C. Jane Kendrick- writer, believer, shape-shifter

Scripture Study

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Mon, 02 May 2022 22:31:00 +0000

At 8:30am sharp (but not that sharp really) Anson and I gather at this table to do "home school" before he heads out to work on the ranch. He makes himself breakfast while I ask his opinions on "current events" and we check in on his expanding emotions. Next we spend a few minutes on a "financial literacy book for teens" (he hates it, but I am learning so much!). After that, we take turns reading the bible.

And by the bible I mean: The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

It's five Hitchhiker novels in one book to rule them all. We have been reading near-daily since October and we are only on the third novel (having finished the second one this morning, thank you). We might be done with the entire volume by the time he is 18 and ready to move out. If we're lucky.

The move to La Sal hasn't been easy for Anson. He misses his friends. He feels isolated (which, fair). He's navigating his coming-of-age on a dusty, lonely ranch full of shit and cows, where tumbleweeds are often unironically rolling down the quiet highway.

But every morning we got Arthur Dent and the two heads of Zaphod Beezlebrox making us laugh out loud over my coffee and his toast. And we have daily conversations about the absurdity of the universe and the organisms that inhabit it, as well as the natural laws that throw it into constant chaos. And when I think about my own upbringing and my salvation depending on zealously studying books that were likewise absurd and full of chaos, machismo and stupidity, I am happy for Anson. Happy that he knows the book we are reading is just a work of brilliant fiction. Happy he knows his eternity doesn't require his taking these things seriously. Happy we can have interesting conversations about how the world was created that doesn't demand him to ascribe to any dogma.

It may not have been his favorite thing, us moving here, but I want to believe that how we're choosing to school him this year will be beneficial. When it comes to planning for adulthood I am hoping that a daily breakfast of current events, possible emotive moments, financial literacy (for teens!) and a large dose of the only truth I know: the world is chaotic and no one knows what is going on, is enough.

Oh...and a towel. You must have that.

(Hitchhiker's joke.)

La Salvation

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Thu, 09 Sep 2021 20:11:00 +0000

This story starts way back before I had many other stories. Just about the time I was handed a journal with my name embossed in gold on the right bottom corner, purchased at the local Mormon bookstore for my eight birthday. It starts on that first page where I began recording my presence on the earth--and all I seemingly wanted to write about was the desert.

Friends. A little bit of family. And the desert.

My entire timeline was logged in as BLP and ALP--Before Lake Powell and After Lake Powell. Here is the birthday party I attended before I left for the lake, and here's the report of how the lake was this time, "We camped in a windy cove. The lake was very choppy". We went often enough that there was always a time period in between where I'd be waiting for the next five hour trip through the desert down to the marina. Everything--every season, every birthday, every religious rite of passage was either before or after Lake Powell.

Leaving the dusty town of Hanksville on the way to Powell, I always regarded the Henry mountain range as the gate keepers of the lake. Dark, severe and serious looking, they were the last mountain range to be added to the map of the continuous United States. When our suburban took off south (after filling up at the Hole in the Rock gas station--a convivence store situated in a carved-out rock, a true desert gimmick!) there was always a feeling of dread. We have to pass the Henrys. The Henrys were the Mordor of my youth. But on the other side was blue water, deep as Wall Street concrete canyons, and red rock vistas curving and goosenecking for over a hundred miles. The only place I ever wanted to be--red chapped lips and tangled wind-wild hair, it always felt more like home than anything place I knew.

The story ends with me here, in Southeast Utah, in a little white house built by ranchers in 1948--their brands still carved into the lava rock fireplace downstairs. When I finish this essay I will stand up from my desk at the kitchen window and see the southern slope of the La Sal mountain range, then I will notice the pink rock and sharp canyons of the Dry Valley next to the famed Canyonlands National Park, beyond there I see the Abajos (also called the The Blues) mountain range where my girls now attend school (happily riding the bus each day for hours passing pinion and pine), but if I squint and look beyond the hazy horizon I can see dark shadows in the furthest vista of the western view--the Henrys.

I am home.

II.

For now, my afternoons are dedicated to purpose of writing about how I got here--how I hauled my family from the alpine loops and sprawling civilization of the Wasatch Front down to the desert and up two thousand feet to a homestead of fifth generation ranchers, but not before we left our high demand religion behind, like a awkward-but-earnest band of reverse pioneers.

But it all makes sense to me now. Growing up within earshot of the BYU bell tower it would ring out the hour with a robust rendition of "Come Come Ye Saints"--the same notes I would rock my babies to in the upstairs nursery of the Retro House on Birch Lane. Perhaps the only song I ever heard daily my entire life, always came with a promise--

We'll find the place which God for us prepared
Far away in the West
Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid
There the Saints will be blessed

Did this song, sung to me daily all my life in the foothills of the Wasatch mountains apply to all saints headed out west to find their home? Or did God reserve such blessings for the faithful of the fold?

III.

Last night I drove with the girls and the dog out on the range to spot the foxes and the badgers and bounce around the golden hay bales at dusk. "Look," I told them pointing miles past the yellow rabbitbrush fields towards the barren bluff punctuated by a jagged rock cliff, spelling a devastating ending of the Lisbon Valley, "see how it looks like someone ripped the earth right open over there? Beyond that drop off is the end of the planet. From there, you can jump off into space."

They didn't believe me, but I could tell they wanted to.

And I think that, in its own way, is a blessing.

Black (Crows) Origin

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Tue, 20 Jul 2021 20:07:00 +0000

Photo by Amy Stellhorn at Stellhorn Stages

I woke Anson up around 6:30 this morning to watch the Blue Origin space shuttle launch with me. He didn't know I was going to do this. I didn't know I was going to do it either. I woke up and saw it was almost launch time and CK was downstairs leading his men's mid-life yoga group and so I gently woke up Anson and climbed into his teenage boy bed (an equally brave move, I'll have you know Jeff Bezos) and we watched through blurred and new morning eyes.

Anson lasted through the launch but rolled over and grabbed another hour of sleep before the booster ever returned back to its pad. I sat there watching the entire 10 minutes plus, mostly astonished at how it looked like a movie. Like it was all staged. How could this be real life? It was Ray Bradbury--the richest man in the world goes up into space in a penis-shaped contraption and emerges wearing a cowboy hat? It's weird right?

This is life now I guess. Everything is so weird. What are we doing?

I ask myself that so so much.

What is going on?

What are we doing?

One time when I was a teenager I was dancing to this Black Crows song in our family room and I was feeling it so much. So much. My hips were swaying to that southern rock. So much. And my eyes were closed and I was feeling every twang and every strum and I dropped to the floor on my knees and I let my torso flip around like it was a flag during a storm and all-of-a-sudden, my mom was there and she caught my face in her hands and she looked at me with inexplicable intensity, and everything stopped.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

And I didn't know. But wasn't that the point?

I was doing something and that something was wild and brave. Even if it was just in my family room. It was being alive.

So I guess that's what we're doing--we're living.

It's better than doing nothing.

And honestly, some people are so good at living.

And some people are zombies.

And I know how that feels too.

Turquoise

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Wed, 16 Jun 2021 21:07:00 +0000

I am here today because I have a bunch of things I need to do and instead of doing them I painted my nails turquoise (Ever left on the kitchen table) and now they need to dry and I can't do anything I need to do without butchering the paint job. But I can type! So that's something.

A friend recently asked me what I have my kids signed up for this summer and basically I bought passes to our local water parks and that's what we're doing. None of my children mentioned they wanted to do anything in particular so this is the default I guess. We're going down water slides for the summer. WHOO HAA.

Maybe it's a lesson in courage? Bravery? Confidence? I don't know but I was raised Mormon, so I will have thought of a good metaphor by summer's end. Have no doubt.

God how long does it take for nails to dry? They're still goopy. This is why I paint my nails once every 1.5 years. I don't have space in my life to sit and wait for much to happen and if I do have that time, nails drying is low on my list.

But this morning I went for an early morning walk in the park and I was pushing myself to get some good acceleration in my legs, my mind screamed at me, "STOP." So I did. I stopped. And then I saw a tree not far from me with a wide net of shade. As if my mind and body and decided to override me (whoever "me" is in this scenario) soon I was underneath the tree on my back staring straight up into a wispy blue sunless sky. "NOW TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES" my mind demanded. My shoes came off.

"AND SOCKS."

