Someone pointed him to the editor, who asked how she could help him.

“I have a picture of Bigfoot,” he said.

My back was turned on the conversation, but I covered my mouth as I desperately tried to choke the laughter back down.  My colleague glared at me as tears threatened to spill out of my eyes.

The man patiently explained to our editor how he found Bigfoot, and that he thought it was something we might be interested in.  The photo was on his cell phone, a blur of green and brown, and didn’t look like much.

Our editor told him the photo wasn’t large enough to publish in the paper, so she’d have to say no. The man understood, politely said thank you and walked away.

Then the other day another person walked in, wanted to see our editor. Tall socks, shorty-shorts, a fitted t-shirt, long white hair and a pink baseball cap could only mean one thing: A cross-dressing man. And a war veteran, at that.

He walked by and a sour stink lingered in the air. His legs were crossed, his hands perched on his knees as he relentlessly ranted to my editor about one veteran issue or another.

My editor tried to satisfy his concerns without success, and eventually ushered him out of her office and on his way.

I have to admit I got a lot of amusement over observing these two men. Neither of them seemed to be aware that they were socially awkward or “unacceptable.”

But then I thought, do I push those boundaries? The answer is probably yes. Sometimes I pick wedgies at inappropriate times. I’ve been known to ask strangers to hold their babies. And I awkwardly cough when I’m nervous. Who am I to judge weird?

What are your Bigfoot photos or cross-dressing moments? How do you push social standards and expectations? How do you define “normal”? How do you define “weird”?

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Its been a topic of conversation my entire life. Beginning when I was born completely bald till now, when people comment on my younger daughter’s delicate tangle of almost-curls by saying, “She has your hair!” And I will correct them with a simple, “No she doesn’t. When I was her age I had a ‘fro.” No exaggerations here, it was a legitimate Afro piled atop my head—it grew out, not down.

Elementary was a nightmare because it was a time of unreconciled disparities—me not brushing my rats nest hair and my mother taking me to a woman in our ward to cut it off. Over and over. But I never understood because can curly hair be brushed? I didn’t know about working product through the mess with my hands. I didn’t even know about product.

Middle school was a nightmare because I discovered product… Mousse or gel? Shampoo or conditioner? Or Shampoo/conditioner combo? Or separate? Or horse mane shampoo? (Remember horse mane shampoo??) Does Frizz-Ease really ease the frizz? Is using a diffuser the way to go? Every day was a surprise as to what I would get—a veritable grab bag of curl cast-offs— and depending on the weather, the barometer, the Gods, the lunar eclipse, if Mars was aligned with Venus and there were only cumulus clouds in the sky, I had good hair. But usually I had bad hair, and so of course I envied all the girls with thin, billowy locks that fell in curtains around their cheeks and across their shoulders. So smooth! So predictable! I didn’t know about patience, that I would learn.

But what would I learn? Simply how to deal with curly hair? Or to love it?

In junior high my sister flattened my hair for the first time. With an iron. While I laid my hair on an ironing board. I remember I was wearing a navy tie-dyed tank top and frayed daisy dukes because for the longest while I stood, bent forward at the waist, staring at my clothes, while she slowly raked the iron across my hair and hoped it wouldn’t burn. We were a little scared of that. But remember this (always remember this!) it was worth the risk: I already had a mane of unruly craziness—how much worse could it get?

In high school, one of my dearest friends had her beauty school diploma (earned in the evenings after class… how awesome is she?) and we set about trying to divine our frizz on weekends. Yes, I said that collectively. Ours. Hers and mine. Is it any coincidence I was drawn to other curly haired girls? Girls who knew that ease and perfection were not part of the package? My friend would be my first foray into a professional blow dry and honestly? It took her hours. And also? I loved it. But still? Another friend’s older brother made fun of it! I guess somehow, my curly hair was always a defining part of me.

