart-shaped flowers.

Yesterday, my second-born rushed into the kitchen with a sparkle in her eye. "Look what I found in your bathroom." And with ceremony, she handed me over this perfect heart-shaped leaf, left over from a retired eucalyptus bouquet.

Though they have long since grow up, my daughters still know exactly what makes me happy.

News Trend Dear Mormon Mom|Actual

This is where I was working when your son spied me

and confidently strolled over to greet me.

Dear Mormon mom,

Your son stopped by my house the other day.

I know he's been out on mission for a while so let me fill you in.

He looked good.

Shiny shoes,

neat hair cut,

brushed teeth.

I was wrestling with a unwieldy rose bush as he and his partner approached. Excitedly, they asked if they could help with my project. If I had let them, I'm sure they would have laid aside their bibles, loosened their ties, and worked until they sweated through their crisp white dress shirts. But I turned down their offer, laid aside my clippers and launched at them a barrage of questions about their work as missionaries and how their adventure was unfolding.

Your son stood up straight, looked me in the eye, and smiled as we talked.

As your son stood and talked, this bounty of wood hyacinth prepared to bloom on his right.

We had a great conversation. They've been away from home for a few months now, still getting into their routine, growing accustomed to ongoing changes as they move from place to place, working with different partners, meeting new people. Though I assured them that I've already got plenty of Jesus in my life, they walked me through their approach to sharing the good news, offering me a booklet and asking me what I thought about the picture on the cover.

Your boy was confident, caring and calm.

Stepping stones.

During our chat, I let on about you. I mentioned that I have several friends who are Mormon moms with sons out on mission and that sometimes, my friends worry about their son's well-being. Both boys smiled understandingly and said, "Tell your friends not to worry. We take pretty good care of ourselves." They told me about a pair of local doctors who provide free medical care and one boy said to the other, "If you don't stop hiccuping so much, I think you better call them."

These guys look out for each another.

Another topic of conversation: how fortunate your son was to be placed for his mission in this naturally beautiful corner of the country.

We talked for maybe fifteen minutes. As we began to say our goodbyes, I reached for my clippers and the boys took one more shot. "Are you sure we can't help you with this yard work?" they politely asked.

"Thanks but no," I explained. "This is my therapy."

"Oh, it's our therapy too," your son said.

I thought that was adorable.

But in the end, they strode off together, that pair of eighteen-year-old Elders, sincere ambassadors for the Latter-Day Saints and all-around good men.

This heap of thorny trimmings is less than half of what I cut away from that troublesome rose bush, and I've got the scars to prove it. I'm happy to report that your son escaped unscathed.

Mom, I know it's hard to be so far away from your son, with the lines of communication cut to a bare minimum. There are plenty of things for a mother's mind to worry about and good reasons for concern.

But trust me. Your son is doing just fine.

And he totally made my day.

Sincerely, Diane

* * * * *

P.S. Wait. Young women can be LDS missionaries too? Then all my sentiments apply also to them and the mothers who love them. Don't worry, Mormom moms: I'll keep an eye out for your girl!

News Trend Where I Belong|Actual

"Coincidences are God's way of getting our attention." - Frederick Buechner

Peace out, Edmonds. We on a boat now and we're headed for adventure!

I grew up on Ore Lake - a medium-sized freshwater lake in southeast Michigan. As a dreamy adolescent, when I wanted to enjoy a sunny summer day, I would often row out to the middle of the lake, drop anchor on the sandbar out there, lay back in my little aluminum craft, and think about life.

Always, my eyes drank in the scenery that encircled me:

deep blue water surrounding my boat,

stretching out to endless weeping willows along the shore

to whipsy white clouds at the horizon

topped by a perfect powder blue dome.

And when my imagination was fully fired up - which was often - I would stare at the clouds and imagine snow-covered mountain ranges hiding within them. I could almost convince myself that the peaks were there, and as much as I lived my lake life, I yearned for those mountains too.

At first, the varying waves and intricate patterns of the rolling deep captivated my attention, until I noticed a solid white bulge in the clouds to the left.  That, my friends, is our beloved Mount Rainier, and any day when the clouds part and she presents her pretty face is a good day indeed.

Now I live near Puget Sound - a protected inlet of the Pacific Ocean on which Seattle is located. On a gorgeous summer-like day this week, two of my daughters and I decided to take a pleasure cruise across the Sound on a Washington State Ferry. As we strolled around the windswept upper deck, I found myself drawn to a sunny railing on the lee side of the ship where I fell deep into thought.

My eyes drank in the scene:

deep blue water around my boat,

stretching out to the triangle-y tree tops along the shore

to whispy white clouds at the horizon

topped by a perfect powder blue dome.

But this time, I didn't need my imagination to conjure up snow-capped mountains playing peek-a-boo within those clouds. There they were, as real as can be, in all their majestic glory - Mount Baker to the northeast, Mount Rainier to the southeast, and the Olympic Range spilling along the horizon to the west.

And my soul was sweetly, deeply, profoundly satisfied.

The Mountain, as the locals call her, dwarfs the city skyline as she appears to float above the horizon.

As I stood there in the snapping winds, my mind turned over and over the remarkably similar circumstances, the almost-prophetic adventures of my youth.

Lying back in my rowboat, decades ago, did I somehow know what my future would hold?

Were my imaginings some sort of vision or just a lucky coincidence of how my life would eventually unfold?

Did it matter that I dreamed of mountains? Did my yearnings somehow influence my life's decisions, even though my conscious mind would insist they did not?

Baker looms on the northern horizon, close to the Canadian border, and her subtle presence among the low-lying clouds is exactly the vision of my youth.

Ultimately, I decided, it doesn't matter.

Premonition or no premonition,

Coincidence or not,

I am here

floating in a sea of blue

surrounded by endless trees,

tufted with white clouds

hiding snowy-peaked mountains

under a dazzling blue sky.

And this is exactly where I belong.

The ridge of the Olympic Mountains appears blue in the afternoon sun, but their jagged snow-covered peaks definitely make me feel at home.