"AND SOCKS" my mind repeated.

"THE SOCKS" I was clearly agitated with myself.

So I took off my socks and let my feet land on the long cold grass.

With my arms wide open and my head to the sky I lied in the shadowy embrace of that huge maple. The park was mostly empty except an early congregation of birds and a park maintenance worker cutting grass in the northern field.

I sat there.

Sat there.

There I sat.

I thought of nothing.

Then I thought about how I had recently read about a man with an internet gaming addiction had found that in rehab on a nature preserve he started to noticing intricate things like spider's webs and the patterns of leaves and realized this whole planet is so intensely strange and mysterious that it is a true wonder why we ever get bored or understimulated. But we do because we're lonely. We get lonely and shut ourselves down because it's too painful to feel rejected or without community.

And then I realized I was lying there all alone in a huge park and I felt less lonely than I have felt in quite sometime.

I felt completely embraced.

And I came to also understand that my job is to help others in my life feel embraced. Less alone. Called to, checked on, asking nothing in return. Like the maple did for me.

But, right now, I can only do this with humans that don't desire to change me.

And sometimes that feels like a very small pool of people.

But I can start with my own kids, my husband. Even Darla Kendrick the golf-ball chasing canine wonder.

And of course, I can do it with myself.

Maybe my five year old self asked to have painted nails today. Maybe I did it for her.

Anyway, they're dry now.

So off I go.

The Art of Napping

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Tue, 08 Jun 2021 22:10:00 +0000

CK and I have a summer reading goal to get through THE WAR OF ART which is a book I have read before but I need a reminding. Our goal was to read it first thing over coffee together. (We are some of those exMormons who have found the joy of coffee-fueled mornings in our middle age. Better late than never!) But our goal was derailed when I remembered that I had to switch the laundry first thing after I went for my morning walk, and CK had to get Anson out to Vineyard for his second dose of the COVID vaccine. Then we had several break downs in the management of our kids' morning jobs report and Darla needed to be walked, the weekend babysitter needed to get paid, and waffles had to be made.

But by the afternoon we had a good 5 minutes before CK had to finish off some contract work. We retreated to our bedroom where we lied on the bed and CK read the first chapter. It was very short. One thing I love about that book are the short chapters. What artist doesn't love a short chapter? The first chapter is about the importance of showing up to make art.

I sat thought about what I consider art in my life. I've always considered it writing. But today it dawned on me that my art is my life--it's the way I choose to raise my children and curate their experiences. It's the way I treat my home like a canvas to be creatively organized and artfully decorated. It's the playlists I constantly compile to be played all day long. It's the food we eat around comfortable tables inside and out. It's the wardrobe I choose to wear and the laundry skills that make it possible. It's the hikes I take with the dog and the way I see the world from the mountains and lakes and rivers that surround us--the pictures of which sometimes end up inspiring me to make art on social media. It is the way I prioritize friendships that color our world. It's the method utilized that keeps my marriage humming along and gives us both moments of ecstasy.

It's the way I see art everywhere. In the grass and the roses and the mundane.

I have always approached life as art.

And I know that isn't the same for everyone.

And I also know that "lifestyle art" isn't new.

But I see it now as my art.

20 minutes later we both woke up to my phone alarm beeping in my pocket. I looked at CK, he looked at me. Surprise! We fell asleep. He jumped up and stretched, "Gotta go!" As he turned to go back down to his office I rolled off the bed myself remembering how there are many days where I don't want to do my work. Some days I spend the entire day hiding in my room, curled up in my bed, checked out. But thinking of my life as art, and the world we live in as a canvas, is helping me see that I'm not a non-entity in my own life. Actually I am artist, who makes her own choices, and plays her own songs and shows up in her own life. And I am not some brilliant, consistent creator. I take plenty of days off.

But I keep showing up.

And that's the first rule of making art.

Kauai Me A River

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Thu, 29 Apr 2021 17:01:00 +0000

Last week CK and I went to Hawaii on the invitation of our friends Steve and Sara Urquhart. (That sounds like the start of a journal entry I would've read in my nana's journal entry from the 60s.) We were on Kauai. When we arrived at the Lihue airport the Urquhart's greeted us with leis. Also like the 1960s. Loved it.

If you've been to Kauai you know there are chickens all over the island strutting around everywhere. EVERYWHERE. But they're the most gorgeous chickens you've ever seen in your white, mostly-suburban life. Then they wake you up by crowing at 4am and their charm goes down about 20%. But still...loved it.

We drove to Waimea Canyon and looked into the vastness of what they call the green Grand Canyon. A collective of misty clouds were moving rapidly through the expanse obscuring our view. Occasionally the fog would give us a clearing and we'd cheer and I'd take a billion photos. Then the clouds would shift and we'd being back to peering into a gigantic steamy cauldron. Loved it.

CK got incredibly car sick on the journey up to the canyon and couldn't even walk to the view point. He missed entire thing. Didn't love it.

(But we can laugh about it now.)

One day a monk seal washed up on shore to for a sunny nap in the sand. It was close enough to our beach spot that we became the defacto wildlife rangers, asking people to back up and give the seal a respectful amount of space. Two young twenty-something ladies ignored us and continued to get closer and closer until the seal started hissing at them. And yet, they CONTINUED ON. At this point Steve fetched STAY AWAY FROM MARINE LIFE signs from the lifeguard tower (closed for the day) and posted them all around the perimeter, then turned to us and flexed his biceps. Suddenly the crowds and the imposing girls obeyed and stayed a good 15 feet away. So we called him Hasselhoff for the rest of the trip. He loved it.

The first day we were there Erin called in tears to tell us her pandemic-acquired beta fish Carter Mike Kendrick died suddenly. We talked her through her bereavement. She explained to us how much it hurt when she would walk into the kitchen and see Carter's fish bowl at the sink where Ama our beloved babysitter had cleaned it out. "I am so sad, I don't know if I'll ever recover!" she said to us MAYBE two minutes before she texted to say, "Ok, so now I want a CAT." And then, about 40 single-sent emojis of a cat, causing our phones to explode with notifications. Didn't love it so much.

Ceviche by the beach in Kapaa. LOVED IT.

Watching the ocean glow with late night local spear fishers. Loved it.

Snorkeling in the warm water, being exposed to thousands of tropical fish. Loved it.

Drinking mai tais with fresh pineapple. Super loved it.

Ordered spam musubi. Tried really hard to love it.

Trying to find a tropical bucket hat at the request of Ever at a time when bucket hats are unbelievably trendy was really hard. The cheapest I saw was $40. That's in American money in case you thought Kauai wasn't in America (there are a lot of oblivious tourists on that island) (thinking of you, ladies who got to close to the seal). Anyway, I wish I had the income to spend that kind of money locally but man I couldn't do it. So I ordered a bucket hat for $7 off Amazon and it was waiting for us on the doorstep when we arrived home. I picked it up, took it out of the Amazon branded package and stuffed into our luggage with the other kids' prizes and walked into a cheering crew of posterity. Ever will never know this unless she reads this entry someday. Hopefully by then it we will live in a post-capitalist society where everything is fairer and she will understand why I had to buy her hat from the great global plague that is Amazon.Com.

Anyway...she loved it.

My Frown Is My Crown

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Wed, 28 Apr 2021 19:06:00 +0000

One consistent message I received from my community growing up is the binary of emotions being good or bad. Happy is good, anger is bad. Smiling is good, frowning is bad. Shadow emotions were often bundled up with ingratitude, selfishness and well, Satan.

I can see now that these "negative" emotions are in actuality truth-telling. I've said before that anger to me feels like intuition trapped. If you can shame people for feeling these natural-occurring explosive gusts, you can control their entire lives. They will never ask themselves important questions, they will never hear the imperative answers. No one grows up. Everyone stays in an arrested state of child-like submission. True adults--embodied and intentional--are rare and precious in my world.

Still I find myself second-guessing my need to express anger, frustration, sadness, regret etc. What do I want from it? But I know this answer--I want clearing, and clarity. These emotions, when not expressed, harden over time and fall into a pile like rocks in my stomach. Their weight feels physical and their pain is real. From early childhood I was plagued by the sensation of stomach cramps and panic pains that rocked me and left me constantly wondering if I needed to repent of something. God was not happy with me and these stomach aches were a sign of sin. It's like "prosperity gospel" but maybe I'd call it "physicality gospel" because I believed being physically fit meant I was good with God.

