What gifts do you admire in others? What are some of the less common or often over looked ones? Any you are earnestly, zealously seeking?

Related posts:

1. From Within
2. On gifts
3. A Not Very Talented Girl

This is because, to put it simply, I  really dig a party. Any excuse for punch and cookies—bring it on. In fact, it seems to be the one thing most days are missing, so my personal goal is to bring a little bit of party wherever I go. This has been a life long trait; I did, after all, sometimes bring Tupperware containers of cupcakes to pass out to my friends in the halls at high school. And once in college I sewed all these mini stockings and filled them with candy and just went about my December day on campus and then whoever I ran into that day that I knew—hey, FREE candy surprise, the perks of knowing Leslie Graff (well, it was Whyte then) that day. Because, hey, who wouldn’t love to have someone just walk up and give them a present? I am all for life involving a lot more presents. And in truth they generally don’t have to be elaborate (although I do like those too).

Three weeks ago as I left for a medical mission in Nepal, my suitcase was packed with five types of homemade cookies (I know, call me team mom) and scrub caps and art cards for the team—I take it upon myself to to be in charge of  third-world-medical-mission party favors. I have also been known to step into the role of Love Boat cruise director, knocking on people’s doors and rounding people up for fun activities. And please, by all means, let’s have a good story, or a great joke.

The other week I was asked to teach YW on homemaking. One of the points I made was that the really cool part of being a grown up is the way you get to run the show. Homemaking, while it may be perceived to be a laundry list of chores or domestic labors, is actually a lot more about creating a personal and family culture. You decide what you want and make it happen. If you want to bake cookies for the whole neighborhood, you get to. If you want to be the friendly ones who invite people over for dinner, you can. Your life is only going to be as much of a party as you want it to be. If there is one thing in life I remind myself constantly, it’s to be more deliberate. It’s easy to get rolling in all the responsibilities and general requirements of life and forget to really make it what we want. It requires thought to really engage our agency in bringing to pass many good things of our own free will.

To me there can always be a little more turn up the music, bring on the people, and break out the food in any situation. I know I should probably be scolded for leaning over on occasion and making a funny joke on the back row in RS, but I just can’t help it. I love to see people smile and I love to make them laugh. Really, ten minutes with me and we’ll probably already be buddies and have an inside joke. Twenty minutes and I have probably invited you to my house.

My personal brand of culture involves being personal, usually making something for people—my form of affection—lots of words, and usually a little randomness.

What is your personal or family culture? Are you all for bringin a little more party to life?

Related posts:

1. Everyone hail to the pumpkin song
2. History of My Housewifery
3. Sam the Man

The truth about artists is… we are often a little different. And well sometimes artist are kind of intense. While I like to think of it in a good way, I know it’s not necessarily typical. We get easily captivated by colors or images or textures or sounds. As a grown adult I am often easily amused by things that sparkle and glow, a trait not unlike that of children, and small animals. My brain logic doesn’t always follow a normal path. It tends to be frenetic stream of conscious. Or I can take an idea and pull it in a hundred different directions. I feast on images and sensory experiences and thoughts (this is how I love to justify great food and music—essential artist fuel). Words and thoughts bounce around in my head incessantly. In fact, it is well known joke that the L Graff brain has no off switch.

Sometimes I laugh at my husband and say, “Sorry, honey, I know this wasn’t actually what you signed up for… having the crazy artist wife.” My husband is a mechanical engineer so he is a creative in his own rite, but in a much tighter, technical way. At the time he married me I had disclosed my past dabbling and relatively serious forays into art, but I think he thought I’d stay the course of my graduate degree. However, the sad truth is, once an artist, always an artist. Little did he know that thirteen years into marriage he’d be living amidst hundreds of half-done paintings and two studios. He probably didn’t imagine the music playing till 2 am as I finish up a piece, having to find intelligent critiques for pieces, and being constantly asked for opinions— “Should I paint this pose or this pose?”—or having to double as my shipping lackey.

Still, he humors my art conversations with other friends, and the way I can be aghast at a combination of lines, or enamored with an image to the point of near obsession, or talk for 5 minutes about how much I am in love with my jar of maimeri polycolor navy acrylic (the richest, most, intense deep blue paint ever—don’t get me started). He has come to enjoy museums and galleries, although I know not quite to the same degree as I do.

