Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam

January 2011 Motherlode!

This is just a public service announcement. There is a Motherlode giveaway on Dear C. Jane and it's so hot we don't want a soul to miss out. That is all.

Just looking out for you.

bAbbytized

When Abby moved into the neighborhood she told us she wasn't a baptized Mormon.

It was summer, and our weekly church activities for the youth were a reprieve from an onset of school-less boredom. We decided not to hound Abby about being baptized, but we invited her to our outings in case she wanted to leave the house for awhile. And Abby, twelve years old, eager for a mid-summers day thrill always showed up.

We went to the park and told stories until the grassy space created an ocean of twilight blue. We went hiking and biking, we ate cookies and ran around with the young men. Abby seemed to soak it all up, her world of newness--friends, atmosphere and adult interaction--showed in her gleamy eyes. We loved Abby like she was one of our own.

And one day at the park Abby rolled around from stomach to back and over and over again. We were talking about activities we'd like to do for the winter time. Ice skating! Sledding! Gingerbread House Making! Ideas poured out of the young women sparked by the memory of colder nights and shorter days. Then Abby stopped and rested on her stomach. Her head propped up by her planted elbows.

"How can I go to the temple?" she asked, her eyes set on picking apart a single blade of grass. "Do I need to be baptized first?"

We tried to explain the temple to Abby, but with a few short sentences in, her attention resumed back to rolling. And when we went home that evening, we left behind that conversation.

When those shorter days and colder nights came, Abby continued to come to our weekly meetings. One time, while making a green salad with toffee chunks ("Candy Bar salad" the girls named it) at my house Abby showed up a little late.

"Thanks for sending over the missionaries," she said to me, taking off her coat and joining the other girls chopping salad bits.

"I...didn't," I confessed.

"Oh, we thought it was you or Janna."

"Abby, are you meeting with the missionaries?" I asked surprised.

"Yes. I am going to get baptized."

Something was changing inside of Abby, there was a refinement. This silly twelve year old girl suddenly had a influx of clarity about her. She was changing.

We picked up Abby for church and I made attempts to be there when the missionaries taught the lessons. Her mother, already a church member, decided to be independent of Abby's choice to be baptized. "This has to be all her," she explained to me. But Abby was not alone, her siblings created a supportive team of Go Abby! The young women called and visited, making sure Abby had rides to activities and church.

And then, one cold night as I was dropping Abby off at her house, she turned to me and said,

"I am getting baptized on January 29th. I want to have a party afterward, will you make Candy Bar salad?"

Of course.

On Saturday as the sun was setting, I bundled up the children in coats and boots and loaded them on to the stroller. We made a short trek over to the market to buy lettuce, cheese and toffee bits. Back at home the children pulled off all the couch cushions, I chopped and grated and tossed. But there were bottles to re-fill and shows to start and diapers to change, and because my husband was out of town I was a one man band. When the baby sitter showed up, I was running ten minutes behind.

As fast as I could, I hauled to the church, barreled through the double doors and ran down the corridor. I left the salad on a  random table in the hallway and headed towards the baptismal font. Only, as I passed the door to the bathroom Abby was coming out, her hair in two ponytails on either side of her face, dripping wet. I had missed it.

My eyes met hers. They were all the more gleamy.

"I did it!"

Because there was no plates or salads to eat the salad with, I told Abby at the after party to take it home and enjoy it all to herself. Then I left to relieve the baby sitter. I was heavy-hearted having missed the baptism.

But at least you were there for the conversion, I told myself.

And that's the best part.

Chup here...

Spent the weekend in San Diego with some dear friends. Made some new friends. Learned much.




More later. - Chup

Sunday Guest Post Series: Veeda Bybee’s Discovering My Mom

photo by Jonathan Canlas

I didn’t realize I grew up in an anti-fish household until I had long
left my parents’ house. It was my junior year of college, and I was
home for Christmas break when I uncovered not only my mom’s
apprehension of fish, but also the realization that we were more alike
that I thought. My family recently moved to an Air Force base in
Okinawa Japan, and I was out with my mom and three younger sisters
exploring the island.

We were at Jusco, a mega-mall of trendy Japanese fashion and an
abundance of local eats. As we walked through the food court section,
we passed aisle after aisle of regional cuisine. Strolling by displays
of bento boxes, I asked Mom what she though of the sushi here.

“I don’t know,” she said shrugging her shoulders. “I haven’t tried any.”

