Full Moon

A few nights ago, the moon was full. I'm not sure what it is, but when the moon is bright enough to drown out all the artificial light I am surrounded with, it fills me with a shivery, silvery, quivery sort of power. Perhaps it is the string of women in my ancestry, gazing at the moon with that peculiar feminine connection. To me, the sun is always too harsh, burning my eyes and skin. The moon is soothing and gentle. I can see by its light without squinting. It doesn't suck moisture from me, leaving me headachy. I know it sounds a little new-agey Wiccan-esque, but I believe that it is merely enjoying a snapshot of God's creations with no sense of worship towards the moon. It delights me when the moonlight throws objects, worn by daylight's harsh mundanity, into mysterious yet crisp relief.

Sometimes I feel such a connection with the world around me, it seems I can almost tap into the power of God running through all things. Suddenly, I feel as though I am part of a vast living computer, not nearly as disconnected as I usually feel. When I feel that, for the briefest moment, I realize I am home.

Sneakiness

My daughter, whom I shall call Ely here, is developing her understanding of when she is in trouble. Today, as I was in the checkout line, unbeknownst to me, she grabbed a York Peppermint Patty and tried to taste it through the wrapper. I caught her in the act with an "Ely! What are you doing?" From the first syllable of her name, she hurriedly stuffed the candy back into the box and gave me her angel eyes.

"Angel eyes" is what I call it when looks at me with her wide, brilliant blue eyes and smiles sweetly. It is hard to be irritated with those eyes. I had to check the candy. Sure enough, she bit a perfect half-moon bite through the wrapper, and although the wrapper itself was not broken, I was certain no one would want to eat a York Peppermint Patty with indentations from Ely's teeth. I had to buy it, accompanied by firm verbal assurances to my daughter that her behavior was not acceptable.

The lady at the checkout stand disapproved of how I chastened my daughter. It embarrassed me, knowing I was having to discipline my child in public, but what choice do you have with a two-year-old? They don't understand discipline for something in the past. I am gaining more and more sympathy for mothers with small children, now that I am one.

After we left the store and returned to the car, I was strapping her into her car seat and lecturing her. "Lectures" for such a small girl consist of repeating "What you did was wrong. That candy did not belong to you. Candy, no. No touch!"

Upon hearing this lecture, my daughter lifted her arms and soulfully said "Kisses, mommy?" Of course, I gave her kisses and told her I love her, but I didn't let go that easily.

"What do you do when you see candy?"

"No touch!"

"Good! Good girl. You are very smart. Don't touch candy without asking mommy first, okay?"

"Yes! I love you, mommy!"

"I love you, too, honey." She is truly the light of my life, even in her mischief. It is difficult to keep the balance between love and teaching, but she helps me remember that I am not far different. I can see, now, why God sometimes does what He does in my life.

I'm not a big fan of York Peppermint Patties, though I can eat them. My husband categorically hates mint. Therefore, there is a York Peppermint Patty in my freezer. Perhaps I won't ever eat it. It reminds me that the world is a very different place to a two year old, where finding the beauty and intrigue in a pretty, shiny wrapper outweighs understanding of ownership. It reminds me that I don't know everything.

And there is no other Peppermint Patty in the world quite like that one, now.

Something Different

I have found myself lately wanting to write about things that don't really fit on my other blog. I have used Rains Came Down to illustrate the application of the LDS gospel in my life and to explore my thoughts relating to gospel topics in the real world. I am more drawn now, however, to write also about other things I love in life. My family will probably be a large part of this, though this won't just be a "mommy blog". I want to write about life in all its beauty and wild splendor.

This blog is not meant to be advertised, though I'm not making it strictly private. I want people to be able to read it, but I don't want to list it in any aggregators. It is mine and for me, where I will nurture the joy in my life in the hopes of watching it grow. This is the blog that tells the story of what happened after the flood. It will be both more personal and less formal than Rains Came Down. It will probably also be less frequent. But I believe it is time for me to rejoice again, so here I am. I hope the Lord's blessing will be on it.

The Struggle

I do not yet have the courage to touch the things she left behind. Tiptoeing into the darkened kitchen, I pause to look at the deceptively peaceful reflection of the airy curtains in the polished tiles of the old kitchen table. It was there that so many warm dinners and laughing craft projects were placed. The light stripes across my skin as I walk to the window, parting the curtain with a numb brush of my hand. Below is her cherished garden, just beginning to vanish in the weeds she never tolerated. Suddenly, I find myself kneeling among her precious tomatoes planted alongside marigolds and peppers, my carefully manicured nails heedlessly scratching at the soft soil. Mechanically, as if some other force is driving me, I pull weed after weed, unable to bear the sight of these invaders in her place.

My own voice, youthened by more than a decade, cries like the plaintive wail of ghosts in my ears. “But, mooooom! I want to go to the movies with my friends!” I had never liked weeding, even then. It was a chore to be done to get what I wanted, or a punishment for wrongdoing. Now, the soil seems browner than it was then, the smells keener. I realize her garden has become a blur, salty tears dripping into the scars left behind the hastily-uprooted weeds. It is somehow fitting that I water her garden again this way. I work until the dirt is well worked into my expensive business suit and the light flares orange before fading to silver.

I stand, gathering the weeds into the garbage can. I stare a moment, dusting off my now-grimy hands. Though the disease in her cells is as invasive as the weeds in her garden, I can do nothing to uproot and dispose of it. I turn once more to the garden, my eyes focusing on the ripe, red tomatoes hanging from the thick vines. The polish on my nails clashes with their redness. I pull the largest from the vine with a small struggle, carefully cupping it in my hand as I climb into my SUV.

She will like to see a tomato again.