In Case You Were Wondering

One of the many ways in which I wish I was like Mary Poppins is her take on explaining herself: "Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I never explain anything."

But, I frequently spend a great deal of time, energy and effort explaining myself, because it's important to me that people understand me. If they understand me, we'll live a harmonious existence, and everyone will be happier, right?

Yes, I actually do hang on to that hope. No comments about futility, please.

Anyway...

Apparently, there are people wondering if I've changed my mind about certain things, because, the theory goes, they didn't "really" affect me before.

You see, I belong - by choice, I feel impressed to add - to a religion that teaches that marriage is intended to be between a man and a woman, and my daughter married a woman.

For instance, someone recently said to me, "Have you come to terms with your daughter yet?" I have no idea what that inquiry means.

Do they mean, am I aware that my daughter does not follow the religion in which we raised her? Of course. When her age was still in single digits, she started arguing with us about church teachings because "nobody else does things that way." Once, when she insisted that "nobody else has household rules like that" (the subject was chores, something she detested) and I immediately rattled off the names of half a dozen families, she wailed, "Why are you talking about people at church?" I responded, "Why aren't you? When you use words like 'nobody' or 'everybody,' you'd better not know of any exceptions. Those words mean 'not even one person, worldwide.'" As a teen, she started saying things like, "Mormons do it all wrong." She stopped attending church at 18, and has never been quiet about her disagreements with doctrine or practices.

Do they mean, have I processed the fact that my daughter's in a relationship with a woman? Years ago. The first time I met my now daughter-in-law, she and my daughter were wearing matching rings. Even in the early years of the relationship, which dates back to when my now-28 year old was in college, my daughter's photos on my computer (her open Shutterfly account) contained an image of them kissing. Even early in the relationship, there were Internet searches of wedding venues. We didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes.

Do they mean, how do I treat my daughter's wife? The same way I always have, the same way I treat any person. From the time we met, we included her in family outings and family meals. Before we even met her, we bought travel souvenirs for her when we were on vacation. At Christmas, when we bought glasses with his favorite NFL team logo for my son-in-law, we bought her glasses with her favorite NFL team logo. We've included her name and photo in our Christmas card.

Do they mean, am I prepared for public scrutiny or questions? Always. How will people know anything if they don't ask? Plus, I'm generally a TMI person, not a privacy obsessed one. Virtually everything on my social media, for instance, is set on "public," so everyone knows what I'm saying about anyone and anything. I have never, ever asked my daughter or her wife to hide, to lie, to make themselves scarce, to not bring up their relationship around certain people. If people are obnoxious, well, that's a good sign that I need to keep those people, not my daughter, at arm's length.

Do they mean, am I aware that my daughter has unfavorable things to say about my religion? See above; yes, since her childhood.

Do they mean, am I prepared for this to be my reality? Of course. Anyone who believes that other people and their actions are, or should be, under the control of anyone but themselves is delusional or power hungry.

Do they mean, have I changed my mind and left, or doubted, my religion? That mindset - and yes, I have come across it - has always been so annoying. Do people usually change their minds, especially their deeply held beliefs, because someone else doesn't agree? Should they? I'm not easily swayed. Besides, it's outright offensive when someone says to me, "How can you belong to your religion, knowing that its beliefs cause your daughter pain?" but they are aghast and horrified if the question is reversed - "How can my daughter hold her beliefs, knowing that they cause her parents pain?" Take any answer you would give to one of us about free will and determining our own destiny, and apply it to the opposite question, as well, because the answers are the same.

Do they mean, do I agree with my religion? Yes, I do. Any official doctrine of my church is something that I embrace. Sometimes that has come quickly and easily (sometimes, before I even attended my church), and sometimes it's taken years of study and prayer. It's also offensive to me when someone sees me treat someone, anyone, outside of my religion with love and friendship, and then says, "So, you obviously don't believe (insert doctrine here) that the Mormons teach." (Yes, this has actually happened to me.) They are almost universally puzzled when I say, "Yes, I do. That's why my treatment of people doesn't depend on me agreeing with them. That's what my church teaches, that we are all children of God." I have no idea why people equate "children of God, who should be loved and cared for" with "agrees with and acts like me." I assure you, that is not what LDS members are taught.

As a subset of that, do they mean, do I think that this is the life that my daughter was destined to live? No, I do not. I do not believe in the "soul mates" concept that there is only one perfect partner for you. Anyone who's had a spouse die, or gone through a breakup thinking, "I will never love anyone that way again" knows that you will meet someone that you can love again (and that love is every bit as "real" as the love that you previously had). I think it is also possible to be deeply, truly in love, and have the relationship be one that should not be pursued. We know that, even if we don't enjoy the actions, or they don't come easily, we still need to practice good nutrition, exercise, hold a job (at home or somewhere else), be polite, be helpful, treat everyone fairly, clean our homes, do our laundry, refrain from violence, and a host of other behaviors. So, it makes no sense to me to say, "Unless you act on your sexual feelings, you're not being true to yourself, and you're doomed to failure." I don't think that "normal" necessarily equates to "desirable." I think that the fact that it biologically takes a man and a woman to perpetuate the species indicates that the ideal environment for raising them will contain a father and a mother.

A friend works for the local crisis hotline, and once went to her social media to ask, "What should I say to callers like this?" A caller said he was afraid to tell his parents that he was gay, because they thought homosexuality was wrong. My response was: I would say, "You think your parents are wrong. You think their views are hateful, divisive, inaccurate and hurtful. Yet, YOU LOVE THEM, and you WANT THEM IN YOUR LIFE, ALWAYS. That's undoubtedly EXACTLY how they feel about YOU."

So, I'm sitting there, having been asked if I've "come to terms," and having no earthly idea what that actually means. So I went with the only fact that matters, and said, "I love my daughter."

"I know that's what you say, but what about the Sharon in private?" Um - what? Did you just actually imply to my face that I do not love my daughter, AND that I'm two faced?

"She's the same person," I said. Remember the old computer term, WYSIWYG, which meant What You See Is What You Get? That's me. I do not have the energy to be different things to different people, and to try to remember how I'm "supposed" to act around them. My kids (and this daughter in particular) used to hate it when they'd tell some story that they were sure would embarrass me (on the theory that I'd bribe them to get them to shut up), only to discover that people already knew the story. Or, if they didn't, I was likely to say, "That's not the worst part!" and share more. I don't believe in tying myself in knots trying to make sure that others don't hear unflattering tales.

"I said Sharon."

"I know. And I'm telling you, the public and private Sharon look the same."

"Oh, I know you say that. But I know you."

Obviously not too well! This is someone who spent almost two decades in a relationship that they would not acknowledge in public, and they know very personal and often embarrassing things about me, and I'm the one accused of hiding? Seriously? I've told scores of people things that were none of their business, just because I overshare.

"You keep things inside." Do I make every effort to be civil, even when I'm angry, to be courteous, even when I don't like people, and make every effort to refrain from gossip? Yes; that's not being deceitful, that's being mature.

So, here I am, typing, trying to explain myself again, with no idea if that's possible, or even a good idea.

Let's try this. Here's a photo from my daughter's wedding:

That's my husband, me, our 4 kids, and my new daughter-in-law.

Here's one of all of the wedding guests:

Almost all of those people are members of my family. (The number inches closer to 100% if you count Mickey, and many of us would.) Since going on a cruise is expensive, the couple knew that the numbers would be small, but for a small ceremony, that's a lot of people. Now think about the fact that some people are there because they think my daughter is doing the right thing, and some are there just because they love my daughter.

The couple had a beautiful day that made them happy, and they shared it with loved ones.

Here's one from my oldest daughter's wedding:

That building we're in front of is the Salt Lake Temple. The woman in the wheelchair is my mom. She is not LDS, and she did not think that it was important to be married in an LDS temple. She is there, far from her home and in no small amount of physical discomfort, knowing that she cannot set foot inside the building, and that she will not see the wedding ceremony. She is there, in a borrowed wheelchair, because she loves my daughter.

The couple had a beautiful day that made them happy, and they shared it with loved ones.

This was taken at my grandniece's naming ceremony, at the synagogue my niece attends.

Only 3 people in this photo are Jewish, the parents and the new infant. The rest of them traveled a great distance, and are at the synagogue not to worship, but because they love my niece. (And, just as an aside, my niece is also in a same sex relationship.)

The couple had a beautiful day that made them happy, and they shared it with loved ones.

