The Big Reveal: My Poetry Site Is All Grown Up!

GRAND RE-OPENING

I've been waiting as impatiently as can be to reveal my brand new and waaaay more lovely and professional web site. Many thanks to Shane Helm and his team at Sonze Design Studio for their great work on this project. I really could not be happier! Please, please, please VISIT and give me your feedback, not just about how it looks but about how easily it navigates. My main purpose in revamping the site was to make the individual poems more accessible. Now, each one has a page, and as soon as the googlebot has a chance to index them all, web surfers will be able to google right in to a specific poem. (Before, they could only google in to a category, like "Spiritual Poems," "Children's Poems, etc.")

Initially, I wasn't exactly sure what kind of look I wanted. Should it be sleek and sassy? Warm and fuzzy? Awash in color and creativity? Black, white, and basic...so the poems could speak for themselves?? Completely at sea, I finally wound up visiting a lot of design sites until I found several styles that appealed to me on various (different) levels. I sent the whole motley mess to Shane, wrote some circular gibberish about what I liked and didn't like, and left him to come up with the perfect representation of who I am. (A difficult task considering that Shane has no idea who I am (other than a highly confused and confusing woman); and I suspect, after working with me on this, he would like to keep it that way! However, he managed to come up with several concepts, all of which were great but two of which were even better than great. I see-sawed back and forth between them for a couple of days, asked for a few modifications, ended up selecting the one that had appealed to me most all along, and voila! Shane gave me something even better than I had envisioned! 

(Thanks, Shane.) 

When you visit (you will visit, right???) (now would be good), be sure to take in all the little details...like check out the bottom of each page to see the "roots" of the tree, the top to see the teeny birds, the leaves that remind me of my favorite season, and my little signature book and quill pen. I am loving it!!

Best of all is the ease of uploading new  poems...And yes, this means I will be doing just that, on a far more regular basis. So make the trip often, all right? I guarantee you'll find something you like (even if it's just the layout).

;)

FOR THE BIRDS: The Unexpected Gift

For the Birds

©1991 by Susan Noyes Anderson

My sister loves to feed the birds.

They come from miles around.

She offers them a place to nest

and birdseed by the pound.

She used to walk among them

dropping little crusts of bread,

till one returned the favor and

dropped something on her head!

The picture of my grandson (below) brought to mind this poem I wrote years ago for one of my own children. Doesn't he look like he's facing off with a bird who left him a little (unrequested) "package"? heehee

(Tell me this is not among the cutest pictures you've ever seen!)

The Wounded Heart

I'll be teaching Relief Society tomorrow on the subject of forgiveness. Needing to kill two birds bugs with one stone (SAVE THE BIRDS!) because I'm still busily tinkering with the lesson, I'll make today's post a preview of the not-quite-finished-yet poem I've written to accompany it. 

The Wounded Heart

c2009 Susan Noyes Anderson

To every heart, a wound must come;

  no soul is free from this.

Some enemy or friend will deal

  a blow that breaks your bliss.

By malice or intention, born

  of ignorance or whim,

one day, your trust will be forsaken––

  torn from limb to limb.

And as you seek out respite, solace,

  justice or redress,

beware of the false spirit that

  invites you to transgress.

Lay down the sword of tit for tat.

  Spurn battles none can win.

Revenge makes a mean ally, for

  its price is your own sin.

And oh, that wound runs deeper than

  the blow that cut you first,

for pain inflicted on yourself

  will always hurt the worst.

When your heart aches with sorrow,

  wash it in humility

and wrap it in the love our Savior

  offers you and me.

The Master Healer knows the way.

  He died that we might live.

If we would be forgiven, then

  like Him, we must forgive.

I firmly believe that the ability to forgive is a spiritual gift we can all pray for and receive. Taking this thought to its logical conclusion, there can be no offense of such magnitude that it cannot be forgiven, because there is no act of forgiveness so great that the Lord cannot facilitate it. 

In other words, the wounded heart can be healed.

PS. I can't wait to teach this lesson!