It doesn’t stop there, though. I am known for keeping my camera on my lap during the nine-hour drives from our house to my parents’ because I might need a picture of that power line on the New Jersey turnpike for a painting, and I jot scribbly notes in sketchbooks, which always travel with me. He is patient with the chaos of creativity; on many occasions he’s found our kitchen turned upside down to make golden 3D sarcophagus cakes for a son’s birthday, or our house turned into a floral design room to prep someone’s wedding flowers, or the dining room table littered with thirty scrub hats being sewn for an upcoming medical mission. And I don’t tend to confine the creativeness to myself. There are endless parades of friends, children, and neighbors through the house as I suck them into my web of crazy creative projects and try to turn them all. I will admit to flat out brainwashing them with creative talk and bright colors.

Someone once asked if it was hard for me to be LDS and an artist. My answer was no, not really, it’s much harder just to be a responsible citizen or a mother and an artist. Because at times being “creative” doesn’t fit so well with the schedules and routines and responsibilities of normal life. Still, I have to say I love being an artist. I love to think like an artist. I love the joy of creating.  So can I convert you?

Are you a “crazy artist,” or are you married to one? Have you learned to peacefully coexist with creative craziness in yourself or others, have you embraced it, or is it still lurking covertly? And if you have any favorite creative stories, do share!

Related posts:

1. The Cult of Art
2. It’s just art–don’t be afraid
3. A New Idea

Really though, I appreciate that extra bit of heart in a lot of ways. I love depth in conversation. I like to talk deep. I like to talk about ideas and experiences. I have a hard time getting through without referencing a study or something really interesting from NPR or the New York Times. I love it when people listen to me, when they remember those things going on in my life, when they get excited with me over accomplishments or upcoming events and trips. I love it when they tell me about their ups and downs and great ideas. And compliments… who doesn’t love those? I don’t often forget a very sincere compliment. They go in a special place in my head (kind of like that top drawer of my 6-year-old’s dresser where he keeps all his school prizes, found money, and piñata loot) and they get stashed there for rainy soul days when you need a little validation.

Then just today I came home from Christmas vacation and found a surprise package in my mailbox (it contained treats—are we getting a theme here?), a sincere note, and cards of a friend’s sketches. It was the most welcome thing as I had just enumerated to my husband somewhere along the New Jersey turnpike on our drive from Virginia back home to Massachusetts that what awaited me at home was a list of the most dreaded mom tasks imaginable—cue unpack from vacation, post vacation grocery run, post office, library, laundry, Christmas décor take down, 2 week mail sort, and an accumulation of business tasks. My night was made supremely better by this personal offering.

I have practically lived the last month in the fleece pajama pants sent recently along with a stay-warm-this-winter note from a dear friend who jumped ship after a decade and a half in New England and moved to the Pacific Northwest. It was her way of saying I love you and I miss you and I know exactly what your next few months will be like.

I could go on and on about the friend who is known for her handwritten notes, homemade cards, sewing creations, or the one who sends the best birthday video messages, or the one who dutifully comments on your blog.

A few months ago, as the RS presidency member talked about the pies that would be served for an upcoming event, I leaned over to a friend and said, “I love pie—I want all the pie to myself,” to which she responded, “You want a pie? I’ll make you a whole pie.” “Really?” I was shocked. Pie baking is a labor of love. Sure enough, that Wednesday night there was a homemade pie waiting just for me. I was so excited—downright giddy—my own pie! It made my day; it made my week. I know, here I go again with the food, but it’s a trademark L Graff thing.

At a regional conference at BYU one of the speakers said, “Our love is often lazy in its failure to individualize.” This thought has stuck with me for these past 14 years. It reminds me to put in that little extra effort, to use my agency to make life better for others. It’s amazing how the smallest things are really what make our days worth living. So here is to wishing you all a personal 2012.

What is meaningful to you? What simple, personal things have made you day?

Related posts:

1. My Christmas Report
2. Posts of Christmas Past
3. I Believe In Yesterday

Recently a lot of things have inspired me. More than places or things, it has been people. It came this fall in many ways, whether it was getting stranded on a flight across the country due to a hurricane and bumming a few days at the house of a fellow artist friend, Rose, or engaging in all manner of deep conversations. It came from getting together with local friends for parties, holidays, and events. It was there when I was working in Cambodia with a team of talented and committed people from all over the world. It was sharing my art in the company of some great people, and it was enjoying the camaraderie of some remarkable people at a number of conferences. I know it sounds like stating the obvious, but I have noticed how much I benefit from being surrounded by people who inspire me. I often joke how when I get together with some friends, it feels like we could conquer the free world, or at least solve the world’s global problems without leaving the couch. It’s made me want to be more deliberate about creating those environments and experiences where inspiration flourishes.