I was immediately taken back. Mom was usually very adventurous when it
came to exploring new food. When we lived in Korea, she fell in love
with kimchi. While in Idaho, she became a believer in mashed potatoes
made from scratch. The fact that she was living in Japan and had not
eaten a single piece of nigiri was surprising.

“Why not?” I inquired. “This is Japan. You know, they invented sushi.”

She simply replied, “I don’t like fish.”

I stared at my mother. My sisters stopped poking at the Hello Kitty
gelatin molds. The four of us were speechless as we tried to take in
this revelation. I was the first one to regain my vocal chords. “Of
course you like fish!” I sputtered. “You are Chinese and Thai. You eat
it all the time!”

As soon as the word left my mouth, it dawned on me that I could not
recall a single memory of Mom serving fish for a meal. Try as I might,
there was no memory of her mentioning a distaste for it. I was
surprised at the betrayal I felt. She had kept this knowledge from me
my entire life. I’m supposed to know everything about her, and to be
unaware of this food aversion made me feel like a bad daughter.

“Why don’t you like fish,” I hissed.

“When I was growing up,” Mom said, “it was my job to clean the fish. I
hated it so much.” She looked off in the distance, past the boxes of
panko bread crumbs and into her childhood in Laos. I could see Mom
picturing herself as a young girl, loathing her life as she scrubbed
scales off of freshly caught fish. “I hated the smell,” she explained,
lost in thought. “I hated the eyes. They look so round and surprised.
Like, ‘What’s going on? Am I dead? Where is the water?’” She shook her
head, as if brushing away this terrible recollection. “It was my most
hated chore.”

“I hate fish, too,” whispered my youngest sister Sheela. She was
eleven at the time, and looked at Mom with understanding.

With her captivated audience, Mom continued. “When I first married
your dad, your grandpa Dean thought he would surprise me with a fish
he caught in the river.”

I imagined my grandfather — from a small town in Southern Idaho —
trying to connect with his new, foreign daughter-in-law. His
assumption was innocuous. Eating fish in Asia is as universal as
consuming rice.

“When he brought me the fish,” Mom said, “I almost ran away. I wanted
to cry. It was so big, so gray, and so dead. Dean was a little upset
when your dad told him I didn’t like fish.”

She looked at us solemnly and said, “He had the same reaction as you.
He was so nice to think of me, but thought we are all the same. All
Asians like fish.” She turned to look at me. “Well, we don’t.”

The expression on her face told me she was disappointed. I should know
better. Her eldest girl, constantly fighting assumptions from others,
did not understand her own mother’s struggle against stereotypes. I am
tall, but I do not play basketball. I am Asian, but I do not speak
Chinese. Or do well in math. Or cook rice everyday. I am my mother’s
daughter, but I do not know everything about her. She was more like me
than I thought.

I took Mom’s hand and placed it in mine. Her hand was tiny in my
grasp, but strong and firm. “Thank you for never making me clean
fish,” I said. I took a deep breath. “Will you try some sushi with
us?”

Mom looked at me, looked at my sisters, and looked at the arrangement
of raw fish beautifully arranged in a box. They were vivid in color,
blush pink salmon and deep purple tuna. No eyes staring back, just
thick slivers of flesh resting on tiny beds of rice. Mom hesitated,
and then smiled at her girls. “Well okay,” she consented. “We are in
Japan.”

We each purchased a roll, and Mom took the first taste. The rice and
fish disappear in one bite. She chewed slowly, and finally swallowed.
“Hmm,” she said. “Taste like fish to me.”



photo by Amelia Johnson


Veeda Bybee is a wife, mother (currently expecting her third baby) writer and cook. She blogs at WhiteLotusCooks.com.

I am C. Jane Kendrick and the first time I saw Veeda I forgot who I was. She's that stunning.  You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure.

Vlog: Best Blogging Week Ever Jan. 24-28

Chup likes dogs and sunglasses

I am C. Jane Kendrick and I need to oil my robot now. You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure.

Follow Me Here

Yesterday was messy.

I accepted a last-minute request from Studio 5 to do a live interview about my Deseret News response to the Salon.com Mormon Mommy Blogs article. I was going to just zip up to Salt Lake by myself to do the spot, but the sky started heaving up heavy snow and my competency does not cover snowy driving conditions. I know, I have limits too. Just like everybody else.

