Puppies and Panic

This is Nicole Pepper. She will be officially our puppy on Monday!

I am totally in love. She is a six week old chiweenie mix, and she is my baby. We were never going to get a dog. They are messy, and a lot of work, and I don’t need more chores. Still, there has always been this nagging feeling that we need to have a pet. Every family has one! Still, we could never agree on what kind or how to get the money together for the initial investment. I knew that eventually we were probably going to get a dog.

When my friend from church ended up with a litter of puppies that needed homes, I was just going to go snuggle them. The more times I went over for puppy snuggles, the more the idea of taking one home appealed to me. Then I brought the kids. Ben was the hard sell. He didn’t want a dog. It would cramp our ability to take off on a plane whenever we wanted to.

Even his heart seemed to melt when he saw the puppies. We picked a little black puppy with tan eye brows, tummy and socks. We named her Pepper. Since we picked her out, we have had little play dates with Pepper. They started out as just a couple of hours at our house. Now they last several. She even was able to stay for Devin’s birthday party last night.

That brings me back to my whack-a-mole post. So I was racing home to finish Devin’s birthday party preparations, keep my boys from killing one another over a video game, and of course, snuggle my puppy. I walked in the door, and tried to comfort a distraught Layne.

Layne is twelve. He is a genius at math and science, an avid reader, a good student and a wonderful son, but he has not been easy to raise. Let me tell ya! Mentally, he is rigid, black and white, and very high strung. He struggles with anxiety and when he gets ramped up, I am about the only person that can help him down. This time, I didn’t have good news for him.

He had used his time limit for the Wii U and it was Devin’s turn. It was his birthday, and for that day only, he had unlimited time to play. He didn’t take it well. He shouted at me and then ran into my bedroom, presumably to calm himself down or prevent himself from acting aggressively and getting into trouble.

I went and got Pepper. I could feel the tension start to drip away. She licked my face and hands and snuggled into my lap. I grabbed some pizza and ate it ravenously. The anxiety masks my appetite so I didn’t realize how famished I was. Layne was crying and occasionally screaming from the other room.

We have had him in therapy for a couple of years, but we still struggle with temper tantrums. Electronics are especially problematic. They ramp up his anxiety and if he is on them for too long, he can’t handle his emotions. But, when you take them away, it is so devastating that he can’t deal with his disappointment, so he has a melt down. Timeouts sometimes work, but sometimes being by himself with nothing to do means that he ruminates on his feelings and they escalate. We no longer force him into timeout. He puts himself in timeout as a coping strategy. During Spring Break he has made ample use of timeouts to help him deal with being with his three brothers all day every day.

He has about four mental health diagnoses that we are working with. Layne is a unique combination of characteristics that makes treating him extremely complicated and difficult. He can be manipulative, but most of the time his distress is truly genuine. This time the timeout was not working. His volume was increasing. It seemed to come from everywhere as it echoed through the living room. Then there was a loud “thump.” He had escalated to throwing things. It was time to intervene.

When I approach Layne in his melt-downs, I have to tread carefully. I show no emotion. If I get angry and start scolding, he will escalate. I understand his state of mind, because I have been there so many times myself. The brain is bathed in cortisol and adrenaline. There is no rational higher level thoughts going on. He is defensive and ready to lash out, like a wounded animal. There is no instruction, no behavior modification at times like these. There is one goal. Calm him down. Then you can talk. Then you can reason. Then you can give consequences. But calming him down is the first priority. That takes precedence over everything else.

I had Pepper in my arms when I entered the room. I slowly approached Layne who was glaring at me angrily. To him, I was the one who was responsible for the injustices of the universe. I stroked his neck and told him I was sorry that he was having a hard time. I asked him what I could do to help him calm down. He erupted into a fountain of grievances. Pepper whined softly. I asked him if he noticed how his shouting was upsetting the dog. He quieted a little, but continued his monologue of victimhood. The puppy continued to whine. I listened and commented and clarified dispassionately. Gradually, his anger seemed to ebb and the puppy stopped whining. I sat down beside Layne. I held Pepper up to his face, reading him and the dog carefully. The dog licked him affectionately. I set her in his lap. She didn’t resist, but curled up contentedly.

His angry mask dropped and tears filled his eyes. The dog seemed to give him permission to feel his pain and release it. Within two minutes, Layne’s affect was completely different. He was no longer ruminating on his disappointment and how unfair things felt. His face was serene. It was like magic!

I’ve got a bag of tricks I’ve used in the past. Once I started reading a book to him and after a couple of minutes, he was a different child. Distraction can do wonders. Still, the change from anger to the release of sadness and tears, that was a first. It seemed to me that the dog was uniquely suited to bring that out in Layne. Her willingness to lick him even though he had scared her before was so significant. Her acceptance and love was validating to him, and I think she was just what he needed in that moment.

We were able to salvage the evening. Devin continued playing the Wii U, only taking a break to eat cake and open presents. Layne participated with the family. I think Pepper helped make the evening a big success.

Devin with his cake. Layne and Devin sat next to each other peacefully!

Sometimes the Lord works in unexpected ways. I always thought about getting an emotional support animal; a fully trained dog that would help Layne manage his emotions that would likely cost a lot of money. I had no idea how much a little mutt, a rescue with no training and nearly free, could benefit my family. She has just the right temperament for my wild anxious boys. I can’t help but feel that this is one of God’s tender mercies. Little Pepper was supposed to come to our home. She is uniquely suited to bless our family.

That doesn’t mean that she isn’t going to be a lot of work. I just sense that this dog has the raw material to be a powerful tool for helping Layne, me, and all of us deal with our stressful lives. I’m going to train her to be an emotional support dog.

I’ve done my share of eye rolling with the whole “emotional support animal” trend, but the fact is, there is a reason for it. We humans have created a concrete world for ourselves. Animals and plants are usually stuffed or made of silk. We’ve lost our connection with nature and we pay for it. If an animal in our home is what it takes to remind us that we are part of a larger world full of creatures great and small, then I accept it. If it brings us back into balance, it will be well worth the work.

The scriptures say that by small and simple things, the Lord brings to pass that which is great. I stew and study about my problems. I consult the best minds and study the profound theories of mental health until my brain hurts. Then the Lord brings me a dog and I remember that he knows what I need. He knows what my boys need. And he will supply my needs.


 My Shepherd Will Supply My Need

My Shepherd will supply my need:
Jehovah is His Name;
In pastures fresh He makes me feed,
Beside the living stream.
He brings my wandering spirit back
When I forsake His ways,
And leads me, for His mercy's sake,
In paths of truth and grace.

When I walk through the shades of death,
Thy presence is my stay;
A word of Thy supporting breath
Drives all my fears away.
Thy hand, in sight of all my foes,
Doth still my table spread;
My cup with blessings overflows,
Thine oil anoints my head.

The sure provisions of my God
Attend me all my days;
O may Thy house be my abode,
And all my work be praise!
There would I find a settled rest,
While others go and come;
No more a stranger, nor a guest,
But like a child at home.

Whack-a-Mole with Shame

Yesterday was a hot mess. It started out pretty good. It was my oldest son’s fourteenth birthday and I made him a glorious cake. Money has been extra tight lately, so I didn’t get him much for his birthday. It felt good that I was able to make him a special cake. Mom guilt whack-a-mole….the struggle is real!