After nearly a year of stomach aches starting in April last year I finally got myself to the doctor office in January for a check-up. I knew the pain was stress-related and I also knew I was trying to control it with a post-Mormon style of apology and repentance--not about sin per se, but about health or eating or a lack of quality spirituality in my life. If I eat a perfect diet, if I exercise for an hour daily instead of 45 minutes, if I meditate with more sincerity...

It turned out that the NP on call that day was a childhood friend. I lifted my mask for a brief second to confirm that it was really me sitting on that cold examination room holding her stomach with one hand.

"Courtney," she said to me with compassion, "you have been through so much this year. No wonder you're having stomach pains. Tell me everything."

But all I could think in that moment was that it had been a horrid traumatizing year for almost everyone I knew. So I should...look for the positive right? Name things I could be grateful for! Turn this gigantic frown UP-THE-FUCK-SIDE DOWN!

But she wouldn't have it, "I am sitting here until I hear it all." She planted herself onto a stool with wheels and scooted closer until she was directly in front of me. Her blue medical mask obscured everything but her eyes and her eyes were intense on mine. No bullshit, they said.

"Let's start with you losing Topher," she prompted.

But it started earlier than that. First in March with some heavy friendship problems which felt like a major break-up from a community I loved. Then the pandemic hit and by April I was (like so many other parents) suddenly scrambling to manage the educational upheaval of four kids in elementary school with technology that worked only 35% of the time. Christopher was in the deep throes of a start-up company which required his body in a desk downstairs on an intense hunt for funding. But yes, then the loss of Topher in June which was expected after years of his ALS diagnosis but still felt incredibly sudden. The night we said good bye to him as he lived his last few hours plays in a loop in my mind. The grief from that could barely register before the morning in September when Annie--one of my closest friends--texted our group chat early in the morning.

"I am sorry to tell you guys this, I have stage four pancreatic cancer."

She would live until mid-December. But before Annie's death, November took one of my favorite humans I had ever known, Jen Galan, who also passed away from cancer. She had been sick for a year, but her death had never felt eminent to me. She wasn't the type of person to die. I read our most recent texts over and over again the night I found out she had passed. It had only been a few weeks earlier that she had slid into my DMs to make me laugh mostly by teasing me--my love language.

I can't stand to lose funny people. Or artists, like Annie, who had transformed so much of how I saw the world. I've said this before and I believe it completely, Annie wasn't just a friendship, she was a lifestyle. Her presence in my life was intense and consuming. Sometimes that meant I had to take breaks from our daily interactions--she was that powerful to me.

Then in January we got word that Christopher's start-up was losing funding. We had three weeks to figure out a new employment situation (still trying to figure that out...) all of this sprinkled with a family divorce, marital separation of two close friends, finding a massive Trump flag proudly flying in front parent's home in October, and Iris' broken leg (which now seems a bit charming comparatively).

In the doctors office I stopped talking for a minute, feeling as though I was giving an acceptance speech-- panicking that I was forgetting to mention some other significant trauma. Oh yes, the capitol riots, George Floyd death and subsequent protests, the sudden death of two men I called friends--one whom I had marched with at our local Black Lives Matter demonstration just weeks before he passed. And oh yes, finding that one of my closest childhood friends was on the other side of that demonstration, marching alongside the white supremacists. Recalling that image is like cutting open my skin all along my entire stomach. So painful.

"It feels like I have a backlog of grief," I told my friend who handed me a box of tissues. "You can hand these to me, but I physically cannot cry. I feel like I keep borrowing credit to stay alive and now I owe so much in grief debt I will never ever catch up. I am utterly numb. Except the stomach pain. That's about all I can feel right now."

(Someday I will write about how the discovering and using of psychedelic mushrooms became the only spaces where I could feel my feelings this past year. I have a deep conviction of their ability to crack open the hardest places of our existence and heal what hurts.)

When I was done my friend looked at me like I had solved my own problem. "Looks like you could use some medication to help you get back to functioning." I took her prescription and used an SSRI for a few months until I could get through the worst of it. In that space I wrote a new contract to myself--I will feel feelings by writing, walking, dancing and talking with my beloved, generous friends. I will not feel shame for eating when I need comfort, nor checking out when I am overstimulated. I will slow my life down to a pace where I can feel my heart beating. I will take help that is offered to me. I will go on breaks and trips when opportunities arise. I will keep my boundaries with people simple and solid. This is the work I am doing right now, and it is enough.

"It's been a year since the pandemic and I feel like I am a bigger mess on the other side," I said to Christopher last night. "More than ever the line between sanity and insanity seems indecipherably thin."

He wasn't convinced, "I don't think you've ever been so alive." And maybe he's right, if being alive means feeling everything without the shame. It reminds me of my kids who seem to swing from emotion to emotion like chimps on trees limbs. This minute they are ecstatic, the next devastated, then pleased, the next--swoosh--not pleased at all. Their recovery time from one to the next is surprisingly quick.

Being alive does feel like insanity when you've been manipulated to live only in the places that make your community comfortable. This is certainly because an embodied adult is threatening to those who believe their existence is to please the patriarchy. It's absolutely nuts to me that we handed over our very emotions to a church that kept them locked up at their own pleasure. They taught us this from childhood--to turn our anger and frustrations upside down and smile them away. Anger does not make a cult look good. But smiles...that's the shit!

There are times when I catch my 44 year old face in a reflection and note the wrinkles forming around my lips. Do I look I am always frowning I ask? God, not a frown! ANYTHING BUT A FROWN. And sometimes when I feel brave I make myself look again--it's not a frown, it's my face.

And that's all there is to it.

Still Here ( Kinda)

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Wed, 10 Mar 2021 17:24:00 +0000

Much has been said lately about the dreamy days of women's presence on the early internet--the glory days of the personal blog. Every so often I get a media request asking if I might have a philosophical rabbit hole to share about why women like me (Mormon, child-rearing, house domesticating) were such prolific content creators. I have my opinions certainly, but not one of them can overwhelm the boredom I feel when my own voice pontificates on that subject. And really all I am left with is a simple explanation--we were raised in a cult and the first rule of a cult is to make the cult look good.

After all these years of internet writing the one truth that remains constant for me is that insta-publishing is still the greatest predictor of getting themes out of my heavily buzzing head. My mind is certain there's an audience (no matter how small!) that is holding me accountable. This is something my spotty attempts on google doc journal entries attest to--when I am the only audience, I do not write.

I persist in this space because without it I would be a writer without a resume. And I suppose for all of its public perils, blogging is still the coach I've found most compelling. Internet writing requires an agility to turn thoughts over at a real-time pace which sharpens critical thinking skills and builds up a resistance to useless feedback. For all of my philandering on other platforms, this is the one for me.

It is no small thing to claim that the skills I gained from blogging and the ensuing world-wide valuable feedback got me out of that previously-mentioned cult. Now if someone wants to ask me about that...well, I am ready to talk.

Until then, the fifteen minutes I spent on this boring ass entry cost me three liquid spills on carpet, one dog chewed document, two sibling-on-sibling brawls, and a que of things I am requested to look at and validate as soon as I hit publish.

But it was worth it.

All The Things I Still Want to Say

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Fri, 31 Jul 2020 01:40:00 +0000

Today is the 48th birthday of my brother Topher. He passed away on June 5th from ALS. I fucking hate ALS. That's my first blogger F word I believe (like we didn't all know it was coming...) but in my writing career there has never been a more appropriate time.

The hardest part about losing my Topher is that he wasn't just my brother but my dear friend. I am certain that if life hadn't somehow created our DNA to show up in the same gene pool we would have found each other. We found life amusing at its corniest, but we also had an insatiable curiosity for human behavior. It's hard to find people with those particular interests. Losing one of the rare ones hurts. And when he was your brother as well? Double hurts.

Triple.

Whatever...I know for sure that when I think about missing him for the rest of my life I feel panicked--like I am stuck in elevator and the heavy doors will not budge. Incidentally my fear of elevators originated with my brother Topher, who jammed an elevator in the Harris Fine Arts Center when I was in it, just to see my reaction. That's the curiosity about human's reactions I mentioned above. So I get it. I forgave him. But I still cannot help but associate any tiny drip of claustrophobia with an elevator.

I fucking hate elevators.