When we talk about language development we talk about receptive and expressive language—receptive being the ability to understand words that are spoken to us, and expressive being the ability to speak words that others understand. Lately I have been thinking about these concepts, receiving and expressing, in reference to inspiration—our ability to draw inspiration from others and our ability to inspire others.

Lately as I have reflected on these people who have inspired me so, I find it is in their sincerity, generosity of spirit and heart, and excellence. The thread I have noticed that weaves through these experiences is how in so many of these situations, others were so genuine; they went out of their way to help me, to value me, to share freely of whatever they had that would be to my benefit. I tried to explain to someone the other day about how lucky I felt to have great friends and examples in my life. They have modeled something very powerful to me— a purposeful intention to inspire, actively seeking out ways to support, and build up others. I realized how much I really want to inspire others. Don’t get me wrong here, I don’t want people to think I am great, but I want to pass on to others the things which have been so generously shared with me, be it time, love, thoughts, or encouragement. I have contemplated ways I can be more generous with what I have—not so much with physical commodities but with emotional ones.

So I guess I am left thinking about my inspiration quotient—seeking out great sources of inspiration, but also putting in the effort to instill it in others around me.
So tell me where do you derive inspiration from? Have you thought before about the energy and inspiration you give to others? What have been some small inspirations in your life lately?

Related posts:

1. Olympic love
2. Do you want to post on the Segullah Blog?
3. The Visiting Teaching Hierarchy

There, life is just simple, the necessities of sleep and food being dictated by what is available. The bus driver slept under the bus, in the luggage compartment; the gas station attendant slept outside by the pump; the guesthouse attendant slept on the wooden bench in the lobby. If you were hungry your food was generally something that had been caught, gathered, or picked—and maybe cooked. If you were thirsty you found a cart on the street. If you needed to wash something, you found a puddle of water left over from the monsoons.

After being there just one day I was grateful for small things: fans, showers, clean clothes, some rice, and a cold Fanta. When we needed to go somewhere, it was easy—we just walked. We walked to the hospital, to the guesthouse where we stayed, to the market, or just down the quiet streets at night. In all of its humility, it was a beautiful, gentle place. To think of a generation lost to genocide in my lifetime in this place seemed unfathomable. The broad happy smiles, the thankful head bows, the children playing kick the flip-flop by the road made me smile. The household shrines and offerings constantly in view left me feeling peaceful, reflective. Even when taking a tuk tuk here or there in Phnom Penh, I saw beauty in the way that the motos and bicycles wove together with cars and trucks in an intricate and seemingly implausible polite dance.

I felt blessed to be a visitor in Cambodia for a few weeks. To once again be reminded that Americans don’t know it all, that in all our complexity, comforts, and busyness we lose things—good things, human things. My heart left Cambodia with new lessons in peace, resilience, and hope.

What experiences help you strip off the unnecessary trappings of life? Are there places that have changed your perspective?

Related posts:

1. What is wrong with food?
2. The First Time
3. The Simplicity of Thanksgiving

I always had this image in my head of what it would be like when I was grown up, married, and had kids. After I tucked my darlings into bed, I pictured myself spending calm, quiet evenings sitting on a comfortable couch,  a good reading lamp by my side, while my husband and I engaged in parallel erudite pursuits, like reading classic literature. as some soft bossa nova or classical music played in the background. The other night as I was driving alone in the car, I flipped to some Stan Getz and it immediately triggered this mental image I dreamt of for oh so many years. I had to laugh at the great disparity between fantasy and reality.

For one, my fantasy furniture was far more colonial and traditional than my current modern stylings (my dream scene involved a floral couch with queen Anne’s legs?). The nicely appointed room gives way to a scene which often involves the ruined remnants of a blanket fort or errant nerf darts. Truthfully, very few of my evenings are spent reading with the companionship of a nice lamp. My nights are usually spent painting while my husband works on finishing off the basement. Or it involves sorting, or folding laundry, while taking in a foreign film from the Netflix queue. Then there is the fact that my house is rarely quiet; beyond the children, the noisy dishwasher drones on, the phone rings, the sound of audio books mumble through the doors of my children’s bedrooms.