This is Devin’s birthday cake. It is four layers of fudge, pudding, and devil’s food cake covered in stabilized whipped cream, chocolate gnosh, candy bars, and Oreo cookies. It tasted as good as it looked……

So I spent most of the day herding cats- I mean kids, trying to get them to do their chores. That was especially difficult given that Devin was making use of his birthday hours to play as much Zelda, Breath of the Wild on the Wii U as he possibly could get away with. His brothers like to sit and watch. Eventually, I decided to let it go and let them enjoy the last day of spring break. All things considered Spring Break has gone pretty well. Ben has been helpful in the evenings, and I have kept people from killing one another. And the house is still standing.

Before I knew it, it was time to take Austin to his birthday party. I still hadn’t wrapped the presents for Devin’s party. I also hadn’t picked up the modest bouquet of balloons I was going to grab. Austin’s party was in the evening and the invitation had noted that we were welcome to BYOB, which I know means “bring your own bottle.” There would be drinking, but that hadn’t really registered. If it had, I would have realized is that this would not be a drop off birthday party. I also didn’t realize that the pickle parade would be be going on literally one street away.

We got off late. Whack-a-mole. I saw the pickle parade and thought of the STEM academy that had organized a truck or something. I was supposed to sign a form and drop Layne off for the parade and I didn’t do it. That reminded me of the event last weekend that I also forgot about. Two moles to whpack.

I gingerly made my way through the maze of closed off streets and hordes of pedestrians. Driving can be heaven for me. I actually love to get out of the house and drive. There are a few things that can turn heaven into hell; traffic and pedestrians. Ughhh! They are so small and vulnerable and they pop up in unexpected places like crosswalks. (Imagine that) I’m looking for other cars and there is an opening and then I start to drive only to slam on my brakes in terror. A pedestrian! My heart leaps into my throat and stays there. It’s awful.

I finally found the place where the party was. We were a half hour late. Whack the mole. My stomach dropped when I saw a bounce-house and a barbecue. It was an outdoor birthday party. I glanced back at my little guy dressed in a short sleeved red tee shirt. I hadn’t even considered that it might be outside! A cold front had come in the night before and it was chilly. With the stiff breeze, it was even colder. I was also dressed in only a light shirt with no jacket. Whack the mole. I reasoned that the sun was out and he would be playing, so maybe he wouldn’t get cold.

I found Emily, the mother of the birthday girl, and she greeted me warmly and gave me a hug. She was the only person I knew. There were dozens of kids running around. Austin was already running around the bounce-house in glee. The decorations were amazing. The venue, the cake, the decorations; everything was on point. This was the kind of birthday party parents give their kids around here. Not the sad affair I was putting on for my son. Whack-a-mole.

Parents were gathered on picnic tables with bottles of beer and glasses of wine. I had planned on leaving to go get ready for Devin’s birthday party, but how could I leave my son with a bunch of adults I don’t know who are drinking? My panic really started.

My religion doesn’t allow alcohol, but I have actually been to several parties where people are drinking and it really isn’t a big deal. The problem is, I am a solidly introverted wallflower when it comes to parties. My social anxiety comes out, and I am usually checking my watch until it’s over. Sometimes I can find a friend that I can chat with and that makes it a lot better. I had no such luck at this party. The adults all seemed to know each other. My anxiety was already through the roof at this point, and I was in no fit condition to try and make small talk with strangers. Ironically, the thought occurred to me that a beer might be just the thing to help me relax. Maybe even get warm! Too bad…..

So I shivered miserably for about twenty minutes. I tried standing over by the bounce house and watching the kids, then I thought I looked like a hover mom, so I sat down again and tried to distract myself with my phone. Then I felt guilty for being that Mom. Wack-the-mole. I was gradually getting more and more cold. I decided to go home to get jackets, but the host kindly offered a jacket for Austin. It was a little small, with a few ruffles above the pockets, but it would help. I smiled and thanked her, keeping my social mask in place. Honestly, the cold didn’t seem to bother him at all, but I was deflated at the thought that my excuse for leaving was gone.

For a while, I sat inside the small house/photography studio that they had rented for the event. It was a few degrees warmer and sheltered from the wind. Eventually, they brought out a humongous balloon bouquet with probably fifty foil balloons! It was a sight to behold. It reminded me that I didn’t get any balloons for my son. We were supposed to be starting his birthday party about now. Wack-a-mole.

Austin pulled me outside to admire the balloons as they were tied to the picnic tables. He was desperate to have one for his own. I tried to explain that the balloons were not his. They were Ava’s balloons. I started noticing that my nail beds were turning blue. I have a weird condition when I get cold. It is related to my anxiety, and when I get cold, the capillaries in my hands and feet spasm removing the blood and making them go numb. They get all nasty looking and splotchy yellow-white. It’s called Raynaud’s. It still freaks me out even though it happens a lot.

I called Ben. The phone went to voicemail. I called again. That is the signal we use when I am in crisis. He came right over, but I couldn’t wait. My skin was turning white. I told my little boy I had to go, but I would be right back. I ran to the van to get the blood and feeling back into my hands and feet. A few minutes later, Ben arrived at the party and I drove home. I’ve never been happier to leave a party in my life!

So, on my drive home I got a call from Layne. He and Devin had gotten into a fight over the Wii U. Layne was clearly jealous that Devin was allowed to play for so long and he was resentful. He had put himself in timeout, which is our strategy when he gets upset. I praised him for that. The only problem was, he had taken the gamepad with him, which Devin was upset about. I tried to get Layne to put the gamepad somewhere neutral, like my room. He refused to surrender it, and Devin refused to let him keep it. I told them I would be home in five minutes to help them settle it. I only hoped that I would be in time to prevent a fistfight. Sigh! This story has a good ending, but you have to read part two……..

To be Continued!

Grapevines and Family Trees

Three springs ago, I planted a grape vine. It was a dead looking stick that I hoped would someday grow into a vigorous vine that would produce delicious grapes and save our family money. That first summer I carefully tended to each delicate shoot. It made painfully slow progress and would droop pathetically when the Texas heat came. Eventually it gained strength in the roots and started putting out strong vines, but no fruit since it was the first year. We pruned it during the winter, but we didn’t prune it as much as was recommended. I knew that the fruit would be produced off the old wood, and I was eager to get as much fruit as possible.

The vine took off that spring and quickly had covered the trellis. Blossoms came, and then tiny grape clusters. Unfortunately, there were so many vines and leaves that the grapes were unable to mature as the plant was putting its energy into producing leaves and vines. The sunlight was also unable to get to the grapes, so they didn’t ripen. Although the vine produced probably fifteen grape clusters, we didn’t get a single edible grape. I was disappointed.

You can see the clusters of grapes hidden at the bottom of the vine. It produced a lot of fruit, but none of it was good.
Dad is helping me build a path. Thanks Dad! In the background you can see a massive vine. This was in May. It had grown over the entire trellis and the backside too.
These grapes ended up never maturing and stayed small, green, and sour.

I don’t like failure. I take it personally. I don’t like to think about my failures because it’s painful and I prefer to distract myself with other things that bring easier rewards. I busy myself with projects and once I face an obstacle, I start another project. The chaos that ensues tends to sap my energy and contributes to my depression. As I have become healthier, I have reflected on this part of my core personality and I am working to challenge some of my views about failure.

We learn more from our failures than we do our successes. One of the worst things to do with failure is ignore it or avoid it. Failure is a gift that can lead to success at hard things; and hard things often bring the greatest rewards. So I looked at that hairy mess of vines on my trellis the other day and I decided I would do some research and try again.