Terrific Tip for a Temple Trip

Recently, my son and his family took a visit to the temple. (My daughter--in-law isn't in the photo because, as usual, she is taking the picture.)

You'll notice that my eldest grandson is holding a clipboard in his hands. This is because his Primary president challenged all the kids and their families to go on a temple excursion and, while there, answer a few questions designed to pique their interest. Apparently, this activity caught the kids' imagination, and they explored the temple and its grounds with boundless enthusiasm, looking for answers to her queries. Sounds like a terrific idea to me, and I wanted to share it.

The outing, happily, was not only inspirational but fun. What's more, the children surprised their parents by navigating the entire experience with nary a fight or disagreement (a decidedly uncommon occurrence). The unique and uplifting spirit of the temple was felt by all, and the whole family had a wonderful day.

Pretty cool.

Smooth Operators: So You Think You Can Dance

The competition just gets tighter and tighter on SYTYCD. What a great bunch of dancers! Pretty soon, it's going to be physically painful for those judges to send anyone home. 

Even this week, it's hard to naysay any of the performances, though I did feel sorry for Jeanine and Phillip in pulling that Russian folk dance, which would have been a lot better if it were a little less folksy and a lot more cossack-like. Through no fault of their own, I guess that little "gem" could be their death knoll, though their jive was lively and enjoyable.

Possibly in jeopardy are Randi and Evan, whose hip hop and samba numbers were both really good but not stellar. (I think Randi's adorable, but I'm about ready for Evan to take a hike.) Melissa and Ade did an amazing spinning disco, but their waltz (while lovely) was a bit lackluster compared to other dances. (However, they are both so talented that I think they'll be safe.) Kayla and Kupono killed it with their Mia Michaels contemporary "addiction" routine (WOW), but their Broadway offering, while entertaining, didn't quite sparkle. (I LOVE Kayla, but the voters don't come through for her, which is why I worry about her every week now, especially given that the judges love her "couple" performances but are not generally complimentary of her "dancing for your life" efforts.) Caitlin and Jason turned in two pretty strong routines with their highly stylized fox trot and rather lovely lyrical dance, but Brandon and Janette took the evening for me with an Argentine tango to die for and a Wade Robson dance that completely knocked my socks off. Those two are dynamite!

It was a good night, and everyone was definitely representin', but here are my predictions for the bottom three:

Evan and Jeanine (that Russian dance was a VERY unlucky draw...almost doesn't seem fair for any couple to have been saddled with it), Randi and Evan, and Caitlin and Jason...probably in that order.

My predictions for going home:

Evan or Phillip for the guys. Jeanine or Randi for the girls. 

CAN'T WAIT to see them all dance with new partners next week. Historically, that's when the real fireworks begin!

Michael Jackson: A Talented, Tortured Soul

I amaze myself today because I am going to write about Michael Jackson. While I was an early fan of his up through and including the Thriller days, I admit to having given up on him (even before his brushes with the law) as being simply too much of an eccentric for me. Somewhere between his childlike behavior, his devotion to Bubbles the pet monkey, the excessive plastic surgery that became more disturbing as the years and operations went by (apparently his supposed desire to purchase the elephant man's bones and preference for sleeping in a hyperbaric chamber were just rumors), and his highly publicized friendships with young boys, he lost me. Frankly, I just couldn't hang.

Having said that, it took me a while to let go completely, and I made excuses for him as long as I could. Even after I quit trying to make any excuses at all, I never lost sight of the fact that his music and dancing, his ability to entertain, and his sheer charisma on stage were pretty much beyond anything I had seen. Boy, could that guy move. And, as Randy from American Idol would say...The dude could blow.

Still, I hadn't felt a connection with him for years...quite the opposite, in fact. To put it simply, he creeped me out. As far as I was concerned, any relationship between the early Michael Jackson and the caricature of himself he eventually became had pretty much disappeared. The whole thing was just too troubling to watch, so I turned my gaze elsewhere. In fact, when I heard that he was mounting a "comeback" tour, my reaction was to cringe a little, shrug my shoulders, and move on to a more interesting subject.