Do you know what's funny? The corniest thing about all of this (which I can chuckle about when I conjure up the ghost of my brother) is that I have turned into one of those cliche characters in some melodramatic depression-era three act who refuses to entertain any mention of the person they loved and lost. I simply cannot allow anything that reminds me of his absence in my life. Do not turn on Xanadu around me, for instance, because you will see me close my ears and mutter repeatedly, "We don't do Xanadu anymore. We don't do it. Nooope."

And when the grief waves roll in I go stiff like an weathered and hardened soul on stage left wearing a fedora, brown bagging it, delivering a spitty monologue in a cold spotlight. I cannot go there. Allowing for the grief is not in the cards. There's a pandemic! The death of white supremacy! The last gasp of a three-ring circus in the White House! A collapse of the largest global economy! I will not allow my heart to feel anymore! I will go on disconnected and drowning in my own Scandinavian stoicism!

But Topher man, he is everywhere. He's in the new Taylor Swift album, applauding The Chicks snickering return, and suggesting the authenticity of Perfume Genius. He's attentively laughing at the ridiculous last performances of gasping white supremacists showing up at their local events to get their racism on record. He's bellowing at the anti-mask conspiracy theorists at the Utah County commissioners' meetings (anything more corny than conspiracy theorists?). He's in Jennifer Aniston's performance in the Morning Show (because she's basically playing his wife Lisa) and he's the reason why weird things keep happening around here--like lights coming on and off and objects showing up with no explanation.

And there he was today, his birthday, eyeing the article in the magazine I read about Shakespeare's writings on loss during a pandemic. How perfectly romantic for Toph--to die during a plague, a subject his hero often sited throughout his most popular plays like Romeo And Juliet, King Lear, The Tempest, Othello. My mind reminds me of the time we wandered around London together in Hyde Park when I was sixteen and he was twenty-one. I remember him choosing a bus bound for Stratford-Upon-Avon over a day spent eating newspaper-wrapped fish-and-chips in Leicester Square with me and our parents and grandma. "He must really love Shakespeare," I realized as I watched the bus gust out of our sites.

He is everywhere (says the monologue guy in the spotlight, but also me, the adoring, little sister).

He is everywhere.

And yet, I miss him.

So fucking much.

Mother of Dragons

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Mon, 27 Apr 2020 15:01:00 +0000

Maybe people with chronic loneliness suffer from an impeccable awareness of reality--their only problem being that they can see how lonely it is to be human.

Maybe on a subconscious level women create the energy they desire when they gestate other human beings. Maybe we're all just living, breathing, physical manifestations of our mother's greatest hopes.

Maybe sometimes mothers create dragons. Because they need a dragon.

Maybe sometimes mothers need a whole pack of dragons. Because they need live among powerful and wild things.

Maybe mothers are afraid of the fire-blowing, fearless dragons they created. Maybe they cannot understand what their subconscious conceived. Or why.

But I think they know.

Even if they don't want to know.

Maybe people with chronic loneliness are dragons with mothers who choose not to understand what they created.

Maybe?

Troubles Are All the Same

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Fri, 24 Apr 2020 17:15:00 +0000

CK and I have been watching CHEERS every night for the past few months. It's good to watch just before bed during a pandemic because you have to have something to turn your brain off from fight or flight. Something tepid. Something bland. Cheers is your answer because it's literally the same storyline every single season. So if you sleep through a whole six or seven episodes it's no big deal. You turn it on, watch maybe two episodes and then you fall asleep and wake up hours later to Netflix asking if you're "still watching." That's when you turn it off and the next evening you pick up wherever Netflix shamed you and nothing's lost! Diane and Sam are still fighting, Woody is a darling dimwit, Norm is sexist and sad, and Cliff is awkward and yapping about his trip to Florida. And Carla is about to punch somebody...just because.

There really aren't any redeeming characters on this show. And the comedy barely registers as funny unless you are really, really tired and then it's mildly comical. If we find ourselves chuckling though an episode we know we must have had an extra long day and we're at the breaking point. What's actually funny is when it registers that we're watching it, obsessively, to get through a pandemic. Ha ha ha WHAT?!!

Last night I yelled at Diane every single time she got on the screen. My friend Jenny suggested I react negatively to Diane because she reminds me of the white lady feminism that I'm battling in my own soul (and culture). This is probably true. Even more depressing is how freaking hot I find Sam Malone to be as he prances around the bar wiping things and making drinks and eating things (he's always eating something) and treating women like trash.

It's also a good reminder that white people, as a whole, are a pretty self-absorbed, banal bunch. I can see why non-white people don't hang out at that bar very often. It's like they're actually serving White People Problems on tap. Sadly this is really making me rethink why I watch this show at all.

I do like the clothes though! Their Bostonian preppy looks have motivated me to purchase some CHEERS-inspired pieces for my own wardrobe. The rampant use of black & white buffalo plaid have made me drool. And Carla's mom jeans are perfection, for example.

But! That classic theme song right? So so so good. We never skip the intro (unless we're asleep!) and we try very hard to sing the whole thing word for word. And sometimes we watch four, five (they're short...and brain numbing remember?) some nights and sing it every time.

However, there's a section of lyrics in that song that I cannot get right. No matter how hard I try. It's like my mouth becomes a salad spinner and I toss out words in random order. Why? Why CHEERS? Why Sam Malone? Why Woody? Why can't I get those lyrics right? Why Cliff Clavin?

Anyway watching me earnestly try to get that song right makes Christopher laugh really hard. Like, he laughs harder at my very earnest attempts than anything in the actual sitcom (not hard). So I've decided that my quarantine goal is to come out of this experience being able to sing the CHEERS theme song with confidence and perfection. CK and COVID-19 be damned.

Ok, my kid needs my laptop now to do a Zoom meeting. What a world right? Carla Tortelli wouldn't put up with this crap.

Adapting

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Thu, 23 Apr 2020 14:55:00 +0000

This quarantine, man. It's breaking me down.

I keep thinking about this idea that those who fare best in a crisis are those who adapt the fastest.

So what does adapting mean?

Because am I adapting to a temporary situation that will only last another month? Or am I adapting to a time period where things are weird for a year or so? Or is this an entirely new lifestyle?

Am I supposed to adapt without great intel? And not trusting the leaders who are supposed to be rallying us all? (I do not trust good ol' boys clubs anymore. I will not vote for their club members and I will not believe a word out of their lying mouths.)

Am I to adapt to being the weird aunt on facebook who is seemingly yelling into the void about things that make me seem like a doomsday prophet (of one)?

I do not know. I am not adapting well I guess you could say.

But I also keep thinking about that THIS AMERICAN LIFE episode where this scientist decides that we need to stop having big yards with grass that artificially requires so much water and she posts a sign up in her yard that says something like, "This yard is returning back to its natural state, thank you for your patience." And then she just let's her yard go wild, untethered to class warfare ("my lawn says this about how rich I am"), trusting that nature knows how to return after it's been abused of it's own intelligence.

And these two thoughts together make me think that "adapting" during quarantine is work of that lawn. Those who use it to go back to their roots--I mean, all the way back to when we were wild things born free and curious--will endure and come out of it stronger, fiercer, fueled by compassion and needing less artificial validation.

Like people who emerged from the great flu and fueled the roaring 20s.

I have some hope for wild times ahead.

But first I have a remarkable amount of untethering to do.

And yes, it's breaking me down.

Super Zoom

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Tue, 24 Mar 2020 00:16:00 +0000

Super Bloom by Annie K. Blake

In a very sexy attempt to keep our promised date nights going hot, Christopher and I planned a Friday night date-in (oh gawd, so corny) last weekend. We grabbed the new Emma from the ether, some food, some drink and some other stuff you don't need to know about (mind your own business reader!) and headed upstairs to our bedroom where we locked the door with an anticipated gusto.

Before we got the heat on, we joined up with some friends via Zoom. It is all the rage these days. If you're reading this now, it might seem banal to mention, afterall everyone is doing it! But in the future, scientists are going to want to know what means people used to stay sane under such duress, and they'll find this lowly blog and have a piece to the puzzle. Zoom, Dear Scientists, that's your answer, we met up on Zoom.

At the appointed hour we took our usual group text to the next stage and met up on laptops two-by-two to make four couples in total. Well, almost. One couple was choosing to social distance in other rooms because one of the partner was sick and that's how romance goes these days (take note again, Scientists.)