After watching a few hours of YouTube videos about grapes and pruning, I thought, “I can do this.” I went out with my pruners and a saw and I hacked into my grapevine with no mercy. Where I made my cuts, the vine bled clear liquid, but I knew that in order to get what I wanted, I needed to butcher my poor plant. I cut off about ninety percent of the plant and was left with barely anything. I am also going to prune around the grape clusters so they get plenty of sun. Most importantly, I am going to prepare for another year of failure, because chances are, I have more to learn. That’s okay.

This is the vine after the severe pruning I gave it a few days ago.
This is the pile of vines I cut off. This isn’t even all of it.

Because this isn’t about grapes. This is about me learning how to grow grapes. It isn’t the end result that matters. It is the process. It is the growth. It is about me, not about groceries, grapes, or food budgets. God teaches us through the soil and the plants and the animals. This world was created for us; so that we can fail and learn and fail and learn and in the end we find Him.

The grapevine keeps coming to my mind in my parenting. Parenting is hard. There is a lot of failure. Sometimes my kids look like vigorous vines growing and learning and running wild across the trellis of life. Then it seems that the fruit just isn’t turning out just right. I want to clarify. I don’t mean that they are bad kids or anything. I just mean that I sense that there is more potential in them than they are expressing. Just like the vine. The vine was good last summer. I did a lot of things right with that grapevine. It didn’t reach its potential because I was shy with the pruning. I made one mistake, and it effected what the vine was able to do.

Like the grapevine, I need to not be afraid of my failings as a parent. In fact, I need to look carefully at them. Success for my children depends on my willingness to face my failures and learn from them. Just like I did with the grapevine, I need to do my research. Last Sunday I was studying the church library on my phone and I came across this marvelous resource. It is a book published by the church in 2006. If every parent in the church would read and follow the principles outlined in this resource, we could change the world in a couple of generations. it is called Strengthening the Family, an Instructor’s Guide. I read the first session which is about parenting principles and practices. I’m thinking this book is for a stake parenting class or something? I’ve never heard of such a class, but I think it’s a great idea. Anyway, what I have read is excellent and gave me some good ideas for adjusting some of my parenting practices. Just like the YouTube videos and horticulture sites I learned from about the grapevine pruning, I can use the massive amounts of good information about children and their development to become a better parent and bring the potential out in my children.

Failure as a parent is excruciatingly painful for me. This week I had several painful failures. Tuesday I brought Austin home from preschool and carefully snuggled him to sleep on the upstairs couch. I planned to shush Wesley as soon as he came home from school to ensure that Austin would get a good nap. Wesley exuberantly walked through the front door and flipped it closed with a smack. I heard wailing from upstairs. So much for that.

When Austin wakes up on the wrong side of the bed from a nap, it is torture for everyone. He screamed for an hour in spite of my many solicitous efforts to stem the tide of toddler fury. Then he went on a tornado rampage across the house, climbing to get cookies that I had told him he was not allowed to get, playing with things he was not allowed to play with, and making messes everywhere. I started getting overwhelmed and I went to my room to calm down. Of course, they eventually made their way to my bedroom. It’s like gravity. They find me.

So my irritation continued to mount and I started yelling at Austin to stop crying. I knew I was going to hurt him if I didn’t calm down, so I told him and Wesley that Mom needed to take a timeout. I herded them out the door and locked it. Austin was not okay with that. Of course. He screamed and screamed pounding at the door.

Anyway, it was a mess. I was supposed to be making dinner. I had counselling and a parent meeting for track and a STEM showcase. I prayed, I called Ben, I calmed myself down. I unlocked the door. Austin had wet his pants and as I took them off, he chided me. “Austin very angry! Austin so sad! I was crying.” I comforted him and praised him for naming his feelings. I was still crying at that point and he patted me on the shoulder. “It’s okay Mom,” he said in his parent voice. “You gonna be okay.” He grabbed a tissue and started wiping my tears. I had him give me kisses for my owies and I smiled for him to show him he had made me all better. He was delighted. Eventually, with the help of an angel friend and my husband, I was able to pick up my son late from track. I missed the parent meeting. I also missed my other son’s STEM showcase because it conflicted with my counselling appointment.

I tearfully apologized to Layne for missing his special day. He had the sweetest expression of compassion on his young face. “I understand Mom. It’s counselling, and you need it. It’s more important.” Of course, that made me cry even more as I told him how proud I am of his work at school and how much it means to me.

Devin had his first track meet yesterday. This was his first meet and he was actually pole vaulting. I didn’t realize it was a forty minute drive to Ft. Worth, so I was late. I thought for sure I had missed the whole thing. Parent fail. When I got there, I ran around in the cold searching faces, trying to find Devin. There were hundreds of kids and at least four schools. If I had gone to the parent meeting the day before I would maybe have a clue, but I didn’t, and now I was paying the price. I hadn’t put on any makeup, and I felt like a total looser. Besides that, there were so many African Americans. Even after living in Texas for nearly two decades, I am still irrationally afraid of them. Other people blithely say, “I have lots of friends that are black.” I only know a few black people, and I feel awkward and wrong footed around them most of the time. On top of my normal level of social anxiety, I felt on the verge of panic in this environment. I tried timidly asking a few people for help finding Devin, but no one knew. I went back to the car to warm up, thinking of the hurt expression on my son’s cold face when I finally found him. I was devastated.

I eventually dried my eyes, screwed up my courage, and went out into the cold again, determined to face my fears and find the coach. The sun had gone down at this point, and the wind was cutting through my sweatshirt. I wished I had worn a coat! I fearlessly asked the strangers with Wester sweatshirts. “I need to talk to the coach.” I was directed to a large black man with massive shoulders and a confident stride. I paced for a few minutes, then pushed down my terror.

“Hi, I’m Bridgette Burbank,” I said firmly, “I’m looking for my son and I can’t find him.” My voice didn’t even shake. He flashed a bright smile that contrasted with his ebony complexion. “Yes, Devin Burbank and pole vaulting. He would be over there,” he pointed out the pole vaulting event, hidden behind a set of bleachers. As I walked to the event, I got a tender mercy from the Lord. I saw Devin’s lean lithe form run down the track and gracefully vault right over the bar. It was beautiful! That was my son, and I got to see him vault at his first track meet! I didn’t miss it after all. I watched him vault again a few more times, but he was unable to clear the bar as he did that first time. We ran to the van and warmed up. Then we got some Arby’s and drove home. He wasn’t angry at me at all, and we had some good quality time together. Most of all, I think he saw that his mom drove across the metroplex and froze her face off to come support him in something that was important to him. That made all the failure worth it for both of us. And when I got home, Ben had put the kids down for bed, and some angels had come helped me clean my house. Thank you YW!!

The good news about parenting and grape vines, is that you get lots of chances to fail and learn and try again. Apparently, it’s really hard to kill a grapevine, so chances are good that I will have many more years to try and fail at growing this one. It is also really hard to kill your relationship with your kids. Kids love their parents. They want us to succeed, and even though we make a lot of mistakes, and maybe some that are pretty bad, we can always try again. No matter how old we are, or they are. If I can face my failures as a parent, you can too. Honestly, you’re probably doing better than I am.

Even though it is has been a rough couple of days for me, I haven’t had any suicidal ideation. That’s some real progress. My counselor was very pleased and encouraging about the way I am dealing with my challenges. I get in that negative mindset where I can’t see anything I’m doing right, but the truth is, I am making progress in real ways doing very hard things. Celebrating those successes and learning from my failures is key to getting through this depressive episode.

Often this is how my path feels. Thankfully, I have the Savior to guide my steps.