Which is why I was taken entirely by surprise at how much the news of his death affected me. It still didn't feel that personal, but it definitely did feel significant, like the passing of an era. 

This morning, I am even more surprised to report how much his memorial service affected me. Somehow, being privy to the very real grief of his family and friends brought Michael Jackson, the person, full circle for me. It re-humanized him, in a way. Where I had ceased to think of him as anything but an increasingly odd and unsympathetic, one-dimensional figure, I now saw him as someone's son, someone's brother, someone's father. Flawed as he was, there was more to him than the things I found so off-putting, even repellent.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't convinced by Reverend Al Sharpton or Representative Sheila Jackson Lee of Texas that Michael Jackson was some kind of world-changing hero/martyr whose life was beyond reproach...not even close...but I think I was convinced by Barry Gordy that he may well have been the best entertainer ever, at his peak. More importantly, I was reminded by his daughter, Paris, that he was indeed a real person, with individual worth that extended even beyond the many gifts he had been given...and by his brothers, Jermaine and Marlon, that he was and is one of God's children, a fact I had somehow forgotten in all the media coverage and literal plasticizing of his countenance.

I was touched by many of the speakers and performances...Stevie Wonder's expressed belief in God and His goodness, Smokey Robinson's testimony of the hereafter, Jennifer Hudson's beautiful rendition of "Will You Be There," Jermaine Jackson's determination to make it through his brother's favorite song, Smile, and Brooke Shield's lovely and poetic words referring to that song's lyrics. When Usher sang "Gone Too Soon," I could hear echoes of Michael Jackson's voice in each note and was reminded of his vocal virtuosity. And listening to "We Are the World" was bittersweet and nostalgic, reminding me of a time when Jackson really was a force to be reckoned with in the music world.

The part of the memorial service that touched me most wasn't, as some might think, the moment when Mr. Jackson's daughter spoke briefly of her feelings for him. I did feel compassion for her, of course, but it was Marlon Jackson whose words went straight to my heart. After speaking with obviously sincere affection, sorrow, and sometimes humor about his most famous sibling, here is what he said: "And I have one request, Michael--one request. I would like for you to give our brother, my twin brother, Brandon (apparently stillborn), a hug for me. I love you, Michael..."

In my life, it all comes down to family, and Michael Jackson was and is a member of one, however dysfunctional. Somehow, this memorial service served to remind me that we are...every one of us...members of an even larger family. As children of a loving Heavenly Father, we are all human beings, no matter what we misguidedly do to make ourselves seem less so. Here was a deeply troubled man, and his death has allowed me to remember how indescribably sad it was to watch him self-destruct. His fall from grace, along with everything that set it in motion, was tragic. And that's why I had to look away.

On this morning of mourning and memory for those who loved him, my hope is that his uniquely talented (and tortured) soul will find peace.

Some Junky, Cheeky Stuff

Not long ago, I featured my niece's hip yet lacy new stationery line, Junky Heirloom, on my blog. She is still going great guns with this new business, and the blog that goes with it, Mostly Happenchance, is a delightful read.

I am now going to turn you on to another fun new enterprise, Cheeky Cards, recently started by a young woman who grew up in my ward and was a good friend to my two youngest sons. Her creatively designed note cards are fun and whimsical, as you can see below.

In today's flagging economy, I love to see this evidence that America's entrepreneurial spirit is alive, well, and thriving in our country's young people! 

What's Up with Sarah Palin?

Okay, I wasn't even going to stroll through this neighborhood, but upon further reflection I've decided I can't in good conscience pass it by, either. For me, the whole Palin thing is reminiscent of walking down the street minding your own business and then suddenly realizing someone up ahead of you is moving your direction, exhibiting some pretty bizarre behavior. Happily, you're still far enough away to decide what you should do about it before this person is actually sharing your space. Do you pretend not to notice, even though what's coming at you is uniquely noticeable, even disturbing? Or do you glance over quickly before looking just as quickly away, acknowledging the situation yet attempting to underplay its impact? Perhaps you just decide to meet it head on, looking squarely at the object of concern while trying the best you can to act like what he or she is doing is "normal." Hey, maybe you just give in to your true feelings, turn tail, and run away looking horrified.