The sleep-deprivation of college taught me that slept-on hair was friggin awesome hair, and I came to like day two of my hair washing cycle the best. A little bit smooshed, a little bit of serum, and I was ready for class. And another nap. It was also the advent of the messy-bun (a no-brainer), and a certain zeal for attracting budding stylists from all the beauty schools in Provo needing a “hair model” for their portfolios. Plus I missed my friend, suddenly far away at a more hair-diverse UCLA, conquering her curls, finding herself, and I longed to find myself too. But my husband assures me that alternating blond and red stripes were not the answer.

(It was the 90’s.)

Sex and the City reminded me that curly hair grown out long, cascading in all its very large glory, was hair to be envied and as I studied magazine articles dissecting “Carrie’s Look,” I was wizened to the stealth of the ½ inch curling iron and finally found a way to control each curl to my own liking. Sorta.

(SJP was skinny petite though. And I always felt like my hair competed with my body. Which is another essay entirely.)

Anyway, soon enough the babies came and I discovered the biggest coup of all: I also really liked my dirty hair on day five, and later, an easy transition: day seven. This self-discovery was then validated by my current stylist who insisted that frequent washing was bad for my dry hair. I was sold with no convincing and professed my fealty to her accordingly.

So when I see on her Facebook wall that she has just finished styling Julia Ormond’s hair, I write that thank goodness she had me for all her practice.  And she responds with a seriously…

BUT…

Julia Ormond has a keratin treatment that makes her hair more manageable.

And a

You would love it.

So here I am. It’s an expensive treatment I’ve scheduled for 20 days from now. It promises relaxed curls—the kind I love, and no frizz—that stuff of the devil. It seems a crossroads of sorts and not just because I’m afraid to tell my mom (who insists Carol King should be my hair role-model), but because of all I’ve trudged through to only arrive here so quietly. I thought quashing my hair-demons would be so much bigger, triumphant, means for a party, but the truth is, there are no more demons.

I really like my hair.

(Especially on day five.)

Do you have any body issues you have come to peace with?

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They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.¹

Thousands murmured in reply “Lest we forget.”  A bugle sounded, repeating and echoing throughout the day around the earth, mixed in with sounds of waking kookaburras (where I was in Australia) and waves on the Gallipoli shore.

Later in the morning, when the sun had risen on the beaches and fields once emptied of young men in Australia, and then filled to sodden in Turkey and Europe, more thousands lined main streets to cheer and wave at the veterans walking, rolling, chauffeured and shuffling past. Flags flew to commemorate in which conflict, disaster, humanitarian or peacekeeping missions these people served, medals were pinned to both the chests of those who came home and the family members of those who did not, or who have since passed from this life’s battles.

It’s been nearly one hundred years since the landing of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) troops on Gallipoli in 1915. ANZAC Day has evolved to be an opportunity to remember not only the fallen, but those who have served, who have suffered, who waited and those who continue to wait.

It is also a remembrance of those not forgotten, but unknown. The Tomb of the Unknown Australian Soldier lies in The Australian War Memorial, visited by millions each year, known by none but God. This soldier is one of countless fallen, whose name and details were lost in the chaos and destruction of war, from just one war arena amongst many. But someone knew that soldier – knew him as a cheeky brat chasing chickens, or knew the perfect curve of his cheek as a babe, or watched him march in line away from the town’s centre. Or realised too late that he’d run away to join the war, the action, his Dad, brother, uncle, friend. Someone knew him as a son, or as a brother, someone else knew the cackle or slow rising tide of his laugh on the ship to Europe, someone knew his dreams for when he got back, or when he landed so far from home. Not one of those people knows where he is buried.

I have a great-great-uncle who served in WW1. He died in France, in the stinking mud and fury of Pozieres, part of the Battle of the Somme. I have copies of the Red Cross confirmation another soldier made of seeing him being stretchered past, of the telegram sent to the Cowra clergy asking his father be advised of his death, and the careful calligraphy of a scroll his parents were given from the Commonwealth’s King. What I don’t have is a picture of his grave.