In sharing this I by no means am saying, "We are so amazing!" In fact, quite the contrary. My family and I are extremely ordinary. There are no rich, famous, or powerful people. We are flawed. We can be petty, bad tempered, forgetful, lazy, annoying, hurtful. We have money issue and health issues. We squabble and bicker. There are no Superhumans here.

Other people are doing the family thing better than I am. You're a good parent and your house is clean? Hats off to you. You work full time and coach your kid's team? I get exhausted just thinking about it.

We are so, so ordinary. Ordinary is good enough.

Any time someone wants to pat my daughter on the back for being willing to love such clueless parents, or to pat us on the back for loving such a difficult child, they need to stop. The idea that the main purpose of human interaction is achieving agreement is prejudicial and oppressive. I am amazed that so many people subscribe to it. It amazes and puzzles me any time someone feels that in order to truly love someone, or in order to even get along with civility, you have to agree, at least on the big stuff - religion, politics, etc.

Things that others said to my daughter undoubtedly contributed to the ridiculously long time it took for her to have The Conversation with us. Every time the subject of same sex relationships came up, we assured her that the horror stories you hear about people behaving badly in the face of such differences are a small fraction of the population. Most people handle them quite well, but those aren't the stories you hear repeated over and over again. Nobody calls up their friends and says, "Did you hear about Sally's parents? They behaved perfectly reasonably." Nobody re-shares "... and life went on as usual" stories on their social media. But many people perpetuate the idea that people will only treat you well if they agree with you. The positive stories that do get reblogged are the ones that say, "... and because we all agreed that Jimmy was right, everything was fine."

People say things like, "Religious parents are going to be the ones who behave badly," and, "Mormon parents are going to be a problem." Sometimes they say things like, "They'll come around eventually," indicating again the idea that everyone will need to agree for things to be fine, and that eventually, of course, everyone will agree. When I've asked people why this is, I get answers like, "Well, you hear all these stories..." or, "I had Mormon neighbors once, and they..." When someone says something like, "I had a Mormon uncle, and he...," I want to point out that I don't consider, for instance, my devout Catholic niece to be the final word in Catholic doctrine, or the poster child for her religion, or indicative of how all Catholics will (or should) behave. When I say things like, "I know a lot of Mormons who behave differently than that," I'm told that it's irrelevant, but those same people will insist that the people that they know or have heard about are hard evidence. Or, someone wants to get into a game of numbers - "I have more examples than you do!" (This is often despite the fact that they have never met as many LDS members as someone who regularly attends LDS meetings has.)

We never cautioned our younger children against spending time with, or listening to, their sister, either. We didn't view her as contagious in any way.

Someone once told me that the mere fact of my church membership indicated bigotry. Aside from the fact that that belief is the dictionary definition of prejudice, I was letting my children sit on the lap of my gay best friend with AIDS before my accuser was even born. I was still hugging him when the disease was advanced, and that was in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when people still said things like, "We don't know if the virus can spread through casual contact." Do not try to talk to me about bigotry if you have no idea what my life looks like, or if you think that a single piece of information is all that you need to know! (I get almost as upset at people who say, "Well, you can't blame her for thinking that. Most Mormons..." Again, that's prejudice, and again, you don't know most Mormons, even in your own community, much less worldwide.)

People told my son stuff like this, too, when he decided to leave our church, and not serve a mission. "Oh, your parents are going to just freak out!" It's almost understandable coming from people who've never met us, but even then it's annoying. Plus, we aren't the freak out type. Neither my parents-in-law nor my parents freaked out when we joined the church, either; the odds that we'd lose our minds over a child leaving were very small. (Plus, we'd already had one child leave the church; surely that's a pretty good indicator of how we'd act.)

"It's different when it's your own child," people said, dismissing the way we'd treated anyone else, gay or otherwise. You know how it's different? The parent/child relationship is permanent. Marriages are dissolved, friendships fade, but children are always yours. My child could never speak to me again, and I'd still be her mother. I could die tomorrow, my husband could re-marry, and I'd still be her mother. The parent/child relationship is the only biological relationship that you choose. You can't choose any of your other biological relatives, but any woman who has given birth has chosen, daily, for months on end, to bring a child into the world. That's how it's different.

(As an aside, I can speak to the mindset of giving birth, because it's what I did, but adoptive parents spend more time preparing, and they have to go find their children. They are equally determined; perhaps more so.)

So, for better or worse, I'm putting us out there, pointing at my family and saying, "People can disagree on fundamental things, and still love and support each other." "Support" does not mean "agree with."

In case you were wondering.

Now, when people say, "Well, I know this one Mormon family..." you can say, "I do, too." Plus, if we aren't impressive enough, I can point you in the direction of some really impressive people.

Honor Code Violations

I hesitate to write anything on this subject again; it did not go well on my Facebook page.

It started with this article about Brigham Young University (BYU) and the students challenging the school's honor code. The claim was made that it unfairly targeted female victims of sexual assault. People were very angry, because sexual assault is a dreadful crime, and they insisted that school policy further victimized the women. How? Because if they were in violation of the school's Honor Code when the assault occurred, they would still face censure for any rules they, themselves, broke.

(You can read the entire Honor Code here.)

I sincerely thought that this was a misunderstanding of the policy at best, and knee jerk reaction at worst. It should be possible to clear up this misunderstanding easily, I thought. I posted the article and said so - "It's not about gender bias or shaming. It's about breaking contracts."

I mean, to me it's obvious that if you know that a policy exists, you agree to that policy in writing, and you sign your name to a contract saying that you will follow those rules or accept censure, there's very, very little room - no, strike that, there's no room - to complain if you're censured for breaking the rules. Simple. right?

A few people saw it that way. They said things like, "I agree that if a student agreed to attend this school knowing that they have such a code, that they should not feel like they get a pass if they're the victim of any sort of crime."

Most pounced on me and quite roundly accused me of condoning rape, of saying that women "asked for it" or "deserved it," and voiced the opinion that I only thought this because I was brainwashed and controlled by my religion.

This was a typical response: " There is NEVER a good reason for punishing the victim of rape."

I could not quite get across that no one was punished because they were raped, they were punished because they broke rules, even when I said things like, "They're referred (to the disciplinary committee) if there's something to show that a rule's been broken - no different than if a male student was pulled over for DUI, off campus." I spent the better part of two days answering every response, and people STILL accused me of condoning rape.

It's been months, and I am still astonished that anyone could take the statement, "Contracts are enforceable" and turn it into, "Women deserve to be raped." That is just such a huge, ridiculous, illogical leap that, if you'd told me before this that people would make it, I would have told you that you were wrong.

And I said "it's about contracts" repeatedly: "It makes no sense to say, "I agree to these rules," but then disagree with them if they negatively impact you. I wouldn't get a free pass on an honor code violation if I was a victim of any non-sexual crime, so why should I get one if the crime is sexual? The students are not being held responsible for their assaults, but simply for breaking the school rules" "As an example, the woman in the article who said, "I'm being honest here. I was doing drugs. But you're not going to censure me for that, are you?" If I was being asked, the answer would be, "Um, yes, I am. It's breaking the law, AND violating the code of conduct to which you agreed.""

Someone responded by telling me that someone was raped "because she was out past 10pm."

NO. To be clear, the women were NOT raped because of what time they were out. They were raped because they were alone with a rapist.

I didn't even bother to point out that, if you read the article, you saw that some of these women were groped, through their clothes; although that is sexual assault, and both immoral and illegal, it is not rape. I went ahead and let people assign the word "rape" to ANY assault.

It's bad enough to have acquaintances, people who don't know me very well, tell me that I believe that certain women deserve to be raped, but many of the people insisting that it was OBVIOUS that this was what I thought were people who've known me for 20 or 30 years, or more. That was quite painful. You've known me for most of your life, and you honestly think it's possible that I hold this opinion? What about my conduct or speech has ever given that impression, even for a moment? I don't even joke about this.

I realized that many people were obviously having a discussion about whether or not rape was OK, and I said, repeatedly, "This is not about rape. It's about contracts." I was told, "No. It's about rape." So, what if this were about men who were robbed when they were out after curfew, because someone was sure that they'd never report it? I was told that such comparisons are wrong, because rape was a violent crime, and therefore in a different category. OK, what if these men were beaten when they were out after curfew, instead? Do we say that you get a pass if you're the victim of a violent crime, but not a non violent one? Do you get preferential treatment if you're a woman? Both those options seem ridiculous and ill advised.