What I didn't expect from this meet up though was how emotional it felt to see my friends' faces as they appeared on the screen. Is it me or do I have the most beautiful friends? Even at the end of the world, weary and covered with stress, showing up in pajamas, some still wrangling children, some in utter zen from meditative practice, they were all lovely. I mean, it hadn't been a week since I saw them last, but still.

Dear Scientists, time is very weird here in this quarantine. We call it, quarantime. Quarantime means the clock is meaningless and time is more like a feeling. It's only been five days since I saw my friends but it feels like five months, therefore, five quarantime days means five months. See the math? And even though I am a classic introvert and shine during times like this, I am afraid that when I see them again and our flesh is allowed to touch, I will get them all pregnant with my abundance of excitement.

But the Zoom meet up...well it went on into the evening. We talked about everything in ways we never really couldn't before because we never had hours to sit in front of our latptops with nothing to do but talk to each other. Our experiences were really incredible--laying off a work force, recovering from strep in the middle of pandemic, helping teenagers in social isolation, etc. Then we started telling stories we hadn't told each other before which definitely hit an apex with story about one person skiing with a porn star topless when he was a teenager. I mean, that's not bad date night material am I right?

We went so long that a couple of us fell asleep on camera. Some of us didn't have shirts on in the end. And a few of us were left wondering who was going to last the longest. It was like we didn't dare say goodbye because what would tomorrow bring? More aftershocks? More pandemic? More weird religious trauma? In quarantime, the Zoom meet up was one thousand years. Battles were fought and won, babies were born, children grew, women went dry, men's beards turned white and crispy.

(We didn't get to Emma, suffices to say.)

There was nothing left to do but say good bye and promise we'd meet again--same time, same place, some time in the next quarantime century.

And only the future Scientists reading today will know what all of this meant for humanity--the social distancing, the upstairs date nights, the Zoom meet ups, the grandparents smiling back at Facetime sending their love from up the street or hundreds of miles away--because we sure don't.

We're just doing our best to Zoom where we're planted.

(Sorry, I had to do it.)

Remnants

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Fri, 20 Mar 2020 06:08:00 +0000

We Live in the Valleys by Annie K. Blake

Uncoupling yourself from a high-demand religion like Mormonism is laborious and traumatic. Every day it seems something will drift ashore--a superstition, a myth, a lie, a belief, a half-truth, a ritual, a prophecy--that begs to be examined and either kept, or tossed (angrily) back out to sea. It's spring cleaning a closet that hasn't ever been maintained--finding the clothes you once wore proudly, wondering why you ever thought they looked good on you in the first place.

This past week I have found ghosts of Mormonism hanging around, reminding me of heritage and heresy. Food storage for one--a prophetic practice requiring obedience pressed by low-grade panic. As a young girl I remember hearing women confessing to and repenting for slacking on their food hoarding duties. Should Jesus come with furor and glory, and there were no cans of corn in your basement pantry you, Mother in Zion, might not make it back with him.

Obedience, I was taught, was the first law of heaven. (Toss!)

But I also remember the day Sister Houston prayed to Heavenly Mother in sacrament meeting. I remember the way my ears burned when she included a female deity in her supplication before the congregation. I remember the stiff awkwardness of the echoing "amens" when she walked from the pulpit to the pew. I was young at that time, maybe eight, but I knew we did not talk of two things as Mormons: our polygamist past, and a Heavenly Mother.

I don't remember being baptized, or confirmed with the Gift of the Holy Ghost as an eight-year-old. I cannot remember much about Mormonism from early on, really. My mind has seemed to sift through old memories and discarded much for lack of space. But Sister Houston praying to Heavenly Mother has remained, emblazoned, a fuzzy tape of imagery I can play when I need to recall. It was an experience I came to see as essential to who I am today.

Today.

Today I sat with my children, each of them, alone for an hour just to see them. They told me about their anxieties, they asked me their questions (this is such a confusing time!), they showed me their favorite youtube videos. Some of them cried and asked to be held. One wanted me to sit by while she wrote her feelings down. We read books together, Ender's Game for Anson, Babysitters Club for Ever, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle for Erin (which we finished today, and decided "it wasn't for us") and Junie B. Jones for Iris. (In a time of pandemic aren't we so very glad we have Junie B. Freaking Jones?)

This is one good thing about being quarantined with the rest of the country. And I deeply appreciated it. But as we were cleaning up for the day, a wave of my Mormon past crashed hard against my chest. It was a bout of anger that didn't subside. It swelled and almost took me out entirely. I headed to my room for a some space to hear and decipher the narrative running through my head.

Where is she? The mother? The maternal presence who comforts? The powerful being who rights the wrongs, feeds the hungry, cradles the confused? Was it her that made the earth quake yesterday? Does she allow an entire planet to be sieged by sickness or does she administer the cure? Who is she? Where is she? And why, no matter how long it's been since I've subscribed to dogma, do I always feel like she's there but elusive? As if I miss her.

I miss her.

And I need her.

And that's what washed up on the shore today.

The Day of the Earthquake

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Thu, 19 Mar 2020 05:29:00 +0000

New Earth by Annie K. Blake

I woke up this morning at 5:15.

Something isn't right.

I thought.

I couldn't remember exactly what it was.

The thing that makes my jaw clench when I am sleeping, and grind my teeth during the day.

I got up to hear the rain falling hard off my back window. I opened it and listened to the rain for a bit. The entire world was dark gray.

Something is wrong.

I thought again.

Then I remembered--we are living in a global pandemic. We are social distancing--self-quarantined in our house not knowing for how long. How nice of my brain to make me forget for a minute.

I got back in bed and positioned myself against Christopher's chest ("home" I call it) and fell back asleep.

Two hours later I woke up to the sloshy, swervy sensation of being on a boat battered by waves.

I know this.

Earthquake.

My heart nearly disregarded it's rib cage. I started to cry and heave.

What is going on?

The girls were still asleep. Anson seemed unphased. CK went back to sleep.

But I couldn't breathe.

I felt like someone had injected lightening into my veins and I was sizzling and seizing with anxious maternal power. It took nearly all day for it to dissipate.

The quake registered as 5.7 big for Utah. However, having been taught growing up that the Wasatch Fault line could collapse at any minute weighted the experience with added panic.

Is this...THE ONE?

Is this the one before THE ONE?

We listened to the recommendations: if we have another quake, remember to keep social distancing protocol during evacuation.

A reminder of a layered, shared trauma.

We filled our bathtub with water, and jugs, and a rain barrel.

We put shoes and coats by our beds.

We pulled our car out of the carport.

We put provisions in the car.

We did a family earth quake drill.

What else was there to do today?

I don't know.

Time is really strange in this space.

Nothing feels right, like the weeks before birth, when everything becomes unknowable or unrecognizable. And definitely uncomfortable. I think it's nesting?

Is that what it is?

A cousin tweets his wife is going into labor amid the aftershocks rippling the valley floor. We send our positive manifestations enough to combat the loneliness of having a baby when the world is turned upside down.

Hours later he updates: IT'S A GIRL!!!

The busy street in front of our house is desolate.

Ever waves at her best friend from across the road.

I am so sorry, I tell her, I wish I could let you play.

How odd that we are doing the work of saving each other from each other.

We pick up flour from a kind stranger who offered her surplus when I tweeted about finding all grocery stores totally cleaned out. I offer to pay for it, but she replies, "Nah... just keep preaching truth."

I end the day with an teeny sensation of hope.

Maybe this is what burning it all down feels like?

Maybe this is the start of a new earth?

A new flicker in the darkness that grows and explodes into--

something

that

is right.

On The Day I Turned Forty-Three

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Tue, 17 Mar 2020 21:59:00 +0000

Last Wednesday I turned 43 years old. As a present to myself I kept my kids at home for the morning and insisted that we build a nest of couches, blankets and pillows for the express purpose to be close together. This was a designated space where I could look at their faces and into their eyes and really see them and who they are becoming. My babies are changing and growing underneath my consciousness it seems. Let me call them babies. They still feel that way.

I realize it wasn't the most efficient way to parent kids who should be at school. I did send them to their classrooms after we had lunch together. But in the morning, I watched them absolutely giddy at the prospects of being together like that for a little while with nothing else to do but be smooshed and smashed together. That was all I wanted for my birthday.