So we loaded up the family with Chup at the helm of our snow-pelted automobile. Things were treacherous from the get go. Fellow cars on the road were sliding and stopping and hitting one another. By the time we got on the freeway snow and ice were splattering at our car like it was a big metal duck in a shooting gallery. About midway to Salt Lake traffic stopped. From the radio we heard reports about miles of wrecks and delay.

"I'm going to miss it." I declared.

The Chief started wrestling with his restraints.

"STUCK!" he yelled.

Ever was no better, kicking and arching her back.

I was sweating.

By the time we passed through the other side of the jam, we had five minutes to get to set and twenty minutes to drive. Stephanie, the producer of the segment called me frantic.

"You are going to miss it."

And I did.

They were able to patch me through at the last second. At least my voice made it to set. The fabulous Annie Valentine was also there and thanks to her we had some thoughtful exchanges.

When it was over we were deep in downtown. Chup, who had braved a very intense dentist's visit just an hour before, was done. One side of his face was puffy and the other side was downward slanting. He looked miserable.

The Chief was done. Ever was done. Daddy was done.

So we drove around looking for lunch. Due to Chup's diet of liquidy substances our choices were few. Finally I told him to go anywhere that sounded good and kind. Good to his stomach and kind to his puffy/slanty face.

As we drove around I thought more about this article. It continues to make headlines locally, as well as interesting discussion with people in my life. A couple nights ago my older sister Page called me saying, "Someone sent me a link to this sweet article about an atheist woman who likes to read Mormon blogs..."

Have you read it? Most people think it's sweet. It's very nice.

I think we've established that. We're cute. Blogging Mormon Housewives are cute. Ok.

But as we drove in and out of Salt Lake neighborhoods (I married a very picky eater and with a tender dental mouth it gets much pickier--as you can imagine). I thought about what was really bothering me about the whole deal.

It's that we're more than cute. Or at least we should be. And why aren't we? Why didn't Emily end the article saying, "I am going to invite the missionaries over for hot cocoa"? Not that I want Emily to be a Mormon necessarily, but in truth, I want Emily to want to know what she was asking in the first place, Why are these blogs so fascinating?

And I don't think we've answered that question.

I think we're getting close. When I first started blogging (cue: my maternal grandbloggers voice) there wasn't a lot of religion talk in the Mormon blogs I read. Then we started to get more courageous, we started to put up buttons and link to texts (talks, articles) and sometimes we share stories about church or the goodness of God--posts that were easy on the spiritual digestion. We've come a long way in being able to proclaim our Latter Day Sainthood and it's good. But what about the doctrine? Are we sharing the meat along with the cupcakes?

Not just religion for religion’s sake, but WHY it works; why we go to church for three hours every Sunday (just to wrestle our kids for most of it) why we go on missions, why we love our temples, why we believe in families….WHY IT HELPS.

It reminds me of the time when I sat through a demonstration about a health shake. The idea was you'd buy a dozen cases of dried powered which supposedly contained enough miracle dust to save the world. You'd mix it with water, drink it for breakfast and, HOT GLORY IN A TOASTER all of your problems--mental, physical would vanish. We heard testimonials from people calling in via speaker phone crying and pleading with us to buy the powder. "The best $375 you'll ever spend, I promise!" "So good in fact, you'll want to sell cases to all of your friends and neighbors (and cousins and former roommates and mailman and ...)"


So I asked the obvious, "What is in this drink?"


And I looked around the room, and everyone looked back at me.


No one could actually tell me.


What's behind our blogs?

Sometimes being a Mormon housewife is great! Sometimes it is rosy and blissful. But when it is, it's not because we can surf the web looking for adorable images to paste on our blog. Or cook the best lasagne-thingy in the crockpot. It's because of what we believe. It's the very ideas and thoughts that make our lives what they are. Our hopes, our faith, our views of eternity. This is what makes us...fascinating. 

And this isn't about proselytizing. It's about (or SHOULD be about) letting people--of all faiths and directions--into our genuine, real, Mormon lives. It's about saying, "Yes I believe a fourteen year old boy saw God the Father and Jesus Christ in a grove of trees. Not only do I believe it, but I've based my faith on it." *

(Incidentally, I've called for a Mormon Message video where people just look at the camera and tell us what they believe. No music, no stirring strings just people's faces and their testimonies. While it wouldn't appeal to everyone, at least it would be an honest portrayal of what a testimony sounds like coming out of your average Mormon's mouth.)