It’s really hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that Jesus Christ loves me. I feel like such a mess! It seems like everyone else has stuff figured out and I am just flying by the seat of my pants screwing up everything. The fact is, he created me in all my scatterbrained, ADHD, passionate, over-analyzing, oversharing glory. For some reason, he loves me. Maybe I give him some comic relief as I live my crazy life! I definitely add some variety to the world. Most of all, I hope I am becoming the woman and the parent God wants me to be, whether or not I ever run a well managed home and schedule.

“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” Proverbs 3:5-6

Casting Out Fear

Reading through old journals Friday was an illuminating experience. One thing I noticed was that I have been having depressive symptoms for a long time; much longer than I wanted to admit. That probably explains why this depressive episode is lasting so much longer than I expected.

One thing that really stood out to me as I read was the fear that I had as Trump secured the Republican nomination and was sworn in as President. Fear saps my energy and drains my motivation. It is a crack in the vessel of my emotional wellness. My worries and fears did not make Donald Trump a better President. It is so much easier to look objectively at my fears as I walk yesterday’s path with my former self.

I still check Twitter somewhat obsessively, looking for the latest political scandal, the most recent developments in the Russia probe; I taste the tribalism and witness the stark divisions that rumble under the peaceful veneer of our civilized world. Fear snakes across my left shoulder and into my neck where I usually hold my tension. I massage it habitually to ease the pain, but the fear remains. Of course the scriptural cure for fear is faith. My faith has certainly been stronger, and I’ve noticed that as I testify on this blog, my faith grows.

It’s hard to have faith when you are aware of all the things that are going badly wrong. How do you have faith in the economy when tariffs are threatening global markets and the national debt is soaring? How do you have faith in the U.S. government when it is constantly at war with itself, lead by an autocratic, mercurial, and unpredictable man backed by what appears to be deluded enablers fed information from Fox News which has increasingly become a propaganda outlet for the President? How do you have faith in your church, when as you develop your testimony, you find yourself feeling increasingly out of step with other church members? How do you have faith in yourself when you are laying on the couch overwhelmed with the responsibilities of parenthood and unable to force yourself to face the next thankless task?

There are no easy answers to these questions. The truth is, we are commanded by God to have faith in one thing; that Jesus is the Christ. All other things are transitory, temporary, and fallible. Even the Prophet Joseph Smith, whom I believe to be the prophet of the great restoration of Christ’s church in these last days, was only a man. The leader of our church today, whom I honor and revere as a prophet, is only a man. Jesus Christ is the only true source of life and truth. As I seek for him, and have faith in him, I will be able to cast out my fear.

I recorded a sacred experience that I had as I prayed for my country during the Republican primaries. I won’t go into a lot of detail about that experience, but one thing I want to share. I had asked specifically about who I should support in the Republican primaries and had asked about Ben Carson, one of the candidates I liked best. I liked his calm and reasoned responses to the issues, his focus on reconciliation and forgiveness, and his remarkable journey from poor black boy in a single parent home, to world-class neurosurgeon. I hoped that as President he would calm some of the deep divisions in the party and the country. I thought that as an outsider, he might have some insight into how we could improve our government traditions in ways that someone with more experience might take as just the way things are done. I hoped that if he led the Republican Party, that it would show the nation that the party was not racist and is willing to embrace minorities who find our message of freer markets, lower taxes, and traditional religious values resonates. This might invite minorities to investigate Republican candidates and messages and broaden party appeal. At that time, I thought that the Republican Party was better than it was. I hoped that a Republican President would unite the country, restore U.S. credibility abroad, and reign in zealous progressive forces. Of course, I have been disappointed.

I prayed to know if I should support Ben Carson or keep looking for a different candidate. He told me that Ben Carson was a good choice because he was humble and willing to seek after the will of God. He then said, “The choice is clear. The American people will decide and the character of the nation will be revealed.” Looking back on that statement was chilling. In electing Donald Trump President, what have we revealed about our national character? Many things can be said about Donald Trump by his supporters, but I don’t think anyone would characterize him as humble and willing to seek after the will of God. What will the be the consequences of our decision to value bombast, bullying, flattery, and lies over honesty, civility, humility, and faith in Jesus Christ? Truly, the country is in a perilous place.

George Mason, a little known but tremendously important founding father, said, “By an inevitable chain of causes and effects, Providence punishes national sins, by national calamities.” This is not good news for us. It is inevitable that we will suffer because of how far we have strayed from the true path of our Savior. Reading about George Mason, his thoughtful nature, his eloquent expressions of moral conviction, his dedication to the Savior, and I think; these are the men and women who built the foundation of the country I love. I have read the Federalist Papers and the Anti-Federalist Papers. I have studied the lives of the founders. At one time I had the Declaration of Independence memorized. The whole thing! I studied the constitution prayerfully and reverently as I would my scriptures. I say unapologetically and without reservation that the Constitution was and is an inspired document. We cast it aside at our peril.

As I watch the Constitution be slowly disrespected and dismissed I am assured that we are headed for hard times. Zealous progressives have no love for the Constitution or the “racist white males” who founded our nation. Trump supporters have no use for it either, as it restricts their leader’s ability to “drain the swamp.” Everyone has an opinion about the direction we should go as a nation, but we lack the patience, humility, and self-awareness to see that the Constitution is everything. If the Constitution is not rooted in the hearts of every American, our country is already gone; drowned in a sea of outrage and identity politics, false narratives and petty ambition.

I talked to a reader last week and he gave me some feedback about my writing. He said that my passionate views can come across as judgmental. Also, he has felt personally attacked at times as he has read my words. I’ve pondered a lot on that. This was shocking to me, because I can’t think of a single blog post in which I was thinking of him at all. At times I have probably written things regarding relationships that would be better dealt with in a direct way. I am working on that. It takes a lot of courage to deal face to face with people, but it isn’t fair for me to send passive aggressive messages via blog post. I write on here about things that I think about, almost never do I think of specific people as I am writing, especially in politics.

I love my progressive friends. They have taught me so much. They are without question, the most loving and courageous people I know. They have supported my fight against depression without judgment and that is the greatest gift I could ask for. When I see these friends I don’t think, “There’s a zealous progressive out to undermine the Constitution!” I usually don’t think about politics at all when I am with them, and if I do, I want to know what they think so I can benefit from their views.

I have many friends that are Trump supporters. Again, I don’t think, “There is an enabler of tyranny,” when I see them. I see my friends. There are a handful of people that I have offended with my critical views of Trump and things are a bit awkward with them, but for the most part, I don’t care who you voted for or what news channel you watch. I’m not going to hate you or judge you because of your politics. Politics, in my opinion, is like religion. It is extremely complex and personal. One might question why I choose to write about it at all. The answer is, purely for selfish reasons.

I criticize the progressive and Trumpist philosophies on here because of the way they don’t fit in my brain. It is about me, not about anyone else. I find the blog is a useful tool for me to process the bizzard of current events and endless conflicts in my inner world. Perhaps as you read my blog, you might feel dissonance in your own brain. If that’s the case, I highly recommend writing. It clears the brain, clarifies the thoughts, and improves cognition in general. At least for me.

So, I have precious little faith in the temporal and transitory things of this world. My nation, my church, my family, my friends, and all my material possessions are in real danger right now. That fear is justified and clear-eyed. Still, that fear does not need to paralyze me. I need not cower before difficult circumstances.

The Lord is my Shepherd. No want shall I know. I feed in green pastures; safe folded I rest. He leadeth my soul where the still waters flow. Restores me when wandering, redeems when oppressed.

In the valley and shadow of death though I stray, since thou art my guardian, no evil I fear. Thy rod shall defend me, thy staff be my stay. No harm can befall with my comforter near! No harm can befall with my comforter near!