One friend finally understood what I was saying the next day, after protracted conversation, when I said, "First, here's what they did wrong: 1: choose a university whose rules they intended to ignore. 2. Sign a pledge stating that they would uphold the rules (or accept the consequences). 3. Break the rules. 4. Complain that they shouldn't be penalized for breaking the rules. Now, I'm not a sports fan, but that looks like more than three strikes, you're out.

But let's assume that nobody did anything morally wrong. Allow me to illustrate that point with an example starring: my husband.

Now, I think my husband is a pretty great guy. That's why I'm married to him. He has a job. His job has a dress code. It used to be just things like the kind of footwear they allow. Now, they have uniforms. If he did not wear his uniform, the first time, he'd be written up. A second time, he might be demoted or docked pay. A third time, and he could kiss the job goodbye.

It's not that his regular clothes are immoral or dangerous. It's not that he'd be unable to do his job in street clothes, or that he's a danger or distraction to others. It's not as if he turns into a violent pervert if he wears his Star Wars T-shirts. It's just that his employer has a policy. His employment is contingent on following those policies, regardless of his opinion about any of them. (The policy has also changed several times in the years he's been working for his employer.)

If he lost his job because he just couldn't be bothered to put on the uniform, I'd kick his butt into next week. If your employer mandates that everyone wear a Carmen Miranda fruit hat on Tuesdays, you wear one. You don't refuse to wear the hat, then file a lawsuit, and get the Vegetable Growers of America to back your suit, on the grounds that fruit hats perpetuate the idea that fruit is fun and vegetables are icky, and are therefore discriminatory."

The friend then said, "It sounds like the story you heard was "women are trying to use their status as victims to get out of responsibility for their actions.""

YES! YES! I have used THOUSANDS of words to say just that! I responded, "What I heard was "Women expect to get a pass on any rules they broke, because they were raped while breaking them, and rape is worse than whatever they did." My belief is, "Rule breakers should expect consequences, even if somebody else did something worse." Sex, gender, whatever is irrelevant. "

Most people wanted to discuss whether the rules were good ones, and whether rape was bad. We were having THREE separate conversations in one; and, many people really had no interest in understanding me.

One close friend severed all contact with me after this Facebook discussion. This friend is SURE that I was excusing violence and victimization. I can't talk to people if we're obviously having different discussions. And if you won't even have the conversation, well, I can't help you.

So, I'm going to have all three discussions here, separately. We've already had Discussion 1: Contracts Are, and Should Be, Enforceable.

So, let's go on to Discussion 2: Is Rape Ever OK?

This should be quick: NO. (But then again, I thought that the contract discussion was quick and self explanatory, so I'll say more.)

I said on Facebook: " My opinion on rape has always been, and I've said online, to my kids, and anywhere else, all of my life, that if a woman you've previously had sex with is drunk, naked and alone, but says "no," then you're a cretin if you so much as push the issue or ask again."

I'll admit that there is wiggle room in a marriage for a little wheedling. "No" might get the response, "Oh, come on, the kids are at your mom's! We never get this kind of privacy!" But in or out of a marriage, sexual activity is NEVER NEVER NEVER a given, an inevitability, an obligation. Never. You're allowed to be hurt, frustrated, unhappy with an answer of "no," but you still have to honor the other person's wishes.

I can't quite believe that it isn't an absolute given that I feel this way. But now you know - that's what I think.

People have a right to refuse even non-sexual body contact if they don't want it. Cases of safety, medical care and child rearing are the only times it's OK to touch someone who doesn't want it (screaming, "No bath!" doesn't mean that I won't bathe a child who needs it), and it's legally OK to refuse medical care!

Now let's have Discussion 3: Are the Honor Code Rules Good Ones? Honestly, I think this is where many people got bogged down. Having decided that they disagree with the Honor Code, they could not see any way they would ever be OK with its enforcement.

First, see my analogy about my husband's employer's dress code. I truly do not care if the rules are good or bad. If the school wanted to say that everyone must wear purple on Tuesdays, and must turn counterclockwise three times every time they enter or leave a classroom, those rules are enforceable. If you don't like the rules, don't attend the school. This is not public school, where attendance is mandated by law.

I said, " If I am mugged, neither the law nor popular opinion will consider it my fault. If, however, I was alone, at night, in certain neighborhoods or situations, wearing expensive jewelry, carrying large amounts of cash, people will feel - and rightly - that I did not take all of the precautions, or display all of the awareness, that I could/should have. That's the second consideration.

We routinely warn people to avoid the situations named above, or to lock their cars and hide their valuables, or to lock their doors at home. When we travel, those warnings go up. If someone is robbed, the thieves will still be to blame, and will still be prosecuted, but everyone from law enforcement to casual friends will remind the victims that they should have taken precautions in the past, and should definitely take them in the future."

"Of course, I'm also ticked off that society went from leaving our doors unlocked to locking them to also locking the windows to whole house security systems (in ONE lifetime!). We SHOULD be able to expect people to stay the heck out of our houses, belongings, etc. without them. But, when my house was robbed, one of the first things the police asked was, "Were your doors and windows locked?" And you can bet I would have kicked myself had the answer been "No. I trust in the goodness of my fellow humans.""

"If you (the rhetorical, as well as individual "you") don't like the rules at BYU, GO SOMEWHERE ELSE. I mean, are campuses that are OK with all night alcohol and sex situations in short supply, somehow? There's only 3 BYU campuses (and the admissions are highly competitive). Surely someone who thinks the rules are Draconian is best served by going elsewhere."

"I mean, at its core, the point is that each person is responsible for their own actions, and accepts the consequences when they take any action. Just as we're not responsible for others, we also can't forgo the consequences of what we do.

The only reason this has people freaking out is because there's questions of sex, religion and violence pushing everyone's buttons. If I made the above statement in almost any other situation, people would say, "Sure. Of course. That's obvious.""

"To me, the BYU rules say, "You have to be more careful here than you did at home. You are away from family, familiar places and your safety net. The lines have to be adjusted accordingly. Even if you might not have a problem, the person next to you might.""

"I know that there are those who disagree with BYU's honor code. I've even had people tell me that following such rules "ruins" the students' chances of "living a normal life." People who feel this way should choose another school."

"Often, non-LDS people respond to hearing those things (included in the Honor Code) by saying, "They got suspended/kicked out/disciplined for that? That's normal behavior on any other university campus!" And THAT is why most people should attend schools that are NOT BYU."

"I have active, temple recommend holding LDS friends who say that they would not attend BYU or encourage their kids to attend, because they disagree with the honor code. That's OK; it's a valid opinion. But anyone who HAS chosen to attend does NOT get, in my opinion, to say, "Oh, wait, I've now decided that I don't like these rules, so I shouldn't be subject to them." Universities are supposed to prepare students to be productive citizens. Is there any civic law that will say, "oh, OK, you're exempt," if you say that you're philosophically opposed to the law or policy? Sorry, officer, I think that speed limits are wrong, so you can't ticket me."

I think everyone also ignored the fact that there are many, many possible outcomes when you're investigated for an Honor Code violation. From the official BYU website: " An appropriate action will be selected from the following: No Action, Counsel and Education, Referral (to a responsible person or agency—e.g., reconciliation process), Warning, Probation, Suspension Withheld, Suspension, and Dismissal."

That's right - you might face NO action, or a simple warning. There's EIGHT possible outcomes. They're not kicking you out of school if you were 5 minutes past curfew. (The complete article can be read here.)

Having had a couple of months to mull it over, I think that what upsets people most is the BYU dress code. This also doesn't really register with me, because, with a few exceptions, it's how all LDS people are counseled to dress. It's not unique to BYU. I tend to forget how any kind of clothing standards tend to cause people to freak out.

All LDS Church members are told to avoid tank tops (or spaghetti straps) or strapless clothes, bare midriff, bare backs and the like. Shorts should reach the knee. Women's swimsuits should be one piece. The school's is a bit stricter; in church during almost any week, you can find women and girls wearing leggings under skirts that are shorter than knee length, but BYU doesn't allow that.

It also is a code for ALL people, not just women. Men need knee length shorts. They are not allowed tank tops, sleeveless tops, or to wander around topless (except for places like the  swimming pool). They are not allowed beards, including goatees, soul patches, or simple scruff. (If you are a member of a religion that mandates facial hair, you are granted an exemption from that requirement.) My son favors scruff, and when he attended BYU-Idaho, they would not let him take his ID photo or sign in to his student housing until he shaved it off. Was he annoyed? Sure. He griped. But he complied, because those are the rules. He also left his cherished sword and knife collection home, because they violate the school's weapons policy. His weapons aren't considered immoral in any way - LDS Scout leaders gave him some of those knives - but they violate campus policy; so, they stayed home. Again, he griped, but he complied.