As I mentioned, I had just about decided to turn tail and run the other direction on this one, but time and reflection have made me change my strategy to that of meeting it head on. However, I don't think I'm going to be able to convince myself or anyone else that what's going on with the soon-to-be-former governor of Alaska is "normal." Because it's not, and no amount of acting as if it is can make it so.

Part of my discomfort in watching Governor Palin's resignation was the way she framed it. Leaving office 18 months early because you won't be running for re-election is not, as the governor would have us believe, an altruistic deed. Let's face it. Being a "lame duck" is neither a good reason nor an adequate excuse for shirking your responsibilities to the people you serve, and these responsibilities do not end just because your comfort level does. When constituents elect you to office in good faith, fully expecting you to serve out your term, quitting on them is not acceptable. And it's not doing them a favor, either. Palin is clearly doing herself a favor here, yet she glibly assures the citizens of her state that, unlike other lame ducks in other states, she is "not going to put Alaskans through" the apparently horrific ordeal of her lame duck-ness. Oh, the saintliness of it all...

After closing this part of her remarks with one of her signature sports analogies––namely, passing off the ball to her lieutenant governor so the Alaskan team can win––(Gee, I never thought of quitting one's team as an "assist" before), Palin then launches into a lengthy and somewhat manic diatribe detailing the way the press has hounded her. I don't doubt that the press has hounded her, and I even agree wholeheartedly that much or most of it has been completely inexcusable, but the governor's statement devotes considerably more time to talking about media persecution and her feelings/reaction to it than it does to supporting her initial "lame duck explanation" for quitting. Somehow, this leaves me with the distinct impression that being a lame duck may have very little to do with her resignation after all.

Don't get me wrong. I have no idea whatsoever why Palin is actually resigning, but I'd be willing to bet self-interest is involved. Whether she's just heartily sick and tired of political life and everything that goes with it or has just plain had all she can take of the press dogging her and her family's every move (a reasonable assumption), I am convinced that her reasons are anything but altruistic. Of course, Fox network would have us believe that she simply can't wait to begin the task of positioning herself to campaign for president, while MSNBC is blithely inferring that she is trying to dodge some criminal investigation that is pending. (I haven't yet heard CNN's take on it, but I'm sure they have an angle of their own as well.)

The thing is, I don't. Have an angle of my own, I mean. I don't know why Governor Palin is quitting. I don't even care why Governor Palin is quitting. What I do care about is the fact that she is quitting at all. I don't like it. I don't trust it. And I don't respect it. No matter the reason, quitting is quitting, and I am not impressed. 

I was also not impressed with Palin's demeanor, though I did feel some sympathy for her. I couldn't be sure whether she was nervous, unsettled, slightly manic, or a combination of all three...but she was talking too fast, stumbling over her words, and speaking in circles to the extent that I experienced a moment of relief that she wasn't the Vice President of our nation after all. And I don't point this out because she's a woman, either. We see women in political office demonstrating their leadership, ability, and stability every day, but (last week, at least) Sarah Palin wasn't among them. (My support of women in general as political leaders moves me to emphasize here that men have lost credibility––and elections––for similar reasons. Howard Dean, for instance, failed to keep the momentum in his presidential run when he failed keep his cool in a TV appearance.) The President of the United States needs to be able to stay calm under pressure...and not just stay calm, but look and sound calm.

Near the end of her statement, as a means of further justifying her actions, Sarah Palin quoted General MacArthur. "We're not retreating; we're advancing in another direction," were his words. As for me, I prefer the words of Winston Churchill: "Never give in. Never, never, never, never..." Quitting is quitting, and the citizens of our great nation need to know that they can count on elected officials to faithfully execute the job at hand, even when it becomes difficult. The governor is a young woman, with lots of time to accomplish whatever it is she want to accomplish, and 18 months of committed service (no matter how unpleasant it might be) would be a small price to pay for honoring her promise to the citizens who elected her, teaching her children the value of perseverance, and proving to the country that she is a reliable person who makes good on her commitments. 