Well, not all I wanted. I also checked into a hotel in Park City alone. Giving me time to be by myself is always a welcome gift to me, and it's nice to know myself well enough at this point to make it happen. I will also take alone time with Christopher, and loved it when he came up to visit with friends at the Montage where we went to a lounge show that evening, ate cheeses and had smokey drinks. I even experienced my first cigar on the grand veranda, feeling the dry chill of mountain air tinged with Spring. It was perhaps one of the best days I've ever lived.

But March 11, 2020 will always go down as the day America really started waking up to the reality of COVID-19. It was the day of the deluge. The NBA ended its season. Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson announced they were sick. Trump announced the first social distancing measures. It was the day life would never, ever be the same again.

I am not panicked. I am not too anxious (a little maybe). But I do feel an immense call to write. I am watching my friends answer to the same call. We are sending essays back-and-forth. Artist friends are back to creating. I've watched my friends bloom in these few days with creativity and intense thought experiments. I have never been more proud to have such wild and intelligent friends. Currently, I am writing as I put out little fires here and there for my kids--all quarantined together in a household built for a big Mormon family to last until Jesus comes again.

I want to write so many essays, as if I was holding back for a time like this--a space in my life where there would be nothing left to do but witness and write. It is a gift, but it comes with concern for those who don't have the luxury to be at home. I sincerely cling to the political calls of bailing out American's families, no matter how small or big. What good is hording money at a time like this?

Had I known this coming? Did some maternal intuition insist on keeping my children home with me, on the morning of last Wednesday when we had the slim remains of a normal life? I think so. I will always consider that the last moment before the world changed for us.

What a gift.

It Is Enough

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Mon, 28 Oct 2019 22:10:00 +0000

From Toni Morrison, "At some point in life, the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough."

It seems like I've written this essay one hundred times-but it keeps being asked to be written.

This morning I went for a walk in the park. Strolling down the lane, birch leaves in their golden costumes commanded my attention. I noticed them departing from their previous attachments dancing wildly to the ground. I knew the leaves had waited all their short organic lives for this one great performance. And I, the lone audience member, the sole witness, was wonderfully impressed. I wrote a rave review in my heart.

"FIVE STAR PERFORMANCE! ALL RISE FOR THE OLDEST PERFORMANCE IN HISTORY STILL ENCHANTING HUMANS MILLIONS OF YEARS LATER."

There were kids on the playground shooting hoops in the icy air. I noticed their puffs of breath coming out of their hoodies like little bipedal dragons. Did I send my kids off this morning with enough warmth? I worried. I worry so much about what my kids are wearing. I am not thrilled about this. I want them to be confident, comfortable, warm/cool, stylish, mobile, practical. I don't want their clothes to interfere with their ability to learn and make friends. I know this worry is just my projections--clothes are my first and most important language, but also my greatest distraction and torment. And it's clear my kids are inhaling my worries like it's part of the air in our house.

So that's something that occupies the pie chart in my head.

When I turned the corner at the southern point in the park, I was jolted by a view of immediate dusty silvery peaks displayed in the morning sky beyond the trees. Mount Timpanogos was veiled in white--and to the east were her mountainous bridesmaids marching along peak to peak. I sometimes think of Timpanogos in the north is the mother of our valley, and to the south, beyond the lake, is our father Mount Nebo. She is exquisite, and he is massive, and between them both lies a valley of streams, rivers, canyons, rocks, and a wild marriage of natural history--including a irreconcilable fault line, and an ancient sea. Also, us humans: first the natives who set up their lives in pit houses along the Provo River, the white people whose history in this valley must be anatomized and settled, and the migrants who come and go and sometimes stay (to their surprise).

I grew up watching students from the university set up easels outside my front door, hoping to paint the peaks with watercolors or acrylics. Those mountains were nothing but home to me, like a familiar wallpaper lining the halls of our home. It wasn't until I was leaving on my Mormon mission I came to see their grandeur. They were saying good bye to me, I knew it in a spiritual way. I was aware of how much they were a part of me, and how much I was going to miss them. And years later, the morning I had given birth to my Ever Jane at home, I stared out the window from the quiet basement bedroom where we were recovering, they peeked in and congratulated me--us--the newest human to live under their rocky spell.

This morning I tried to take a photograph. It was useless. It said nothing about what I saw. It did not convey the northern bride or her trail of maidens each slightly illuminated by the morning sun. It could not capture the birch trees tossing leafy confetti to the ground, nor their gowns of vivid yellow. It didn't say anything of my desire to leave it healthy for my little hooded dragons so they can puff out clean air and live here forever, if they choose.

It is curious how in learning to consume, we lost the skill to witness. And when I think of it, the cure for just about everything is a double dosing of observation and awareness. Seeing is healing.

The beauty is enough because it is all-consuming.

I am starting to understand.

End of an ERA

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Tue, 08 Oct 2019 22:18:00 +0000

Hi this was me last Friday night at the Equality Utah Allies Gala where they announced that their 2019 legislative goal is to ratify the ERA. America only needs ONE MORE state to ratify to make women officially equal to men! It was introduced to legislation before I was born. WHAT PROGRESS.

I've been listening Lana Del Ray's cover of the Season of the Witch a lot lately. I think there is something to it, honestly. October really is a season of my inner witch. I just feel fiery and ornery and completely out of patience. But on the other hand, I feel mischievous, and clever, and sensual in a way that makes me feel confident. This season feels good to me, like I am at home. And every year that passes I feel less shame for all of this. [Insert witch cackle.]

I'm very happy that Equality Utah wants to ratify the ERA but that means that there will be a coalition of women who will fight against it (like they did last time) and that pain is unbearable to me. The night of the gala they brought up a group of women lawmakers on the stage to make the announcement and there was one ONE one Republican woman who showed up. Afterward she said to me, "Where were all the Republican female lawmakers?" which is something I ask myself every damn day.

I was thinking the other day about how my life would've been different if I didn't speak out so much. And it occurred to me that I'd probably be working in a GOP congressional office selling my soul out to Trump.Which made me realized that speaking out had saved me a lot of pain and anguish in the long run.

Last Friday night after the announcement I asked one of the ERA organizers how I could help. "We're going to need the writers to write" she said to me. I don't know what I expected her to say (maybe get my email to join the newsletter?) but I found myself pledging to do the work. I suppose this is one way a witch might cast spells--with words.

[Cackle.]

After the gala, CK and I stumbled down the Salt Lake City streets to an after party of our friends the Urquharts. They live in a downtown high rise with a almost a 360 view of the Salt Lake Valley and are known to throw the best soirees in Utah. We have been to many, only a few I can remember with keen detail. [Wink, cackle.]

We squeezed into the party with wall-to-wall guests. Queers, beards and drag queens mingled with lapsed Mormons, legislators and influencers of public policy. We found two chairs calling our names (and our feet) in the living room. A few minutes later Billy Porter (yes, that Billy Porter) sat down across from us and an entourage of adoring fans gathered around him, but not before I got a few stuttered words out of my mouth that went in his direction. I love him. I love him like Utah women love to obey patriarchy. And I am not even being sarcastic about that.

It was a surreal moment. I sat observing the sheer joy in that room. A gentleman I've known as a state lobbyist handed me a fresh grapefuit drink inspired by his southern roots, "It's a classic," he promised to me with a wink and a blink of southern drawl. Christopher, all dressed in black and as handsome as I've ever seen him, was chatting it up with dear friends and people we greatly admire. Folks were dancing, eating, kissing, singing, laughing, gossiping, and reveling with delight. I caught the eye of a young kid with purple hair in an open red leather jacket from across the party. He blew me a kiss. I returned it.

Just then lawmaker Shireen Ghorbani--in a glamorous head piece full of flames and flowers--power-lifted a chair over the crowd and planted it next to mine. "Ok, let's talk about recruiting moderate candidates in Utah County, so..."

There is no rest for the justice-minded. Just ask Bernie. Or the witches who showed up for a thousand years threatened with being burned at the stake. Every year I get closer to becoming one of them.

And I am ok with that.

Cackle, cackle. pop.

Hot Family Summer

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Wed, 14 Aug 2019 21:15:00 +0000

Photo by the unmatched Justin Hackworth

Here it is, the last day of summer break. We're definitely going out with a whimper. In a minute we'll hit up the pool for the last time. Then we'll clean up and go to back-to-school night so our kids can meet their new teachers, see where they'll sit tomorrow morning, high-five their friends they haven't seen in two and half months.

It was a good summer.