"But why have these rules?" people ask. I don't; I don't think that any organization needs to defend its dress code or other policies to me, personally. But, in this case, aside from the normal modesty standards we're all asked to maintain, they have a dress code for the same reason any business, school, company or team has a dress code: this is the image they want the public to see. This is how they want their school represented. (If you don't like it, go elsewhere.)

Asking for modesty seems to freak some people out. They are just sure it's about repression, shame, and subjugating women. They just cannot seem to wrap their heads around ANY other POSSIBLE reason for clothing standards, and I find that really puzzling. If it was about subjugating women, why are there clothing standards for men? Is anyone going to make the statement that the school, or the church, thinks that men should be the victims of crime if they're bearded and wearing a tank top? Then why assume that they're making those judgments about women? It's illogical.

I have gotten some truly infuriating answers when I've asked people questions like that. With some frequency, I get answers like, "It's easier for men. They can be considered fashionable and attractive in clothing like that ("that" meaning that it covers most of their body), but women can't." EXCUSE ME? That is an enormously anti-woman sentiment! Do you sincerely want to tell me that women cannot be "attractive" or "fashionable" unless they are in skimpy clothing? You don't see the rampant sexism in that statement? Do we want a university, of all places, to say, "Ladies, in order to be fashionable and attractive, you're going to need to show some skin"? There is no way that I'm OK with any form of that sentiment.

And if the sexism weren't bad enough, I'm also appalled that being "fashionable" is seen as a worthwhile goal. Don't think for yourselves, folks - do whatever's popular right this minute! Sure, what's popular will change in the weeks, months, and years ahead, but you're expected to change your opinion, and your appearance, to conform! I have so little use for trends of any kind, and certainly not for appearance oriented trends. I have the same basic "style" I had as a child. I never did big hair and parachute pants, despite being a teen and 20-something in the 80s. Am I aware that people make negative judgments about that? Yes. Do I care? No. And do not tell me that it is the job of a university to encourage the following of fashion; I find that thought incompatible with the idea of "higher learning."

Do I find fashion and its followers implicitly immoral? No. I just find following fashions to be superficial at best and elitist at worst. Neither of those things is desirable to me.

I also have a really difficult time with sentiments often quoted in popular media. After a celebrity was recently criticized after she posted nude selfies on her social media, she said, "I'm not going to dilute my sexuality and my power because it makes you uncomfortable." Honey, attention seeking is not power. And if you think that your power and your sexuality are tied to your appearance, opinions about you, what the public sees, exposure, or how much attention or validation you get, I feel very sorry for you. You obviously do not understand either power or sexuality.

I was deeply delighted by what actress Gwendolyn Christie said to TIME Magazine about her role as Captain Phasma in Star Wars, and in particular, about her costume (which, if you don't know, was unisex armor that included a full helmet with face shield): “What I found interesting about the character was when they showed me the costume, obviously it looks incredible, and I got excited by that. But it is rare that women get to play a character and below the neck they are really covered up to the extent that you cannot really see the flesh outlines of their body. This excited me for two reasons. It excited me because I realized that every gesture I made would have to indicate something, would have to say something about the character. So the way I stood, the way that I gestured with my arm, where I put the weight in my hips that would all say something about the character. Because [producer] Kathleen Kennedy said to me, ‘Have you ever Googled female heroines?’ And I said I hadn’t, and she did the Google search and showed me. There were a lot of very conventional images of women in fairly revealing outfits, or at least outfits that showed the outlines of their body. And it felt to me that there was a character where we should respond to her due to her actions and what she represented rather than a more conventional delineated flesh outline. And that felt like a step forward in terms of the kind of characters women play in films in our entertainment industry. It felt really progressive to me. And consequently I’m very proud to play this part because yeah, you look at her and she looks badass. But also it means something much deeper and it represents something of proper progressive thought, and it’s in a package that we all love. That’s why I’m so over the moon to be part of this wonderful thing because it’s actually doing something positive and progressive.”

YES. YES. YES. We should "respond to her due to her actions," not according to how she looked! That's the point! That's what I would expect anyone who considers themselves a feminist to think. About the whole brouhaha over BYU's honor code, I wrote, "And, I consider my position that it doesn't matter if the offenders are male, female, minor offenders, major offenders, sexual offenders, carjackers or term paper salesmen to be very feminist. The whole point is to assess by action and ability, not biology."

I wish I could find again and link to a blog I read several months ago. The writer, a woman, said that she had spent her life thinking that modest clothing, and in particular, modest swimsuits, indicated that a person was unattractive, out of shape, or suffering from low self esteem. Consequently, she wore "the tiniest bikini" she could find when she went to the beach or pool. She said that she was constantly comparing her body to those of other women at the pool, either positively or negatively. (And, by the way, the frequently used terminology about whether someone "has the body to wear that" makes me just see red. It's objectifying and demeaning. Whether or not you wear revealing clothing should NOT be determined by whether anyone else thinks you are attractive.).

Then, one day, she found herself enchanted by a little family. They looked so happy, and seemed to be having so much fun. The couple seemed very in love. Then, the writer realized two things simultaneously - 1. she had not compared this woman's body to hers at all, or even thought about whether she was attractive at all, and 2. the woman was the only woman at the pool in a modest one piece swimsuit. "I had noticed her life and her personality, not her body parts. Then, I realized that that was what modesty was about - letting people see my life and my personality, instead of noticing my body or my clothes." YES, YES, YES! That's what modesty is about! It is not about shame!

LDS people are fairly unique in our belief that God has a body, that we are literally made "in His image." That's another reason to dress modestly, avoid tattoos and abstain from alcohol and illegal drug use - to give respect to something that is the image of God.

Another reason for modest clothing is to preserve intimacy. According to dictionary.com, "intimacy" means: "a close, familiar, and usually affectionate or loving personal relationship; a close association with or deep understanding of; an act or expression serving as a token of familiarity, affection, or the like; the quality of being warm or familiar." Putting your body parts on unnecessary display erodes intimacy, as your personal body was never meant to be for public consumption. It belongs to you, your partner and your babies, not to anyone with whom you might come in contact.

Even our sexual organs have non-sexual uses, so it makes no sense to me to assume that everything about your physical self is sexual in nature, and that's what you're doing when you insist that the dress code is about sexuality. Many, many things are physical, but not sexual.

Thinking that clothing standards are about sexuality is so foreign to me that I honestly do not consider that possible interpretation until someone (rather forcefully) points it out. In short, I forget that people think that way. Therefore, I'm at a loss to understand the rage that people direct towards the BYU dress code.

In general, I tend to assume that the most reasonable point is between extremes, and on a continuum of "nudist" to "burka," the LDS Church clothing policy falls smack in the middle.

In an effort to use an analogy to explain myself, think of it this way: I have a bank account. There's nothing immoral about it, or about my money. I am not ashamed of having or using a bank account, and I'm not ashamed by what's in it. It's important to me (and to my family). That is exactly why the only people who have access to it are my husband and myself. Even those I love and trust do not have access to my bank account. It would be too easy to do me and my family harm, even unintentionally, if I allowed other people access to it. That is exactly how I feel about my body. That is how I think everyone should feel about their body.

"But fear of being censured for minor infractions is keeping women from reporting assaults!" people have said to me. I understand, and sympathize, with many of the obstacles to reporting and prosecuting a rape. I understand fear of having to tell the story over and over, the frequent lack of physical evidence, fear that you won't be believed, fear that your attacker will retaliate. But if you would rather let a rapist go free, to rape someone else, than receive a curfew or dress code warning, I'm afraid that you aren't very mature, or displaying good judgment. And if your infraction was bigger - say, drug or alcohol use - you would undoubtedly be happier at another university, and should consider a transfer.

I don't mind if anyone disagrees with me. I do, though, mind very much when people try to tell me what I think, instead of asking me, and listening to (and believing) what I have to say.

And I don't mind if you take exception to the BYU rules. However, those rules are not about shame, blame or subjugation. And if your first instinct is to tell me that that statement is wrong, that I am mistaken or misled about that, don't be too upset if I tell you that you are wrong about what you think, or that I know better than you do what your opinion (or that of your family, religious philosophy, employer, club affiliation or anything else) is.