So sure, we can be cute, but we have a lot of depth too. And I don't think that depth needs to be every post we write, I don't think our blogs need to be about our religion at all. But to those who want to write more, who want to share more, more than anecdotes or well-designed greeting cards, I say PLEASE DO.

Because if we can blog as passionately about the doctrines of salvation as we do about our Anthropology jackets or our lemon curd breakfast muffins then we are answering Emily's initial question before she had to ask it, Why are these blogs so fascinating?

And now, back to the car.

By the time we settled on lunch Ever was asleep. A drive through would have to do. My mind was teeming with thoughts and calls to action--my actions. As we drove down the I-15 corridor my thinking spree was quickly ended when Chup asked,

"So... do you want to stop by Ikea?"

Because then I started to think about all the frames I wanted to buy for my new Blue Lily portraits.

Squee! Ever Jane in a bucket? So cute!







*I've noticed that when I open myself up and share my belief system, others do the same. I've had some entertaining correspondences from people all over the world, believing all sorts of truths and I thank God for it.



Here's the video with my voice, isn't Annie dreamy? Love her.

Dear C. Jane:
The highlights of our St. George Reading

I am C. Jane Kendrick and I think that's all I have to say. You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure.

St. George Utah Kidnapped Me

I can't tell if vacation is good for the soul. It leaves me lazy in spirit. I daydream of mornings in bed and an early retirement. I am a sucker for time off.

But then, there is glory in hard work. To look at the grindstone every morning and say "Good day!" I pride myself in the feeling of having all the laundry sorted and stacked, the dust collected and fresh sheets on my bed. I live to retire at night tired, drained of all energy sucked from exhaustive labor.

I am my mother, a lover of fun.

I am my father, a wooer of work.

I don't think any duality of purpose defines me more.

This is me.



It was good while it lasted.

And now, back to work.





Des News:
Response to Salon.com article

Dear C. Jane:
Banner patrol

C. Jane's Guide to Provo:
The anti-St. George

I am C. Jane Kendrick and thanks St. George! You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure.

Desert for Dessert

I didn't realize what a buzzy, assiduous life I have been leading lately until I came to the desert. I have slept, swam and pondered the cosmos. I have one more freckle on my face and a decent return to balance inside of me. I'd love to write more, but my baby is wailing for more of me. And after her, the Mr...


See you soon?




Here the details to tomorrow's Reading:
Tomorrow, January 20th
Washington City Community Center.
7:00pm.
We will read some, eat some, discuss some.
The original Mother/Photographer/Business Owner Haley Warner from Haley Ann Warner Photography will be there to answer some questions about using images with your blogging (have you met her? You will fall in love, as I did twenty years ago). And the very introspective and amusing Suzanne from the blog Life's Negotiations who also happens to be married to my eldest brother Steve is going to read some of her salty posts. Plus, Chup and his post about being arrested? He's gonna read it.
If there is time and we're not boring you, you can ask me any questions you might have about writing, blogging or what is it like to be Nie's sister? (Someone once asked me if they could shake my hand because it would be almost like shaking Nie's hand. I guess that's what it's like to be Nie's sister. So that question is already answered. Cross off.)

Bring a treat, if you want. Or whatever. There is rumors that a cupcake war has begun...I don't know about this, but I like it.

*If you sent in a post to be read, please come to read it! Because of our cozy desert dwelling we are living without access to the world of the web. (We are untangled, you might say.) If you don't hear back from us before the Reading, please know we are so glad you are willing to share!

I am C. Jane Kendrick and I love the red rocks and the sunsets. And I wonder why I don't live here always. You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure.

Update

ON VACATION STOP NO INTERNET STOP CEL RECEPTION FROM 1997 STOP BACK WITH YOU SOON BUT NOT TOO SOON BECAUSE THE SUN IS GLORIOUS STOP

I am C. Jane Kendrick and STOP. You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure. Especially  since I'm on VACATION!

Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day!

Here are some links to liven up your holiday:

If this holiday is all about having a dream, I'd like to declare mine: I have a dream where I get a private audience with Mormon writer Emma Lou Thayne. We'd have tea and readings. Tea and readings--doesn't that sound nice? I was so excited to read her latest update in this insightful Des News article--and it's about healing.

Salon.com's Emily Matchar blogs about her addiction to Mormon Mommy Blogs and the response is explosive. Read here.