After this resignation, whatever the reason for it turns out to be, I will not be voting for Sarah Palin under any circumstances, for any office. Period.

And I can't imagine why the Republican Party, of which I am an increasingly dissatisfied member, seems determined to champion her.

Oh, Say Can You See? Honor, Allegiance, and Old Glory

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!

There are few stories more inspirational than this (edited for length) true account from Captain (now Senator) John S. McCain, USN, (Ret):

I spent five and one half years as a prisoner of war during the Vietnam War. In the early years of our imprisonment, the NVA kept us either in solitary confinement or two or three to a cell. In 1971, they moved us from these conditions of isolation into large rooms with as many as 30 to 40 men to a room. This, as you can imagine, was a wonderful change––a direct result of the efforts of millions of Americans on behalf of a few hundred POWs, 10,000 miles from home.

One of those who moved into my room was a young man named Mike Christian.

Mike came from a small town near Selma, Alabama. He didn't wear a pair of shoes until he was 13 years old. At 17, he enlisted in the US Navy and later earned a commission by going to Officer Training School. He then became a Naval Flight Officer, who was shot down and captured in 1967.

Mike possessed a keen and deep appreciation for the opportunities this nation-–and our military-–can provide for people who want to work and succeed. He loved his country. As part of the change in treatment, the Vietnamese were allowing some prisoners to receive packages from home. Some of these packages held handkerchiefs, scarves and other items of clothing. Over the next couple of months, Mike made himself a bamboo needle and used a few of these materials to create an American flag, which he sewed on the inside of his shirt.

Every afternoon, before eating a bowl of soup, we would hang Mike's shirt on the wall of the cell and say the Pledge of Allegiance. This Pledge may not seem like the most important part of your day now, but I can assure you that, in that stark cell, it was indeed the most important and meaningful event of each day for us.

One day the Vietnamese searched our cell as they did periodically, discovered Mike's shirt with the flag sewn inside, and removed it. That evening they returned, opened the door of the cell, and for the benefit of all us, beat Mike Christian severely for the next couple of hours. Then, they opened the door of the cell and threw him in. We cleaned him up as best we could.

The cell in which we lived had a concrete slab in the middle on which we slept. Four naked light bulbs hung in each corner of the room. As I said, we tried to clean up Mike as well as we could. After the excitement died down, I looked into the corner of the room. Sitting there beneath that dim light bulb, with a piece of red cloth, another shirt and his bamboo needle, was my friend, Mike Christian. He was sitting there with his eyes swollen almost shut from the beating he had received, making another American flag.

He was not making the flag because it made Mike Christian feel better. He was making that flag because he knew how important it was to us to be able to pledge allegiance to our flag and our country.

The next time you say the Pledge of Allegiance, please don't allow yourself to forget the courage and the sacrifice that thousands of Americans have made to build our nation and promote freedom around the world. We must always remember our duty, our honor, and our country.

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Do you know how the flag got its name, "Old Glory"? The following true account was related by Vera Saban in the September 1987 edition of The Friend.

Mary Jane Driver was eager and excited. James Buchanan had been elected President of the United States that year of 1856, and on such an occasion, as on all national holidays, her father flew their flag.

Mary Jane, her brothers and sisters, and a number of neighbor children gathered around her father, Captain William Driver, as he opened the camphorwood chest and removed the folded flag. Mary Jane knew how much he loved that flag, for he handled it with tender care. “That’s my Old Glory,” he told them proudly. Mary Jane never tired of hearing the story of the flag.

Her father had been born in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1803, when the United States was very young. He had gone to sea when he was just thirteen. He loved the sea and ships, and he had become an expert seaman. By the time he was twenty-one, Mary Jane’s father had been made captain of a merchant ship, the Charles Doggett.

Captain Driver’s mother and his friends wanted to show him how happy they were about his new command, so they made a flag of worsted bunting for the Charles Doggett. It was a large flag, measuring nine feet five inches by seventeen feet. Captain Driver named the flag Old Glory.