I'm Still Bitter

I apologize; I'm going to discuss bodily functions.

A nurse looking over my post operative tests offered me a compliment. "Your kidneys are rock stars! I have never seen filtration numbers like this!"

"Well, thanks," I told her.

Talking to my husband later, I was more emphatic. "HA! Vindication!"

My family got to listen to me air my grievance, again, about the time I tried to donate a kidney - I was a healthy match, and they turned me down.

Years ago, a man from our church congregation - I'll refer to him by his initial, S - developed kidney problems. He and his wife had moved to another part of town, but we still saw them occasionally. They're great people. After not seeing them for a few months, I could not believe the change in him. His skin was gray, his teeth and hair were falling out. I wanted to help.

His wife, children and step-children had all been tested for compatibility, but none were a match.

I offered to be tested. What good are healthy organs if you can't share, right? I don't smoke, I've never subjected my kidneys to alcohol, and I only need 1 myself. Right? My husband and kids were on board.

So, I was tested, and the initial blood test showed me to be a match. Huzzah!

I then got a phone call from the university medical center in the next state; they'd be handling the transplant, if all went well. The woman thanked me for my interest in donating. Then, obviously starting to fill out a pre-written questionnaire, said, "We know you're over 18. What do you weigh?" I told her, accurately. It makes no sense to lie to anyone, much less medical personnel. There were more questions, and she took down my address. They sent out a packet that I had to take with me to the doctor's office when I went.

I was sent to a nephrologist, a kidney specialist. When she walked in the room and saw me, she got a look of annoyance on her face. She informed me that she didn't think I'd be a suitable donor. "Generally, patients of your size aren't healthy enough to donate."

"Isn't that why we're running the tests? Isn't that what they'll tell us?" Geez, lady. Work on your bedside manner.

She began speaking to me the way you would to someone not very bright - slowly, with small words and too much explaining. "Generally, patients of your size and age are pre-diabetic. That means that your blood sugar is high, but you're not yet actually diabetic."

"I'm not pre-diabetic or diabetic. My blood sugar actually runs low."

"Even if that's true" - yeah, 'cause I'm a compulsive liar - "once you have only one kidney, your chance of diabetic complications is higher."

"That's why we're running tests, right?"

"I'm going to insist on extra tests for you," she said, detailing four or five extra tests that she would order. I needed heart monitoring, a stress test on a treadmill, and more not normally ordered. She was sure that the tests would show me to be "unsuitable."

All in all, with scheduling, juggling doctors, getting tests, and waiting for results, it was six months before it was all completed. One day, I had 14 vials of blood taken at once. The monitoring electrodes (and accompanying tingles) were a very odd experience. But, guess what? Green lights all around. My primary doctor said, "Everything looks great." I passed all the tests - not just squeaked by, but was certified to be in good health AND a great match, by medical experts.

I was nervous about the surgery, but my biggest concern was whether to travel the 5 hours or so to the transplant center by myself, or whether to bring my husband and kids.

Then I got a letter from the medical center, informing me that I would NOT be able to donate. Why? My weight; using that single criteria, they informed me that persons of my weight were not accepted as donors.

They would consider me for transplant if I could lose over 50 pounds in the next 6 weeks.

WELL.

I wrote a letter back. I write really great letters. I write even better complaint letters.

I pointed out that my weight was quite literally the 1st thing they had asked me in that first phone call. If it was in the unacceptable range, THAT would have been the appropriate time to say something, I said. I would have thought that they were being arbitrary and nitpicky, but hey, rules are rules. That would have been that. But to inform me of this after SIX MONTHS of testing? Oh, no. Not OK.

"You state, repeatedly," I wrote, "that your primary concern is the health of S and myself. This is obviously not the case. S's health cannot be your primary concern, or you would not have spent six months of a terminally ill man's life, and thousands of dollars of his insurance money, paying for tests that you would then disregard. Why would you order tests if their results were not integral to your decision? It seems a waste of resources and time, and S's time is limited.

My health cannot be your primary concern either, because you have ignored all of the tests and medical opinions indicating that I am healthy, in no danger, and a tissue match. Losing weight at the rate you recommended is also going against every medical opinion on weight loss, which states that drastic weight loss should take place gradually, and such drastic weight loss in a short period of time would thus endanger my health and wellbeing.

If all you needed was a single number, my weight, you had that in the first phone call. There would be NO need for any further tests if that is all your decision would be based on, but, in fact, you not only tested me, but ordered extra tests."

I hinted rather broadly that taking six months to do very extensive and very expensive tests, only to ignore the results, amounted to medical malpractice.

Good gravy, people! Do you want a lawsuit? I can do that. So could S, or his family.

Which is probably why I received a phone call as soon as they received the letter. "Hi," said the woman, tentatively. "I understand that you're unhappy. Very unhappy."

I then verbally expressed my unhappiness, saying things like, "You do realize that S's illness is terminal, right? Did having a potential living donor knock him off of, or down on, the waiting list for a cadaver kidney? Because if it did, I will be even MORE unhappy."

"No! No! He's still on the list!"

This left us circling back to the central point. As she attempted to defend their decision by telling me all the risks of obesity, and I kept asking, "So, why did you order any other testing? If you knew the first time that you spoke to me that you wouldn't accept me, why did you spend six months running unnecessary tests?"

"The tests are very necessary! They determine your eligibility."

"And yet, you did not use ANY of their data in making this decision! All you wanted was ONE number, my weight, which I gave to you over half a year ago!"

We were at an impasse.

I'm pretty sure that the answer was, "We don't want to be accused of being weight bigots, so we don't tell you this upfront. We let you be tested because we assumed that the tests would show us that you're wildly unhealthy, and we'd be able to deny you without saying that we don't consider fat people." They won't say that, of course. That would open them up to lawsuits, you know.

Speaking with S on the phone, I growled. "They didn't even ask me about things that would have sounded scary, like the pituitary tumors I was diagnosed with at 24. That, I would have understood."

That gave him pause. "You have tumors, but they didn't ask about them?"

"Yeah. They asked if I'd ever had cancer, but they're totally benign."

"The problem is, anything you have, you might pass to me. I can't afford to take on any more health problems, on top of what I've already been through." Well, that makes sense. I was not offended at all when he said, "Would you mind withdrawing from consideration?"

Not if it's your own decision, based on your preferences and/or information received! In fact, I'd already been removed from consideration, so all I had to do was not contest it. And I see his point. I've had tumors, cysts, fibroids - I grow weird things. (But no cancer. Or diabetes.) If my kidney took that propensity to S, well, that could be a pain in the butt. I understand his reticence.

I learned, though, not to gripe to other people about the weight factor. Mentioning how badly I thought they'd handled everything to another woman at church, all she seemed to hear was, "You're too fat, and you're ignoring medical advice."

"You could lose the weight if you wanted to," she said rather pointedly.

Aside from the fact that I'd just been certified as healthy, at my current weight, the fact that a crash diet is always a bad plan, and the fact that it's none of her business, there's the fact that endocrine and thyroid issues, which I've had all my life, mean that my weight is only sketchily related to what I eat or how much I exercise. A friend with a similar endocrine issue is a professional dancer (obviously in great shape), and once restricted herself to only 1000 calories a day and still gained significant weight. (By "significant" I mean "at least double digit numbers." I can't stand it when people call two pounds "weight gain.") But let's just circle back to "none of her business." So, I don't usually discuss it.

Can I call myself "healthy" with endocrine and thyroid issues? Well, what I can say is that every test the doctors ordered said I was within the success parameters. That's not subjective. And if they aren't asking the right questions, well, maybe World Renowned University Medical Center ought to rethink their questions.

In a way, they did. A few more months passed, and I got a call again. "We've reconsidered your case," World Renowned University Medical Center said. "We've discovered that we can have success with donors your size." All of my tests were too old to use, though - would I mind getting all of the tests done again? Yes. I would mind.

"S has asked that I remove myself from consideration. Thank you."

The good news is that S agreed to a transplant from a cadaver kidney from a donor past the usual age, and the last time I saw him, he looked and felt fantastic. The kidney from the older donor was doing a great job.

So, why am I now going from "don't discuss it" to "put it out on the Internet"?

Because my kidneys are rock stars, with filtration numbers rarely seen. Boo yah.

And yeah, even many years later, my family occasionally has to listen to me whine about "the time I tried to give away one of my organs, and they wouldn't even take it."

These Feet Were Made For Walkin'

"Point your feet in the direction you want to go, and make sure that your toes are the last thing to leave the ground." My son tried to coach me on how to walk.

