Red Butte Garden in Spring

My husband, middle daughter, and I enjoyed time at Red Butte Garden today. We saw a person paragliding way up high in the middle of the blue sky in this picture. It's a little hard to see because they are so high up and tiny. They stayed up for a very long time.

The oaks are slowly getting their leaves. The world is greening up.

 

The pear arbor is fun to see in bloom. There were so many pretty sights that I easily filled up the ten spaces on an Instagram post. That's why I'm posting more here. One post a day on Instagram is plenty.

We always exit the garden through this turnstile. We usually park close to it, but today the garden was ten times busier than usual, so there weren't any parking places near it. 

Time at the garden is time very well spent. I'm so glad my husband and I both love going there often. Our membership there is worth it.

Echoes of Her Illness

 

I went to the farm on my own, alone

She was not able to go from home

I needed some room to breathe, relief

Was tired of feeling the fight, her fright

I want to believe she can heal for real

With dandelion dreams in the grass, I ask 

If only someday she'll see, will seek

We'll bloom the strength to cope, I hope.

My Running History and Future

The first time I remember intentionally running was in San Jose, California around 1972 when I was in kindergarten. I preferred to run with the boys in the field instead of playing with the girls on the playground. One day, a boy was chasing me, but I was faster. I reached the edge of the school property, so I stopped. He tackled me. We wrestled. We got into trouble for what a teacher thought was fighting. After that, I don't think I kept running with the boys.

Years later, we moved to Bettendorf, Iowa. Just on the other side of our backyard fence was a large grassy area with a few large trees. It was like a community backyard enclosed by several homes who didn't have fences. That's where we often played with other neighborhood children. An older girl, who lived in one of the homes surrounding the grassy area, was on the high school track team. She set up hurdles to practice jumping them. She taught me how to run, put one leg forward and bend one leg back, and sail over those hurdles. I loved the feeling of flying. Unfortunately, I eventually fell and hurt one of my knees. I quickly lost interest in hurdles, but not in running.

When I was twelve, not long before we moved to Utah, I went to a fun sleepover birthday party for a school friend. We slept in tents in her older brother's huge backyard just across the Mississippi River in rural Illinois. We enjoyed a campfire and danced on picnic tables while listening to music. A group of boys our age just happened to be camping out in the field right next door the same night. Needless to say, we had a great time running back and forth between our camp sites, doing pranks, and being chased by them. I remember the gleeful ease of speeding away from everyone. I loved being able to run faster than the boys. I'd never felt so quick and strong.

The summer of 1982, I was about to become a sophomore in high school. I'd been on the freshman/sophomore basketball team the year before, but spent more time helping to keep score than playing actual games. I'd also started running in my neighborhood. It wasn't hard for me to run the mile and a quarter up the hill to Tanner Park near my parents' home, and then run back down again. I decided running, not basketball, was going to be my thing. That fall, I planned to join the track team.

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. On June 17th of that year, I was wearing flip flops, riding my bike as fast as I could on my way home from a summer babysitting job. My left foot slipped off the pedal and into the spokes of my front wheel. The bike immediately stopped, flipped tail over front, and I flew off. In the process, I broke two bones in my left foot. I had to crawl back to the house where I babysat. There, my foot swelled up like a balloon even though the mom helped me prop it up on a chair and put it in a big bowl of ice water. I spent that very sad summer babysitting and wearing a cast. Even after I healed, instead of becoming a runner, somehow along the way I became a reader. 

I did karate, bicycling, canoeing, and a lot of hiking in college, but didn't run on purpose very much. Since then, my husband and I have owned treadmills, but they've always been his thing. I've tried listening to music, reading, walking, and running on them, but that's too boring for me. I'm a visual person and don't enjoy a static view. When we lived in upstate New York, bicycling among the beauty of nature became my thing. 

For years, I wished I wanted to run, but really had no desire to try it again. I've greatly admired runners. I have siblings who have run marathons. My brother even accomplished a Guinness World Record and has been on Italian TV as the Knitting Runner. Yes, he can knit and run at the same time. I've admired runners in the neighborhood. When I was hiking last summer, I was in awe of all the trail runners. I knew I'd never try it; I was barely getting up those trails walking. I worried about my knees. I'd injured them and other joints a few times in various ways since jumping hurdles as a child. I'm also getting older and wasn't sure high-impact activities would be good for me. 

Then a month and a half ago, I bought an ultimate family pass at our local recreation center. I bought it for my daughter who has been suffering from severe anxiety and depression. I thought exercise would help her. I was willing to go with her, adding that to my regular walk-aerobics routine, to help increase her hope and happiness. She said she'd go with me, but she's only gone twice in the month and half since I bought the pass. 

I've kept going. I paid for the pass and wanted to make it worth the money. Walking around in circles on the gym track hasn't been very exciting, but it is slightly better than using a treadmill. I don't listen to music or podcasts, though I know I could. I like how friendly some of the people there have been. I like seeing people work out in various ways around the gym. Even so, since my purpose for going wasn't coming with me, I wondered if it was worth going. 

The idea of running started vaguely, almost accidentally. I realized the only way it would be worth going to the gym every day was if I wasn't just walking. I could run a little. That was something I couldn't easily do inside my house. It gave me a reason to leave home to exercise.