The Savior is ever mindful of us. He knows what we have need of. He is mighty to save. No bomastic autocrat has power like that humble shepherd of men, and he stands ready to make his arm bare in defense of his people. May we be worthy of his leadership for now is the time to prepare to meet Him. Blessed be the name of the Most High God!

Good to be Wrong

My imagination is vivid and I create my reality and forget sometimes that it is only a mirage; an image composed from my perspective and drawn from my own unique pallet of mental colors.

Yesterday I hit an artery of anger that had been building up pressure in my soul. Projecting a simplistic view of a person I love, I vented my anger into a furious letter, cried for hours, took a Zanax, and fell asleep. Fortunately in this hurricane of emotion, I was able to stay connected to a voice of sanity that kept me from doing anything stupid.

“Bridgette, you can do this. This feels awful, but it isn’t your fault, and it will pass. Your pain is real and you have a right to your feelings. I’m here for you and I’ll help you through it.” I had enough faith in myself to listen and I made it through the night.

Today I talked to this loved person in my life. I opened up with some vulnerability and so did he. It took so much courage and love to reach out and take a risk, but I’m so glad I did. I feel less alone in the world today because I set my fears aside and did something hard.

Sometimes life is beautiful and kind. Sometimes people do the right thing. Sometimes relationships can be saved. Depression is like a dark pair of glasses; everything looks dreary and black. I’m so grateful that sometimes I’m wrong and things are better than they seem.

Trapped in Darkness

“Momma! Momma!” He grabs my face and tries to get me to come back from the darkness. “See this,” he holds out two pencils, one in each hand, “they Austin’s wings! You make me fly.”

“I can’t honey. Momma is not feeling good.”

Then he gets angry at me. He hits me with the pencils, trying to break into the world I am trapped in. It’s not fair to him that I am here, but I’m not here. He deserves better than a depressed mom, but I’m all he has and we will make it through somehow. I put on a cartoon and sit down to write, hoping it will make the pain bearable somehow.

It’s not all darkness. We painted together for a couple of hours. He loves the black paint. He holds the brush on the very end and makes sweeping lines of pigment across the page. He’s so beautiful when he is creating! If I hadn’t started watching the Cohen hearings I wouldn’t be such a mess.

When Cohen turned state’s witness against Trump, I had to hope that his remorse was genuine; that someone who was under Trump’s spell could be redeemed. There is enough of a cynic in me to note the significance of the fact that he was under a lot of pressure from federal law enforcement before he decided to tell the truth, but I have enough of the optimist to believe that there is hope for his soul. The Savior is enough for him and if he chooses to live a changed life, he could be a force for good in this world.

I vividly remember my dream when I was seduced by Trump on the yacht. He was important and rich and powerful, and he thought I was special and smart and worthy of his attention. That was intoxicating to me and I was under his spell. Seeing Cohen testify today as a broken man stirred powerful feelings of empathy and compassion. Was this broken man so different than I would be had my dream been real? He was trying to undo some of the terrible damage he did when he worked for Donald Trump by testifying for the House of Representatives. The way the House GOP representatives treated him was deplorable.

Have we sunk so low in our national politics that we allow people to treat others the way they treated Cohen? Are we so heartless that we need to rub someone’s face into the consequences of their choices? These men are our representatives and they speak for us. Instead of doing their constitutional duty and investigate possible crimes by a sitting President, they chose to demonize his accuser and ignore the gift of his warnings. Why? Because they are still under the seductive spell of Donald Trump. They are drunk with power, the power that he offers them in exchange for their loyalty. Donald Trump, through his trickery and flattery has amassed great power which he offers to them in exchange for their integrity, as he does to all who take his devil’s bargain.

It is cold comfort to me that the Democrats are performing their duty to check the President and try to hold him accountable. I don’t trust them because if the tables were turned, I have reason to think they would behave just as badly. It makes the world seem like a cold and heartless place. Is there no compassion? Is there no empathy? I fear greatly for my country, and more, for my children.

Character matters. It matters in you and me and those who speak for us. The Lord has said in his scriptures that by small and simple things He brings to pass that which is great. It is also by small and simple things that nations and people are destroyed. When we refuse to hold ourselves and our leaders to a moral standard that is applied equally to all, we fracture the moral fabric of our country. When we allow people to commit crimes and get away with them because of their money; when we give them our loyalty and our votes; when we trust in their leadership and honor them with our lips; we are sowing the seeds of our destruction.

But I am in no fit place to judge the world. I am nothing and no one; a meaningless life; a face in a crowd. There is no reason to think that I have an impact on anyone or that my pain has any deeper purpose. Still, my words ascend to my Father in Heaven and his beloved son. They have created me for some purpose and as long as I live on this Earth I will do my best to fulfill it.

Lord, help me to bare my cross! Have mercy on me, and grant me a portion of thy peace. Give me strength to be a mother to my little ones.

Transgenerational Trauma; Examining Psychological Roots

Dropping off Austin at preschool today felt so amazing. There is nothing better than to walk with your head up, not having to wrestle with a little ball of energy that tries to dart into the path of every passing car. With my brain free to focus for a few hours on whatever I choose, I decided to write for a while.

I’ve been doing a lot of pondering on transgenerational trauma, which is a growing area of scientific research. Check out an excellent article from Psychology Today called “How Trauma is Carried Across Generations.” One of the groups of people most often cited in studies of transgenerational trauma is children of holocaust survivors. The idea is, that the holocaust was so horrific and the trauma so great that one generation could not absorb it all. Holocaust survivors had to pass their trauma on to their children and grandchildren. Some studies even indicate that our genetic makeup can change in response to trauma. This article explores some of those ideas.

I wrote a blog post some time ago about my parents’ families and the trauma that has been suffered and the ways I have seen that trauma effect me, my siblings, and my cousins. In my scripture study, my internet research, and pondering on the experiences of my own life, I am coming to a greater understanding of the crucial role that family, and particularly our ancestors, play in our lives.

Like the roots of a tree are unseen, so the roots of our psychological makeup are unseen; given to us by generations long past.

Parenting is so hard. This weekend was particularly crazy. Breaking up fights, taking sharp objects from the three year old, helping a child work through a melt down……all of those things are commonplace in our home. I have depression, we pretty much all have ADHD, and we have a toddler, which is like having a blender with no lid spewing chaos in his wake. We threw Austin’s shredded pacifier in the trash two weeks ago. He is still not sleeping well. I have resorted to driving him around in the van so he will take a short nap. If he doesn’t nap, he will scream constantly. A couple of days ago he was screaming at me, for twenty minutes non-stop. You try to tune it out, but it wears on your nerves. Eventually, I tried offering him some hot chocolate. He likes to eat the whipping cream that I put on the top. I tried giving him a spoonful of the white fluffy goodness half melted in chocolate. He turned his face away. I ate it myself and he was clearly offended and screamed even louder. I got him another spoonful. He was starting to get red in the face. Finally, after a loud game of toddler charades, I figured out that he wanted to spray the cream into the cup himself. I let him do it once and he was happy. Of course, he was furious again when I wouldn’t let him endlessly spray cream into the cup. So he was back to screaming.

If he is not screaming at me, he is finding scissors, knifes, paint, or breakable things. Sunday I thought it would be fun to have him play with some playdough on the kitchen table. A few minutes after starting the activity, there were playdough toys scattered in a twenty-foot radius. Pieces of playdough littered the floor in a ten foot radius. In the middle of this cyclone of stickiness, there was Austin, his church clothes embedded with orange and green splotches, standing on the table. With an expression of maniacal glee, he stomped and threw stuff.