Walking sounds so easy. I certainly never anticipated having any trouble walking.

Ironically, the difficulty came after surgery to repair the bone structure in my feet. I'd known that they had problems since the bunions appeared while my age was still in single digits. My big toes turned sharply toward the other toes. My big toe toenail ended up almost dead center of the foot, and the bone in the joint jutted outward in the opposite direction. The other toes were crowded. On my left foot, the big toe actually overlapped the other toes. Plus, it was turned at a 45 degree angle, with the side of the toe facing downward, and the nail facing the other toes.

Naturally, it was hard to find shoes that were wide enough. Having anything even a little tight across the bunions caused sharp pain through the whole foot, getting worse as time passed. Sandal straps were the worst offenders. I could only wear sandals if the knob of bone jutted out between the straps. High heels were horrific.

I never really understood it when people would insist that you should balance on the balls of your feet, because I couldn't. I assumed that it was just bad balance, because if I tried, I did not become stable, I became wobbly and unstable. I couldn't tiptoe more than a few steps, either. Still, I was never going to be an athlete or a dancer, so I didn't think too much about it. Some people are awkward.

I remember asking, as a child, why we had these big, long feet anyway, because the entire front half seemed like a waste. I was assured that without the front half of the foot, humans couldn't walk or balance, but that made no sense to me. I wasn't using mine, and I was walking upright. ("Of course you're using it!" people said.)

My perception was further complicated by having to rock my weight onto my left foot when I was standing. If I tried to put equal weight on my feet, I again got very wobbly and likely to fall over. This was explained in junior high school, when I was found to have scoliosis and uneven hips. Having one hip higher meant one leg was shorter, so the weight had to rest mostly on the shorter leg, with the other one just providing balance. This is also why I tend to stand with one leg out to the side. (Think of how you balance on any chair with uneven legs.)

Still, people kept telling me that I was mistaken when I said that I couldn't have decent balance with equally distributed weight. Or, like my husband, they encouraged me to get shoe lifts for the short side; I figured that would just transfer the strain to my hips and back. Besides, I functioned fine if left to my own devices.

 Of course, my feet hurt more than was convenient. Still, that was to be expected, because something was wrong with them. I gritted my teeth when I'd mention pain and someone would immediately say, "Lose weight and exercise!" When I was 12 years old, 5 foot 8 and 125 pounds, they hurt, in the same ways and at the same times as they did decades later.

I became the queen of comfortable shoes, after spending my younger years trying to wear pretty ones.

When I was 28, with great insurance, I finally went to see a podiatrist about getting my feet fixed. My husband pushed me to go, after repeatedly watching me try on shoe after shoe that wouldn't fit. "There's a lot more going on in here than bunions," the doctor said.

He ran a single finger up the back of my ankles. "Does this hurt?"

"Yes."

"Mmm hmm," he said. He ran the finger up the back of my calves. "Does this hurt?"

"Yes."

I was surprised. If you had asked me if those places hurt without him touching them, I would have said "no." But he seemed to have an uncanny ability to create pain with just a touch of his index finger, zeroing in on sore spots I didn't know were there.

After several more simple touches and "How about this?" queries, all answered with "Yes," he had me stand on the x-ray machine. "I thought so," he said.

Among the revelations to me was a diagnosis of collapsed arches. I stared at my foot, looking at its lovely arch. "But I can see the arch, see the curve in my foot."

"Yes, but every time you step, it does this," he said, cupping his hand and then flattening it out. "Every step overextends your bone structure, and stretches the tendons and ligaments over the bone in your heel. That's why these," rubbing the back of my ankle and foot again, "hurt. It pulls everything out of place with every step. Pretty soon, everything is fatigued and swelling. If it's severe enough, eventually it can tear the muscles."

Holy cow; who knew?

I suddenly remembered my dad telling me that men with "flat feet" were excused from military service during the draft, because they couldn't pass the physical, and were unable to march over distances.

The bad news - fixing it would mean "a minimum of four to six weeks off your feet." I had three kids - I had a one year old. I did not have the time or capability to take a month off. My husband went to work at 3 a.m.; how would I do anything? Plus, my house is two stories; what about stairs?

He advised me to buy over the counter arch supports, and put them in my shoes. "After the surgery, you'll need custom supports, but there's no sense getting them now, before it's repaired."

I still thought that he had it wrong. This just sounded too odd. Arch supports were made of foam and plastic, and they were all of 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick - how could that little difference change anything? How could these thin little $5 items make any difference?

So, I bought some flimsy little Dr. Scholl's arch supports and put them in my flimsy canvas shoes before we headed to Disneyland.

Oh, ye of little faith.

It was like the heavens opened and angels sang. I love Disneyland, but it usually left me limping. By evening, I would be in almost blinding amounts of pain, wondering if I could make it back to the hotel room. But with these ridiculous slivers of foam, it didn't hurt. The rest of my body tired out before my feet did, something that had never, ever happened before. I became convinced that the podiatrist was a genius.

I began refusing to wear anything without arch supports. I started living in athletic shoes. Sure, they looked clunky and way too casual, but who cared? They were miraculous. I would have worn them with my dresses to church if I didn't think it would horrify my husband. Cute little ballet flats no longer looked quite so appealing. Nothing had ever mitigated the pain before; now that I knew that it was possible, I was not going to give it up.

I wasn't pain free, just agony free. Pain still happened - it just happened a lot less, and a lot less severely. Having to spend a day - or even an evening - in dress shoes still had me limping, not only that day but through the next, too. And this is with dress shoes that are plain and frankly masculine. Every now and then I can find decent Mary Janes, but usually, I'm in loafers if I have to dress up.

I photograph weddings for a living, and it's so aggravating to me that, in order to be looked at as a competent professional, I have to wear shoes that honestly make me less effective.

Years later, a PA tried to tell me that arch supports were bad for people with collapsed arches. "It'll just feel like walking on a rock." Maybe to some, but I'm not giving mine up!

Anyway, I was in my late 40s before I had the time, money and capability to have the surgery. Discovering that many of the bones in each of my feet were physically incapable of supporting weight was surprising. "Apparently, almost half of the bones in my foot were not load bearing, even though they were designed to be. My podiatrist took hold of my foot and folded it lengthwise, flapping it like a wing. "See that?" he said. "It's not supposed to do that." ("Counting Down," Dec. 2013)

The surgery recovery period kicked my butt, ("Handicapped Access," Dec. 2014) but I was sure that as soon as I was out of the cast, everything would be fabulous. I neglected to really ask myself what building new muscle memory would be like.

After nine weeks in a cast, even the muscles I was used to using were out of practice. The bigger problem was, I couldn't walk the way I was used to. I couldn't even stand the way I was used to. If I tried, my muscles screamed and my ankle burned. I was wobbly. Plus, my foot felt as though it had had hinges installed. I was used to picking up and putting down my foot pretty much as a whole, but suddenly, it wanted to bend. It was really puzzling.

Nothing was instinctive any more. My right foot had not yet been operated on and felt normal, but my left felt entirely different.

I tried to describe its functioning to my husband. "It's like it hits at the heel, then the whole foot rolls forward, and it pushes off from the toes."

He gave me a look. "Congratulations," he said drily. "That's called walking."

"Hey, I've been walking for more than 40 years, and it's never done that before!"

Muscles that had been unused for literally my entire life now screamed at me, as well, as they suddenly had to work. Everything was sore, all the time. Plus, I had to really think every time I stepped. If I got tired or distracted, I rolled to the outside, and my ankle burned. I'm not sure exactly what the support in there is made out of, but I'm assuming it's supposed to help keep me from crushing things.

I'd never been aware of rocking my weight to the outside edge of my foot, even though the soles of my shoes wore out on the outside edge, and stayed pristine on the opposite edge. Now, I very exaggeratedly rolled my weight to the inside of my foot, and tried to balance the weight on the ball of the foot, but my shoes (and the doctor) said I was still rolling to the outside.

After I had the second foot operated on, nothing felt recognizable any more.

Even two years later, my toes still surprise me. Trying to put any weight on the toes, especially the big toe, had always crunched my toes tightly together; it goes without saying that it was unstable, and hurt. Now, putting weight on the toes causes them to SPREAD. I have never, ever experienced this! My toes are misshapen from decades of crowding, and I can't believe that they spread apart now - or that the more weight they take, the farther they spread. It's amazing.