(And the comment about the girl throwing rocks with her cousin Katie wasn't me. But I know who it was. And I am quite sure they weren't rocks, they were chestnuts from off one of our two fertile chestnut trees. Find me someone in our neighborhood who didn't get pelted by one of those, and I will show you my surprised face.)

Help out our friends in Australia and support the Queensland Flood Appeal auctions here.

You are not too late to have lunch with your favorite Provoan, my entertaining brother Christopher Clark (the Jolly Porter) and for a good cause too! Bid here.

I only have four spots left for sharing of essays at the St. George Reading on Thursday. Would you like to read something you wrote? We want to hear it! Email it to me, cjanemail @ gmail .com.

Lastly, thanks to generous Facebook associates, I updated my ABOUT page. I've had it on my To Do list for the last four weeks, but I've been dreading it. As it turns out, I really don't like talking about myself just for the sake of talking about myself (WHO KNEW?) Anyway, here it is. (There is talk it's not C. Jane-y enough, so don't get your hopes up.)



Dear C. Jane
A Day On, Instead of A Day Off


C.Jane's Guide to Provo:
How you can do something "good on a day made for good."

I am C. Jane Kendrick and I have a dream. You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure.

Sunday Guest Post Series: Claire Bidwell Smith's What I Know Now

"I don't know anyone who has died," my friend Julie said to me a few days before she herself died. Julie was twenty-two years old and had come to the end of a year-long battle with leukemia.

I was the opposite: healthy and strong and with more loss under my belt than anyone my age should have to bear. By the time I was 25 I would have lost, not only Julie, who was one of my closest friends, but also both of my parents to cancer.

In the years following Julie's death I often wondered who had been there to greet her when she disappeared from this world. In those last grey hours together, in a hospital in Atlanta, I promised her that my mother would be there, even though they had never met.

This month marks ten years since Julie died. I'm 32 now. I have a husband and a little daughter, and I work as a grief counselor for hospice.

One of the things I do in my job is I ask people what they think happens when they die. Some people have firm beliefs. Others have none at all. But I've found that the places in your head and in your heart where you relagate those you've lost matters a great deal.

I've spent 13 years thinking about the afterlife, ever since my mother died when I was 18. In those years I've run through a million incarnations of what I believe. I wasn't raised any particular religion and so when my mother died I had nothing specific to fall back on. Heaven? A place where people sat on clouds all day? I couldn't really picture it. And so for a while I pictured nothing.

It was easier that way anyway. I was angry. Angry that my mother was gone. Angry that this had happened to me. It was easier to believe that life was unfair and pointless -- it was the only thing that really fit into my belief system at the time. This was only confirmed a few years later when Julie died.

But something changed with my father's death.

I was 25 by then, and learning to let go of my father became one of the most defining experiences of my life. With my mother and Julie it was different. I had been resistant with their deaths, fighting and denying the experiences. But my father's dying wish had been that I be present, that I say goodbye, that I let go, and that I be there when he took his last breath.

And I was.

At 7pm on a Tuesday night in a little condominium in Garden Grove, California I bent over my father, both of my hands in his, as he slipped away.

Afterward, I stood over his body, taking it in one last time. His funny, bushy eyebrows, the ancient creases in his hands, the slope of each earlobe. I drank in the sight of each of these things, trying to store them away inside of me somewhere, trying desperately to keep each one. But the longer I looked, the more I realized that he was gone.

My father was gone.

And that's when I realized that we are not these bodies. I'll say it again. We are not these bodies.

My father was gone from his body, gone from the room, gone from this world. But I knew, more deeply than I had ever known anything, that he was not gone in a larger sense.

I don't know what happens when we die. But I do know this:

I know that the certainty of death informs our lives.

I know that saying goodbye to my parents and to one of my best friends has made me appreciate every day that much more.

I know that when I am gone I want those who loved me to miss me, but not spend their time searching for me.

I know that now I believe we are all part of one another. That's it's not that we will meet again, but that we have already met before.



Claire Bidwell Smith writes the blog Life in Chicago (www.lifeinchicagoblog.com). She lives in Chicago with her husband and daughter. Her memoir, The Rules of Inheritance will be published in the spring of 2012. 

I am C. Jane Kendrick and I met Claire in Chicago last year. She's a true kindred spirit. You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure.

Chup's POtW

Bonus:







I'm Chup. And stuff.




You can contact C. Jane personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on her facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find her tweets here. But no pressure.