“No, no,” Momma patiently insists. I take him off the table. “You sit in your chair.” I start sweeping playdough and picking up toys. Austin sits for less than a minute before trying to climb back on top of the table. “Austin, you need to sit and think about it?” He seems to ignore me, but my voice triggers a response in him. It seems as though the threat of consequences switches the chaos into high gear. With a swift gesture, he sweeps all the remaining playdough supplies onto the floor; a dramatic climax to an ill fated adventure. No more playdough.

I’m not even going to go into Devin and the adventures of teenager angst. The glazed expression of annoyance, the condescending tone, the irritation that we don’t understand his terms or care sufficiently about how cool or uncool we are. Sigh.

Parenting is so hard. We tried to gather the kids together on Sunday for our weekly gospel study. Austin sits for no one. The other kids are wandering around looking for scriptures and journals. Then they get distracted and need redirection. By the time everyone is sitting and ready to start, the tension is already high, and inevitably one of them needs to go use the bathroom. Mom and Dad start firing questions to get brains engaged. “Who remembers who John the Baptist was?” Stunned silence and vacant expressions. “Wesley, who was John the Baptist?” After a pause, “He was a baptist??” And so we work like house elves to draw their thinking out and get them to put something in their study journals. Yesterday at family dinner we talked about the importance of personal scripture study and prayer in developing strong testimonies. I asked them how they felt like they were doing in developing their testimony. Crickets.

Every day the impossible expectations of parenting weigh me down. The patient attentiveness, the alert awareness, the interactive presentness of good parenting is so hard to maintain for any significant length of time. With four children, the individual attention and love each child requires to function optimally seems eternally out of reach. If only I could clone myself!

I share these things with you, not just for you to laugh at, but also to consider the magnitude of the task each parent faces. We as parents stand in the place of God himself to our children. We are the all powerful creators of their reality. I feel much more like the Wizard of Oz with plenty of smoke and mirrors as I threaten my children with “serious consequences” for their disobedience, than I do a wise and judicious God who is in control of all things.

When my children become parents, perhaps they will understand me better. Perhaps they will find some empathy for what I was doing and have mercy on me for the multitude of ways I have fallen short in my parenting. One thing I will never do is hold myself up as the one who had it all figured out, with a set of rigid expectations for how they need to parent their own children. I plan to explore this issue in future posts, but I’m going to go in a different direction today.

Our parents shape us. There is no question about that. I have observed that the default human tendency is to exalt our parents. If we have superior parents, that follows that we are superior. That can feel pretty good. It’s also easy because we can parent just like our parent’s did, and all will be well. When we find fault with our parents and the way they did things, we are by extension, finding fault with ourselves. In addition, if our parents messed up, that means we have to work hard to do something different. This is so much more than just blaming parents, it is setting aside the illusions reinforced in the family narrative that is driving dysfunctional thinking and depressive symptoms.

Therapy is, at its core, intense and rigorous introspection. Like a cancer screening, you must enter each psychic cellular crack and crevice to find the places where unhealthy thoughts and behaviors take root. Sometimes those poisonous plants have seeds sown in previous generations. More problematic still, the prior generations are not likely to take kindly to suggestions that their methods were hurtful and wrong.

Ideally, we can split off from our parents, make our own paths, take the good that they gave us and go a different direction. Unfortunately, in dysfunctional families, that is almost impossible to do. Like crabs in a bucket, a dysfunctional family will pull one another back into the bucket each time one the members tries to escape. Scapegoating, gaslighting, and projecting are all too common in these families. The therapy patient can be overwhelmed with the reality of the awful state of things as they confront the larger systemic problems in their family.

Looking on from the outside, is recovery even worth it? Isn’t it better to follow the family narrative, make everyone happy, and live depressed? I’ve often wondered the same thing. Why confront the family illusions? Why rock the boat? The answer is in the faces of my children. They deserve better.

They deserve a mom that is not depressed. They deserve a family narrative that is honest and holds up to scrutiny. They deserve better and I am going to give it to them. I have a dream of a family unencumbered by the cancer of shame and the demons of depression; a large and prosperous posterity that can realize the potential that lies in each individual member. I pray to my Savior that I can have the courage and wisdom to depart from the sins and errors of the past and bring my family onto a better path, a more perfect way. My Savior is the Father of my destiny, the pilot of my tomorrow. He will guide me and my little ones to lie down in green pastures. I put my trust in him and no one else.

Don’t be a Budgie

Ever since I was a little girl, I have had a love for and fascination with budgies. They are smart, small, and incredibly adorable. They can talk, they can sit on your shoulder, they bond well to their owners. More than that though, they can also live in the wild. They are native to Australia where they pfly in flocks of hundreds of birds. As a girl, I used to read books about them and when I grew up, I bought one of my own which I named Feathers. Ben and I taught him to say “Hi” and whistle. In my research I learned that budgies hardly ever act sick. This is an evolutionary thing. If you act sick, you get targeted by predators, so a bird can be very sick with a respiratory illness, but they look fine until one day they drop dead. People are like that with depression.

I listen to a podcast called, “Therefore What?” that is done by the opinion editor of the Deseret News. The Deseret News is pretty amazing, and this podcast never disappoints in giving me plenty to think about. In the last podcast I listened to, there was an interview with a lady named Jane Johnson who wrote a book called “Silent Souls Weeping.” It is the product of a three year investigation into the issue of depression in the LDS community. It contains the stories of many many people who have suffered with depression among us.

The overwhelming message that is coming to me from so many places is to stop keeping the secrets, start sharing and don’t hold anything back. People should not be like budgies. We need to share our pain and offer one another assistance. We need to allow ourselves to engage in what Jane Johnson calls, courageous vulnerability.

Of course, that is kind of what this blog is all about. Still, most of my posts have lacked a lot of specificity. I don’t want to reveal everything because I don’t want to be judged. I have spent fifteen years and more dealing with these issues. I have spent thousands of dollars on medication and therapy, and I’m still getting treatment. There is so much I don’t understand about myself and my story and the people who played parts in it. I’ve come to a place where I love my parents and accept them for exactly who they are in their perfect imperfection. They are wonderful grandparents to my four boys and are very supportive and helpful even though they don’t understand what’s wrong with me. We have reached an understanding that we agree to disagree about certain things in my treatment. I risk offending them by revealing more about myself and my story which involves them, and yet, I think, what is the point of all this? Why am I writing if I’m not going to be real about how I got to this place? How are we going to shed light on the real issues if we can’t even talk about them? How will we root out the mental plagues that spread among us, if we refuse to acknowledge to ourselves and one another, the shape of the disease and all of its contributing factors?

In sharing some of the more personal and vulnerable parts of my story, I’m going to be addressing some very uncomfortable topics that will require nuanced thought and careful wording. I might come across at times as judgmental or condescending. That is not my intent. I don’t pretend to be an expert on these subjects which are incredibly complex. I don’t want to shame anyone or slap generalized labels on large swaths of people. I only want to share my journey in hopes that it will spur important conversations about ways that we can foster greater mental and emotional wellness in our families, our congregations, and our communities.

There are budgies among us that fall every day. They are mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, and friends. Being open and honest about the diseases of depression, trauma, PTSD, and other common mental and emotional problems is hard, but it’s so important. Its the only way we can change the culture, break down the stigma, and find our way through this modern challenge. It will take courage, introspection, and sometimes repentance and reliance on the atonement of our Savior to make things right. I believe as I share my story I can help bring about a healthier society.