I expected this all to be easy, but I was having to actively think about how I put my feet down, pick them up, do anything, two years later. I'm doing better, continually, but it's slow. My chiropractor, working on knee pain, said, "Of course your knee hurts. You don't know how to stand on your feet." UGH!

Sometimes, I'd tackle largish goals. In Hawaii with my family, I decided to walk three and a half miles, over uneven terrain. I was slow, but I made it. Back at our rental house, I again took ruthless advantage of the fact that my son is in massage therapy school. "Can you work on my knee?" It didn't hurt in any way that made sense. It hurt right across the top of my knee, right at the connection with my thigh.

He'd press certain muscles. "Does that hurt?" After a series of answers like, "No," and, "A little," he pressed on the inside of my knee, and I shrieked like a Banshee.

Trying to discover what I was doing wrong, he asked me to walk. After watching me, he said, "Look down at your feet." I looked down. I guessed. I guessed some more. I could not figure out what was wrong. He had to point it out to me, with a sigh. "Your foot is turned sideways." Well - yeah. Is that a problem? It's only about 25 degrees. And I'm going forward.

Apparently, this is an issue.

I'm trying to correct it, but pointing my foot forward feels like I'm twisting the whole leg. Plus, with knees that bow inward and backward, it's difficult to point my leg forward without my knees hitting each other. Is walking supposed to be this complicated?

My reality is further skewed by decades of apparently unreliable perception. I recently went back to my son for help. "I must be doing something new wrong. It's really weird. Standing still for a long time hurts more than walking."

"That's actually really normal."

"IT IS? How can that be?" I mean, my whole life, FIVE DECADES, walking has been actual work, and standing just, well, standing. Not working as hard. Of course things hurt more when they're working. Right?

Apparently, wrong. Standing is more stress. Who knew? Not me.

On the other hand - go, me, something is reacting normally!

Sometimes, someone will want me to do something like dance. Are you kidding? I'm still learning to walk!

I finally got those custom inserts, though, and I'm telling you, hallelujah! You can't build new muscle memory if you don't know what to do, or do it consistently. These are helping on both counts. I no longer have to think every time I step.

If I'm in a tunnel, I think I see the proverbial light.

Instructions

I've started giving my children instructions that they probably find odd. It's just that, after watching a grandmother with Alzheimer's, losing my parents, and watching my siblings weather a heart attack, bypass surgery and a pacemaker, I've become aware that there are things that your family may need to know, but you might not have thought to tell them.

For instance, I informed my children that "Circle of Life" and "The Rainbow Connection" need to be played at my funeral. "I don't care who might tell you that it's inappropriate," I told them. "I don't care if it's recorded, or if you sing it live, if it's the prelude music, or how you do it. " They just need to be played.

I started thinking, though, about what people would need to know if I was incapacitated. If I were to become senile, especially if I was nonverbal, the irony is that those most capable of coping with me would all have passed away. I'm guessing that I'd need roughly the same things I needed as a child, but no one who remembered my childhood would be available.

I mean, the legal stuff will be spelled out in legal papers, I'm sure. But what about all the other stuff, the nitty gritty of calming me down and getting me to bed and all that sort of thing?

So, I've started giving my kids pointers.

"I know, Mom. Get you a VW van." This is true. If I'm suffering from any kind of dementia, drive me around in a VW van. It doesn't matter where we go. As long as it sounds and smells like a Volkswagen, I'll be happy. Bonus points if the van is yellow and white. (And hey, if I'm still perfectly capable, it still won't hurt to get me a van.)

So, here's some more of my best advice. I'm being very serious here - no attempt to play it for laughs. This is seriously what will  help, if I'm incapacitated and you can't ask me.

If you ever get complaints from the nursing home staff that I'm wandering outside at night, it's because I want to sleep outside. They'll balk, but try to convince them to let me sleep outside, at least for a few hours, if the weather is good. Volunteer to stay with me, if you have to.

I've had long hair for my entire life, so this request might seem odd. If I need assistance with basic tasks - eating, getting dressed - I'm telling you, cut the hair. All of it. Cut it to about 2 inches long, all over my head. TRUST ME.

I have never liked having my hair brushed or styled. Never. I was a feral small child, resisting any attempt to brush or comb my hair. It seriously went a week or more without brushing. Even now, I brush it once a day, and that's it. Even as a teen, I hated letting others style my hair. I deeply dislike elaborate styles, or letting someone handle my hair. I just know that some sweet, well meaning nurse or granddaughter would sit and brush my hair, thinking I'd like it, and I'd do something hideously inappropriate, like bite her. It's not about whether or not they're gentle; I hate it anyway.

Plus, I cannot stand hair on my neck when I sleep. I sleep with my hair in a ridiculous whale spout ponytail, so it will be off my neck in my sleep. If I'm not capable of doing this myself, it will not go well for anyone.

If I'm ever bedridden, or needing help with ordinary tasks, CUT THE HAIR ALL OFF. I realize that this will be deeply unflattering. With my thinning hair and round face, I'll probably look like a victim of radiation poisoning. I do not care. If you are afraid that I will frighten my descendants, put a hat or a scarf on me before I have visitors or get photos taken.

TAKE ME OUTSIDE AT LEAST ONCE A DAY. I cannot overstate this. Even if I'm wheelchair bound, and the most exotic place available is a tiny courtyard with a single tree and some potted plants, take me there. I need to feel fresh air. I need to watch insects and birds. If there's somewhere with any kind of water, take me there. I may just sit and stare at it, but trust me, that will make me happy. If I've regressed to my childhood self, I may want to throw endless rocks in the water, just to hear the splash. Fountains are OK; streams, even tiny ones, are better, as are lakes and ponds and rivers. Anywhere that smells of sagebrush or pine is good, as well.

Manicures and pedicures are not my thing. I'll barely let you trim my nails. Don't waste your time trying to do anything else to them.

I need reading material. Electronic reading is OK, but I do better with paper. Make sure that I have actual, physical books and magazines. I will reread old ones for a long time, but I will get unruly without reading material. If it's gotten to the point that I can't read, magazines with big, glossy photos of animals and beautiful places - think National Geographic - will be invaluable.

I may want an animal to take care of; I may even forget that I'm allergic to fur, or insist that I don't care. Do us all a favor and get me stuffed animals, and talk to me about "taking care" of my animals. Trust me.

Art supplies are a must. Simple crafts will keep me happy for hours. Taking me out to gather pinecones, moss, branches and rocks to use in crafts will make me equally happy.

Even if I have lost the ability to write, give me paper and pens.

If I can handle it even a little, give me a camera.

Don't expect me to have long phone conversations. It doesn't mean that I don't love the callers, because I do.

Play Ed Ames music. Often.

Let me watch vintage Disney anything as often as feasible.

Both of my parents were healthy, happy and in their own home, unassisted, until the days they died unexpectedly. I hope that's some sort of family karma that I can cash in, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared for the alternative.

Tony's Tree

Whenever someone, usually someone who grew up elsewhere, said to me when I was growing up, "Nothing grows in Nevada!" I'd say only three words: "My mother's yard."

"Well, OK, in your mom's yard," they'd say. My mother could grow anything. She and my dad bought a piece of typically empty Nevada land; their friends told them that they'd "never be able to grow anything there." Mom told, with glee, the story of how their most vocal critic pulled into the back driveway in the spring, when the flowers were blooming, the lawn was velvet, and the trees were filled out. "He stared with his mouth open, then got back in his car and drove away. He never came back, but we never heard any grief from him again."

My mom literally brought home cut branches, stuck them in the ground, and they turned into trees. A now towering cedar came home from a picnic in a styrofoam cup. She had fruit trees, vegetables, more flowers than you can count.

Now, it's been more than three years since she passed away, her yard hasn't been watered even once, and it's an absolute jungle. The shrubs and vines and things have taken over. The flowers are reseeding. There are seedling trees that have to go, because they have no room to grow up where they are. They're burying fences and patios.

Since I was a kid, the largest tree in her front yard has belonged to my friend. I mentioned it in my blog post just after Mom passed away ("Mom"): "Can I build a Swiss Family Robinson tree house in your tree and just live in it?" one of my friends asked her once. "Sure. You just let me know when," she said. Every few years, he'd bring it up - "That tree still there?" and she'd say, "Still waiting for you." "Maybe I'll bring my son over, and we'll build that treehouse," he'd say. "I'll be here," she'd tell him. We've called it Tony's Tree for years. It will always be Tony's Tree. 