I know where he is buried. He is laid to rest safely in France surrounded by thousands of his fallen mates. But no family member has yet been able to make the journey there, to feel his etched name beneath fingertips, to bear witness to his sacrifice, to lay some poppies and rosemary in thanks and remembrance. I want to go to France. I want to make my way across the field and seek out his name. I want to take a picture of where he lies. I want to be able to tell him that I am family. I want him to know that he is not forgotten.

¹For the fallen, Laurence Binyon (1869–1943).

Do you have family who have served their country? Are there any remembrance activities you participate in? Is there a part of history that intrigues or enriches you?

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Let me tell you about last Wednesday:

After too little sleep, a difficult morning and a stressful day at work, I found myself arriving home desperate for a 10-minute power nap. Within five minutes after walking in the door, I got a phone call from my mother. My first thought was of my 95-year-old grandmother. She’d been declining since mid-December—most rapidly the past week—and by Monday had pneumonia. My heart was spent from tear-filled goodbyes the past three nights and I knew she was close to the end.

My instincts were correct. My dear, sweet grandmother had passed away. I called my siblings, then left to join my mother and my aunt, who recounted to me the tender details surrounding Grandma’s peaceful departure. We spent the rest of the afternoon sharing memories and making plans for the family to celebrate her life (she had forbidden us from holding a funeral). My cousin stopped in. Then my brother and his wife arrived. We laughed. We teared up a bit, but not too much. We were genuinely relieved and happy for her. Grandpa has been gone five years and one day. Grandma missed him every day. It was her time to enjoy a wonderful reunion with him.

I sat on the sofa across from the open door to Grandma’s bedroom, from which I could see her body, lying in the same place and position as she was when I’d held her frail hand and softly stroked and kissed her forehead just the night before. As the hours passed, I was both visiting with the family present and also texting other family members to keep them informed of the emerging plans. Interspersed with my texts from siblings and kids were texts from my husband. I informed him of the possible plans.

He was texting me back about the plans, and also about his afternoon in Las Vegas, where he was attending an education conference.

As I sat there, engraving on my heart the last images and impressions of my grandmother, I received a photo of a giant pawn shop sign.

“We’re at the famous pawn shop waiting to go inside. They’re filming right now.”

We don’t get cable, so I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What’s the show called?”

“Pawn Stars.”

Some time later, while I’m waiting for the mortuary people to arrive, I receive another photo.

“Monster trucks on the Las Vegas Strip.”

So not my world. Especially not at the moment. The people from the mortuary arrived and I noticed one of them is the boy who grew up around the corner. Apparently he’s working there while preparing to go to medical school. I was touched by their thoughtfulness in appearing as though they had all the time in the world and in letting us have a choice in every detail possible. The moment they wheeled the gurney out the door and carried away her body was surreal. I’ve been there before. It is surreal every time.

Finally just before 8pm, we said goodbye. I grabbed some takeout from Spicy Thai for my 12-year-old and I, who hadn’t eaten since noon.

On my way home, I got another text from my husband,

“We’re eating at the Cheesecake Factory in Caeser’s Palace.”

After my son and I ate dinner I remembered it was book group. We read “The Wednesday Wars.” I wanted to go because 1). I actually read the book this time, and after almost putting it down, I ended up enjoying it very much. And 2). I needed to decompress a bit.

Before I left I remembered I needed to check on my baby chicks. They reside in the downstairs bathroom. In a box. Right between the cockatiel cage and the fish tank full of turtles. And one goldfish (who, I regret to say, became turtle food just this morning).

I walked into the bathroom to hear the cockatiel flapping his wings and screeching. He was in the turtle tank. I have no idea how long he’d been there, but the turtle tank is gross and full of who-knows-what germs. I reached in to rescue him.

He bit me.

On the middle finger.