I think I prefer summer to school schedules. I like spending time intuitively rather than instructively. I like slow days for my kids. I like to see what they do when they get to spend their own minutes in a day. Yesterday they built a town out of Duplos and asked for help. When I sat down to aid in the construction I got an idea to build a church. It had a huge cross on the top. Then Erin knocked down the spires and turned into a queen's castle, with a huge statue of Snow White standing guard over the gates.

I mean, ok. Appropriate for the house she's living in, I suppose.

We didn't do much this summer, just as I hoped a few months ago. We went to Bear Lake twice as guests of friends and family. We did a lot of kayaking on lakes and rivers. Ate a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches (or as Iris calls them, "burnt cheese"). Swam daily at the local swimming centers. I taught Erin how to use my credit card and so when we go to the pool she promptly fetches us two churros and a cinnamon pretzel for Iris and I don't have to move from my beach chair. Best part about that is that Erin and I are so damn proud of ourselves for this development.

This was the most social summer of my adult life I think--CK and I were lucky to spend a lot of time enjoying friends these past few months. What a difference having in-house babysitters make! And our kids inexplicably like it when we leave. Which yes makes me suspicious, but on the other hand FREE DATE NIGHT!!!

Anson's hair has grown out this summer to the point where he has dreamy boy band hair in the front, but in the back, it looks like a desperate octopus is trying to escape out of his head. That's just a detail about Summer 2019 I never, ever want to forget.

I took Iris to jazz class where she shook her hips and strutted her clever confidence. She learned to connect her device to her siblings and enjoyed playing online with each other. (I now call screen time STEM Discovery Family Time!).

Christopher and I were sitting on the old couch in the Green Room the other night when he looked over at me, put his hands on my knees (like we're 90?) and said very sincerely, "This is it. This is life. And it's f*&^ing great." Not without pain, for sure. But great. Solid. With a slice of f word.

Last night we went to visit Grandpa Clark's garden to relieve him of some very fertile produce he's been tending to all summer. The kids picked carrots, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers and zucchini. We had a huge bag full of vitamins in vegetable form and finished just as the sun was setting.

Ever walked home with me. "Mom," she said as we rounded the corner for home, "I want us always to have a relationship like we do right now."

"Me too," I told her, "I think the secret is for me to accept you as you are and for you to be patient with me."

"I promise I'll try." She said.

"Me too," I responded.

Thank you for these moments, summer.

Until next year....over and out.

Unlived

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Tue, 13 Aug 2019 21:46:00 +0000

Occasionally I get a tiny email dropped in my inbox from none other than Ann Cannon, the saint of Utah's newspaper columns (also a successful author in her own right).

They're always just one liners, maybe two.

She calls me Doll or Sweetie.

Tells me she's read my latest blog post, offers the kindest regards, a short deep compliment I always need to hear.

Then ends with "Ann xox".

And, then I always respond with, "I am finding no time to write with all these kids I had, tell me it gets easier. Maybe when they're all in school?"

I have sent this S.O.S. a dozen times.

And she always replies, "Wish I could tell you it's get easier, but it doesn't. So carve the time out now."

Dear God, please let my children have an Ann Cannon in their lives, first of all. Let them have an intelligent, beautiful, creative and clever mentor like I have. I am so lucky. I feel that every single time I see her name in my inbox. It's a perk of humanity.

Second, here I am. I have nothing on but my sports bra and gray leggings. I am sweating in this corner office in the basement. My kids are playing a video game together shouting about lightening balls, stun rays and coins. The laundry is just about to "ding!" me for a change of machinery.

But I am here, carving out time because I want to be like Ann Cannon.

I want to be like Toni Morrison.

I want to be like Mary Oliver, Frida Kahlo, even Kurt Vonnegut.

And I want to recognize that we use the word "carve" because it means that we have to take a knife to our lives and reshape it so that writing can fit in. It's a blunt act. It means something will have to disappear, cut out of my life, so I can do this. This.

And perhaps to say nothing at all.

Except two things: the Carl Jung quote that is presently making the rounds goes like this, "Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their children than the unlived life of the parent.”

This, this is why I cannot give up writing all together. And this is the core struggle of my life--to not let parenting these four gorgeous beings, or wifehood to a good man be all there is to me. I have to let them see me separately. I have to leave behind a record of who I am. Because I am convinced that someday in their lives they will recognize that they're missing pieces of who they are, and want more context. Maybe they'll see that the mystery of their lives is the part they didn't know about who their parents are, what they believed, wrestled with, went through, and what they thought about--and how all of those things shaped who they are as differentiated adults.

My fully lived life starts with writing. Retreating to this room, sweaty and shirtless, is part of showing them that I am not them. I am me. And perhaps more importantly, that they don't have to be me.

And secondly, with the passing of beloved Toni Morrison last week I found this shattering quote, "We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives."

I am measuring my life, line-by-line. Writing is a power that will endure past me. And even if it didn't, it is the point of my life to witness time. I will die, so I must write.

Thank you Ann.
xox

Frenzy

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Tue, 30 Jul 2019 04:37:00 +0000

Midsummer mid life accounting:

I ran out of dreams.

I came down the stairs the other day with a laundry basket in my hand and stopped to see my kids--all four of them--splayed out on den floor like a photo straight out of a pamphlet on How To Combat Kid's Summer Break Boredom ("Are your kids watching tv all summer long? Sign them up for Kountry Kids Kamp!"). It was a most insignificant moment, but there I was having a significant moment.

I have all I ever dream of.

I don't have much left to dream about.

All the visions I had for myself--of being a community leader, of having a job where I felt important, of having babies, and a husband I adore, and house I love have come to fruition. Being paid to write? Yes. That's all my second grade me and my seventh grad me could ever want. Travel? Sure I've seen some beautiful places. I feel full of friends who I adore so very much. I wake up every day feeling free.

And I don't dream much for my kids, because I want them to have their own. Same for my husband.

But for me, I don't have any more grand visions of life. I am pretty grateful I got as much as I did. So I would like like focus on three things I haven't yet experienced:

1. An ability to feel feelings. Not eat them. Not sideline them to social media or Netflix. Not even walk them off. I mean just sit down on the floor crossed legged and feel them when they are asking to be felt. I've never ever mastered that feat.

2. See life. I want to spend what time I have left on this planet to observe what my eyes see, my ears hear, my body touches. I want to watch and observe. Listen. Listen. Listen.

3. Be a witness. I was taught growing up to be a witness at all times and all places. And I do want to witness for the good, the bad, the sad, the triumphant. I want to add my voice to others in strength and unity. I want to be a witness for those who need one. Especially to those who feel invisible.

I feel like this post is very self-important but I don't mean it to be. I just mean that life has given me a lot in its first act and I'd like to enjoy being grateful for what I have for awhile. I mean, I guess I am done asking for the universe to give me things. But except I would like nice hair. Consistently, not just nice hair days every few months, or after I've been to the salon, or to the lake and it's wind-whipped into a post-sex-hair-like frenzy.

Apple Pie and American Politics

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Tue, 02 Jul 2019 18:50:00 +0000

I think this article is right, for some of the 2020 candidates the catch phrase response for hard ball questions are "Well, I want to have a conversation" which in reality means, "I got nothing." From McKay Coppins,

"The truth is that when politicians are pleading for a national conversation, it is usually because they are trying to avoid one."

Perhaps in contrast (I don't know really) today I was listening to the Bernie Sanders interview on the NPR Politics podcast and heard him frankly say that when it comes to gun control and mass shootings he doesn't know what the solution is outside of banning assault rifles. I want to believe that when leaders admit they don't have a solution, but they are completely invested in finding one (and as a bonus have legislative history that shows their commitment) it can invite voices to the table. More voices means more ideas which means better ideas which means solutions. I really believe this is the very best chance we have at sustaining a working democracy.

Speaking of conversations, yesterday I went to meet with my Utah County Commissioner Nathan Ivie. Ivie, recently came out as Utah's first gay Republican government leader. This gave a lot of us progressives here a moment of pause. I didn't expect Ivie to start voting like a wanton lib (snowflake lib?) but I did think his particular situation (being raised in this homophobic county in the closet his entire life) could be a conduit to having our voices heard. Last week he voted for a non-binding anti-abortion "resolution" which was more about dog whistling and circus tricks for fellow commissioner Bill Lee than it was about a serious debate on women's health care choices.