I am hoping to write a little each day about some of the root causes of my depression, some of the patterns I have observed in my life, and some of the challenges I have faced. Some of the stuff I need to talk over with family members before I can post, so the timeline might be a little weird. I might write something, but not be able to post it for a month or something.

I will talk frankly about abuse in families that masquerades as discipline and the consequences it can have on a child. I will explore the nuance of abuse and abusers and the misconceptions that many have about what an abuser is and what abusive relationships look like. I don’t have a lot of simple stories with tidy characters and easy answers. Some of the stories will be from my childhood. Some will be from my experiences in the schools. Some of them will be about my therapy. Hopefully it will demystify some of the treatment of depression, PTSD, and anxiety.

I pray that my words might be a balm and not a bruise to my readers. I hope that hearts will be softened, minds opened, and lives changed as we explore my life and experiences. Everything that has happened in my life is a gift. I share it with you, along with the parents, teachers, friends, and family members that contributed. The Savior’s words echo in the chambers of my heart, “Judge not that ye be not judged, for I alone can see into the hearts of men. Let your heart be full of my Love which springs forth as rushing water.”

pppp

Honoring Adam and Discovering God through Self-Knowledge

On Sunday there was a guy sitting in front of me that was obviously a visitor. I love seeing these people in our congregations because they add variety and interest to what is often the same stale mix. (No offense to my ward family.) He had a beard and a darker complexion. I thought he looked Middle Eastern. He had on some nice jeans and a casual shirt. He didn’t seem to have come with anyone.

During the opening song, I sang mostly soprano because a sister I love was sitting behind me singing alto beautifully and it was nice to harmonize. I put extra effort into phrasing and vowel pronunciation. I just started MCO practices again and so I had had a refresher on good singing and was putting it to use. After the hymn the bearded man turned around and said in a thickly accented voice, “My God bless and protect your singing voice!” I was surprised and flattered.

After the meeting I spoke to him and he said a curious thing. He said, “Remember, the first commandment of God is to honor Adam.” This was news to me. I had always thought that the first commandment of God was to love the Lord thy God with all thy heart. Seeing my skeptical expression, he elaborated saying that it was not literal, that we were to honor the Adam in us.

I have been pondering that interaction for several days. Jung taught about a phenomenon called “synchronicity” which I haven’t studied much about yet. The basic (very basic) idea is that things happen for a reason and that when you are working hard to improve yourself and your life, help will come in unexpected ways. I think that this swarthy gentleman was supposed to say what he said, and that it was meant to emphasize the thread of understanding that I have been weaving about the self and God.

Jung understood the profound difficulty of studying the human psyche. It’s like trying to study a microscope while using the microscope to do the studying. We are fairly competent at studying lower order creatures on this Earth, but the study of ourselves, our morality, our motivations, our core needs and desires; we are still cavemen drawing stick figures in the dirt. Self knowledge begins by knowing that you know nothing.

Have you ever thought that you don’t really know what you look like? Even mirror images or selfies reverse the image. What we see is also usually a stagnant image that is often posed and inorganic. My husband and children probably know a lot more about what I look like than I do. That goes for the psyche as well. Often we don’t know nearly as much about ourselves as we think we do.

There have been numberless multitudes of human beings that have lived on this planet since Adam and Eve, and yet each of us repeats the same patterns of behavior; birth, development, often parenthood, and finally death. It’s like reinventing the wheel over and over for eternity. Often parents and grandparents are able to pass on useful traditions and helpful maxims and morals to their posterity; but there is so much more that we can do.

This iconic painting shows God’s connection to man who is created in his image.

Imagine for a moment what Adam must know. I believe that once we leave this world, we watch with our spiritual eyes as our descendants go through their mortal experience. Adam, having experienced mortality himself would have first hand experience, and then also the opportunity to witness his countless descendants experience mortality. Compare his knowledge about us and our current challenges contrasted pwith the pathetic lack of knowledge that we have about ourselves. We are not mortal beings, we are eternal beings. Do we honor the Adam that is in us? Do we seek to know ourselves as we are, and resist the urge to see ourselves as the flat two dimensional image on our cell phone screen?

Picture of me taken yesterday with my cell phone when I got home from choir.

I have heard the argument that there is no point to this quest for self-knowledge. It won’t put bread on your table, get your chores done, or fill your 401K. Why do it? It’s hard work! The response I have to that is that it is the only way to keep the first great commandment of God.

My thickly accented friend at church said that the first commandment was to honor Adam, or the Adam within us. The Savior said the first commandment is to love God. They are the same thing. Think about it. How do we love God? We’ve never seen him, we don’t understand him, and he is pretty much unknowable. Kind of like the Self. In fact, we are told in scripture that we are created in the image of God. (A lightbulb should be popping up over your head about now.) We can only love God if we know him. We can only know him if we study the one who was created in his image. That would be you. The Self.

One way that I have found nuggets of self-knowledge is by keeping a dream journal. In our dreams we are uninhibited by the social constraints that force us to mask our true selves. We are free to engage in all kinds of crazy behavior. My dream self has jumped off of buildings, murdered people, possessed a pet lion and a pet tiger, worked in a prison, worked as a secret agent, married many different men, had sex with many different men, given birth to babies I’ve never seen in real life. Each one of these dreams tells me a little about myself and who I am underneath the layers of other’s expectations and my own masks of self-protection.

Several of my mandalas that I made during my last depressive episode six years ago.

Drawing mandalas is another path to self-knowledge. A couple of days ago I was drawing a mandala and taking videos periodically to document my process. I plan to do a post on here with the videos and pictures since several of my friends on Facebook expressed interest in making them. During this process I saw something unexpected. I saw a repeating pattern of birds in my mandala. Then I saw sunrises, trees, mountains and wind. Gradually the mandala took shape in my mind. It is going to be something of an image of direction, new beginnings, facing challenges, and fostering hope in eternity. As I drew, I found that what I thought were birds were actually butterflies. I have also had two dreams of butterflies in the past month, so that is a powerful symbol of metamorphosis that is consistently coming to my conscious mind.

This mandala has taught me a lot about myself and how I see the world. Nature is very important to me and being in the city all the time is hard for me. Trees, butterflies, flowers, and mountains fill me with joy and soothe my anxiety. I need connection with nature, which makes winter harder for me emotionally than other times of the year. I must prioritize some time each day to get out of the house and away from the city, even if it is only at the park or something. I need to make time to go out in the garden and get my hands deep in the soil and in contact with living things. During my meditation, it would be useful for me to visualize mountains. Little things like that will help my mental health just as well or better than taking another pill. I will post a picture of my mandala when it is finished as well as the video of my process.

Another thing that has helped me develop self-knowledge is to revisit my childhood. Children don’t wear masks. Children are their true selves and that is one of the things I love about them. They have not yet learned to be polite, project a false image, and conform to the expectations of society. Because of this, your childhood can tell you a lot about yourself.

As I child I lived in the country. I loved to play in the water, ride my bike, explore new places, and have adventures. I liked to spend a lot of my time alone or with only one or two friends. I spent a lot of time reading, dreaming, and imagining adventures. This tells me that I have an active imagination, an introverted type of psyche, and a thirst for novelty. I engage in risky behavior at times. It also tells me, again, that I have a need for nature. I have a curious disposition and a ready intellect, but I am unmotivated by social pressure and competition. If something is difficult or boring, I will avoid it which can limit me in my achievements. I crave novelty which makes habitual behaviors distasteful.

With this self-knowledge I can anticipate what career options would work best for me, where I am likely to feel bored and under-stimulated verses where I would thrive. I would probably enjoy working in a nursery and teaching gardening classes. I might like being a children’s swim instructor. I might enjoy a career as a flight attendant because of the novelty of new people and places. It helps me to have a close friend and mentor to help encourage me to do hard things and push through boring tasks to accomplish more than I would do on my own.