“It was the proudest day of my life,” he told his children. “The flag looked beautiful flying up there on the mast of my ship.”

Old Glory flew from the mast of Captain Driver’s ship as he sailed to Australia and to Pitcairn Island—and on two voyages around the world.

But in 1837, when Mary Jane’s mother became ill, Captain Driver gave up his life at sea and settled his family in Nashville, Tennessee. It was here that Mary Jane grew up and where she watched her father take the flag out of his old sea chest on important occasions.

When the Civil War broke out, three of Mary Jane’s brothers fought for the Confederacy. Her father, however, remained loyal to the Union, the country of his flag. And because Nashville was in confederate hands, Captain Driver, fearful that his flag would be destroyed, hid it.

The Confederates knew that he had a Union flag, and several times they came to his home, demanding that he turn it over to them. Mary Jane’s heart beat fast on those occasions. But though Captain Driver allowed the soldiers to search his home, they were never able to find the flag.

Then, on February 25, 1862, Union forces entered Nashville. Mary Jane’s father asked a captain of an Ohio regiment to accompany him home, where he took his flag from its hiding place, stitched inside a quilt. Mary Jane watched proudly as soldiers escorted her father, carrying the folded flag, to the state’s legislative building. Once more his flag flew proudly in the breeze—this time over the Tennessee State Capitol! After the flag was raised, Captain Driver said, “I lived to raise Old Glory on the dome of the Capitol of Tennessee; I am now ready to die and go to my forefathers.”

Old Glory was flown throughout the night, and Captain Driver stayed at the capitol to guard the flag against possible harm.

The Ohio soldiers liked Captain Driver’s nickname for his flag, and as news of what had happened in Nashville spread, the term “Old Glory” became popular. Soon the Stars and Stripes came to be known as Old Glory on many battlefields.

In 1873 Captain Driver gave Mary Jane his dearest possession, Old Glory. He knew that she loved his flag, too, and would care for it. Mary Jane was very grateful, and for years she flew it on all holidays over her home in Nevada, where she had moved after she was married.

In 1886 Captain William Driver died. He was buried in Nashville. On his tombstone was engraved, “His ship. His country. And his flag, Old Glory.”

Usually the flag of the United States is flown only between sunrise and sunset, but Congress authorized a flag to fly day and night over Captain Driver’s grave.

Mary Jane kept Old Glory for many years as a reminder of her father and to honor the country that he had loved so dearly. Then, in 1922, she decided to give the flag to the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. Although Old Glory was worn and faded by then, it was put on display there with other famous historical flags of the United States.

Long may she wave.

I've always loved the sight of fireworks bursting in the sky over the Statue of Liberty. Whenever I read or hear the words of that lovely lady's noble inscription, celebration seems appropriate:

...Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

May God bless and keep our great nation.

Parable of the Birch Tree

I have spent the last several months feeling encumbered in ways I can't quite define. This has troubled me, because historically I've been able to analyze such feelings in my life, identify the issues behind them, and then make whatever changes are necessary to restore my feeling of well-being. In other words, I have always been able to replace a sense of heaviness with what I see as my natural state, lightness.

This time is a little different...and a little more difficult. Because the heaviness is more subtle and less intrusive, it's both easier to ignore and harder to analyze. Since I haven't been able to identify anything really new that might be weighing me down, I am chalking most of my droopiness up to partially unresolved empty nest syndrome, a few ongoing health issues, menopausal humdrum, and hormones. Having talked to other women in their fifties, I think I'm pretty much on target with this assessment, and I've resolved to just sort of wait things out as I pass from one life stage to another as patiently as possible. However, while it's definitely true that I'm in a transitional phase that is not entirely comfortable, enjoyable or avoidable, it does occur to me that while I cannot change the normal evolution of my roles (and body) as I age, I can at least make sure that I am optimizing my health and good feeling by not allowing factors I can control to sap my physical and spiritual energy.

Hence, the Parable of the Birch Tree. But ere we begin...

