Aromatherapy

I walked outside just now and took a deep breath as I contemplated the next two and a half hours of solitude. In the air I caught a faint scent of new rain. I closed my eyes and inhaled again, more deeply this time, searching. Depending on the season, the musky scent of rain beginning to fall takes me one of two places.

A chilly rain, like today, takes me to Logan Canyon in early autumn. I have left the car at the parking lot at Third Dam and found a trail heading...upward. It doesn't really matter where the trail leads. I hike quickly but aimlessly, the chill giving me energy and the mist over the mountains shrouding any pretended goal. I revel in the solitude of mist and twirling leaves, the drip of the rain and the scent of the earth.

A warm rain, on the other hand, sends me to the desert in the midst of a downpour in Mesa, Arizona. As usual, given the rarity of a rainstorm here, I have left the windows down on my parents' Ford Courier truck. I run out into the rain, laughing, to close them. I toss a towel on the seat for the ride home, but tomorrow's blistering heat will dry the upholstery just fine. The rain covers the hubcaps, and we splash in the street, shirts now a second skin and hair drenched.

I love the power of smell to unlock memories, transporting me to almost forgotten moments in times and places I haven't visited in years. A trip to the grocery store leaves me paused in the coffee aisle, my body in County Market but my head far away in Alaska. At 4 a.m. we have gallons of coffee waiting. The sun rose long ago, and the vacationing fishermen begin to trickle into the dining room. Randy has the float planes waiting at the beach, and the guides swallow their last bites of bacon and eggs. A few hours of folding clothes or cleaning rooms will earn me an afternoon to explore the tundra.

Far from the wilderness of the Alaskan bush, I find myself strangely enamoured with the smell of diesel fumes on a passing city bus. Nasty smell, I suppose, but for me it smells of freedom and adventure, of early morning in Chicago. For the moment, I am fifteen, traveling cross country alone. Just after dawn, we near the Greyhound station. I gaze up at the skyscrapers, smile at the busy and unfamiliar din of horns honking. In another 24 hours, I will yearn for a long shower and a quiet bed, but here in the city the tingle of adventure quickens my step. I want to dance about, but instead I stroll through the bus terminal in my best imitation of a seasoned traveler.

Back in the Midwest again, but much older, I search for Christmas candles. I find it difficult to choose among the pine of childhood Christmas trees, the vanilla that reminds me of the eggnog at Mrs. Gleich's annual Christmas bazaar, or the spicy citrus of the oranges we used to cover in cloves and tuck away in our sock drawers. Perhaps I should simply buy them all and bring decades of Christmases together in a whiff.

City on a Hill

When my husband came to Springfield on a house-hunting trip last year, he asked for directions to the church. "Just look for the power plant, and that's your exit," they said. Directions like that make even Vermont directions sound as specific as a chemical formula. I rolled my eyes and chuckled...until I saw the power plant. Accustomed to locating myself in relation to mountains, I find this flat farmland a little disconcerting. Fortunately for me, Springfield had the foresight to build a monstrosity of a power plant with huge smokestacks, visible from 20 miles away. As long as I can see those smokestacks, I know where I am.

While I appreciate the visibility of the smokestacks or Mount Mansfield, I have not always appreciated my own visibility. As a teenager, I hated my mother's lectures about example. "People watch you," she said, generally in relation to the modesty of my clothes (or the, um, occasional lack of modesty), my language, or how I treated others. Particularly as I left home for college, I fought against the pressure of expectation, hoping to relax and explore my boundaries. My personality never required a full-scale rebellious phase, but away from home my skirts slipped higher up my leg and my language descended rather closer to the gutter. I lived my religion faithfully, but that fact always surprised folks who knew me only casually. Their surprise brought my mother's voice to mind. "Avoid the appearance of evil." Bleah.

Twenty-five years later, I find myself reminding my teenage son that he is both cursed and blessed with visibility. With his confidence, his intelligence, and his engaging personality, he draws attention whether he likes it or not. "You and I do not have the option of anonymity," I tell him. Hopefully, he recognizes both the opportunity and the responsibility of being visible.

The Savior taught his disciples that a city set on a hill cannot be hid, reminding them of their responsibility to shine a light to lead the world to good things. I am sure Peter would have preferred to fade into the crowd outside the palace of Caiaphas, but his devotion to the Savior and his impetuous nature made that impossible. Peter rose to the challenge of example, though not always gracefully. In that messy process of learning to shine, he set a powerful, yet humble, example of discipleship.

I have thought a great deal lately about this business of being a city on a hill, particularly about the risks involved. After all, those who are visible risk succeeding. With success comes a powerful feeling of accomplishment, and with success comes praise. With that heady feeling of accomplishment and sometimes the warmth of the praise, it is easy to begin to believe that one's own powers of organization or insight somehow rise above the norm. Joy in success too quickly morphs into pride.