I do still like soft bossa nova (but it tends to be reserved for the rare occasions when I am driving alone) and the classical usually gets the boot in favor of something peppier to drown out the child noise, keep me awake, and encourage me to pick up the pace through my chores. The one thing most impossible to capture from my childhood vision is that calm stillness I thought there would be. I imagined grown up life to be more psychically unfettered. Absent from my vision were the seemingly endless lists of responsibilities begging for attention, things and people to be worried about, juggled, and tended to. I naively expected adulthood to be peaceful, to be characterized by the carefreeness only a child brain assumes because it knows nothing different. Even if I bought that couch, cleaned up, shut off the dishwasher, turned on that Chopin, and cracked that book of short stories, I still don’t think I could re-create that feeling.

So I have to know did you have any fantasy screen shots of “grown up life” that have proved to be less than authentic? How has your reality differed from your “when I grow up” fantasy? What has surprised you the most?

Related posts:

1. Passing the Bridge of Sighs
2. This is the stable . . .
3. I Hope By Then I Will Be Ready . . .

The other day I got into a discussion with friends. One friend was recently chided for her “use of big words.”  I was a little surprised at the reaction. I too have been teased by friends for my use of words like “obtuse” or “reticent”; I figured it was more because when I get excited I tend to flip into college-teacher mode and spin off all too easily into tangential ideas.  But then I got to thinking…are descriptive words offensive? Do they really make people uncomfortable?  Do people really take an expressive vocabulary as an attempt to show off or as some sort of flaunting of intellectual superiority?—or do they just take them for what they are: words that seem to be the best way of explaining a thought or idea. Maybe I am naïve, but I think most people’s word choice flows naturally; it’s not calculated for any nefarious ends. I doubt most people are using that word of the day widget to give them the social conversational edge.

While I tend on the side of verbosity, I love a good word because it is succinct; it sums things up in a nice neat bundle, saving you lines of phrases and qualifying descriptions (which I always feel inclined to include anyway). I would feel little sadness if hackneyed words like “good” and “nice” were stricken from the English language and we were forced to dig deeper. Really, if someone calls me “nice” it feels almost like an insult—surely I could merit a better descriptor, instead of being lumped in with the neighbor’s less than tasty banana bread, ugly sweaters, book-order posters of puppies, and odd gifts destined for the white elephant graveyard.

Some may argue that for language to be effective, word choices should fit the situation, remembering the context (reader/listener). While it may be important to alter your word choice to ensure maximum understanding in certain circumstances, I would vote that this should be the exception, not the rule. Human development argues against the oversimplification of language; it’s in swimming in a big sea of words that massive language acquisition takes place, yielding measurable educational advantage.

The thought of limiting oneself to mono-syllabic utterances or a fourth-grade vocabulary just to make sure everyone understands feels unfortunate. I am captivated when people use deliciously expressive or precise words—it reminds me of the elegance and power of language. I will admit that when, in a New York Times Op Ed or a scholarly article or a novel, I run across a word I don’t know and have to reread, paying attention to the context, I like the challenge. I will somewhat shamefully admit that when language is overly simplistic, I tend to halfheartedly scan.

So I side firmly in the camp of loving a good descriptive word. It’s like the perfect accessory for an outfit, or color in a painting. I certainly wouldn’t tell an artist not to use those colors because they are just a little too pretty.  A nice word makes you stop and notice it. Or it pleasantly stuns you with its ability to communicate a lot of meaning in a single collection of syllables. I see words as being tools in a tool box:  a good word is like using a table saw instead of a hacksaw to cut a 2”x4”. So I say thanks to Mr. Fulton for giving us  900 little gifts of English language… and hit me with your best words.  Fire away.

What are your thoughts on vocabulary? How is it changing in our contemporary world?  Have people made comments to you about your vocabulary?  Are you self-conscious or content with your vocabulary? What is your reaction when you encounter words you don’t know in conversation, in print?

*And I am declaring this a “big word” welcome zone today in honor of Mr. Fulton*

Related posts:

1. Having a Moment
2. Oh, the Bomb
3. Learning to Walk

I come bearing humble apologies today. Oh the blessings and curses of technology! Somehow our guest post submission page has been placing all the submitted guest posts in a certain inbox—which unfortunately we haven’t been checking—or were even aware of, for that matter. And come to find out this has been the situation for sometime, unbeknownst to us blog editors. So the mystery of the evaporating guest posts has been solved thanks to the sleuthing of Johnna, our technical guru. She discovered the secret guest post lair and we now find ourselves knee-deep in a treasure trove of submissions (and we just thought you all just weren’t submitting and I am sure you thought we hated your work).  So please bear with us  as we dive into this delicious pile (it’s like getting a stack of newsy Christmas cards in April) and attempt to get back to you regarding your submitted posts in a more timely manner.

