My Life Story: On Graves and Bodies, Heaven and Earth II
I drove home from my meeting at Marketuity yesterday right at five o'clock. As anyone in the valley knows, at five o'clock I was far from the only car on the road. Cars packed University--riddled with construction--and I maneuvered my car right into the fray. The extra time traffic afforded me was welcomed. I needed to clear my head.
On my mind were the ideas we had produced during the meeting and the work I needed to do to put them in motion. In January some of my friends put our heads together to come up with a supplemental ad network (or primary) for bloggers. I always leave my Marketuity meetings with a head full of thoughts about how to improve my experience as a blogger.
But yesterday my mind was equally crowded with thoughts about writing my life story. It has been incredible difficult. I have never felt so insignificant, so small-voiced. I battle knowing if it has purpose or if I'm just reacting to some insecurity I have about my life.
Then, there was the discussion with my brother about the whole ordeal with spirits. He was pretty certain waiting spirits in heaven can't come to earth, meaning that the story that I had loved, about me coming to my mother after her miscarriage would be doctrinally incorrect. I presented counter-points and he contemplated them kindly, but no matter who was right on the matter (and as it turns out, this brother and I love to discuss theory and thought, it's always a positive position to be in) I am always devastated when I am not right about subjects I hold with passion. I hate to be wrong, just hate it so much.
On the way home I decided to call my mother. Had I messed up the entire story I'd written that morning? About miscarriage and salvation?
But as usual, I was met with my busy mother's voicemail instead of her, "Hello my darling..."
My homecoming yesterday proved to be as awesome as they always are, my children come running to me like I've been gone for weeks instead of two hours and the baby in Chup's arms wiggles excitedly with the prospects of milky satisfaction. I crashed on the couch with the baby attached and slunk into a horrid, self-muky mood.
I went through my usual checklist:
Am I thirsty?
Am I hungry?
Have I prayed today?
Have I studied my mind?
Do I feel connected to God?
Chup has been busy lately with acting and voice over jobs. Yesterday he helped our neighbor on a remodel project in the north valley. We've been orbiting each other it seems, checking in during our rotations. Sometimes life gets that way.
Later on the day my mother called back, but my phone was in the guarded hands of Ever who feels as though she owns my phone and let's me borrow it from time to time. Gracious girl.
I listened to the message left by my mother as I picked up the house.
"Hi Darling! I loved your post yesterday. Beautiful. I am excited to read more. You conveyed the experience of that miscarriage perfectly. One minor point: I was at home, in my bed when I felt the presence in my room. Dad was giving me a blessing and during the prayer I knew there was someone there with their arms around me. At first I thought I was being visited by my Nana. But my second thought, was about you. I thought it was you and that's what I always said after that, you visited me and said you'd try again. I'll try calling you later, I love you my darling!"
At the end of my essay called The Hourglass Theory I wrote about when life begins:
Each mother is allowed to search for herself the enlightenment that is promised to those who seek. And for each mother there is an interpretation--an answer that transcends official positions and public discourse to reside only in a quiet, maternal heart.
Did it matter what was the right answer? No, the only thing that matter was my mother's interpretation of what happened to her body and the spiritual moment she shared with someone (decidedly: me) who loved her.
And right then my mother's heart decided I needed to take care of myself. We sang the children to bed, I nursed the baby until she slipped into tiny dreams, put myself in the tub and connected with Chup for awhile until I felt okay again.
"This is really hard," I told Chup, when we were relaxed on the bed "to feel like I need and want to write my life story but to feel like I might be wrong and completely irrelevant. But I try again tomorrow."
"Remember," he said in return, "this is for me and your children and for the people you love, even if you've never met them before. Will you remember that?"
Later I checked my email and found one from my brother who admitted his sources on the subject matter weren't holding weight. Even though I had set a personal goal that night to let go of my pride about being right, I was relieved that he took the time to think about what I had written. As Mormons, we are encouraged to study all things out in our heart and mind, at least my first installment of my life story had provided that for the both of us.
This might be a complex journey. Wishing myself luck.
p.s. Now that I've mentioned it, let me invite you to email us at firstname.lastname@example.org if you're interested in our services. We're excited to reach out.