The problem is that the Lord cannot work with a prideful heart, and I cannot hear the Spirit effectively with my head and heart full of my own importance. I want desperately to serve in useful ways, to rise to my potential. That service requires humility, and humility is not one of my strong points.

I knelt in prayer the other night, wrestling with my need for humility and not wanting to pray for this gift that I need. After all, I know how the Lord answers those prayers. I have felt the benefit of painful humbling experiences. Remembering, I feared to say a prayer that would bring on another round of what my father used to call "learning experiences." But my desire to reach upward won out over my fear. I took a deep breath and quietly prayed for enough humility to serve effectively.

Surprisingly, the bottom has not yet dropped out of my world. As I knelt and prayed timidly for humility, thoughts began to take shape in my mind. Yes, trials are an effective method of inspiring humility. But there are other ways. I began to ponder how to humble myself without requiring circumstances to do the job for me. Almost immediately, my thoughts turned to gratitude as perhaps the single most effective method. When we take the time to consciously recognize the Lord's hand in all that we do, our pride melts away. We realize, for instance, that the wise counsel we gave came not from our own brilliance but from the Spirit. As we take the opportunity not only to recognize the Lord's hand in our lives, but also to record those experiences, our sense of our own nothingness and our confidence in the Lord grow in tandem.

Acknowledging the heavens leads us to gaze outward, as well. I find that my bloated sense of self-importance begins to return to acceptable levels as I look around me with the intent to recognize the talents and achievements of others. I quickly begin to realize all that I stand to learn from the son who has the ability to always see the positive or the friend with the remarkable talent of teaching her children with patience.

I learned a third ingredient to humility some time ago. I used to sing a bit, performed at church and for the odd wedding or funeral. I have a pleasant enough voice, but no matter how hard I practiced, I never achieved the powerful talent that I longed for, a voice that would sparkle and soar. It dawned on me, finally, that God gave me a certain measure of talent for a purpose. He blessed Audra McDonald and Jessye Norman with voices to reach across the world and inspire millions. My very little voice inspired just a few folks with the realization that they, too, could sing. Accepting and magnifying my gifts just as the Lord gave them to me brings humility.

I have no doubt that life will bring me more learning experiences somewhere on the road ahead, times of confusion and pain that will force me to my knees. The Lord has carried me through those times before and will do so again. But I also know that I do not have to wait for times of trial to bring me humility. The more I look upward and outward, the more I begin to understand my tiny, yet wonderful, place in the universe.

Bliss List

Last year for Christmas, our friends gifted us a subscription to Cook's Illustrated magazine. I like the recipes just fine, and the cooking tips are marvelous. If I renew my subscription, however, it will be for the superb editorials by Christopher Kimball, a fellow Vermonter. When the first issue arrived on my doorstep, I opened it to find Kimball's "Bliss List." In the essay, he describes several of the handful of moments of absolute and perfect happiness that he has experienced in his life. That got me to thinking about some of my own blissful moments. I'll include just a couple of those here.

* I am spinning on a hilltop, arms stretched wide in my own imitation of Maria in the opening scenes of “The Sound of Music.” I even sing and laugh out loud, because no one can hear me. With each step I bounce a bit on springy, fragrant tundra. The wind carries my laughter away and blows the hair back from my face. As I spin, I see nothing to suggest human presence–just tundra, mountains, wind and clouds. I know that a short hike down the hill and around the bend will bring me in sight of a float plane and a handful of businessmen playing out their Alaskan fishing adventure. But high above the stream I can neither see the blue of the plane nor hear the occasional voice. For the moment, this corner of the wilderness exists only for me.

* It is early in the year 1978, with South Dakota in the midst of a historic winter. I open my eyes to see nothing but white outside my window. Tugging the blue quilt close around my neck, I wiggle my toes and listen. The wind rattles the window next to my bed, and the branches of the mulberry tree scratch the glass. In the middle of the night the sound would leave me paralyzed with fear, but on a weekday morning it sends a hopeful smile spreading across my face. My mother listens to the radio in the kitchen as she makes breakfast. Over the clatter of plates and pans I hear the announcer begin the school closings. Thankfully, Mother turns up the radio. Near the end of a long list I hear “Yankton Public Schools closed.” No school today! I wait for the call to breakfast and gaze at the snowflakes while I contemplate a day of snowdrifts and hot cocoa.