I gently shoved him back in his cage (the one with the missing door) and submerged my hand in hot running water, squeezing out as much blood as I could, wondering what else besides salmonella must be thriving in that green slimy water. The same green slimy water that was all over my skin when it was pierced by the beak of the cockatiel I was rescuing.

I dried my hand with a clean towel, managed to squeeze out some triple antibiotic cream from what I hoped was the clean end of the broken Neosporin tube, and smirked a bit as I bandaged the wound with a bright red Angry Birds band-aid.

This is my life. I wonder how I would have dealt with the reality of my grief if it hadn’t been tempered just a bit by the odd juxtaposition of the false “reality” of the Vegas strip and reality TV. If the attempted numbing of emotional loss hadn’t been brought into sharp relief just a bit by the bite of an angry bird. And if my tendency to (generally) choose to laugh when brought to the brink of “laugh-or-cry” hadn’t been aided somewhat by the presence of an Angry Bird on an angry bird’s bite on what one could call my angry bird finger.

I don’t know how to answer that. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the heaviness I feel (too much cancer, another death…and those are just the heartbreaks I can talk about). The ridiculous somehow seems to provide a kind of balance while I’m waiting for the sublime. At least it keeps me from tipping over the edge. So far…

So, tell me about your day. Or one of them. How do you keep from tipping over the edge?

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But I contemplated going (which is almost as good as going) (SAYS ME) and because I did, I started to try and think what I would bring that was my favorite. Sadly, this task took a surprising amount of dedicated brainpower, and as I scoured the far recesses of wherever the want and comfort center resides in this ol’ body of mine, I couldn’t immediately cull up anything that I loved enough to set upon a table and make declarations of love for.

Except for my six-year-old.

(KIDDING. I TOTALLY DON’T HAVE A FAVORITE.)

(Maybe.)

Anyway, I kept thinking about possible favorites all day, wherein I made

COOKIES.

And still couldn’t think of anything, while I chopped onions for dinner with a

SANTOKU THAT FITS MY HAND LIKE A GLOVE,

then sautéed them with

MY BEST RED RUBBER SPATULA,

and then raided the chocolate bin for

LINDT SALTED DARK

before I went to bed.

Then I woke up the next morning and over soft blue jeans put on my best friend: an old, thin, threadbare at the elbows and string frayed

GRAY CARDI,

and still couldn’t think of anything.

Sheesh! Dumb brain!

So, after using a smattering of

BURT’S BEES

on my face, and brushing teeth with the only toothpaste I deign use

(TOM’S WICKED FRESH COOL PEPPERMINT!!),

I jumped into the car and drove the moisture spackled streets toward my destination, which was where now? I can’t remember—I was too bowled over by the sky and the way she fought with herself in a commingling of blue-grey and dark grey. The clouds were her soldiers, angry guards on the dark side, and on the other side, charging on invisible chariots of wind to defend her blue.

Wow.

When I got home I wrote (PENTEL RSVP FINE TIP) a love letter to the dear sky in my journal (garden variety COMP NOTEBOOK)

and decided that perhaps I’m just too big for the base pursuits of figuring out my favorites.

Because clearly the sky is my favorite. But you can’t bottle the sky!

Silly Relief Society…

So I don’t really have any favorites. Nope, none at all. But tell me, what are yours?

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My writing is crap.

Also, if another child gets out of bed to tell me something “important,” I may actually start crying. REAL tears.

It’s not that I don’t want to listen to them tell me their importants, but I don’t really want to listen. (Because that makes sense.) (With the italics and all.) But by nine pm, my brain needs to not process anything else relating to a child. I’m serious. Math, friends, book reports, lost flip-flops, guitar lessons, oral hygiene or lack thereof, personal hygiene or lack thereof, pet feeding or lack thereof, and/or anything relating to any episode ever filmed in any season of River Monsters.