I have to say, I don't know if you'd actually call what I do "running." It's more like jogging, but I'm calling it "joggling." That's jogging with a jiggle. I'm pretty slow.

At first, I could barely jog around the track nonstop one time without feeling like I was going to pass out. Gradually, over a couple of weeks, I increased my distance to three times around. I started feeling proud of myself. I took a week off when I got worried about twinges of knee pain, but started up again the following week. 

After that, joggling started to feel intentional. I wondered how far I could go. I wondered how many times around the track is a mile. I soon learned it's 17.5 laps around. Now I'm up to 8 1/2 times around without needing to walk. So I'm not quite to 1/2 mile, but I'm sure I'll be there soon. I'm paying close attention to my body and not pushing myself too hard to avoid potential injury.

The three-month family pass expires June 11th. My goal before then is to be able to run those 17.5 laps, one mile, without stopping. After that, the plan is to keep running. By then it'll be warm enough to run outside. What comes next? At this point, I have no desire to run a marathon, but I might surprise myself.

I am beginning to develop a dream. We're going to a beach house for a week this summer. I'm starting to wonder if I might be able to run on the beach. The more I think about it, the more I'd like to make that a reality.

At the very least, it feels nice to want to run.

Broken

Utah spring

I'm giving a talk in church on Easter. You're invited. The whole world is invited. 

I found out last Sunday that I will be the only speaker. Four musical numbers will be performed before me, two after me. Then the bishop will give closing remarks as time permits. 

Since the whole world is invited, the sacrament portion of the meeting might take longer than usual. Combined with all those musical numbers, I suggested to the bishop there probably won't be time for the original fifteen minutes they asked me to speak. He agreed ten minutes will probably be better. 

By the time I was mostly done writing it, the talk was clocking in closer to fifteen minutes. I needed to trim it down. Even a shorter version of this story was starting to feel too self-centered. I also began to think it might dilute the message I felt prompted to share. So, I'm sharing the story here instead.

Back in 2011, I wrote about what happened on this blog. I even wrote a poem about it, but I didn't tell it all like I tell it here. 

So here it goes:

Broken

It was the morning of June 28, 2011, just a few months after we moved into our current home. I was the assistant Young Women camp director, and excited to go to camp that day. It would be our daughter Mariel’s first Young Women camp experience. In our morning family prayer, I prayed that Mariel and I would both learn the things we needed to learn from our experiences.

Finally, our ride arrived. I was hurrying out the front door when my right foot caught on our door mat. I tried to slow myself and catch my balance, but I couldn't stop. I flew down the porch steps. With my left arm trying to stop myself, I landed hard on the cement sidewalk below.

At first, I thought I was fine, that I could just get up, brush myself off, and go to camp. But my left arm looked wrong, blood was rushing from my head, I was dizzy, and I couldn’t get up. It soon became clear I wasn’t going to camp. Several people helped me as I lay there on the sidewalk.

Someone called 911. Someone else called Brother Fisher and Brother VanderToolen to come give me a priesthood blessing. Right there, as I lay on the sidewalk waiting for the ambulance, Brother Fisher and Brother VanderToolen gave me a priesthood blessing for healing. The blessing comforted me. I specifically remember Brother VanderToolen blessed me that I’d have a full recovery.

I severely bruised some ribs, my glasses were twisted, scratched and falling off my face. I had a two-inch gash in my head by my left eyebrow, probably from my glasses. I’d dislocated my left elbow. A piece of the end of the ulna broke off in the impact.

I was transported by ambulance to the hospital. My arm was in so much pain that an EMT had to hold it up or I’d scream. At the hospital, they glued the cut on my head closed with liquid stitches. They put me under anesthesia to pop the elbow back in place. Then I was sent home swollen, sore, tired, and sad about missing camp. Despite me not being there, Mariel had good experiences at camp.

A few weeks later, the gash on my head was healed, I was getting around better, and my bruised ribs were mostly healed so I could sleep comfortably again. Unfortunately, a surgeon determined that the broken piece of my ulna might be in the way of my elbow being able to bend normally. I had to have surgery. I was so discouraged to have to begin the healing process all over again. The surgeon moved the bone back in place and put two titanium screws in it to hold it together.

What followed was three months of physical therapy three times a week. For a couple of months, I thought I’d never be able to bend my arm past a ninety degree angle. Eventually I used a device that forced my arm to bend little by little. I asked the physical therapist, “Every morning, will I wake up with my arm aching for the rest of my life?” She had a sad expression and nodded. I started to doubt I’d heal completely.

Thankfully, I was wrong.

Just like I was told in the priesthood blessing, I eventually made a full recovery. You can’t tell the difference between my two arms. Both can curl a ten pound weight, maybe more soon, when I couldn’t even lift a one pound weight without pain. Yes, it has been over ten years, but it took less than a year for me to regain full movement in that arm. I don't experience any aching from the injury. Even the scar from surgery is disappearing.

The priesthood blessing I was given was part of my healing process. The priesthood is the power of God on earth. When worthy priesthood holders give blessings it’s as if Jesus Christ himself is giving a blessing. Jesus Christ wants to heal us. That’s one of the things he did while he was on earth, blessed and healed people.