And hopefully soon I can re-answer that question with a YES!

Related posts:

1. Hey, all you writers and bloggers out there, read this!
2. Call for submissions: May & June Up Close
3. Call For Blog Submissions: Up Close September & October

My mother has been making daily visits to my grandmother in her retirement community and now in her assisted living center for about ten years. My mother often likens the experience to having a baby—only you can’t just grab the car seat and take it with you if you need to go somewhere. It tethers you in a different way. Still, she manages the daily demands cheerfully, in a way few people could.

Caregiving for the aging is so different from caregiving for the young. Instead of a positive independence-increasing developmental trend, it dips in peaks and valleys of negative decline. There is no finite time span—it just stretches out indefinitely, unlike the way you wait out the terrible-twos or midnight feedings, knowing something else is on the horizon. It is a vast line of uncertainty. There is a lot less support and glamor for this season of caregiving; there are no showers, fancy strollers, cute outfits, and commiserating mom’s group playdates—only bedside commodes, walkers, incontinence, doctors’ visits, and elastic-waist pants.

Don’t get me wrong—I want to lead a long, full, happy productive life. Longevity in my spritely twenties and thirties sounds pretty good. But I have to question, do I really want an extra few years of late 90s?

Assuming retirement in the mid-sixties, living to 100 would leave me with thirty-five years of unstructured life—and how many of those fully functional? I wonder how I will navigate the stage where I am at the mercy of my physical body, in a negative slide. What about when I lose mobility or my grasp on reality—then what?

With this stage stretching out longer and longer it’s becoming more complex. Two weeks ago I heard startling statistics about the financial preparedness (or rather unpreparedness) of baby boomers for retirement. Obviously end-of-life care is one of those ostrich-head-in-the-sand social issues. No one is talking about the fiscal ramifications, let alone the societal or personal ones. This wasn’t our parents’ issue; it’s the byproduct of an increasingly medically savvy and advanced world. People didn’t live so long before, our family networks are now less intact, and economic demands require ever more workplace involvement across the lifespan.

How many of today’s thirty-somethings will be forced to dip into their own pockets, or work a job just to pay the $2500-3500 a month (42K per yr) for assisted living care or else shoulder the entire exhaustive burden of 24-hour care in their own homes? Even with fabulous institutional care there are many demands. Our workplace family policies certainly aren’t equipped to deal with the constantly on-call needs of the aging, especially lower income jobs. “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” extends to an exhausting reality far beyond the cheesy TV commercials.

I hear my peers, many of whom left the workforce to raise families, talk about their plans to return to education or work after their children are gone. Few of them have figured their aging parents into this equation. I see the women of my mother’s generation juggling the need to care for aging parents while balancing their roles as mothers and grandmothers—let alone working or pursuing personal interests. I watch as my own parents attempt to navigate their approaching retirement, still bounded by the responsibilities of having aging parents.

Don’t get me wrong. I love that my sons have been able to know their great-grandmother. These last few years have changed her; she is very different from the grandmother I knew. She was my blue-blooded grandmother who grew up in the Great Depression, but never felt its effects, who grew up in a life of silver cups and “help.” She never once babysat my sister and me when we visited, and she wasn’t really the playing type. She was a firm believer that children should be seen and not heard. She was more in her element at a cocktail party or catalog shopping for new clothes, and she was always quick to offer up the sternest looks if our elbows so much as grazed the dinner table. Now she is another person, one who lives to see her great-grandchildren, ironically most of whom are rambunctious boys. She claps her hands with glee when they bring her Frostys from Wendy’s and eat them on the patio with her.

My boys love to visit “Gigi.” My ten-year-old patiently sits by her in the dining room, crafting origami planes to decorate her room, as she slowly raises one forkful of chicken at a time with her one still functioning awkward hand. My five-year-old hides under her hospital-style bed and club chairs in a simplistic game of hide and seek that makes her squeal with delight. She beams as my three-year-old hugs her leg as she sits in her wheelchair. I find their compassion and patience inspiring.

When our vacation visits are over my grandmother descends into tearful hysterics and I am left fearing the one-day slowly unraveling edges of my own mortality.

What are your thoughts on longevity? What are your experiences personally? Practically? Are you prepared for its impact on your life? What do you see in store for our society? Have you worked end-of-life care-giving into your equations?

Related posts:

1. What Jesus Wants for Christmas
2. cream of wheat, a concert, and Cather
3. Katarina’s Water Pitcher