I find that my mental capacity these days is perfectly suited for something like Facebook: I open it. I scroll through the ticker tape of declarations. I laugh. I roll my eyes. I like a thing or two. And then, I’m done. It’s night-night time for me. Until my husband reminds me about our 90-day-reading-the-Book-of-Mormon challenge, in which case I roll over the pick my iPad back up off the floor and say, “OK. But NO DISCUSSING.”

And then, “Can you just read to me?”

Him: “Brooke?”

Me: “I’m just resting my eyes.”

There was a time I prided myself on being a fairly respectable mother, I mean, a fairly respectable woman. There was a time I felt smart and with-it and thought the ditzy lady antic would never touch me. But here it is—with cold, true fingers that grasp and won’t let go.

The issue of the moment is not that I stop mid-sentence to try and remember the end of the sentence. Or that I forget to tell my kids’ teachers that they (the kids) will be missing several days of school and need their homework and class work to take with them. It’s not even really all that problematic when the only thing I talk about with the baby when we’re home alone all day is about how much the dog stinks. (Because the baby has learned three words from that, “puppy,” “Sunny,” and “ewwww.”) No! The issue of the moment is that it’s almost my turn to think of a book for my neighborhood’s book club and I CAN’T THINK OF ANY!

So, dear Segullah readers, will you help a mama out? What good books have you read lately? What books make for good discussions? What books could I feasibly get through without having to pawn the reading off to my husband?

And what know you of a hopefully temporary brain-fog? Does it lift? And WHEN?

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A slide show through my December would consist of a mad-fast jumble of contrasts.

Twenty crazed minutes mid-Saturday inside a crowded Walmart in Portland, Oregon, accompanied by overloud, carnival-toned Christmas songs.

A quiet, tearful hour or two curled up next to my frail and ailing–to be honest, dying–95-year-old grandmother.

Faces against windows, pressed closer to better see commercial displays of lights and merchandise. Airports full of strangers. Streets and stores packed with shoppers. Some cross. Some kind. Not a one in any way as invisible or insignificant as they all seem to be to one another.

Primary children and cousins pressed up closely against the glass in front of a pink-tiled baptismal font. A crowded but cosy chapel (or two, or three). A dining and living room full of friends and family. Not just known, but also much loved.

Frantic (and exhausting) busyness.

Precious few quiet moments, desperately stolen from the demands of the day.

Smog. Sun. Grey. Green. Hurt and heartbreak. Love and Joy. Crowds. Quiet. Sickness. Health. Death. Birth.

Even knowing what I know, sometimes I don’t quite know what to make of it all.

Do you?

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One little hiccup occurred: we decided to move away from the city. So I busted out all the races and my volunteer gig before we moved away in June. Many weekends began with me trekking to Central Park on the train to run for Japan or Lung Cancer fundraising or Scotland. I know, sometimes the races didn’t make sense to me either. But I finished all the requirements, and all I had to do was wait until next year, I was in.

Oh wait, before race day came I did a few other things too: moved my family to Colorado, then got pregnant, did my best to stay fit during pregnancy, had the baby, started training as soon as he turned six weeks old, got up and ran three or four times a week no matter what else was going on in my life or what the weather, flew back to NYC with aforementioned baby on my lap, still breastfeeding, and THEN I ran the 26.2 miles through the streets of a city I absolutely love!

That is what I just did, and it was CRAZY!!! As much as I loved the marathon and going back home I am officially on break from marathons. I have said that in the past after finishing a race, and my sister always comes back with the, “Oh, you’ll feel better in a few weeks and be ready to sign up for something again.” I don’t think so; this time feels different. After my other races the physical fatigue did pass and the exhilaration of such an accomplishment has led me to seek out another race to register and train for. I have habitually talked someone else into joining me as well and away we go.

In each marathon I have run I arrive at a point during the race when tears start to well up and I have to talk to myself about why I will, of course, finish. This has generally taken me a few minutes, a brief walk break to recompose myself with a pep talk and then back on track. My self-talk consists of remembering my many weeks of preparation, appeals to not let myself down, thoughts of all the people who have supported me to get here and are thinking of me or waiting somewhere along the course to offer their love and faith that I can in fact finish what I started. This has generally been enough and I plod along feeling the blisters form or the chaffing under my sports bra get raw and choosing to ignore it. Knowing that the glory of doing it will outweigh the other discomforts and inconveniences.