Anyway, to the man who sat in front of me in sacrament meeting, thank you for your insight. I hope that I can always keep God’s first commandment to love the Self by honoring Adam and discovering God. I hope that as I share my journey with you that you might find self-knowledge that can enrich your life. God bless!

Pando, the Civil War, and the Vital Importance of Unity

My three year old threw up this afternoon, my house is a mess, I have mountains of laundry to do, I need to grocery shop….and yet I can’t get my nose out of my book and my hands off my writing! I suppose I am doomed to be a horrible housekeeper. Just owning the crazy.

I’ve plowed through several more chapters of Jung’s autobiography and I’m amazed at how he cuts to the core of the problems we are facing in our world today. He understands the root problem, which is roots. Of course.

America is so young. When we think of a nation like Switzerland, where Jung is from, we are infantile. In a few hundred years, we have sprung up from nothing and nowhere to becoming the leading nation of the free world. Unfortunately, this has put us in a place of power and authority which perhaps our youth, inexperience, and impulsivity has made us ill equip to bare. We are in an awful predicament with a grievously divided population. Everything we have worked so hard to build in the last centuries is on the verge of collapse.

Some on the right look at the economy and a handful of policies and a few court appointments and say, “All is well!” On the left, there is great hope that Trump is their blessing in disguise. He will enable them to swing the country further to the left and solidify their questionable aims in a powerful backlash against his incompetent administration. I have no such optimistic outlook. America is only as strong as she is united. Abraham Lincoln knew this. The Master said, a house divided against itself shall fall. America is divided, and how will it not be as the Master has decreed? The seeds of our destruction have been sown. The seedlings grow bigger and more formidable by the day. Our enemies salivate as they patiently wait for us to fall. They will be free to terrorize the world once our troublesome morality no longer keeps them in check.

Those who love the country as I do, and see our sharp divisions as the number one problem of our time–no it isn’t climate change or an invasion from our Southern border–we need to act. The solution to our problem is, as Jung described, related to growing roots.

America is not a blood and soil nation. We are composed of immigrants. Even the Native Americans immigrated here over many thousands of years. More recently, the United States of America has become a place of refuge for a vast assortment of people from all over the globe with only one thing in common, we want a better life, and we want to live free.

The latin phrase “E Pluribus Unum” keeps coming into my conscious mind. We must find a way to make one out of many. We must find a way to make roots like Pando.

Pando, is located in Utah. This synchronicity is significant to me in light of our spiritual mandate as Latter-Day Saints to knit the peoples of the world together through a shared knowledge of their creator, as well as our efforts to knit generations together through temple work. Pando is a powerful symbol of our divine calling.

For those who are unfamiliar, Pando is the largest living thing on the planet. On the surface of the Earth, Pando looks like a forest of Aspen trees. The trees are not individual organisms as other forests; the trees are connected by a common root system that makes the individual trees more like the arms of a Centimanes, the legendary hundred-handed ones.

Because our roots are shallow in this country, we must, like Pando, knit our roots together. Our strength will not be in the depth of our roots, but in their surface area as we knit ourselves into a living mass. We must understand and embrace one another. We must eschew government force to achieve our societal goals. These methods produce temporary results and lasting resentments. We must rely instead upon the merits of our arguments, the soundness of our scientific observations, and the power of our persuasion. Using force upon the minds of our fellow Americans is unAmerican! If we cannot persuade a solid majority of our fellow citizens that our policies are good for the country, they probably need adjustment. Both of the major parties seem unable to do that. We increasingly rely on forceful tactics like fillibuster, veto, party line voting, and even judicial decree to push through policies and appointed leaders that are unpalatable to large groups of rational Americans. This causes resentment to fester and gives birth to the modern tendency toward revenge politics.

Although each tree appears separate, it is linked to the entire forest through it’s unique roots.

How do we knit our roots with people who seem predisposed to hate one another, to assume the worst motives, to suspect every action as a potential or eminent attack? Someone must embrace humility. Someone must admit it when they are wrong. Someone must reach out in vulnerability to someone who thinks differently than they do. Is there risk in this? Certainly, but I have made friends with several people who differ politically from me, and just last weekend we got together to play games. We had a respectful and productive discussion about a red hot controversial issue. What resulted was amazing to behold. There was self-reflection. There was insight. There was little certainty, no raised voices, and no attempts to “educate” anyone else about the “truth.” We weren’t right and left. We were friends sharing ideas and perspectives.

Humility is an endangered species in the world of virtues today. The certainty of the modern mind that it possesses within its own collection of facts and experiences the sum of all truth, will be our downfall. As individual Americans, we do not possess all the truth in the universe. We possess our unique part of the truth which, as we share with others, we can sew those pieces together to form a strong and cohesive whole. That quilt of truths can stand the test of time, and the attacks of our enemies, and lead us into a bright and confident future.

The predicament we are in right now is not the sole fault of one party. I see America as a single entity composed of two parts. Those parts are also composed of parts. I see a fracturing of America as we become less able to compromise and more certain that our viewpoint is the only one that contains validity and must be forced upon the whole. America has faced a fracturing before. I believe that the only reason America made it through the Civil War and post war period is because of the incredible humility of Abraham Lincoln. Abraham Lincoln believed in the South and its importance to the union. The South was rebellious and racist and in many ways unAmerican. After the war, the South was devastated. Like the father of the prodigal son, Abraham Lincoln welcomed the South back into his arms and restored him to his place as a son. Why would he do that? What value did he see in this revolting group of traitors? He saw in them, his fellow citizens; a fallible and mistaken group of people to forgive and embrace.

The charity and compassion of a single man, the leader of our country, ensured the survival of the union. Can we have that compassion for one another? Can the former slaves, join hands with their former masters? Can the oppressed minority embrace their former oppressors? Can we move beyond this place of partisan gridlock, enmity, and pride to find the humanity in each one of us? We can, but we must start with our friends and family. I’m a better person because I have friends who have different political views. My understanding of the issues is more complete because I have listened and questioned the weak assumptions I used to entertain.

Much of our political beliefs are not based in facts, but in narratives. These narratives are composed not of data points, numbers, graphs, or research, but our interpretation of those things. It is what resonates with us that has the substance to be a part of our inner political structure of beliefs. As I have examined my own political beliefs and narratives I have found much more areas of compromise and flexibility with others. Only when I defend and deflect, pontificate and condescend, do I come away from a political discussion without a change of perspective.

I believe in the future of America. I believe that we have the power within us to rise above the challenges before us. I believe in the power of individuals to reach out to one another in spite of our differences. We can and we must. The world depends on us to carry the torch of freedom to the oppressed in foreign lands. Many of the best and brightest of these at this very moment languish in the prisons of the despots whom their voices threaten. They look to us for that fragile human emotion that keeps them alive; hope. My Savior knows their value, and so do I.

I don’t believe it is my Lord’s will that America should fall. I do know that he chastens his people. I know that he will have a humble people whether we choose today to humble ourselves, or we have our circumstances compel us to humility, we will get there. I also know that through small and simple things, the Lord bringeth to pass that which is great. In my recovery, I have noticed that much of my psychological distress is rooted in anxiety for my country and the world. The pressure within me to speak to the dangers I see builds up until I am able to write. I pray that the Lord will have mercy on my fellow Americans and show us the way forward to peace and stability. I pray that perhaps my words might resonate and do some good to heal this land, that we might always remain E Pluribus Unum.