Vlog: Best Blogging Week Ever Jan.10-14

l

 l

So we're just going to borrow an idea (we promise to put it back! gug gug gug) from VH1's Best Week Ever and start a vlog series called, Best Blogging Week Ever. A series wherein we round up our favorite moments of blogging for that week.

I mean, there is some drama in the blogging.

But this vlog didn't even get to the part of this week where Brooke White and I made-up using the hugely public space of Twitter. That was pretty sweet.

And a funny correspondence from the Pioneer Woman (but let's just call her Ree).

And am I name dropping?

(My sister is Nie Nie.)

(Here's proof. I am even on her blog today.)

And my Des News column debuted at numero uno on their Most Popular spot. THANKS TO YOU GUYS!

And then a DN reader commented, "And what did we do to deserve this?"

But we laughed all day about that one.

Because what can you do when there is drama in the blogging?




Ok, C. Jane shut the trap and roll the vlog:


Thanks for an exceptional week.
I hope you know, I like you.







St. George Readers! Are you coming to the Reading next Thursday, January 20th at the Washington City Community Center, 7:00pm with me, Suzanne and Haley? If you are coming and you'd like to share a blog post of yours to read to the group, will you email us a link to your post? We want to know how many readings we can plan on...and if there are any we need to censor. Just kidding. Or am I? cjanemail @ gmail .com.

Oh and did you want to see a photo of Haley and me caught up in a snuggle?
Clicky here-y.

Also, I hear everyone is pretty picky about their dessert offerings (rocky road ice cream will already be there) so if you'd like to bring something to share, we'd love it. It's a gathering, a real gathering!




Dear C. Jane:
Chup reviews a toy that has a camera attached to it--oh I don't know--see for yourself.


C. Jane's Guide to Provo:
Exclusive, I am getting real with you.

I am C. Jane Kendrick and now that I think about it, my title could use some work. You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure.

Cabin Fever, Is That What You Call It?

Looks sorta something like this?


And this?


And this?


Also diagnosed as House Syndrome, I think?




What ever it is, we've got a baaaad case.












Dear C. Jane
Ever gets asked to the Prom when I'm not looking.

C. Jane's Guide to Provo:
HOT Night on the Town!

I am C. Jane Kendrick and I am the mayor of Crazy Town. Welcome.  You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure.

Re-Post: Starting It Over and Getting It Right

This post was published on this blog January 2, 2006. At the time I was teaching for the Provo School District, childless and curiously vegan with vegetarian tendencies (as far as lifestyle diets go I've done it all). I think about this post at the beginning of every year--it still makes good sense to me. But to be clear, I no longer have negative thoughts about multi-level marketing approaches or the people who use them. It's all about love. Happy New Beginnings!


I think I take the New Year too seriously. I was frantically stuffing Fritos in my mouth and swallowing before 11:59pm. I believe, somewhere in layers of consciousness, that when the New Year has begun I am working off of a blank slate. No repentance or baptism necessary -just a blow of a noise maker and a sip of Cold Duck, and Voila! I am a new person, entering a new year.


Don't get me wrong, I like to believe in that sort of magic. Beginnings and Endings are what keep me sane. A new day, week, month or a change of hour can stimulate me into proving myself anew. Every time I get in the shower, I emerge with a sense of empowerment. Now that I am clean I am not going to think negative thoughts about why people involve themselves in multi-level marketing, for example.

Prayer will often times do the trick just as well. An emotional prayer offered mid-day, allows myself to start over and get closer to right. Also, a long walk with my dogs or a nap will do. Saying "I'm Sorry" has the same affect. As does drinking a lot of water over a short period of time.

In writing all of this, I am realizing that I should be taking the New Year a little less seriously. It's just one of the many times I can give myself a reason to start over. When I do slip up and say that one swear word that I promised myself that I wouldn't say in 2006, I don't have to wait until 2007 to try again. This year I resolve to celebrate the little Beginning and Endings, the New, that come all the time.











Dear C. Jane:
What was the hardest for you parents out there? Zero to one, one to two, two to three?

C. Jane's Guide to Provo:
The Left Field Comedy is practically giving away tickets to their huge show this weekend.

I am C. Jane Kendrick and 2006 was a great year. Cheers. You can contact me personally at cjanemail @ gmail.com or leave comments on my facebook page and if you are on twitter you can find my tweets here. But no pressure.