That moment came during my NYC marathon. But it didn’t go away after a few minutes. At mile 16 my legs started to cramp and it didn’t make sense. I was well rested, hydrated, fueled, and had been exactly on pace with my plan and what I had trained for. I had enjoyed reuniting with running buddies from before we moved. We had taken pictures, wished each other luck, shared bagels. Every moment of the morning pre-race passed in a celebratory fashion. I had even taped my name on the front of my shirt so strangers would know how to cheer me on. I had enjoyed a gorgeous vies of lower Manhattan while listening to someone belt out, “Start Spreading the News!” at the start. As I crossed into Brooklyn natives lined up in front of their brownstone apartment buildings to clap and call out, “Go Heathuh,” in a classic New York accent. This exhilarated me and I was having the perfect race. But for some reason, my legs started to cramp anyway. And I got so discouraged. I cried for a while, stopped to stretch and wondered how in the world I was going to finish 10 more miles, make that 10.2.

Along the east side of Manhattan, running up famous 1st Avenue with some friends who jumped in to help support me there were literally millions of spectators. They had signs, balloons, smiles, cheers, tissues, Vaseline, and anything else you might hope for. And yet I couldn’t get over my self-doubt. What usually takes me a few minutes to mentally work through consumed miles of my race. Due to the cramping I had slowed my pace and started planning in more walk breaks. The time goal I had set for myself and trained so hard for slipped away in those minutes I walked and the seconds here and there when I moved to the side of the course to try and stretch my muscles. My friends did their best to keep a spring in their step as I trudged along. They assured me that just finishing this race would be amazing and something to be proud of. They reminded me that I had a 5-month-old baby waiting for me at the finish and they didn’t have to remind me that I had breasts engorged with milk. One friend started showing me texts from my husband and kids. All of this helped, but not enough to ensure that I would in fact finish. My new goal became to make it to a group of other dear friends who were waiting at a specified corner about a mile away. As we approached and their cheerful faces beamed at me I stopped to hug them and thought, okay I have come far enough; let’s go home now. They had signs that echoed something a friend and I had experienced and loved during our first marathon, they read, “Legs, Mind, Heart.” That first race I saw those and it had spurred me on. My legs were spent, mentally I had stuck in there, and all that remained was heart-100% desire to just do it. But today it just made me want to cry more because I worried that I didn’t actually have the heart to follow through. I thought up all the reasons I could throw in the towel right then and completely justify it. But they were planning on crossing a couple of avenues and meeting me in a few more miles, so I just kept going. And somewhere in those next few miles the moment finally came where I let go of my lost time goal and I knew I would finish.

I started to smile again and look at the faces of the spectators. None of them were there thinking, “Wow, she’s really slow. Why hasn’t she finished this race yet?” They were just there, with nothing but good will and admiration. They smiled and cheered. We approached my cheering friends again. They promised to find me after the finish; the other friends who’d jumped in left me with encouraging words and smiles as I entered Central park for the final three hilly miles. My discouragement faded at last and I admired the beauty of the fall foliage and the diversity of the people watching. I’d given the water belt and pouch I’d been wearing to my friend so I wouldn’t have to carry it any longer, but I hung onto my phone so I could connect with everyone after the finish line. Carrying my phone allowed me to see all the messages people had been sending and each of the final miles my dad sent words of encouragement as I passed the mile markers. He was tracking me online and knew exactly where I was. He wrote things like, “Mile 23 in the rearview,” and, “You’ve almost got this thing licked!” And my one of my favorites, just before the final climb to the finish, “Bring it home.” I actually laughed out loud as I ran those final yards. After the literal years of planning, the hundreds of miles in training, dozens of hours given by others in support, the discouragement, the tears- I finished! It was hard and it was awesome! I’m so glad I did it and I’m also glad that I don’t ever have to do it like that again.