...take a close look, if you will, at the small birch tree pictured just to the left of our lamp post, above. It has everything in common with the beautiful trees on either side of it. All of them were planted years ago, on the same day and date. Every one of these trees has been exposed to nearly identical conditions of wind, sun, soil, and water. Yet, only one is ailing. Not dying, as the arborist assures me, but ailing. And definitely stunted.

Now take a slightly closer look.

Notice anything you didn't see before?

Yes......? No......?

How 'bout now?

And now?

Ah, yes. It's called a burl, my friends, and it begins with an injury or stress that affects the bark of a previously thriving tree. Over time, extra wood begins to grow around the injury, creating a "tumor" that weakens but does not kill the tree. Quite literally, the strength of a healthy tree is sapped away as unneeded wood (baggage?...burdens?) gets added to the previously streamlined (lighter?...less encumbered?) trunk.

Formation of a burl, then, involves (in any given tree) excessive, undirected, and uneven growth. What's more, while the intricate patterns of the burl wood can make the grain's appearance quite beautiful, the wood itself is made of softer stuff than the wood of the trunk proper and cannot be relied upon for strength. It can almost always be relied upon, however, to weaken the original tree and undermine its integrity.

Are you getting my message here? The thing is...I'm beginning to think I may be carrying around a burl or two of my own! I'm realizing that I've been hastily and haphazardly patching over my above-described discomfort with all kinds of soft wood that promises to please but doesn't quite satisfy. Fortunately, unlike my birch tree, I don't have to "just live with" that result. I needn't continue to add insult to injury by covering over the initial stressor(s) with layers and layers of extra "wood" until I am not only weighed down, but stunted. I can decide right now that it's time to stop filling my personal burl with a bunch of soft wood I don't need...wood that weakens me, however beautiful its grain may appear.

My surviving-but-not-thriving little birch tree has taught me a valuable lesson, and I'll be looking at it every day to remind myself that I want to continue growing tall and strong and unencumbered. I will also remind myself not to be overly invested in the beautiful burl-builders I've been using to create and maintain the soft, superfluous wood now bulging on the trunk of the tree that is me. A few of those "beautiful" things are: too much food, too much talk, too much media (internet included), too much reading, too much writing...in fact, too much meaningless (frequently superficial) self-gratification in general. Don't get me wrong, I'm still going to eat, talk, watch my favorite shows, read a few good books, write a few nice pieces, and pay attention to my needs. But I am also going to pay considerably more attention to the who, what, when, where, why and how of it all. I want to be deliberate in my choices, not diversionary. I want to stop frittering away my time, stay focused, and get back to basics. In short, I want to de-burl.

So, here's the plan: My principal concern will be to nurture, sustain, and continue healthy growth. I want to leave the soft, swirled burl behind in favor of laying in more of the good, hard wood that stretches my spirit and helps me reach upward. Let's face it. The instigating circumstances aren't going to change appreciably. I am still going to be 57 years old and counting, with all the advantages, disadvantages, and adjustment that entails. But, and this is the clincher, while I may not be at the top of my physical powers (and yes, it is beginning to bug me!), I can still be at the top of my game. How do I accomplish this? Through the old but all-too-easily-slighted standards: prayer, scripture study, temple attendance, quality time with family and friends, one-on-one service, being still, being real...and in general, being discriminating about my choices and pursuits...including such basics as healthier eating and increased exercise. After all, I do have more time on my hands these days, and I need to make sure I'm using it in a way that lifts me up rather than weighs me down.

Which brings me back to the beginnings of this post and my wistfully expressed quest to exchange a lingering sense of heaviness for the lightness I prefer. At this point, it's pretty clear to me what I need to do. Instead of slouching around my suddenly-sort-of-unfamiliar life binding up real and imaginary wounds with burl growth, I should be standing up straighter than ever before and healing them...with spiritual growth. Duh. (Funny how we have to keep learning the same lessons over and over again, isn't it?)

Thus concludes my rambling rendition of the Parable of the Birch Tree, complete with rather-too-predictably rhymed moral:

"You can't give life (or growth) a whirl

until you learn to starve that burl."

;)