*  It is the spring of my first year of college. I am on the back of a motorcycle, flying along a back road in southern Idaho. Mark and I chat occasionally on our helmet mics, but mostly we just take in the scene around us. By the time we make it back to Logan, we will probably miss our next class, but today the early spring sunshine in the Rockies seems more important than French verbs or World History. We pass small farms, cows lazily munching new grass, and a large abandoned barn that makes me dream of swinging into bales of hay even though I’ve only read about it and never actually done it. Ours is an easy friendship, comfortable and without the pressure of romance. Mark stands a little apart from the boys I date—neither the straight-laced Mormon that his Merrill heritage would suggest, nor a self-proclaimed rebel, either. He challenges my comfort zone with this motorcycle, and I like that. I lean against the backrest, warm with friendship and the sun on my shoulders.

Building Blocks

I have been thinking today about people who have significantly influenced my life over the years, trying to sort out the various facets of my personality and attitudes and determine their source. I have a changed a few names, but not all, just to keep you guessing. And no, this is not an exhaustive list. I have left gaping holes that I will fill at a later time.

My parents have obviously wielded immense influence, primarily through their examples. Three main lessons come to mind, however. Seek knowledge. Be interested in, not just tolerant of, people from all backgrounds. Maintain integrity always. Yeah, always. Even when it embarrasses your teenage children who would prefer a graceful white lie.

I have one sister, five years older than I. We stand the same height, and my children think we sound alike (particularly in our sarcastic moments). Beyond that, the similarities fade. Sylvia left home when I was 13 and thoroughly self-absorbed. I have recognized her influence more as an adult. Her overall calm and her example as a mother to an amazing family have inspired me. I have never managed to match the calm, but I have aspirations...

College was a pivotal time for me, as it should be, and Chris was a huge part of my university life. He is one of those larger than life characters who draw a following, and it took a few years for me to realize, somewhat to my embarrassment, that he played a much greater role in my life than I did in his. Be that as it may, our friendship in a sense embodied those college years for me. I learned to challenge boundaries, not just societal boundaries, but also those within myself. I also learned that life and love are messy, and that is just fine. Creativity is a messy process.

Not all of my life lessons came from comfortable sources. While my friendship with Jane died some time ago, I remain indebted to her for invaluable lessons about what friendship is...and what it is not, or at least what it cannot be for me. I learned to respect my limits, and I learned not to dive headfirst into someone else's life and problems. Years ago, I sat on my bed one evening and wailed, "But I wanted it to be a happy day!" I have never relinquished that childhood wish. I still long for a happy day not only for me but for those around me. I cannot fix everyone's problems. The bare fact of the matter remains that often the healthiest solution for all involved is to simply stand back and let people climb their own mountains. Sometimes we walk alongside and cheer them on. Sometimes we toss them a canteen. And sometimes we turn our backs and claw the way up our own trail.

I grew up with Mother, and I gained Mom with my first marriage. Although she calls herself the "outlaw" now, I will always consider Kathryn family. I often echo her counsel that "things done when thought of need no further attention." My children listen about as well as her son did, but at least I remind myself of the counsel on a regular basis. Also from Kathryn, I have learned that tears can be a gift. I have watched and felt the marvelous effect of her tears in softening hearts that need to feel and releasing tears from dry eyes that need to weep.

We named Kristina after two of her grandmothers, both because we loved the names and in order to remind her of her rich heritage. I watch from across the room as she plays hide-and-go-seek over the phone with her Grandma Ruth. How they play over the distance of 1000 miles, I will never understand, but they share a special bond. I admire Ruth's unconditional love for her family and her dedication to each of us.

I was raised by liberal parents who set an example of sticking firmly to standards while accepting and celebrating the diversity around them. While I once prided myself on internalizing that principle, I have come to realize that my husband far outstrips me in his genuine interest in other people and his willingness and ability to accept them regardless of their degree of social acceptability. Brad frequently reminds me of the fact that God looks on the heart, that if we have the opportunity to catch a glimpse of heaven one day, we may find ourselves rather surprised at its inhabitants.

I met my friend Susan years ago when we both worked in Cache Valley, part of the bosom of the Mormon church. While not particularly religious herself, Susan exhibits charity and integrity more than almost anyone I know, reminding me that those attributes are not restricted to folks who are overtly religious. We all could use that reminder now and again, particularly when we make bold assumptions about a political candidate or a neighbor based on where they spend their Sunday mornings or what dogma they profess to follow.

Melissa and Heather brought exercise into my life, starting with daily walks while we passed Cheerios to our boys in their baby joggers and sustained each other through the ups and downs of life and motherhood. From those early morning walks, they pushed me to yoga and weightlifting, plyometrics, and beyond. I owe these women not only for their remarkable friendship but for a habit of exercise that has become essential to my well-being.

To the village who continues to raise this adult, I send a humble "thank you."