They talked about his planned treehouse many times. "I want it to have power, plumbing, everything. I want to be able to live in it," Tony would say. "Sure," Mom would answer. After storms, he'd want to know, "How's my tree?"

"You're never going to cut that tree down, are you?" he asked once. "Oh, no," she said, sounding scandalized.

After Mom died, Tony came over to her house for her memorial, and again for Thanksgiving. "Is that tree still mine?" he asked. "Of course! It's always going to be yours!" My whole family knew. It was his; any time he wanted to build a treehouse, he was welcome. His kids were too old to be excited about a treehouse, but he hoped to have grandchildren. Maybe some day, they'd get to use it. "Maybe some day, I'll be homeless, and need to live in it," he joked.

A year and a half after Mom died, Tony died. I was unprepared for it ("Loving Tony"). He was sober, he wasn't sick, he'd recovered from a devastating car accident - everything was supposed to be OK.

Nothing on Earth lasts forever.

The tree comforted me. It stood where it always had. It waited.

I was comforted by the fact that we all knew that it was still Tony's Tree. Some day, when we had the money, I would build the treehouse. Maybe Tony's grandkids would get to use it. When I looked at it, I saw my mother, I saw Tony, I saw possibilities, I saw stability and predictability.

But the tree is old, and the weather is harsh.

"A big branch broke off of Uncle Tony's tree," said my daughter. She lives in her grandmother's house (which is now her Uncle Gary's house).

"Yeah, a lot of branches broke during that storm," I answered. Heavy, wet snow, much needed snow, and high wind had wrought havoc around town. But that tree is older than I am. Its trunk is probably 12 feet or more around. It would be fine, I was sure.

Then I went down and looked at the tree. The broken branch is huge, looking like a decent sized tree by itself. Its base is as big around as a person, and left a deep gash in the trunk as it peeled off. It's the kind of gash that invites insects or disease. Worse, as I looked up into the canopy, I saw what I've been ignoring and denying - dead wood.

Many of Mom's willow trees are showing dead wood in their higher branches. It happens, it's normal. But I have been actively in denial about how much is in Tony's Tree. There's quite a bit.

"That whole tree has to go," said someone behind me. It may have been my husband, or my son; I don't know. I just stared at the tree. "Yeah," I said, but I didn't mean it. That tree will outlive me - won't it? It outlived my mom. It outlived Tony. It'll always be there, won't it?

"It has to go." Someone else said it. It probably does, but I'm not OK with that.

The tree is coming to the end of its life. I have to wrap my head around that.

We puttered around doing yard chores; my daughter isn't a yard person. I kept thinking about the tree. I walked up and put my hand on its trunk. "I know," I said, "I know."

"Who are you talking to?" my son wanted to know.

"The tree." Then the tears came.

As long as the tree was there, I didn't have to let go. There are other trees - willows, apple trees, plum trees, junipers, a cedar, maples, an oak, stumps from long dead poplars. I would be OK losing any of them, even all of them, but not this tree. I was never prepared to lose this tree.

My son hugged me, long and hard.

My daughter came out of the house, saw me, and said, "What's wrong with Mom?"

"Uncle Tony's tree."

I know that I won't love them any less if I don't have their things with me. I know that they love me, with or without their stuff. I know that I haven't failed the tree, or failed my loved ones. I understand all of that. It's simply an intellectual understanding, though, not an emotional response. I will miss this tree more than I can say.

My family has assured me that we will make something with the wood, something great. We will leave the trunk standing. Maybe we'll hire a chainsaw artist. Maybe we'll make it look like the home of fairy tale elves. We will make something, something wonderful, something to honor Tony and my mother. I know that we will.

But change is hard.

Goddess Pele

I wanted to see Kilauea for most of my life. I'm lucky enough to live somewhere with access to volcanoes, so the concept of "volcano" wasn't new to me. Mountains with names like Lassen and Shasta are familiar places for me; plus, I've been to Yellowstone. I've walked through lava tubes, seen a hillside of obsidian, watched boiling mud pots. But the idea of an erupting volcano was so exciting, especially an eruption that you could get close enough to safely watch. When Kilauea started erupting, she became a "must do" sight.

My brother can see volcanoes - Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams - from his front porch. He narrowly missed being in the Mt. St. Helens blast zone in 1980, and he brought me a jar of flour-fine ash the next time he came to visit. As a scenic and wildlife photographer, though, he too wanted to see Kilauea.

We both finally got to see her in our middle age years, on separate trips. I was not really prepared for how Hawaiian volcanoes differed from the ones I knew. I was used cone shaped mountains, steeply rising and covered in snow. Sometimes, age and eruption would round the summit, but they still had a recognizable look. I'd been on Oahu before, and thought that the Big Island's volcanoes might look like Oahu's mountains.

Instead, by my frame of reference, they barely looked like mountains. Even Mauna Loa, the distance from her summit to the ocean floor making her the largest mountain on Earth, just looked like a long, gradual, unspectacular rise, ending in more of a plateau than a peak.

Kilauea doesn't even look like a separate mountain to me. I can't see any definition between her and the surrounding area. Plus, her caldera is lower than the surrounding area, not on a peak, like I'd expected.

"It's a steaming pit," said a man close to us, on his first visit there. Well, OK, technically, if you have no poetry in your soul.

It was fascinating, but not what I'd expected.

On our first visit, we were staying about three and a half hours away, so we only saw Hawaii Volcanoes National Park in the daylight. We saw the caldera, participated in a ranger led program, walked through Thurston Lava Tube, saw steam vents. I was happy to see someplace I'd wanted to go for so long.

My brother enjoyed his first trip to the park, but he was on a guided excursion from Oahu, so he had even less time there than we did.

None of us got to see live lava flows, the volcano at night, or (on our wish list) lava flows hitting the sea.

When we came back years later on a family trip, with my husband, most of my children and my brother together, we had wish lists of experiences that we missed the first time. Topping my brother's list were 1. a helicopter tour, and 2. seeing the caldera at night. Those things were on our list, as well.

There were seven of us, all arriving at different times. The first day we were all there, we planned to spend all day in the park. We did everything we'd done before and more, including a drive down the length of Chain of Craters Road.

Before sunset, we staked out spots near the Jagger Museum and waited for dark. For the seven of us, we had 5 regular cameras and 6 cell phone cameras. This spot is the closest observation area to the caldera, and the cameras clicked with regularity.

Then it happened - the first glow of orange in the steam.

Can't see it? Don't worry; it got more and more pronounced as darkness fell.

 

It was just gorgeous. Click, click, click!

Then it was dark, and the view went from stunning to magical.

I thought that it couldn't get much better than that.

But we still had our helicopter ride!

Do you see what we're all packing? Of course - cameras. We had wide lenses, telephoto lenses, a GoPro; this would be one well recorded flight.

(That fanny pack kind of thing we're all wearing? That's a parachute. Or, maybe a flotation device. I'm not kidding. They're mandatory.)

We took off from the far side of the island and headed inland, over the "shoulder road" between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, headed for Kilauea. "Are there any active lava flows right now?" my son asked. We're aware that nature doesn't take orders or requests, but we were hoping.

"I'm sure we'll see something exciting. For one thing, the floor of the caldera fell last night," the pilot said. That means that the hard crust on an area had crumbled, and left the flowing lava underneath visible. For the pilot, this was an everyday occurrence, but for mainlanders, it was very exciting.

As we approached the caldera, my husband, shooting with the wide angle lens, was shooting images like this:

When we got closer, my zoom lens allowed me allowed me to shoot straight down into the caldera. The pilot circled over the volcano, one direction and then another.

OH MY GOODNESS! It was amazing.

As we flew on, the pilot said, "I'll just watch for smoke." That was likely, he said, to indicate something that we'd want to see.

A rising wisp of smoke led to this:

The next led to this:

Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! It looked just like something on the National Geographic Channel. "That's new," the pilot said. "It'll be gone in about 15 minutes."

It's hard to estimate from the air, but I think the drip was about ten feet long. I zoomed out to get a bit of perspective, and in again to watch it ooze.

The next sight of rising smoke was larger. An isolated stand of trees was smoking, then catching fire, from the lava at their feet.

"They avoided the last few flows. Poor things, they're goners now," the pilot said.

I felt for the trees, but it was fascinating. Shooting through the moving, curved helicopter windows was difficult, but all of us managed to get numerous shots of this truly once in a lifetime experience.

Mahalo, Goddess Pele, for a look into your home.

All photos, copyright 2015, The Reflection Works Photography