I called him out on social media. His office contacted me for a meeting. Yesterday, after passing an entire hallway display of photographs after photographs of past white, male, conservative, straight (for all we know) commissioners I entered into Ivie's office for a solid chat about why I believe women should have full autonomy over their own health care choices. We disagreed on some things, but we did agree on two things: Utah County needs to do more about comprehensive sex ed, access to birth control and better options at our county health department AND the non-binding anti-abortion "resolution" was a asshole move (my word, not his!) (also I didn't say that word in the meeting, I am a lady)(ladies can say asshole anytime they want, of course)(I choose to curse strategically, like at my children when I need to) in attempt to rally the base over women's bodies.

Which makes me really, really sick. And take serious pause about living here--like I do every single day of my Provo-living life.

But he was willing to accept data on the rates of internalized misogyny here in Utah County which makes things tricky when you see and hear women on the daily support policies and positions that continue to oppress and hurt them and other marginalized groups. It makes no sense, until you see the data and are forced to ask yourself--"Yeah, why is it so many women are ok with the gender inferiority in almost all areas of their lives?" I know because I used to be one of those women. I mean, I am still in many ways trying to pick apart my own penchant for oppressing everyone but the faces of men in those photographs lining the hallway.

I think that's all I wanted to say on that today. I mean, besides, Lord, let us beat Trump I pray with all the vigor of my social-justice-warrior passionate heart.

In Michelle Obama's name, amen.

45 Minutes

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Mon, 01 Jul 2019 21:40:00 +0000

Photo of me in CK in Tree Pose by our loving and patient personal trainer Sara Madsen

I have forty five...forty four minutes for writing today and I would like to write about 120 things. I'd like to write about middle age and how it comes at you like a train wreck--fast and relentless. It feels like someone is giving you your adolescence to do over, except this time you're an adult and you have better tools and more confidence to combat the blows to your self-worth. Isn't that sort of beautiful when you think about it? If you failed yourself when you were a young adult (which we all did, really), you get another chance to become a hero when you're a middle aged adult.

I mean, if you've learned anything at all.

And it's really not that we failed ourselves as young adults, it's that we didn't have the brain structure to see that we were doing JUST FINE. That when we faced ourselves--the person we were becoming--we were scared, and a lot of us ran away from what was forming in the mirror. But here in middle age we are returning back to that mirror, which is gift, and we're saying, what we were so afraid of? This person I am is fine. This body I have is good. My thoughts about life are beautiful. My intuition is right. I have value in being unabashedly me. I am complete.

Or we look in the mirror and keep running. And now get why people do that. Makes total sense.

Because it also seems that in middle age you have to come to terms with your baggage. Do you want to carry that stuff for the next phase of your existence? If not, what will you leave behind? I think those brutally heavy middle age crises are the kindest thing we do for ourselves. We give ourselves a second chance at making the life we need for ourselves. Somewhere in our past we decided that right around middle age our brains were going to need to slough off some brain power to boost on to the next phase. Isn't that cool?

I had a morning chat with a therapist today about what I am going to try and leave behind on my journey up the age ladder. Or what I will refashion into something that doesn't feel so heavy. I know I have been holding on to a suitcase labeled VALIDATION OBSESSION that probably needs to go. Or least I need to take a whole hell of a lot of contents out of it so that it shrinks and becomes something manageable. I mean, we all want validation. RIGHT?!

(Did you catch what I did there?)

I have just spilled a lot of brain guts here and it's only been 9 minutes.

But seriously, if you are reading this right now and you are in your early thirties or younger, just know your second adolescence awaits you and you should probably line up a therapist and a bunch of really great friends and a stockpile of whatever you need to get you through to the next phase (be it Prozac or a Yoga Trainer or Tarot Cards or Vodka I am not judging)(or, in other words, basically all the things you didn't have the first time you went through this) and live up the last few drops of your remaining pre-mid-life crisis life.

And if you are reading this right now and you've navigated your way through a mid-life crisis, FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY drop me a line and tell me what is next. You owe this to me, you do. Because you didn't warn me about this weird spot in our human evolution. You didn't tell me about looking at the stars and freaking out about death. You didn't tell me about the second wave of sexuality that storms in all hungry and thirsty and judging you for abandoning parts of yourself that you didn't even know existed. You should have sat me down and said, you will do things you never saw coming for validation you never knew you craved so badly.

You should've warned me, at the very least, that life is one hell of a surprise.

And now my 45 minutes are up.

Home Again Around the Sun

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Mon, 24 Jun 2019 21:44:00 +0000

On Summer Solstice I made my whole family come out on the back lawn at 9:54 to officially welcome summer. I can't wait for one of my kids to write a book entitled, What the Heck--the story of one child being raised by an apostate Mormon Wiccan-curious Social Media Witch. Hopefully it will fly off the shelves and pay for the therapy. You know, the therapy.

I've always loved the ancient and magical culture around celebrating the earth. I love the idea of Christmas combining with Winter Solstice. I love the words equinox, solstice, midsummer, midwinter. I also like the solstice synonyms for their sensuality--crest, peak, pinnacle, crown. And I love that these celebrations started at the very earliest of human endeavors. We figured out pretty early on when the sun was the highest and the lowest the sky and what it meant for us living underneath.

This Solstice I celebrated:

The marriage of my charming nephew Maloy to lovely Mckenna. At a backyard party at sunset, I watched my brother Matt dance with his beautiful granddaughter Bailey, as his brother-in-law Patrick passionately sang Elton John karaoke.

Laughing with my mom and two nieces Emma and Winnie as we attempted a Polaroid to commemorate the occasion.

And that morning, before the wedding, running into Matt on a morning walk when he was outside gardening with his big black dog Chief. I asked him how he was feeling about another child getting married, if he was emotional. "Not really," he said, "but that's because Maloy and McKenna are so great. McKenna is wonderful for our family, she brings perspective and diversity that our family needs. Like you do." Then I started crying so I carried on with my walk.

A get together with friends, having drinks (one appropriately named the Summer Solstice with black cherry) and laughing all the time, enjoying the bliss that being a settled adult can offer. Looking over at Christopher and feeling lucky...and sexy.

Spending the day doing nothing but sitting in the sun, reading, kissing my kids as trades for getting up to do something for them. Contemplating what to do next. Always that.

Drove to Juab County with Anson alone just to check out thrift stores. He bought an old bb gun and I found some gorgeous jewelry I guess no one wanted anymore. I thanked those who gave them up in my heart as I drove home with little pieces of art glistening on my body.

The rainstorm on our way home. We listened to a podcast about babies who experience attachment disorder. Then we talked about how crazy Anson's first year of life was--having had cousins live with us like siblings as he grew that year. Then having them gone. And how hard it was for me and maybe him. And how that might have lead to some feelings we haven't thought a lot about. And maybe it's time to think about it all.

The splendor of the Alpine Loop with Christopher and the kids when the aspens are thick and if you squint you think you can almost see those little midsummer fairies that Shakespeare wrote about being sly in the woods. Listening to Elton John on full blast. To keep up with the theme.

My dad always sang "Blue Eyes" to me growing up, this time when the song came on I turned around and sang it to my only blue eyed offspring Iris Eve.

Blue eyes laughing in the sun
Laughing in the rain
Baby's got blue eyes
And I am home again.

Road Trip!

noreply@blogger.com (C. Jane Kendrick) — Fri, 21 Jun 2019 20:05:00 +0000

Went into the desert with cousins yesterday to fill up, you know, spiritually. A dip in the dry sand and a visual intake of red rocks does me pretty good for a few weeks. I want to write a book about my relationship with all of these special parts of Utah.

(Am I book writer? Maybe.)

I do know that when I go into the desert words are pulled out of me like a magician with a hat and scarves. I can actually envision how the words look on a page. It unlocks me.

I love this season of my life. When the kids can play in the water without my accompanied maternal anxiety. When they can narrate their own adventure, and leave me to mine. When I can think. I couldn't think for ten years, I swear.

After we put the kids down, my cousin Lisa and I got into a laughing fit and couldn't stop. You know, when you think you've stopped yourself, but then it hits you and you have to start all over? It was like that. When you don't even know why you're laughing in the first place.

Then Ever said to us from the top bunk of the sprinter van, "Are you guys going to stop so we can sleep?"

And I replied, "Sorry Mom."

Then we started laughing all over again.

Stay tuned for that chapter in my book...

(Maybe.)