More than a month has passed since the race. I haven’t registered for anything. No mental plans have started to form about what cool place I could travel to in order to run a race, and I haven’t pestered anyone about training for a marathon with me. Initially I wondered if the difficulty of the race broke me, but after some time to think about I’ve come to another conclusion: What I accomplished was enough; it filled me up. Now it’s time for a new beginning.

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The fall took two seconds longer than I expected and it was in those two seconds that I feared and I thrilled. The splash of water was cold, shocking, safe. The plunge was equal to the fall, and deep. I allowed myself to go down, I kicked up. I was fine; I was popping and alive with adrenaline. I was eager to catch her eye, my daughter. She surfaced a beat before I did, and between the bobbing of water and waves, I saw brown freckles and big teeth, black hair slicked along her head and down her back—my beautiful selkie girl.

Baptisms always take me by surprise because one: they are so simple, and two: they are so good. This time, when my son was blessed and dunked and surfaced clean and new, he couldn’t stop chattering on about the moment being fun. And we knew, we remembered too, that sudden rush of the Spirit, and know how sometimes that moment can’t be articulated because for once the lack of words is better than words: and you can see the sky is bluer, or the baby’s cheeks are more perfect, or the glow in the room is brighter, or the pluck of a single guitar string or the impression of a single piano key sounds impossibly full and multiplied. And it is enough to notice these divine mutations and understand why.

I am 35 today and the birthday gift of my morning is just a quiet realization: I am young enough to know that I’ve a lot to learn about life, and old enough to be grateful for the things I am starting to understand. One of those things is simply this: that the Holy Ghost is an amazing thing if we let it be. It is a power and a blessing if we let go enough to let it lead. In everything. Thirty five years has definitely been adequate time to teach me that I have no control over most things in my life, but sometimes I feel the vestigial pulls of that weakness, and it generally has the mark of wanting to make something “perfect”: a holiday, my body, my children, the life that surrounds me. I’ve found that there’s no peace there, though. At least, not for me.

So I plunge into my life. I take a big gulp before I go down to find an utter silencing of myself, of the worries and wants that crowd my mind. And I see through watery, refracted clarity the faces of my family—parents, siblings, children, spouse and God, and I see forever, and so I surface, grateful for air, and find that I can breathe again.

What ideas of perfection will you let go of this holiday season so that you can more appropriately enjoy the spirit of Christ?

Have you found that letting go is more peaceful that hanging on?

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But this year I’m putting a new spin on things: I’m going homemade. For presents, I mean. If I can’t make it, I’m not giving it. (This is for our relatives, not our children. Because I’m not quite clever enough to make ipods.)

Money is tight right now, which is why I thought of doing homemade gifts in the first place. But I also had a lightbulb-over-the-head moment when I was talking to my husband about a really stressful issue we’ve got going on in our lives. As he was slightly freaking out about this problem, I was listening, head bent, knitting madly. I realized that making things, although it can be frustrating and sometimes challenging, really helps relieve my stress. I’m not sure what part of creating something has a pressure-release valve, but when I’m busy with my hands it’s like the anxiety simply slips away.

At first glance making things for Christmas gifts seems like a sure-fire way to overextend myself. But the arty science of making soap, the repetitive moving of the knitting needles, the designing of labels and gift tags is soothing and calms my spirit. I think this might just be the best idea I’ve had in a long time. Of course, I’ll have to pace myself and not procrastinate, but I’m pretty excited about crafting my brains out.

You may not be a creative person, and the thought of making anything at Christmas is enough to induce tears, so how do you deal with the holiday stress? (I tried eating the stress away last year and I don’t recommend it.) How are you planning on not going insane over the next month?

Related posts:

1. My Christmas Report
2. Afternoon FAIL
3. Posts of Christmas Past